the hammer is the most unimpressive museum i have ever been to. it is a gnat on the face of all other museums–scratch. it is like all other museums, so, a giant larvae pod glittering with the performance of progressive bloom. an infelicitous consummation of capital and self righteousness. like: the John V. Tunney Bridge curves into an installation piece that is simply: end White suPremacy. black print against red fluorescent base, 2015, artist, poor bloke who believes he can change the world with Art. or die trying. to subvert the wealth of the ruling class by selling his tears. you tell them, but you’re screaming into a literal tree. so guess what, boy: John V. Tunney doesn’t care about your statement piece. his bridge bends its back to slap you.
that’s the problem with white aesthetics such as that which clutters the breach of the hammer. without real stakes (in the dome of the vault gallery; roundabout of the guggenheim; the grecian facade of the getty), they comprise a self-consuming game of pretend. two women coddle a sobbing toddler at the mouth of the John V. Tunney Bridge. why do people bring babies to museums, unless to reaffirm the museum’s inherently useless quality? as a place so purposeless even babies–the most potent of us–fail to grasp any semblance of potential.
payne and tanaami have cluttered a domed crevasse with drawings of japanese monsters feeding rocket ships up their butts. something something approximation of japanese arcade game visuality. looks like obsession with anal penetration, to me. directionality, desire, consumption. of who? mass culture does not care to be abstracted into such sterile forms. missiles are penile whether they are pixellated or not. payne wishes to penetrate–tanaami, octo-limbed schoolgirl, the orient–so desperately that the marble floors of the gallery are littered with the ash of his desire. tanaami splays androgynous agents across reams of silky paper. someone should go watch some hentai already.
the hammer doesn’t know what it wants or what it is. its carcass sits like a glorified playpen in the ash of the city. the color must be right, the installation perfectly arranged, but can we cut the shit? who has time for oversized adult toys when the city is burning? you don’t have to sell ‘water is life’ to me as if a cup of beer. public sex requires only a condom and consenting parties. don’t hold it in a mausoleum. isn’t it all a game of make-believe, anyway?