from the editor
Summer is here. Alongside the increased predominance of images of the weather forecast appearing in social media feeds is the ubiquitous summer group show. Some are curated by art world big-shots, others organized by the gallery staff, some you apply for, some you have to be Canadian and others are put together by artists in some far away outpost. You name the premise and there’s a summer group show that it fits. I’ve attended a few already and like the infinite number of frameworks the quality is equally diverse. As a participant and viewer of these exhibitions I readily admit to enjoying them. Things are a little less serious in the summer, move at a more reasonable pace and are generally accompanied by some cold, cheap, beer. On a larger scale, Made in L.A., Los Angeles’ first biennial opened this summer with the work of sixty artists, three exhibiting venues and the $100,000 Mohn Prize which joins the Whitney’s Bucksbaum Award as the largest financial award given to an individual artist in the country. L.A. resident and writer Catherine Wagley lends her always thoughtful pen to this exhibition (coming just on the heels of Pacific Standard Time) and its effect on the art being made in the City of Angels.
Heading southeast from L.A., San Antonio’s Artpace has an exhibition of five of its recent Texas residents. Writer Wendy Atwell dives into the show and discovers exciting progress being made in the work of Katie Pell, Katrina Moorhead, Alex De Leon, Juan Miguel Ramos and Lordy Rodriguez since their residencies. If summer exhibitions represent a relaxing of the seriousness typical of the artworld than might we recommend a trip to Dallas to see Brazilian artist Ernesto Neto’s Kink (2012) at the Nasher Sculpture Center. The Nasher itself has been in the news lately as the neighboring 42-story Museum Tower is reflecting so much sun light from its mirrored exterior that its threatening not only the Nasher, but the entire district. While you may be skeptical of Neto’s immersive, colorful and playful installations, a read of Fort Worth-based writer Erin Starr White’s review will assuage your concern. Physical engagement with his work offers sheer joy and an opportunity to reflect on the history of human/art engagement, which for White is embodied by Robert Morris’ 1971 retrospective at the Tate Britain.
In a sense Neto, and Morris before him, fulfill our desire to touch the art, which is otherwise frowned upon at most institutions. Perhaps it is human nature to want things that we can’t have, or to touch the things we really shouldn’t. Most of us, with the exception of fugitive ‘street’ artist Uriel Landeros who recently vandalized a Menil Collection Picasso and has since put his tail between his legs and ran, can control our urges. Austin-based artist and Texas State University Associate Professor Jeff Dell is thinking about some of those very issues, and his contribution to our Artists Words feature elucidates them in a refreshing and reflective manner. If you’re in Houston be sure to swing by Art Palace Gallery’s summer exhibition to see some of Dell’s work in person. Our Project Space is always a small exhibition space of sorts and this issue it features Brooklyn-based artist Scott Calhoun who’s recent paintings use his recent paintings as tools for their creation. Finally, if you happen to be embarking on a summer road trip through the midwest be sure to stop in Omaha and the Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts. They’re currently host to Michael Jones McKean’s staggering project, The Rainbow: Certain Principles of Light and Shapes Between Forms, which should truthfully not be missed. Check out this issue's mbg Recommends for more info.
As you're out seeing summer shows, basking pool-side with a Lonestar or just enjoying our latest issue drop us a line at: email@example.com. You can also follow us on Twitter, @mbgETC and Facebook where we promise you no images of the 10-day forecast.
Eric Zimmerman is an artist and Editor of ...might be good.
Added on Thursday, June 28th, 2012
New Works Now
Artpace, San Antonio
Through September 9
By Wendy Atwell
New Works Now, Exhibition view in Artpace's Hudson (Show)Room. Courtesy of Artpace, San Antonio. Photo credit: Todd Johnson.
Meditations on time and the harnessing of information play a key role in New Works Now, a fitting subject for five past ArtPace International Artists in Residence. All are from Texas, including Alex De Leon (1996), Juan Miguel Ramos (2002), Katie Pell (2006), Katrina Moorhead (2005) and Lordy Rodriguez (2001).
The deadly playfulness of addiction still reigns in De Leon’s painted ceramics.
Just a Few Beers, a large magenta vessel adorned with painted cans of beer, is inspired by a friend of the artist who drank a case of beer in one sitting. De Leon paints the cans at the moment when the top is popped and cold foamy bubbles burst forth. In contrast to the discus throwers, lovers and musicians populating Grecian urns, De Leon’s cans are suspended in space, with no sign of a drinker, in a non-narrative design. Just opened, they are already obsolete and hence almost already litter, a haunting statement about vapid materialism of contemporary culture, but also humorously ironic because of the media he chooses for his subject matter.
An animated cartoon-drawn couple dances to classic Tejano music in Yo Vendo Unos Ojos Negros. A 360-degree photographic scene of an empty bar revolves around them, giving the spinning effect of dancing. The treatment of time in Ramos’ 2:40 video loop is metaphorical and poetic. Watching the couple dance while listening to the Spanish lyrics, one imagines that the man might be aging, and that some kind of black magic is at work, as if he is caught in an eerie time warp. The turns made by the dancers suggest the cycles of youth and age.
Huge canvas quilts, featuring rubbings of beechwood trees, create a virtual forest. Pell’s quilts hang in layers to create the space of the woods, but, unlike nature, these images possess the allure of drawing and narrative. Taken from the trees from behind her childhood house, the trees’ carvings have the seediness of thoughtless graffiti. It almost feels like there could be something going on behind the panels, such as the scene of Marcel Duchamp’s Étant Donnés. But, as suggested by the words carved into the trees, initials of lovers or words like “dickass,” only the trees have borne silent witness to the scenes played out before them and the emotions and thoughts carved into them.
In one hundred 10 x 14 inch pen and ink drawings, Rodriguez morphs his continued subject matter, maps and other visual systems, into beautiful color abstractions. The sources for the drawings seem traceable—they appear to be taken from images such as the color resonance of scans, satellite photography and microbiology. Yet Rodriguez’s drawings look zoomed in to the point of abstraction, changing the image’s purpose as a source of information to a source of visual delight. The multitude of images and Rodriguez’s treatment of them calls to mind current technological capabilities to change locations so easily, blurred with the equally disorienting of blizzard of information.
A puzzling tableau includes a desk with mysterious scientific objects like crystals, a white powder molded in to geometrical shapes, lamps, three deflated mylar balloons and a beautifully precise drawing of a sphere on the wall behind it. Katrina Moorhead’s sculptural documentation of her investigation into a mysterious all-blue rainbow she recently witnessed in Iceland. This led to her own discovery that the all blue rainbow she saw may actually have been the rare phenomenon of a “moonbow.” An ephemeral blue light shines on the gallery wall behind the tableau, and this scene actually exists as Moorhead’s “pseudo-scientific” recreation of this phenomenon.
The art by Pell and Moorhead appears especially imaginative in comparison with the work exhibited during their respective residencies. Moorhead’s residency exhibition disoriented the viewer as she placed on the floor what normally is on the ceiling, chandeliers and plaster ornamentation of a ballroom. While it was transportive and beautiful, her new work is challenging and confounding; it expects more of the viewer. Pell’s show-stopping hot rod appliances exhibited during her residency contrast with her quiet monotone trees, yet these images possess an evocative presence. Their new art is like more negative space on a canvas, leaving the viewer ample room to contemplate their artistic choices. This group exhibition functions much like the AIAR program as the only similarity shared between the artists is the curator’s selection of their work. Instead of a unifying theme, this exhibition demonstrates how the artistic process evolves.
Wendy Atwell received her M.A. in Art History and Criticism from The University of Texas at San Antonio. She is the author of The River Spectacular: Light, Color, Sound and Craft on the San Antonio River.
Nasher Sculpture Center, Dallas
Through September 9
By Erin Starr White
Ernesto Neto, Kink, 2012, Aluminum, crochet, polypropylene balls, wood, felt, and rubber, 14’ 3” x 66’ 8” x 13’ 8.” Courtesy of the artist and Tanya Bonakdar Gallery, New York. In the exhibition Ernesto Neto Cuddle on the Tightrope, May 12 – September 9, 2012, Nasher Sculpture Center, Dallas, TX. Photo: Kevin Todora.
From my view within Brazilian artist Ernesto Neto’s Kink (2012) at Dallas’ Nasher Sculpture Center, light does beautiful things. Fashioned from an inordinate amount of brightly colored, crocheted nylon rope, this giant, caterpillar-like form is shot through with diamonds of diffused sunlight. This light, which might have been taken for granted in any other space, is exceptional due to its filtration through Renzo Piano’s elegant roof—the Nasher’s expert shading system. Aware of the peril the Nasher’s roof is currently facing due to nearby development, Neto’s sunlit webbed tunnel is a cheerful reminder that most art does not welcome such direct solar energy.
Kink is Neto’s contribution to the exhibition Cuddle on the Tightrope and physically illuminates the artist’s abiding interest in multi-sensory interaction with works of art. Neto’s work often features environments crafted from fabric, spices, foam and foodstuffs, arranged so that the viewer experiences these constructions from the inside. The other half of the exhibition is a grouping of works selected by Neto from the Nasher’s permanent collection and installed in an adjacent gallery. Predominantly figurative, works by Twombly, LeWitt, De Kooning, Giacometti and Brancusi underscore the notion that working in variations on a theme is fecund ground.
Elevated from the honey-colored gallery floor by long, arching steel rods planted in half-disks of smooth wood, Kink has a whimsical, visually stimulating exterior. Centered in the heart of a spacious gallery overlooking the Museum’s garden, the piece is comprised of two parts: this larger tent-like structure and a smaller parcel of netting and balls that sits idly by the south end of its mother sculpture, not quite sure of what to do with itself. The larger of the two greeted me with the ebullience usually reserved for birthday party bounce houses and pits filled with colorful plastic balls. With a large opening at each end of this orange, red, pink and grey tube, Kink has a definite directional flow—not unlike a section of intestine or artery. Upon entering the south-facing mouth of the piece I feel light and buoyant, a lot like the structure I am moving through. As I walk carefully over this lumpy path, my weight produces shifts in an unsteady foundation. I must grab hold of the sides of the structure in order to successfully make it to the other end.
As I moved through the cocoon-like netting of this colossal organism, I was alone in the piece and the gallery, save for a few guards. To walk the work’s elevated path of copious dark grey polypropylene orbs is to be severed from the quiet coolness of the gallery and embraced by a swaying, unstable, benign being. Balancing oneself and negotiating the ever-moving pathway below is a fun and enchanting task, but a sense of transgression persisted, as if being shoe-less and monkeying around inside of an artwork is wrong. Perhaps the loud crunching sound that matches my awkward gait is too much. I could disturb other visitors, after all. This sense of impropriety triggers the memory of an event I did not witness, but wish I had. My bodily intervention with Neto’s Dr. Seuss-like sculpture reminds me of the earlier, watershed human/art experiment that was Robert Morris’ 1971 Tate Britain retrospective. Here Morris placed large, interactive sculptures throughout the galleries, openly inviting viewers to cease being viewers and become engaged participants. This exchange, which resulted in all hell breaking loose within the Tate’s hallowed Duveen Galleries, must have been a rich and rewarding one for participants. The Guardian said at the time: "The participation seems likely to wreck the exhibits and do the participants a mischief." Devoid of the traditional pedestals and plinths meant to support (and prevent physical interaction) between pieces of sculpture and their viewers, Morris’ exhibition had to be closed after only four days on view.
While Neto’s call to activate his brilliantly colored organism appears foolproof (no nets crashing down or rods gouging visitors), I sense that my delight at being invited by an artist to participate in such a physical way mirrors the thrill those bell-bottomed Londoners must have felt. And though I would like to think contemporary museum-goers are savvy when it comes to physically engaging with art, the glee expressed by the participants I saw seems to belie the sheer freedom we still feel when the institutional leash is taken off and we get to really dig into an artwork. We might just need more of it.
Erin Starr White has contributed art criticism to Artlies, Art Papers, Glasstire, and ...might be good. She is an Assistant Curator of Education at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth.
Jeffery Dell, CAKE, 2011, 15x22,” Serigraph on Yupo. Image courtesy of the artist.
A friend of mine who has been clean from heroin for many years told me a story about when he was using. He’d just scored, and was feeling very good. He bought it without getting busted and he knew he’d use as soon as he got home. But before he arrived, he had an epiphany: this was as good as it got. The promise of getting high was better than the high itself.
The greatest pleasure, the most perfect, is often the expectation of pleasure to come, the promise that it will be better than ever. Most of us are willing subjects in this cycle, since we want it bad enough that we are willing to believe, to ignore the evidence of our own past. Why do we humans so often want the things we know we cannot have?
I am interested in how we think we leave these emotions behind as we grow into adulthood, but don’t. Envy, selfishness and a stubborn belief in the absolute promise of eternal perfection continue to haunt us. We just try not to let anyone see it. I am interested in how it is possible to make something look really, really good, but how the promise is never fulfilled. Frenemies, as a body of work, is an attempt to teeter on that edge of exquisite promise prior to consumption.
Almost a year ago, in a studio critique, a colleague said that some of my initial imagery for this work looked like the paraphernalia from a child’s birthday party. I began thinking about the actual range of emotions that kids go through while attending someone else’s birthday parties: excitement, or the echo of it, envy, greed, rage, hate and … CAKE.
My wife Julia told me a story about one of her own birthdays. She was probably about six. Her cake was large and beautiful, and it had lavender roses around the top edge. Her mom started cutting the cake so that each slice would have one lavender rose. As she’s telling the story, she described both her own facial expressions and the sound she made, a sort of growing moan or wail that got louder and louder as she realized that she was going to lose all those roses. A friend of her mom’s eventually cut them all off the cake, put them in a plastic bag to give to Julia so that she could keep them. Forever.
The pursuit of pleasure is a part of who we are, but the pleasure of expectation is a difficult thing to negotiate in our culture, as it surrounds us everywhere: buying this clothing will finally complete my sense of attractiveness; this movie will finally be the best summer blockbuster ever; this energy drink will make me feel like I didn’t nearly kill myself last night; this product will finally make me feel normal and pain-free for the rest of my long, happy life.
Jeff Dell is an artist based in Austin and an Associate Professor of Art At Texas State University-San Marcos.
Growing Pains: A new biennial brings the L.A. art world frighteningly close to being “established”
By Catherine Wagley
Installation view at Los Angeles Municipal Art Gallery, Barnsdall Park, Los Angeles, Made in L.A., June 2, 2012-September 2, 2012. Photography by Brian Forrest.
The first Los Angeles biennial opened on June 2. It includes 60 artists exhibited at three sites across the city, and has its own $100,000 prize, funded by media mogul Jarl Mohn. This means the Whitney Biennial’s $100,000 Bucksbaum Award is no longer the largest financial award made to an individual artist, and, as culture crusaders in this city love to say, we are giving New York “a run for its money.”
The L.A. biennial began, because, as the inaugural show’s five curators say in their co-written catalog essay, “this city is home to some of the most original and innovative artists working today.” I don’t doubt this claim at all. The first year I lived here, I saw artist Evan Holloway turn a room full of polka dots into something trippy and transcendent, read Bruce Hainley and Dave Hickey’s writing about the un-hinged, un-established West Coast, fell for the always-in-flux vibe of Chinatown’s gallery row and decided to never leave. But L.A. just spent six months celebrating and promoting its own post-WWII art history in a region-wide, multi-million dollar, Getty-funded initiative called Pacific Standard Time (PST), which included over 60 exhibitions and lasted through March. This biennial—officially called Made in L.A. and held at the Hammer Museum in Westwood, L.A. Municipal Gallery in Hollywood and LAXArt in Culver City—comes right on the tails of PST, and it feels like the L.A. art scene is going to ambitious lengths to prove itself to itself. This makes me nervous.
One of my favorite L.A. artists, Anne Bray, often doubles as an unofficial sociologist. A few years ago, she described L.A. as “becoming a teenager.” She said, “It’s not really responsible yet but it’s thinking about issues of responsibility.” The city had remained more or less a kid through the ‘60s ‘70s and ‘80s, figuring out its identity politics—there was the Chicano movement, race riots, immigrant communities delineating themselves, creative communities migrating from West L.A. to East and back again. When defining their personhood, people tend to hole up with likeminded people. But growing up means figuring out how your community relates to other communities and what you can offer other people, which is where “thinking about issues of responsibility” comes in. It seems like the L.A. art world has reached its teens, too. With PST, it asserted its identity by proving it had a history. With this biennial, the L.A. art world is figuring out how its various parts relate to one another. That’s good for a growing-up community, but I wonder how much this figuring-out process really effects the art getting made here.
Two weeks before Made in L.A. opened, I spent a Sunday afternoon at Monte Vista Projects in Highland Park, a small artist-run space based out of a windowless storefront. The Sunday Scag, made up of artists Michael Decker, Gustavo Herrera and Christine Wang, was working there. Visitors could help them build sets or just hang out and watch them film a spin-off of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. When I was there, they were chanting, “The Scag should get the 100 Grand.” Apparently, earlier in the day, someone had read aloud a news clip from Artforum about Made in L.A. and the $100,000 Mohn Prize. This had been caught on camera, and the edited Waiting for L.Dot (“L” is the Scag’s mysterious alter ego and sometimes muse) begins with a voice-over lifted from the Made in L.A. promo video. Artist Vishal Judgeo, a participant in the biennial, says, “L.A.’s a really great place to work. What I like is that you can actually . . . hide away in your studio and sort of figure out what you’re doing on your own and be really left alone.” Then a faint male voice fades in, announcing, “. . . the newly established Mohn Prize of 100,000 dollars.” Decker, Herrera and Wang, dressed in bonnets and skirts and other hodge-podge clothing, march in circles and “ooh” and “ah.” They begin to say, “The Scag should get the 100 Grand.” The three of them are “the Scag,” but it doesn’t sound like they are talking about themselves at all. It sounds like they are talking about some renegade, elusive, eccentric idea of an “artist,” one who works doggedly with or without recognition. That kind of artist deserves the money.
Money is strange. If I knew how many times I wrote or said “$10 million initiative” during PST, I would probably cringe, because money wasn’t supposed to be the point. Value, attention and legitimacy were, it’s just that sometimes it’s so hard to separate those things from funds. When the L.A. Times published its Made in L.A. preview on May 25, it focused on how much financial support this biennial gave its artists—the Whitney Museum may offer a big prize, but its artists have to pay their own way when it comes to making their work for the show. Each Made in L.A. artist received a $1,000 honorarium, and some received a few more thousand to help them realize their project. Judgeo’s mechanized video installation may be one of the more expensive undertakings at upwards of $7,500. The Times preview also noted non-monetary support, like how curators helped artist Koki Tanaka post an ad for the two volunteer musicians he needed. But something tells me Tanaka would have figured out how to do this on his own if he had to. The same goes for most of the best work in Made in L.A. Artists would have figured out how to make it anyway, in some way or another.
Zach Harris’ exquisite wood relief paintings would have existed, and some already did, like Midnight at Malibu (2009-10), in which white, teal and purple triangles come up off the surface and squeeze in toward a dark pattern that looks like a flower garden that’s been mysteriously flattened. Miljohn Ruperto’s installation, in which five copies of Kaspar David Friedrich’s melancholic painting Monk by the Sea Shore hang above seven different remakes of a 1960s episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, likely would have existed at some point. But I’m glad I didn’t have to wait to see that stunning moment where, in the Hitchcock Presents remake, the tide comes up in Malibu, smoothing over the spot where a frat boy has just been mistakenly buried alive. Ruperto’s shores repeated indefinitely, on all the screens and in all the paintings, in a way that collapses history and media into each other. Cayetano Ferrer, whose installation includes a pastiche of carpeting from real Vegas casinos and a light show inside a cave-like room, would have continued to explore the bright, indulgent impermanence of Vegas and the harsh histories hidden beneath flashy facades with or without Made in L.A. But I’m not sure I would have known that I respected what he did so much if I hadn’t come across his name in the initial Made in L.A. press kit. There’s plenty of art in Made in L.A. that I don’t like, that I find tritely cynical or sloppy—some paintings at the Municipal gallery seem only frivolously political; some installations at the Hammer feel more ambitious than thought-through. But when a community grows up, not only the best graduate to adulthood; systems develop that allow as many community members as possible to keep on functioning and contributing for as long as they can.
The biennial includes a summer-long series of performances in addition to the exhibitions and artist Math Bass performed Brutal Set for the first time on Friday, June 22. She had nine collaborators (one of whom was Christine Wang from The Sunday Scag). They dressed casually, in jeans or leggings and t-shirts, and navigated a set of ladders and cement pant-legs, set upside down so the legs protruded as if out of the ground. The performers began by wandering while singing the words “who say you have to be a dead dog” in untrained but beautiful harmony. The refrain from “One”, the song made famous by Three Dog Night, marked the end of each of the performance’s chapters: “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.” Usually, one lone performer would sing the first part of this line, then the whole group would join in on that last word, “do.” That theme of aloneness and togetherness carried through to the performance’s end, when Math climbed to the top of a ladder alone. Her performers surrounded her below and she dropped a potted plant that fell, crashed and broke under the glow of a single spotlight. Then Three Dog Night came on—“One is the loneliest number”—over the speakers as the performers made their exit together.
Just before Math’s performance, I had walked the show one more time and felt a little worried about the whole thing. Was the whole idea of the show too packaged and too “established”? Even its title, Made in L.A., makes it sound like a consumable, definable product. I want L.A. to be in-flux forever. But Math’s performance, all about the conflict and confluence of aloneness and togetherness, assured me good art will never feel packaged and established. You can be individually driven, risky and successful and still supported as part of a group.
Catherine Wagley regularly contributes to the LA Weekly and is a columnist for the Art21 Blog and Dailyserving.com.
Scott Calhoun (b. 1971) lives and works in Brooklyn. His new paintings use themselves as brushes, screens and templates. One work presses onto the surface of another, transmitting a faded echo. Paint is pushed or sprayed through stretched, open mesh, duplicating compositions, but also inverting and scrambling them. Accidents are embellished, colors blurred and forms submerged. These processes create shadowed or twined paintings, imperfect in detail, yet related in a larger order. They begin with automatic processes, but are filtered through the artist's hand, palette, and sensibility—a personal translation of conceptual processes. Their interwoven fluctuating layers create an open space for the observer's reflections or projections.
Scott Calhoun was included in the recent exhibitions A Person of Color at The Green Gallery, Milwaukee and The Keno Twins 5 at Colazione in Barriera, Turin. He wants to do a solo exhibition in an impressive venue.
Added on 2012-06-26 08:46:09
Michael Jones McKean: The Rainbow: Certain Principles of Light and Shapes Between Forms
Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts, Omaha
Michael Jones McKean, The Rainbow: Certain Principles of Light and Shapes Between Forms. Photo: Larry Gawel.
Dear Omaha, I wish you were just a bit easier to reach. If you were I would be in there in a heartbeat to catch a glimpse of The Rainbow filling the skies over the Bemis Center twice a day. Artist Michael Jones McKean’s ambitious project incorporates harvested rainwater, local businesses (Lindsay Corporation and Watertronics), engineering experts and atmospheric scientists amongst others to realize his monumental project. It’s easy to get lost in the data surrounding McKean’s rainbow—six 10,500 Gallon above ground water tanks, a custom designed 60-horsepower pump supplying pressurized water to nine nozzles mounted to the 20,000 square foot roof, extensive building modifications, etc. While the science and engineering behind the project is certainly awe-inspiring, the real beauty of the project lies in the transparent bands of ephemeral color that fill the Nebraskan sky. Temporary, delicate, silent; all adjectives used to describe the rainbow, a phenomena which never fails to capture our collective imagination and gaze. (A recent double-rainbow over NYC instantly lit up the web with images of its colored arcs.) The application of these qualities to an immense logistical and experiential public art project is a major part of what gives The Rainbow its punch. There’s little doubt that McKean’s project should be considered monumental in nearly every regard, though without the bulky steel and stone machismo typical of most public art. On the whole his work refuses to occupy a single point in time or space, blurring the boundaries between the ancient and the contemporary as it rubs out familiar time scales. The Rainbow, as a symbol and project, succinctly embodies these ideas, embracing impermanence and poetry on the most monumental of scales.
Eric Zimmerman is an artist and Editor of ...might be good.
Added on 2012-06-28 16:41:18
Houston Fine Art Fair
September 9 - 16
HFAF ARTWEEK, running from September 9th through the 16th, provides the unique opportunity for art fair attendees not only from Houston but also from out of town to become better acquainted with Houston’s burgeoning art scene. During the week of the fair, various cultural institutions will offer a wide selection of events and exhibitions to make this a citywide event. Fluent~Collaborative is a proud cultural partner of the Houston Fine Art Fair.
October 18 - 21
Taking place in Houston, the Texas Contemporary art fair features presentations from 60 galleries showcasing contemporary work from the most innovative, progressive and driven artists from around the world. Fluent~Collaborative is a proud cultural partner of Texas Contemporary.