"Hedi Slimane And The Death Of Documentarian Photography" or "Let's Ban Magazines From Using Scene As An Adverb" is an essay written by our resident photographic commentator, Distrow Kidd, on the infamous photo series released by THE FACE. It purportedly captured "fresh faces" who "brought energy to the scene". Granted, the pics were cool, but why does George Rouy have to be there?

Hedi Slimane’s photography has always consisted of two elements: documentary and fashion/editorial. In an era where a large portion of the fashion image world is informed by famous documentary photography from the 1980s-early 2000s (Nan Goldin for Gucci, Simon Wheatley for Corteiz, Nick Waplington for Self Portrait and Diesel, and so on) fashion can cannibalise the documentarian style. Mainstream fashion like Jaded London, Dazed Editorials, or whatever “MINGA” London is, lusts after the documentary photography's 'I was there' swag to commemorate and translate real events.

Slimane usually spends months with his subjects, producing documentary coverage of tabloid-ready libertine-adjacent musical artists from the 1990s and early-mid 2000s. This lifestyle inevitably bled into his design for Dior and YSL. For “New London”, a Slimane shoot for The Face conducted in August, his signature noirish morosity has been revived by a cast of relatively diverse and interesting faces from London’s artistic, musical (or tbh, party) scene: “Singer” Matt Molotov, and Lux and Wolf Gillespie, who are, to quote attendees “Nepo-baby founders of event where baggy jeans aren’t allowed”.

On a related note: in an incredible feat for a photographer, Slimane has progressed recently to photographing several bands that don't even exist (with some notable exceptions). Here are the strained faces of boys holding guitars in a way that will make you say: "He don't got one song where he needs to be doing all this".

Fakemink graces The Face’s cover with the sexiest (and most high definition) image of him to date. The underground rapper who blew to insane levels of fame in less than a year embodies the evolution of the London Recession Rockstar.

For reasons too numerous to go into here, It-Boys are much rarer than It-Girls. When I look at Mink and his cigarette, I can’t help but feel like Hedi has picked him up where he dropped off the agéd Pete Doherty (2007). Instead of being hounded by paparazzi, London’s prodigal sexyboy saviour is readily stalked by all manner of Instagram creepers, ready to disseminate not the shocking behaviour headlines of the indie era, but lore from the DM.

In fact, after the most recent Death of Live Rock Music as We Previously Knew It, visual and auditory tropes of the genre have become appropriated to inform the cultural Frankenstein that is the ‘new gen music scene’. We went from heroin and acoustic guitars thrown out the windows of Camden flats to the rarest supreme jackets, multiple Instagram accounts (and creative aliases) and the re-popularisation of cocaine for a TikTok generation that mainstream media still label as “sober and sensible". There was not a single rap song in the Billboard top 40: a sign of a cultural victory for rap, which fully merged with pop in the 2010s and at the turn of the decade going underground. Wherever underground is.

In terms of ‘documenting’ the city, the tables of cultural capital have turned. I think all the time about something that maybe goes without saying: that young musicians don’t really need photographers to succeed. The photographer in this equation is not someone who brings new information and personalities to light- that responsibility has been internalised to the artists themselves. Authority is what is conferred, the alternative aesthetic aristocracy is affirmed.

The clouted are figures that have been built from a combination of, variously: inaccessible wealth, aesthetic dissolution and small luxury brand sponsorship. So when we factor in the knowledge that a fair few members of this scene are quite literally children of the previous generation of stars Hedi would’ve photographed, and largely follow suit after their parents' public image, things get meta-freudian.

What separates Hedi’s images now from then is a wave of apathy fuelled by the importance of image over history and acceleration over action. Now, there’s this idea that as long as we can keep up the hype, it might turn into to something solid.

A side note: the nepotism criticism can be applied internationally. London is still the most interesting major city in the world right now, despite, or perhaps because of having 'no cool bars or no cool clubs', according to one Ike Clateman. Artist and trend forecaster Sean Monahan's article on the New Lost Generation of Americans in Paris follows the money and misses out London, perhaps because despite pointing to the fact that mapping out the geography of what's hot kills it, he can't resist doing it: 'The people you wanted to avoid were at La Perle, not Clandestino. The people you wanted to run into were at La Palette, not Funny Bar... Gutter snipes lived in Pigalle, not Bushwick. All of this – it goes without saying – is not supposed to be said. By mapping what is cool, you murder it.' Something to bear in mind in the gloom is that the lack of good spots is what keeps the beauty and the mystery of London. It's the psycho-geography version of the Dark Forest theory of the internet.

Without having any cool bars in London, it becomes difficult for photographers like Slimane to gain access to interesting subjects on street level without them already being connected to his world in some way. Although these images are visually striking, it is difficult for this project to escape the massive shadow cast by his previous books and anthologies: London: Birth of a Cult(2005) or Rock Diary(2008), Portrait of Performer series (2007- ongoing). How is he supposed to access something that is not just a residual aftereffect of a world that is still climbing up to him?

Fakemink points out in his interview that “2025 is the age of…nostalgia”. And I think that sums things up pretty well. On the front page of the issue in clear and cutting text is written: “Love today before it ends”, but it seems that today has already ended. Isn’t that the point?

While thankfully less common than in Berlin, a city replete with smoothened, outsourced objects often mistakenly seen as the end of thoughtful conceptualism rather than as the product of a much lower common denominator—a Ringbahn-bound collective condition of smooth-brained apathetic “coolness”
conceptual art in New York can at times feel like a circle jerk for bisexual men whose flirtations with the same sex are limited to the moments of tantric, pseudointellectual foreplay they partake in at downtown openings.

At Maxwell Graham, a merely aesthetic or self-aggrandising relationship to conceptualism has always been out of the question. While some of the gallery’s roster admittedly does less for me than the work of, say, Hamishi Farah, Ser Serpas, Cameron Rowland, and Tiffany Sia, there is little of the juvenile “I only got into conceptual art through Joseph Beuys” sentiment one often intuits in small downtown galleries. In “Display,” Zoe Leonard’s new exhibition at Maxwell Graham, comprised of only six gelatin silver prints depicting armor housed in nondescript museum and institutional settings, thought—the foundation of good conceptual work—is refreshingly at the forefront.

Much like the cold, detached hubbub sustained by the aforementioned men who sour conceptualism’s current reputation, the objects pictured seem as if they should foreclose sensuality or eroticism altogether in the way they privilege the episteme. And they do. Ranging between 300 BC - 1600 in origins, each piece of armor, even with its voluptuous tassets and faulds, is obviously masculine, immediately neutralizing the knowledge of the erotic, an arguably feminine power that Audre Lorde famously described as being often “misnamed by men and used against women.” Repeat those same forms multiple times within the same sterile vitrines, compositions, or gallery walls without providing historical context, and that repetition amasses into something more monumental: critique.

This is what Leonard’s practice does best—looking, repeating, serialising, aggregating to the point that form, always bound to history, begins to speak for things that transcend history. In the case of “Display,” what first emerges from this continuity of forms spanning 2,000 years in origins is the tired persistence of patriarchal militancy and violence throughout the history of the West—a fact that can be condensed into everything from the objects themselves, such as the muscle cuirass of the Romans and Greeks or the plate armor of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, to the rationalizing containers, such as the ethnographic, imperial museum vitrine, that precipitate their initial formation and absolve the sins that lie in their wake.

Leonard may share convictions with the mechanised, lens-based approach of the Düsseldorf Becher School, but her work is ultimately more aligned with the libidinal sleight of hand wielded by fellow queer conceptualists emerging in the late 20th century, e.g. Felix Gonzalez-Torres, David Wojnarowicz, Glenn Ligon, than any photography movement or school. Hence, the desire that still bursts out from “Display,” some of her most acerbically mundane work yet.

This rupture is concentrated in one photograph, Display IX (1994/2025), displayed on the wall directly behind the viewer as they descend the stairs to the main gallery dedicated entirely to photographs of garments used in war and feudal contexts. Having been initially confronted with images of statesque armour, frozen in mechanical movement, repeated, doubled, and pictured ever so slightly differently to the point that their historical idiosyncrasies are rendered moot, the act of turning around and seeing the broken ab-laden torso of a broken muscle cuirass depicted in Display IX (1994/2025) wrests the most powerful element from repetition’s grasp—difference. And with it, desire floods the scene, too.

This is hardly the same libidinal or auratic territory underlying Leonard’s 1992 text declaration on the occasion of Eileen Myles’ presidential bid that she wants a “dyke for president,” nor the critical erotics lingering in her early 1990s images of chastity belts, lifted skirts, anatomical models, and the Niagara Falls, or her late 90s images of urban trees breaking through the fences meant to enclose them. Indeed, the desire occasioned by the image of the broken muscle cuirass is more memetic and pornographic than it is erotic. After all, Display IX is still a picture of an object of war.

However, it is precisely because it resides in that unspeakable zone wherein war and desire commingle, that the image also tests the very bounds of acceptable desire, sex, and discursive practices—an equally abstract and material dynamic from which queerness emerges. Keeping with the photographer’s past work, this desire is not only theoretically gay, but empathetically so, in no small part because it immediately evokes the visual schema of Grindr, where one is most likely to stumble upon a naked, cropped, floating male torso today.

But surely one cannot outwardly express gay desire upon seeing the cuirass without entirely betraying Leonard’s searing critique? Leonard’s work somehow convinces me that both positions—the anti-war critic and the shamefully desiring subject—can be held at the same time, however delusionally. After all, the desire that breaks through this particular dusty vitrine is ruled neither by eros, nor agape, nor philia. It seeks release neither through sacrifice nor mutual destruction but instead mistakes the momentary mania of visual possession and pornographic arrest with the inexhaustible wells of the haptic and the erotic.

The cuirass, a form de-eroticised upon its moulded excision from the human body, already reached the artist broken and caged. She furthered this deadening process by capturing the fragment in black and white, transforming it into a fetishistic spoil of history in much the same way that ethnography, the progeny of empire pictured throughout “Display,” has historically relied on violent acts of photographic capture to fix culture as a fetish object as a means to keep it, study it, exploit it, be turned on by it, degrade it, and eventually dispose of it.

Like Bilderatlas Mnemosyne (1924-), Aby Warburg’s unfinished project tracking the recurrence of classical images, gestures, and motifs across the history of Western art, Zoe Leonard’s practice often directs our gazes to histories that lie anywhere but the past. In “Display,” she pushes this to discomfiting ends, probing the psychosexual undercurrents of masculinist projects like war and questioning the latent biopolitical violence in 21st-century digital cruising (See the NYPD’s recent usage of Sniffies as a means to track and arrest cruisers at Penn Station) and the torso-directed desires it inculcates in viewers such as myself at even the most inopportune, or dare I say inappropriate, moments. At Maxwell Graham, the conceptual photographer first presents us with this sharp, Warburgian account of antiquity’s violent, pornographic “afterlife.” Then, she shatters things over our heads.

While in London Marina Abramovic is placed in the gallery-as-rave, Tamara Trauermarsch find that in Milan they put Nan Goldin in an airplane hanger, like a can of Bud Light in a 2000s HBO show.

From the raw intimacy of The Ballad of Sexual Dependency (1981) and the celebratory portraits of trans identity in The Other Side (1992), to the haunting memories of Sisters, Saints, Sibyls (2004) and the childlike melancholy of Fire Leap (2010), each piece builds a fragmented autobiography of survival and loss. Later works such as Memory Lost (2019) and Sirens (2019) plunge into addiction and ecstasy, while her most recent You Never Did Anything Wrong (2024) and Stendhal Syndrome (2024) expand Goldin’s vision toward mythology, abstraction, and the eternal cycles of life and death.

That didn't end well.

What we certainly weren’t craving in Milan was yet another slideshow of Nan Goldin’s portfolio. This format applied to her work is now as tasteful as that piece of Brooklyn gum you've chewed for ten minutes. Please note that, in this case, that piece of gum has been passed from mouth to mouth for at least 20 years. Terrifying.

In the same way I ask myself what was I expecting by having sex with a man on the first date, I wonder about my expectations when, at the entrance of the exhibition, the staff asked me to cover my phone's camera with a branded sticker. Was I in seek of a feeling? Was I supposed to walk around feeling proud to have been there? I don’t identify as a third-grader grappling with his first bruises and sexual experiences.

At that point, I wished the stickers were 'egg shell', so that the core of the exhibition would have been seeing everyone walking around scrubbing their phones camera covers like a desperate with a scratch card.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get a second date and neither the satisfaction of a single broken eggshell. Both cases, I got a waste of time.

Worried that the exhibition could have been too lukewarm, they designed a route where every series of photographs was enclosed in a huge felt tent. There were at least seven different ones, each in a different colour and with a different soundtrack. They all had one thing in common though: the heat was nearly deadly and only acceptable if the purpose was to host the naked and afraid in the dead of winter. Even though the most naked and afraid probably couldn't have stand the environment either, and I'm not talking about the temperature.

The show's subtitle should’ve been 'Nightmare tents rotation': who on earth feels the need on a weekday afternoon to be trapped in a tiny, dark, sweaty space with tons of art workers? For Christ.

And anyway, Nan’s crusade finding refuge inside Pirelli Hangar is like hosting a punk funeral inside the Vatican.

The irony burns brighter than the spotlights sweating on those felt walls. Watching rebellion get institutionalised never gets any less obscene.

They love to define this kind of exhibitions “dialogue”. Sure, if by dialogue they mean a pointless monologue echoing through a cathedral of good intentions where the staff whisper about activism as if it’s an artisanal cheese: rare, pungent, perfectly aged for the website’s palette. I wonder if the real performance were the enthusiasts cosplaying empathy, in the need to look radical while staying perfectly respectable like a banker in fishnets, or an terrorist with a press release.

And the crowd applauds, amazed that despite being the size of an airplane hanger: the exhibition was conveniently tote-bag sized.

Apart from that, the last stop of this hour of slaloming Berghain-esquely through alt kids and uncool adults was the only one worth it. And that's probably why I couldn't see anything from how crowded it was. Welcome to Panorama Bar.

For those unaware, the infamous Berlin’s club is the happy alternative: they'll make you cover the camera anyway but you get drugs and can fuck behind the corners.

Pick - A - Boo!

Pre-Party hosted by Hollywood Superstar, Chess Club and Gnossienne Gallery.

Photos by Nick Gogh and someone else

Ft.

No Bra (Live)
Floods in Atlanta (Live)
Born Weekend (Live)
LC (DJ)
Soli City (Live)
Enzo M (DJ)

Acknowledging that is more profitable for Advertisers (and Universities offering Curation MFAs) to encourage us to edge ourselves to our publicised interpretations of each other, the Hollywood Superstar believes, senso generis, in the need for more irl fucking.

So let's hear from an archetype on the problem: the un-fucked 'Contemporary Art Baddie', who suggests that the way to reconcile your feelings with the hot new bods in the gallery with the hot new works on display is to make the whole space less sterile. Riffing on Andrea Fraser's fields of contemporary art diagrams, C.A.B creates a map of the girls that keep the world running.

This is the first in a series on love and exhibition, so get pitching... and bear in mind: the Superstar likes to debate but she also likes to say: Fuck you and your trad wife.

The Baddie Paradox by Contemporary Art Baddie

After the sudden resurrection of my “love” for art in the years post-academy, I’ve found myself in a sexual rut. I am stimulated by the colours, shapes and concepts that present themselves to me in exhibition spaces. I visit artist run galleries, big and thick institutes, tight little spaces, commercial spaces, non profits, churches and more… But everywhere those plain white walls. Guys, get a grip - where is the fun in all of this? The white cube has no sex appeal, it’s sterility doesn’t necessarily create the right ambiance to ask for the new gallery kid's number (we’ve been making sober eye contact for the past 30 minutes) Or is it just me? The “Contemporary Art Baddie” status that intimidates men into not talking to me at openings? At this point, there are only curators in my DMs. And yes, they are there to work.

At my lash-tech appointment, I thought of Elke Krystufek’s 1994 Masturbating in Kunsthalle Vienna. Then Andrea Fraser’s Untitled (2003), a commissioned work where she videotaped herself having sex with an art collector. He paid for the videotape as an artwork, not for the sex itself. Both works stage the paradox of sexual performance, vital acts are sterilised in the presence of the institution, the commerce and the recording.

Elle Krystufek (Top) Andrea Fraser (Bottom

And that’s the core of The Baddie Paradox:

• High visibility, low approachability: Desired, but rarely approached.
• Sexual aura ≠ sexual access: Style, confidence, and self-possession read as sex, but aren’t the same as sex itself.
• The Madonna–Whore complex still lingers. Baddies are often fantasised about but not pursued sincerely.
• Power dynamics. Owning your space shifts desire: some fetishise it, others retreat.
So is it just me, or are all girls in the arts fucking - except the Contemporary Art Baddie? Or maybe that’s the paradox: she is fucking, but what she really wants is intimacy. Sexual aura does not mean sexual access, and neither guarantees intimacy.

Bruno Zhu and Meme on Hoes

Inspired by Andrea Fraser’s The Field of Contemporary Art: A Diagram, I developed a 4-Venn diagram to grasp not just the art world but the girls who keep it running: the Indie Literature Hottie, the Gallerina, the Art Hoe, the Community Artist - and, of course, the Contemporary Art Baddie, who encompasses them all. What are they moved by? Their motives? Overlaps? And importantly, do they fuck?

baddie_vendiagram-1.pdf

Q3 Curated by ProblemChild Advisory

September 4 - October 19, 2025

Albert R. Sawit takes us on a journey through "Q-3", an exhibition curated by Problem Child Advisory - another psychologically tortured and semi-autonomous guerrilla art Instagram page - and Alyssa Davis Gallery, the renowned nomadic downtown gallery that’s been curating shows with chic posters since 2016. “Q-3” is a reference to the third quarter of the fiscal year, paired with a selection of artworks whose summary could be described as "post-internet" and "girl-art", "digital grotesquerie" and “machinic fetishistic art akin to transformer toys”. Together, they generate an exhibition geared unabashedly toward Silicon Valley cash flow. Digital solutions to real art world problems!

Featuring work by Diego Gabaldon, Kyle Gallagher, Nina Hartmann, Leif Jones, Gyae Kim, Danka Latorre, Jack Lawler, Sean David Morgan, In June Park and Cameron Spratley

We experienced complete context collapse on Henry St. My father and I, like many of the others assembled on the sidewalk for Q3, had attended the Armoury Art Fair beforehand. By the time an ‘art world enthusiast’ arrives at the exhibition, they have probably seen close to 100 small shows in the form of individual booths dotted across several fairs. Perhaps a few more cohesive openings in Tribeca or Chinatown.

It would be safe to say these viewers have encountered 500 works of art, easily destroying any strong or certain idea about what world we exist in by the time we got to the show. Outside of Q-3, there was a different kind of crowd - dirtier and younger – some kids blowing smoke across the sidewalk, baseball caps with frayed edges – more cargo pant pockets than I care to recall – and the kind of Chinatown glitter that sees rhinestones all over everything – hats, tees, and teeth. Who is Problem Child Advisory? A seemingly ownerless, Instagram-centric sort of whose-who type of visual storytelling-based insights on art, whose niche (or populist) selection of internet artists draws an above-average crowd.

The first thing to grab my attention was a picture frame that looked like it had been made in an auto body shop, Diego Galbadon’s SPEEDFRAME (1,2, and 3) 2025 series. It was as if the people who made the car from Speed Racer had a side hustle in framing. Macho-centric, jacked-up accelerationist framing that appeals to both the consumer critical CSM graduate and the technocrat. Galbadon’s obsession with sport as ritual is reflected in the gargantuan architecture of his framing device, like a baroque baldachino.

I was moving a bit too quickly to actually stop in my tracks, but I did take a picture. Upon further inspection of the image, I realised it was a soccer game – or a rendering of one, with the words "DARE TO DO" spelt out by the fans in the crowd. It was a commentary on the sports industrial complex: the commemorative cups, the scarves, the sea of inevitable merch that comes with being at the top of your ‘field’. The most important part of this deluge of liquid merch is the container that holds it all together - a stadium. Like the football stadiums that accompany the most notable empires, the frame becomes this celebration of the work inside, a protector, a reminder, but most importantly, an indicator of value. V Q3.

The next attention grabber was a furless, silicone deer, covered in overlapping tattoos. Leif Jones, Bed Bugs Cure Laziness (Deer 1) 2025. A work which also appears on the cryptic Instagram account of its maker @leifffffffffffffffffffffff. The tattooed skin recalls a bad stick and poke given by friends - the sort of Instagram grid post to go triple platinum on drainer feeds.

The last work I’ll bring up is a painting I liked because of its transparency and honesty. Sleight of Hand 2025 by the artist In June Park. It was a simple airburst image of a few handshakes occurring simultaneously; it stood out as a reminder of forced exchanges. The art world is for rich white people – it is their playground, and we are all just here because of their ego. No matter how much we stylise or abstract the narrative, at the end of the day, the art world is about creating capital and moving it through various systems so it can accumulate value. Sleight of Hand alludes to the vectors of financial manipulation, but to its formal qualities: slight blurring, JPEG light texture, creating an impression of artists' increasing freedom through digitality.

All of the works in Q-3 can be categorized as "Net Art" - Problem Child Advisory surpasses the traditional gallery system - in a way - by sourcing artists outside of the network, defying the brick and mortar space, Sam Altman style. The works speak to each other through unfiltered internet language - this isn’t super flat - or digitality prematurely re-packaged as a movement, these are, and I quote, a purportedly “anti-establishment” and “anti-gate-kept” forms of art making.

Does this mean that if you see a work on the Problem Child Advisory Instagram, and like it, you can just purchase from the artist directly? Curating in works such as Sleight of Hand (2025) suggests that cutting out the middleman might be welcomed by the page. Would love to know if this is actually the case. Slide in our DM'S.

Correspondent Maria Juana dives into the "Saatchi Yates Rave", or the concept-store gallery's venture into the London underground. Marina gained acclaim for her psychologically terrorising performance art about state oppression, and now she's in the same line up as Fake Mink. If not exactly a net good, the event leant toward the absurd rather than the abyssal. God bless the dichotomy.

In London you either die a hero, or live long enough to put on an event. It seems that upon her return to the city, Marina Abramović has met the same fate. To initiate Saatchi Yates into her exhibiting repertoire, the help of the infamous, London-based collective Virus was enlisted. With its tenuous links to clubby acts on both sides of the Atlantic, I can't deny that my interest was piqued.

Marina is the kind of person I'll always have a soft spot for. Like an ex, or the celebrity crush of my teen years. Nothing awful they might do could ever truly negate how they once made me feel. I stood by her when she attempted to 'raise the vibration of Glastonbury' and consequently 'heal the world' in a custom Riccardo Tisci dress, and if these DJ rumours were true, fuck it, I'll stand by her now.

As my best friend aptly pointed out, we were witnessing "mixed-levels of swag." The well-to-do fashion kids stood in stark contrast with the abundance of quote-unquote 'normies.' Quirked-up women in their 40s and suited blokes in their late 30s lined up right alongside the London ravers and people who- if you squinted hard enough- had an instagram that hovered next to them like a ghostly and well-followed child. In fact, the whole night could have been Phillipa Snow's Trophy Lives: On the Celebrity as Art Object, adapted for a kinaesthetic learner.

As the night grew closer, the plot thinnened. There was still no lineup to be seen. Anyway: a black cab rolled up, and out stepped Marina herself. As the groups of shaggy-haired boys thrashed their not-so-quirky locks into a frenzy, I felt in the flattening flash of a fit pic, a not-quite-profound levelling of worlds.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't have fun - even if Marina didn't end up making her DJ debut. That said, rumours of Lady Gaga's presence in the collectors' room replenished the intrigue. As 11pm hit the clock and the normies dissipated, the real freaks could come out (and listen to LV Sandals). Just another night being on the cutting edge, I guess.

Actually though, the music was really good. The lineup justified itself, Wraith9, Mechatok and Charlie Osbourne tore. Free WhiteClaw on tap gave brief respite from the £16 doubles I'd drunkenly spent. And as I'd so desperately prayed, Marina's aura was left intact.

It’s not hard to see why the PR team took this particular route, as plastic surgery and culture-at-large bring Charli XCX and Abramovic closer and closer together. It makes sense in the meme-marketing landscape that has been cooked up in coked-out Shoreditch new-builds over the last few years. If the intention was to entice the younger ‘alt’ crowd into buying shit from Saatchi Yates, I think that falls flat - especially since some miscreant (allegedly) robbed one of the £1.8k prints. It becomes part of their larger project of art-as-clout-proximity/socially-mediated experience that the gallery are pushing through their buy-in membership system.

According to my elementary calculations, this exhibition would see a gross profit of £2.16m. This largely mystified night kicked off a mega-sale of her works- with 600 blue stills and 600 red stills up for grabs. It's a huge chunk of change to try and make in one go. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ll know there’s a 2008-style financial bubble about to burst. From an outside financial perspective, it seems like Saatchi Yates’ diversification through their infamous membership scheme needs some interim revenue-smoothing. It’s typical crypto-mentality, applied to pop-culture: buy low and sell high. And get out before the bubble bursts.

Whilst New York Film Festival got swishly underway, our distinguished Milanese superstar cut her teeth with this write up of what might have been the roughest film festival I've ever heard of. Finding it to be a bit too straight-boy: less Jack Smith's Flaming Creatures, more poliziottescho, Holli Would says that you might wanna WIPE your hands after you leave Milan's Amateur film festival.

I want to meet the plug and I meet the plug.

Shortly, I’m half drunk in a taxi bound for a too-many-thousand-meters complex of abandoned offices turned into an artist-run liminal space which is actually patronised by some mysterious entities and led by people with seemingly little control. Most importantly, this space called Bim is far from everything but itself. I don’t go often. I've been literally twice including this one.

Despite the miles of distance we came to take part into this cultural momentum, when we arrive we’re not focused on the independent screening program being held outdoor as much as we are in the provisorily abandoned bar spot that we, just being there, vandalise. I feel people are annoyed by our too open disengagement and we’re annoyed by them judging us.

And so we sit and start watching, and soon enough this turns out to be a terrible idea.

It’s a short movie by Cane Morto, a trio of white Italian guys from (maybe) Geneva, who seem to both endorse and mock a bubbling cauldron of underground signifiers and languages. I feel a little embarrassed for them.

I check them on socials, and what I get is a disturbing level of multi-hyphenation. In what looks like their 16-post-grid chase for artistic recognition, Cane Morto have already done performances, painting shows, video works, public art commissions, organized drawing auctions, happenings… and the list goes on. But none of it seems to really grasp anything reletable, at least to me—and this, trust me, has nothing to do with their possibly being outsiders, naifs, or with whatever backdoor they might have used to get into this world.

I could just call it a case study in ridiculousness—they’re ridiculous amateurs rather than people who actually channel irony within their art practice—but what worries me is the hint of shortcuts being taken.

If anything, they give off an alarming “I-could-do-conceptual-art-too” vibe, like some rookie schoolboys that just want to conquer art—use it, squeeze it, put it to work like a capitalist machine, instead of even sitting down with her, giving her some time, talking with her.

I’m talking about the type of guys who think that they’re smarter than everyone else in the class, including the prof, and this faux belief blinds them to the point that, after the first months of course—maybe after a lesson on Duchamp—they think they’ve already hacked some secret, deep-seated logic behind conceptual art. Fueled by a certain dumb excitement, their little eureka moment convinced them that they can churn out tons of stuff that costs them little personally and can be produced at full speed: this is the conceptual work, this is the concept, the idea, the meaning, and you can multiply is as many times as you want.

Didn’t I deserve an A? Isn’t this how art works, prof?

I need a drink.

Right after, the video we came from far away to watch is finally being screened. Since before it starts, big noise is being made for Loris, Bernardino, and Tres Bones, the trio gravitating around a more expanded Milan-based videoart orbit—operating under the name of NoText Azienda—who, in some capacity, worked on this piece.

Under the lens of a trademark erosive colour treatment, a tough, indigestible story about an immigrant man scammed by his lawyer unfolds. The monologue, describing in first person the experience of the scammed one is poignant, and it keeps it brilliantly simple, it makes me feel the desperation, the hunger, and the praise for revenge, like it was blood in my mouth after I’ve bitten my tongue. It ends into an orgy of sex, abuse, and torture, inflicted to the scammed into the abandoned park of a Milanese suburb.

I stand up and cheer and scream and I couldn’t be more enthusiastic not only because of the coke. I'm so glad these atmospheres can still slip into art realms through those beloved backdoors.

Men dressed like Italian dandies, with 70s suits and haircuts and gelatine in their air, eating in squalid spots with their shirt open to show an hairy chest and a gold chain, bringing on stage their Califano-drama and the squalor of their existential conditions.

Let’s just no bullshit: despite the art world last-decade interest in the last ones, in the ones who lives at the margins, in the long-time misrepresented, these kind of subjects are too ugly, apparently even too virile, and their bad taste is too unredeemable, to be taken into account by Art. No matter how their condition actually is one of misery and crisis, no matter how this world is hurting them, chewing them and spit them on the asphalt.

Downtown New York's Baudelairean beauty has been canonized in Nan Goldin's photobooks, but Italy's national popular discos aren't the ones you'd find there. The poetry rippling through the wrinkles of these old guys ripped straight out of a Poliziotteschifilm resists that kind of canonisation.

The night ends in a bath of drugs, squalor, and misery, to the point that I feel kinda like one of those characters. The day after, a text from Bernardino thanks me for the kind words. I can’t remember those words, but I do believe them now more than I could ever.

ITALIAN TRANSLATION

Ennesimo mansplanning non richiesto né tantomeno necessario di ciò che la donna solitamente nasconde nelle mutande: senza scrupoli ma con tanti salvaslip, così leggiamo la nuova apertura firmata Thaddaeus Ropac a Milano, Sabato 20 Settembre.

Al di là del fatto che non una singola faccia fosse bella o gioiosa durante l’opening, forse data l’assenza di una qualunque bevanda alcolica presso il catering -composto da acqua naturale e succo di pesca- la nuova sede della rinomata galleria è presso Palazzo Belgioioso.

Da depliant, i due artisti dialogano su livelli molteplici nel corso della mostra ma, come sostiene il curatore Luca Massimo Barbero, in definitiva non sono legati da "una prossimità formale né da un'affinità di linguaggio, ma da una tensione condivisa. L'idea, cioè, che l'arte non rappresenti ma annunci, che non descriva ma evochi, che sia prima di tutto, un atto di apertura verso l’origine”. Non occorre una gran immaginazione per ricollegare la apertura al punto dove tutto ha origine, la vulva. Courbet lo sa meglio di chiunque altro. A quanto pare non è il solo.

Le pareti delle sale espositive sono un glory hole fatto e finito ma del resto ognuno ha i suoi gusti. Chi siamo noi per criticare?

Concetti Spaziali di ogni taglia e nazionalità, cavità violate tutte dalle lame di Fontana, che altrimenti non avrebbe venduto più una tela. Sex sells, when not consensual more. I numeri parlano, si invita consultare il sito XNXX.com e il prezzo di vendita di queste opere. Fortunatamente al piano secondo dell’edificio la mostra culmina aprendosi su un ufficio con tavolo, sedie e contratti d’acquisto: qui si ritiene più consona la categoria Anal.

“Woman written by a man”: un’autoreggente spaiata, un orecchino d’oro, un tubino nero con glitter e in ultimo una gomma da masticare Big Bubble che una puttana ha portato a passeggio una nottata intera sotto il tacco a spillo; questo rosa shocking porta il titolo La Fine di Dio (1963) e ci piacerebbe questo Dio fosse il maschilismo.

Nostro alleato Baselitz appende uomini a testa in giù con una tavolozza scrupolosa di bianchi, neri, gialli e rosa. Tutto gli si può rinfacciare meno che il non essere inclusivo, difatti da bravo contemporaneo a colazione mangia cancel culture. E gli uomini appena citati, da titoli, sono in realtà donne, una, Rosa Riposa (2019).

Scrupoloso Georg lo è anche in ritratti espliciti come Ohne Titel del 2024, un inchiostro rosso su carta di una signorina che si copre il sesso. Come biasimarla; l’eccezione che conferma la regola e se ne compiace. Lui non mette titolo perché è senza parole come “non ogni uomo, ma quasi”, davanti al rifiuto.

Un Arlecchino (1950) in terracotta, al servizio dell’amore fa capolino da dietro un arco; sproniamo a far riferimento all’immagine per cogliere suggerite assonanze che purtroppo scadono sempre nel monotematico. Noi dovremmo forse fare di rimando psicoterapia, freudiana. E un test STD.

Lasciando l’edificio, un rivolo di scale foderate di rosso. L’Aurora Viene è il nome dato all’esposizione; se questa Aurora fa riferimento al flusso mestruale, stringo la mano al sig. Barbero. È quel periodo del mese, ma non si preoccupi, come parecchi curatori al giorno d’oggi ho la buona abitudine di lavarmene le mani.

Osservando il palazzo dal cortile, vicino all’entrata una grande scultura fallica, il primo uomo in mezzo a tante donne. Solleva vedere come quantomeno ci avessero avvertito: che fosse una mostra del cazzo era in introduzione, quella che viene spesso saltata nella lettura. Si può dire di questo opening che è un vero e proprio salto della quaglia e di noi che l’abbiamo scampata bella, amiche!

ENGLISH TRANSLATION

Yet another unsolicited, let alone unecessary, example of mansplaining about what women usually hide in their underwear: without scruples, yet so many pantyliners, this is how we must understand the opening by Thaddeus Ropac's in Milan.

The new location of the renowned gallery is at Palazzo Belgioioso (trans. beautiful and happy face building)- despite this fact, everyone looked ugly and unhappy- perhaps due to the lack of alcoholic beverages during the function.

According to the brochure, the two artists engage in dialogue on multiple levels throughout the exhibition but, as curator Luca Massimo Barbero argues, 'The idea is that it the art is first and foremost an act of openness towards the origin’.

It doesn't take much imagination to connect this opening to the vulva. Courbet knows this better than anyone. Apparently, he's not the only one.

The brash masculinity of this 'act of openness', however, turned the exhibition into a glory hole. And anyway, to each his own.

Concetti Spaziali of all sizes and nationalities, cavities violated by Fontana's blades, who otherwise would not have sold another canvas. Sex sells, when not consensual, even more so. The numbers speak for themselves; please consult X.Videos to see the selling price of these works.
Fortunately, on the second floor of the building, the exhibition culminates in an office with a table, chairs and purchase contracts: here, the Anal category is considered more appropriate.

“Woman written by a man” : an unpaired stocking, a gold earring, a little black dress with glitter and, lastly, a piece of Big Bubble chewing gum that a bitch wore all night long under her stiletto heel; this shocking pink piece is entitled La Fine di Dio (The End of God, 1963) and we would like this God-ending to be male chauvinism.

Our ally Baselitz hangs men upside down with a meticulous palette of whites, blacks, yellows and pinks. He can be accused of anything but not being inclusive; in fact, like any good contemporary artist, he eats cancel culture for breakfast. And the men just mentioned in the titles are actually women, one of whom is Rosa Riposa (2019).

Georg is also meticulous in explicit portraits such as Ohne Titel from 2024, a red ink on paper portrait of a young woman covering her genitals. How can we blame her? She is the exception that proves the rule and is pleased with it. He does not give it a title because he is speechless, like “not every man, but almost”, in the face of rejection.

A terracotta Arlecchino (1950), in the service of love, peeks out from behind an arch; we invite you to consult the image for suggested similarities that unfortunately always end up being monothematic. Perhaps we should refer to a Freudian psychotherapist. And take an STD test.

Leaving the building, a trickle of red-lined stairs. L’Aurora Viene is the name given to the exhibition; if this Aurora refers to menstrual flow, I shake Mr Barbero's hand. It's that time of the month, but don't worry, like many curators nowadays, I have the good habit of washing my hands of it.

Observing the building from the courtyard, near the entrance is a large phallic sculpture, the first man among many women. It's good to see that at least they warned us: it's a dick of an exhibition.

We can say that this opening was a close call and that we got off lightly, my girl-friends!

July 12 — September 6
2025

The apparatus of Her Selected Works struck me: railings holding the artworks and the postcards on the rack display as you walk in. They kind of carried the show.

I was under the impression that the works on show were a part of Carlotta’s “collection”. I.e. She was a collector and the works she had purchased were a product of her taste. The curatorial angle is that these are works which could have been collected and kept in storage, so their arrangement is like a hide-and-seek of meaning. As a curator, these works are still, invariably, part of her taste - but it would have been a relief to know that some kind of circular economy existed between the chic state-funded central european art world and the significantly less financially supported London artistic circuit. It would be great if this exhibition signalled that some kind of a) collecting and b) economic transfer had taken place. Gave the vibe of the scene in Tenet (2020) where he breaks into the tax-free hyper-secure non-dom art storage facility. Untaxable offshore funds.

Andreas Schmid’s work Figure Nr 1, 2025 was a highlight: a conttraposto cubist figure whose frame is constructed from various watercoloured ovals is painted on antique card. Schmid constructed a frame for the card, akin to an Ilizarov apparatus, which holds the folds upright with brass poles and screws. Daniel Zeballos’ it’s dark train of thought with too many carriages, 2025 a fine graphite drawing on torn paper, has been seemingly drawn, then torn and re-assembled. This play between material, texture and tromp l’eoil is also present in Gritli Faulhaber’s Ohne Titel (La Solitaire, Zitronengelb) (2024) where 70’s wallpaper-appliqué surrounds the silhouette of a 1920’s flapper. The work was previously shown as part of Les Garçonnes at Gauli Zitter, Brussels, where I think it was better served, contextualised by Faulhaber’s other paintings that muse on the relationship between decorative pattern and depiction of the human form, ala Alois Riegl.

A Deconstructed archive-on-display-type-beat is very cool but actually super hard to execute in principle, especially if the works displayed form a cat and mouse of meaning that is not ever fully deciphered. It would have been great to have some more presence - even heavy handed - from the eponymous "collector".