A few years ago, a prominent artist got herself invited to the audience of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show. When its then host Jon Stewart started to warm up the crowd, our painter friend called out “The art world loves you, Jon” to which Mr. Stewart replied, “Oh, art has its own world, does it?”

This incident came to mind as I pondered how to respond to the J20 group’s call for “An Act of Noncompliance on Inauguration Day”. One thing no one wants on this dark day in history is any kind of divisiveness in how cultured, civilized people should oppose the coming mayhem, ineptitude and violation of rights and norms that promise to constitute US government over the next four years. Many artists and organizations I follow have responded positively to J20s defiant call for “No work, no school, no business”—kudos to them for their noble sentiment. Museums that have waived entrance fees as a gesture against “business as usual” deserve especial praise. The Whitney Museum is hosting an “Occupy Museums” event in solidarity with J20. But while there is absolutely nothing to disagree with in J20’s characterization of Trumpism—“a toxic mix of white supremacy, misogyny, xenophobia, militarism, and oligarchic rule” – the thought does occur: On this of all days, did the art world have to do its own special thing?

Today is a day for mourning, tomorrow for action. I will be joining friends in New York Saturday to show solidarity with the Women’s March on DC. Although the president-elect has already indicated his intention to abolish the NEA and to eviscerate public broadcasting, a focus on women makes special sense in view of the vindictive and callous assaults on women’s rights and dignity that characterized the Trump campaign. To deflect in any way from that seems like letting off a few bazookas ahead of a pyrotechnic display.

In my view, protesters should be gathering their strength Friday, resting their voices and feet, and focusing with millions of Americans across all industrial sectors on tomorrow’s properly organized, media-savvy activity. The world will be counting the number of live bodies on the National Mall and sister sites across the country. Someone arrested in a spontaneous demonstration today won’t be there tomorrow. Hopefully, TV cameras will pick out some great placards, some of which have been made by artists like Andrea Champlin, pictured here, and James Esber, our cover artist this weekend. January 21 is a day when the efficacy of focused and inclusive protest can be measured: in the years ahead, we need all the focus and inclusivity that can be mustered.

A call for an art strike on a day when other sectors are not planning industrial action also puts out a strange message about art. It somehow implies that the victims of this strike will all be Ivanka Trumps who won’t be able to go out today and buy a Richard Prince. There is a whiff of the sentiment that art is frivolous: fiddling while Rome burns. In fact, a more likely victim of the strike is a protester revving up for tomorrow’s activities. In that spirit, artcritical salutes the sentiments of Galerie St. Etienne in their response to a survey at Hyperallergic magazine:

Galerie St. Etienne will remain open on January 20. Our current exhibition on American Artists and the Communist Party, installed just down the block from Trump Tower, is especially relevant in the wake of the election. As the administration takes a big step to the right, we stand committed to socially-conscious art. The works on display make it all too obvious that Depression-era inequities are no less rampant or socially destructive today.

The post The Art of Protest appeared first on artcritical.

The Surrealists had a fantasy of a secret passage that led through myriad rooms in different buildings across Paris, without the wanderer having to return to the street. That wild notion comes to mind when contemplating New York’s commercial art galleries and alternative spaces, for in a way these constitute the world’s biggest, best, and curatorially most heterodox museum of contemporary art, one that happens, also, to be free.

The objection could be raised that a real museum has a café, a gift shop and a lecture hall. Well, if you visit Hauser & Wirth on a Friday or Saturday, they’ll make you an espresso, and The Hole and Gagosian both have stores (and this is not to mention, by the way, that all galleries are, in fact, stores: you can buy things there!). As for the lecture hall, there are artist talks, walk-thrus and panels galore in many of these venues. But the better answer viz educational programing is that, complementing the free museum of contemporary art that it is, New York is also a virtual university of the arts if you add to these gallery offerings the lectures and events at art schools, libraries (let’s blow a trumpet here for the Brooklyn Public Library, host of The Review Panel) and, yes, the “real” museums and universities, all of which expose the idea-hungry New York mind to an ever-evolving encyclopedia of living art.

Just take a given Wednesday in New York City, this Wednesday, October 5, 2016. According to THE LIST, there are half a dozen stellar podium performances to choose from. The young, Iranian-born painter Ali Banisadr, who shows at Sperone Westwater, will present at the New York Academy down in Tribeca; Cliff Owens speaks on his work at Hunter College; Archie Rand talks about his series of cartoon-paintings inspired by Torah, the 613, at the New York Studio School; at Adam Shopkorn and Carolyn Angel’s Fort Gansevoort you have no less that two dialogues on this single evening, Alexis Rockman with Carl Mehling at 7pm and Roy Fowler (showing his wave prints at the gallery) in conversation with Mary Heilmann at 8.30 (but no BBQ at Fort Gansevoort Wednesdays alas, so bring a sandwich!), and at Katie Michel and Brad Ewing’s project space, Planthouse, an interview with Katherine Bradford.

A tantalizing, some would say painful, decision, but Netflix and chill ain’t an option, New York.

The post A Cafe, A Gift Shop and a Lecture Hall appeared first on artcritical.

artcritical backs the call, initiated by artist Marina Adams, to make OY/YO, the public sculpture by Deborah Kass, a permanent feature of the DUMBO riverbank. The work, commissioned by Two Trees Management Company, is scheduled to remain on view at Brooklyn Bridge Park through August 2016.

We support making it permanent for the excellent reasons given by Ms. Adams in her petition to Mayor Bill di Blasio, which we invite our readers to sign:

OY/YO, by Deborah Kass has instantly become a beloved icon, a Statue of Liberty, an I Love NY for the 21st century. It speaks directly to the many communities that make NYC the greatest city in the world. OY/YO has been acclaimed by the New York Times and gone viral on Instagram. New York Magazine calls it perfect public art. It is both a tourist attraction and an integral part of the Dumbo neighborhood and waterfront. (On top of that it is one of the only public sculptures made by a woman!) NYC loves OY/YO and we want to keep it permanent and public so we can continue to enjoy it.

There may be more public sculptures around by women than Ms. Adams implies (there are at least four in New York City by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney alone, to name one artist) but we won’t quibble on that front, especially as there are for sure nowhere near enough. This week, Philadelphians saw the temporary removal of Robert Indiana’s LOVE from the park that bears its name. Indiana’s iconic sculpture, a forebear (see below) of Kass’s street-smart monument, will take up temporary digs in Dilworth Park as Love Park undergoes renovations. It is rare when a work of public art touches the public’s hearts this way, and should be cherished.

But we acknowledge strong arguments against routinely making temporary public art interventions permanent simply because they resonate and are popular. One is that doing so might inhibit future temporary interventions; another is that it might aggrandize gestures that would be sweeter if they were simpler from artists invited to make temporary works but secretly hopeful of winning the bonus prize of permanence. There is always, however, an exception to prove a rule. The Eiffel Tower, initially reviled, was designed to be temporary. What would Paris be without it?

For the record, in November of last year, shortly after it was unveiled, OY/YO was an ARTCRITICAL PICK. Here is what David Cohen said of it:

OY/YO can be read two ways in more ways than meet the eye. Of course, the bright yellow typographically-symmetrical eight-foot-high aluminum letters, sited in DUMBO’s Brooklyn Bridge Park, read in different languages from Manhattan or Brooklyn, in Yeoman Yankee slang  as well as  Spanish if you face east and Yiddish if you have  your back to Kings County. It’s a gentle joke about multiculturalism and borough rivalry perhaps, although kvetching is pretty much universal and non-denominational throughout greater New York. Deborah Kass offers both a recall and a riposte to Brooklyn’s lost Domino sign and the Queens waterfront’s repositioned “Pepsi” through the democratizing while lost in translation reverse legibility of OY/YO. But the real genius of this at once layered and brazen concrete poem is the way it works for different crowds without anyone getting patronized: Kass speaks the language of art historical appropriation to critically savvy insiders – recalling her classic Jewish feminist deconstructions of Warhol, this time she riffs off of Robert Indiana’s LOVE and Ed Ruscha’s OOF – but she equally presents an upbeat, innocent originality to Joe Public, lounging in the park or stuck in bridge traffic. A knowingly classy graphic for a gentrified sometime slum, OY/YO is a two-way mirror of an only-in-New York variety.

The post OY/YO Forever appeared first on artcritical.

The post January 7, 2015 appeared first on artcritical.

Since the dramatic closure of Knoedler & Company last year, we have all had to get used to the unsettling fact that the art world boasts few institutions “too big to fail.”  Now we learn that Artnet magazine is no more: news and criticism are bereft of a spirited and singular outlet.

Knoedler and Artnet have in common that they were ancients in their respective fields – albeit that the venerable trading house dated back to the early 19th Century whereas the pioneer online art magazine was a relatively tender sixteen.  But like canine years, cyber years need multiplication to tally with a sense of longevity.  Artnet was the oldest web-exclusive art magazine.

It is with no sense of triumph but merely sadness and trepidation that artcritical must now ponder the probability that it is the oldest survivor in that category.  Although launched as David Cohen’s personal website in 2001, artcritical.com dates its foundation as a fully-fledged journal, with contributing editors and officers, and an array of contributors, to 2003 when it underwent its first redesign.  We will brag about our anniversary when it arrives.  Now the business at hand is to thank Walter Robinson for his stalwart journalism and publishing enterprise, and mourn his creation.

In announcing its closure to the world, Artnet cited the fact that in sixteen years the magazine failed to break even financially.  But that fails to register as the reason for its demise.  The magazine was always the cherry on the Artnet cake in which an array of services – auction records, auctions, gallery and artist homepage hosting, etc. – was the sponge and cream.  It seems rather more likely that a change in leadership for the publicly listed German company has produced a night of long knives of fiscal and managerial adjustments.  Again, Artnet’s exit from magazine publishing recalls Knoedler’s closure by an exasperated lawsuit-embroiled parent, the Armand Hammer Foundation, a Pontius Pilate-like gesture, more Murdoch and News of the World than Lehman Brothers.

For those of us who visited the shows or read the reviews of these art world fixtures their closures might each seem gratuitous.  But who were we?  Mere visitors.

The post Artnet Magazine – R.I.P. appeared first on artcritical.

The Whitney Biennial, arguably, is an academy of the moment.  But New York hosts two venerable, national visual arts institutions that boast the word academy in their title: The National Academy of Design and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Their annual exhibitions don’t garner the press and attention of the Whitney, or even the raucous, spirited Brucennial for that matter, but the academies have a singular advantage over most institutions and festivals: selection processes (for invitationals and membership alike) rest in the hands of living artists.

The National Academy has dropped the confusing “design” from its day-to-day name—to its 19th-century founders, design meant disegno in the renaissance sense, but today most people think of teapots.  And it has been experiencing a veritable renaissance itself since the start of the 2011-12 season when its stunning program of renovations was unveiled.  Suddenly, the old warhorse looked sprightly.

Tomorrow (May 17) Arts and Letters, as it is colloquially called, will open its none-too-catchy titled “Exhibition of Work by Newly Elected Members and Recipients of Honors and Awards”.  It follows on the heels of the annual invitational that opened the same spring week as the Whitney.  Make no mistake, however: this is a show of artists more likely to persist in the consciousness of connoisseurs than many in the flashy, headline grabbing, portentous museum surveys that eclipse such an event.  In place of themes that professional curators come up with are individuals of quality selected by revered peers.  The award selection committee at the American Academy consisted of Lois Dodd, Wolf Kahn, Alex Katz, Malcolm Morley, Thomas Nozkowski, Judy Pfaff, Dorothea Rockburne, Peter Saul, and its chair, Joel Shapiro.

Among cash prizes of $10,000 each, to be distributed at a ceremonial at which Chuck Close will deliver the keynote address, are the Jimmy Ernst Award for a lifetime achievement, picked up by sculptor of zany furnishings and decorations Forrest Myers; the Merit Medal for Painting, awarded to Joyce Pensato; other awards to John Newman and Rebecca Smith;  prizes earmarked for young artists going to Nathlie Provosty, Elisa Soliven and Nicole Wittenberg.  The exhibition also includes artists in the invitational from whom works were purchased on behalf of American museums, among them Cora Cohen,  Suzanne McClelland and Ann Pibal. New artist and architecture members inducted this year (the academy also elects writers and musicians) include Lynda Benglis, Elizabeth Diller, Kenneth Frampton, Robert Gober and Kara Walker.

It is a matter of some pride to me personally to note artists on these lists who have also featured in the pages of this magazine, received attention at The Review Panel, or were subjects of shows that I helped organize.  I will also mention having written for the catalog of Wittenberg’s debut New York solo show opening at Freight & Volume Gallery in Chelsea next week.  Critics don’t go out of their way to cultivate academic tastes, but it is validating to find commonality with an academy as august as this one.

American Academy of Arts and Letters, 633 West 155 Street at Broadway, New York City, 212-368-5900, open Thursday to Sunday, 1 to 4 pm (closed Memorial Day)

Nicole Wittenberg, from May 24 at Freight & Volume Gallery, 530 West 24th Street, between 10th and 11th avenues, 212-691-7700

The post When Academic Isn’t a Dirty Word appeared first on artcritical.

I guess it is time to eat some words.  In a welcome extended to Frieze Art Fair New York that was measured to the point of being somewhat surly, in which as it happens a culinary comparison figured, our editorial promised that “artcritical will do its duty and report on what it finds.”  Well, what was found is, simply put, the best art fair this writer has visited in America.

At least, that is, in terms of creature comforts.  The general level of art on show was respectable, in relation to other fairs, but not significantly or demonstrably higher than such rivals as the Armory Show or Art Basel Miami. And, by and large, this was not a fair of seriously high-end, blue-chip offerings.  Instead there was a focus on younger artists, with an emphasis on collectible objects – with a predominance of painting and domestically scaled sculpture and not much by way of installation or video.  Frieze seems to attract a classier, savvier average exhibitor perhaps on account of the very fact that it settled on a leaner roster of participants than its humungous, sprawling rivals; under one roof, it was in more than one sense contained.

And beautifully managed. The snaking tent is a triumph of design, affording a blessing rare enough alas in museums and almost unheard-of in North American fairs: natural, diffuse, overhead light.  (This was perhaps a tad over-augmented the Sunday of my last visit with harsh artificial light to compensate for an overcast start to the day.)  The curved layout  avoids the oppressions of the grid so that as the viewer moves through the space there is a sense of progress, of arriving at a new bend in the curve.  Spaces are neat but individualized and sight lines nicely varied.  According to David Nolan of David Nolan Gallery, the organizers managed to “get rid of the politics” that is the art fair norm.  The management told him “not one gallery complained about placement.”  There is ample space between sections, booths are big, the floor is strictly a uniform, gray wood paneling – rather than the oppressive concrete, cheap carpeting and pretentious cacophony of individual booth flooring solutions that mar the fair going experience at convention centers and armories.

And because they had struck out with their own temporary structure at Randall’s Island, Frieze didn’t have to work with the catering contracts and intransigent unions of these venues.  This meant invitations to top-notch eateries like The Fat Radish and the late Leo Castelli’s watering hole, Saint Ambrœus, and it meant relaxed, friendly staff.  The perceived remoteness of the location and the steep entrance fee of $40 meant an absence of crowds.  Exhibitors I spoke to do not regret the selected volume of attendees as it meant a more committed (read “likely to spend”) kind of viewer had a better time of it.  According to Frieze exhibitor Alexander Gray, of Alexander Gray Associates, who has never exhibited at the rival Armory Show but has had challenging experiences shepherding collectors around the piers, “Art is an aspirational market; if the surroundings fail to inspire and engage, then some people are not going to bother.”

Other dealers I spoke with were candid about sales.  A mid-level class of collector was identified who might have “blown their wad” for the year at the March fairs.  Sales were “decent but not great” according to another trusted source.  As word gets out of the superior visitor experience (for collectors and professionals if not the average enthusiast) that might change in 2013.  But there is no question, whoever comes out top in sales figures, that the British invaders have raised the bar in the fair going experience.

Frieze continues Monday, May 7 through 6pm, with reduced tickets from 1pm (last entry at 5pm)

The post On an Island in the River – Sunday in Randall’s Park with Frieze appeared first on artcritical.

When New Yorkers have to turn on the heat on May Day something is awry.  And when the editor of artcritical thinks it has to be time to take March’s Armory Week special off the front cover and then realizes it is best to leave it up another week as yet more fairs are about to hit, something surely is also awry.  Global warming.  Globalization.  Festivalism.

A few years ago, Prêt à Manger, a classy British (despite its name) chain of sandwich bars, launched in New York.  Prêt had a place in my heart as an ex-Londoner thanks to fond memories of bouncy bread and assertive coffee, but something caught in my throat when I saw their advertising campaign.  Basically, they told New Yorkers that fresh baked bagels were on their way.  Talk about coals to Newcastle.

Now we are to get Frieze.  Frieze magazine, launched in 1991 and spinning their name from the YBAs’ Freeze exhibition a few years prior, quickly grew from the house journal of ‘90s neo-conceptualism to a leading chronicle of contemporary art.  In 2003 its publishers, Matthew Slotover and and Amanda Sharp, launched the fair in London that was to the existing trade events what Prêt was for Wimpy.  It put London on the circuit for jet setters that breeze from Basel to Miami to Maastricht to wherever.  But weren’t they all in New York two months ago anyway?

And, as New Yorker magazine’s Peter Schjeldahl observes, New York, with its conveniently clustered art neighborhoods, is a year-round fair anyway.  I have always preferred to think of the commercial galleries as one big kunsthalle where you use the street to navigate from one room to the next, where the invisible hand of the market is the curator and the invisible customers the board of trustees.  (If only there was a cafeteria: cue Prêt à Manger.)  Chelsea always makes the Whitney and the contemporary galleries at the Modern seem like too little, too late.

Nothing is more bizarre that seeing the likes of Gagosian and Zwirner cramping themselves into booths at the piers and the Park Avenue Armory every March.  They have palatial headquarters a taxi ride away but must submit to the degrading democracy of the art fair floor.  The joys of camping in their own back yard.  Now we have to go to Randall’s Island to see them do the same thing again, two months later.

artcritical will do its duty and report on what it finds.  And yet, the act of writing the word “duty” begs a whole set of questions.  There are hundreds of shows in New York each month that warrant yet elude our attention.  Carefully selected shows, elegantly hung in well lit, calm, civilized, conveniently located expensively rented art galleries.  And these are the tip of an iceberg of artistic creativity.  We could also set about reporting on what we find in the thousands of studios in Bushwick, Long Island City, Harlem, Newark, whether in open studio weekends or via private appointment.  Media frenzy and an art world lemming tendency bullies us into attending fairs, and attending to them, but we should pause on the ferry for a moment and contemplate the fact that fairs are just another arbitrary platform for the spectacle of art.  Collectors, critics, and other publics are theoretically at liberty to pick their paradigm: museum, gallery, studio, art school, park railing, fair. As surely as the medium is the message, so too the environment is the experience.

Frieze Art Fair, Randall’s Island Park, May 4 to 7, 2012. friezenewyork.com

The post May Day! May Day! More Art Fairs appeared first on artcritical.

For the third time in its five years history, the annual Bushwick Open Studios festival will be hit this weekend with a recurring mass transit nightmare, a shuttered L-train.  The L line on the MTA subway system is the lifeline from Bushwick to civilized points west, whether Williamsburg, Manhattan or – to adopt a Brooklyncentric, Saul Steinberg-style geography – the rest of the USA and the world. No L and Bushwick really is the bush—although artistically the neighborhood is increasingly self-sufficient.

And it isn’t just Bushwick’s artists and musicians who view their ‘hood as the new epicenter. Bushwick Open Studios is a major cultural event with statistics that speak for themselves.  The festival comprises over 380 shows in over 180 locations, all within a three square mile area, and many of these events are large studio complexes with dozens of presenting artists in each venue.  Based on prior years’ attendance, the organizers of the event, Arts in Bushwick, expect a turnout of over 10,000

The Metropolitan Transit Authority explains that it has little alternative to closing the L for summer weekends.  Because the 100 years old L is a two-track line the whole system has to close for the removal of its old signals system.  They can’t work at night for visibility issues, as a span of the line is above ground, nor in winter for the same reasons.  Working during the week is ruled out.

But the signals system between New York’s mass transit authority and its cultural organizations also needs to be upgraded.  A call is sent out to political leaders around a year ahead to ask of weekends when major events are planned; the appeal needs to be broader and the timing realistic.  So too should alternatives if the subway is shuttered: three shuttle buses and a spell on the J is not feasible.  (click here for Arts in Bushwick’s alternative alternatives.)

The mentality that subways only exist to take people from the outer boroughs to Manhattan to work is an anachronism: Manhattanites also need to get to Brooklyn – to see art.

The post MTA to Bushwick Open Studios: Drop Dead appeared first on artcritical.

More than a couple of Chinese art-world colleagues warned me off writing about the plight of Ai Wei Wei, even in an American publication. At first I listened, but then felt pressure to speak out in defense of him because his fate sends a message to Chinese artists—indeed, all artists—who are courageous enough to stand up to a repressive government. Ai Wei Wei, who spent a number of years in America and, most likely, saw there the diversity of social expression and political activity while living in New York’s Lower East Side, is now detained incommunicado somewhere in China’s prison system. Although I have heard he is being charged for economic crimes, the truth is that he has had the audacity to challenge the Communist elite, who don’t take lightly his willingness to expose their faults.

Ai Wei Wei’s career has taken off in the West during the last five years; his recent installation of handmade and –painted seeds was a great success at the Tate Modern in London. The artist has used his good fortune to tell the truth to those in power, but things have not gone well for him, to say the least: recently, he was beaten up by thugs while speaking in a provincial Chinese city and had to be operated on in Germany. Now no one knows his fate, which operates as a warning to those attempting any criticism of a single-party system that has refused to reveal its oppressive excesses, which include the ten-year madness of the Cultural Revolution. As an artist friend here said, “We will not be hearing from him for a long time.” The artistic community is of course upset, but little if any dissent is issuing from Beijing; people are afraid that they too will be picked up simply for telling the truth.

I have spent a fair amount of time in China—five visits, three of which have been longer than two months—and I can say that the personal freedom of the intelligentsia is equivalent on some level to that of its Western counterpart. But there is no indication of an equal political expressiveness here, where artistic work tends toward the allegorical, in the hope that social criticism will be understood as generally human, as opposed to specifically Chinese. That works up to a point, after which the critique sadly fails, in part because the forced circumstances that engendered the art are precisely those enabled by a one-party system. In a gallery show that is now up, the (Paris-based) artist exile Huang Yong Ping is showing Leviathanation, a huge work incorporating an official railroad car with the equally outsize head of a fish. The word Leviathan can mean a sea monster in bibllcal use, but it also denotes an autocratic state. For me at least, the message is clear; however, its interpretation is never referred to in so exact a sense in Beijing. It amazes me that so transparent a visual statement is not reacted to simply because it involves a metaphor—in fact, a fish’s head. But then the hard left has never been known for the greatness of its imagination—or for its kindness toward the imaginative.

Much of contemporary art pursues the ideal of democritization, which is a complex reality in the realm of culture. It is also true that democracy is sorely needed here in China—on the more primary level of individual political expression. The art world remains worried; one curator I know would like to act but feels that she would potentially undermine her own freedom in light of the Communists’ vindictiveness. It is a sad and indeed a tired story; but it is one that is being challenged by brave individuals. I learned about Ai Wei Wei’s troubles through word of mouth and from contacts in the West. I hear that there is an attempt to put out a million-signature petition demanding his freedom. But China has not known political freedom for generations, if at all.  Facebook cannot be accessed. Very few artists have brought up the situation in my presence. Self-censorship is the worst kind of repression because it is instigated from within—usually in reaction to an external force. It would be easy to judge those who do not bring up the subject of Ai Wei Wei, but as I see it, the situation is tragic for the intellectuals here in Beijing. If they talk up, they are bound themselves to go to jail. If they remain quiet, they allow a great wrong to go unchallenged. Either choice is a kind of death.

As a result, a true opposition can be developed only outside China, where there are precedents for political action. The million-signature petition must carry forward, as well as other forms of social pressure. One hopes even for artistic protest, although whether individual outrage will ever reach those responsible for current machinations here is, frankly, to be doubted. The one comment I have heard more than once in Beijing about Ai Wei Wei has to do with his status as an artist. Why indeed is the government beating down an artist? He is a single voice, many understand. But above and beyond his existence as an artist of interest and note is his allegiance to maintaining public integrity—something that the Chinese government very much fears. His suffering, which will be considerable, is a lesson to us all—even in American democracy, increasingly a state controlled by huge corporations. The lessons are hard learned, but not beyond hope. Every time someone signs in favor of Ai Wei Wei’s freedom, he is signing in favor of his own deliverance. Now, all over the world, we need a language that will do justice to the experience of psychic and actual imprisonment. If an artist alone can challenge the Chinese Leviathan, then it is up to us in the West to support him. In fact, his defense surely becomes our own.

The post A Thousand Words For Ai Wei Wei appeared first on artcritical.