Showing posts with label Tisch Abelow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tisch Abelow. Show all posts
"Applying the paint so that each swatch of color just kisses the edge of the next, Abelow creates a contained tension within the picture plane that evokes an exercise in self-control. Each color sits on the surface of the canvas, imperfectly separated by the visibility of her hand in the mark making. Raising a paradox between separation and togetherness, the smoothness of Abelow’s gesture contrasts an imposing angular line or shape, a method of cutting through the pictorial structure Martin also employs." LINK
Opening Tonight @ Manifest Exhibitions
2950 N. Allen Ave
Chicago, IL 60618
Tisch Abelow & Orion Martin
October 8th - November 6th, 2011
Opening reception: October 8, 2011
7-10pm
Opening Tonight @ The Proposition
New York, NY
Summer Salt
Curated by Ingrid Dinter
July 6 - August 7, 2011
Opening reception: July 6, 2011, 6-8pm
Joshua Abelow, Tisch Abelow, Erica Baum, Gene Beery, Brian Belott, Melissa Brown, Clayton Brothers, Colette, Lance De Los Reyes, Brett De Palma, James Benjamin Franklin, Jashin Friedrich, Gerald Giamportone, Tomoo Gokita, Daina Higgins, George Horner, Erin Krause, Taylor McKimens, Julie Ryan, Tamuna Sirbiladze, Chrysanne Stathacos, Courtney Tramposh, Carrie Elston Tunick, John Zinsser
OPENING TODAY @ MINUS SPACE !!!!!!!!!!!!!
MINUS SPACE reductive art98 4th Street. Buzzer #28
Brooklyn, NY 11231
Between This Light and That and Space
curated by Douglas Melini
June 25 - July 30, 2011
Opening reception: June 25, 2011
3-6pm (*AFTERNOON OPENING*)
Tisch Abelow
Palma Blank
Anne Eastman
Michelle Grabner
Elana Herzog
Carrie Pollack
"Checklist Not," Tisch Abelow, 2001
I am now declared Macintosh
Since only an hour or so ago.
And I give my vacant stare once more.
So I don't please,
I just don't have it.
I can tell how it's all spelled,
From each lip exaggeration
Each single-minded exhilaration
Each file clerked expectation.
Crescent moon, I wouldn't be talking.
I see what needs to be done
About each individual detour:
Like my limited topics
To small talk about,
Running into my dead end (what's that backwards again?).
You are quite the character,
"If I do say so myself,"
In a high pitched voice.
I am pitiful down to the line,
And you take from me what's mine.
You just have to use those 'what ifs.'
Since only an hour or so ago.
And I give my vacant stare once more.
So I don't please,
I just don't have it.
I can tell how it's all spelled,
From each lip exaggeration
Each single-minded exhilaration
Each file clerked expectation.
Crescent moon, I wouldn't be talking.
I see what needs to be done
About each individual detour:
Like my limited topics
To small talk about,
Running into my dead end (what's that backwards again?).
You are quite the character,
"If I do say so myself,"
In a high pitched voice.
I am pitiful down to the line,
And you take from me what's mine.
You just have to use those 'what ifs.'
"The Jon Benet Ramsey Game," (excerpt) Tisch Abelow, 2004
“I told princess we would play the game tonight if she was good,” Mother said, sternly, looking at father. One of my crayons broke, creating a long orange line across my drawing.
He sighed and rolled his shoulders back. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe after dinner. We’ll make it short.” I took a deep breath and looked at him, relieved. My eyes were wide and desperate. “Smile, princess. Why don’t you ever smile?” I tightened my lips and turned them as upward as I could. A smile. “Oh, comon’ princess, you can do better than that. Show me some teeth.” My father was more relaxed now after drinking his coffee. I opened my lips and grinned, bottom and top teeth showing. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he added. He smirked at mother but her face remained expressionless.
Tonight he was going to play the game. Father got up from the island and came to sit by me at the kitchen table. “Sorry I haven’t been around much lately—Christmas time is a busy time. I’ll make it up to you tonight—how ‘bout it?” He rubbed and patted my back, watching me draw. Mother started washing dishes.
“Sure,” I said. My palms were sweaty.
He paused. “Why do you like that silly game anyway?” he said, laughing a little. He touched my head and took his fingers through my hair.
“Cause it makes me feel pretty,” I said.
“Oh but honey—you are pretty.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)