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A persona is a mold before it is a mask. Curated by Barbara Horvath at THE HALL of PART International Art Residency Aust...
09/10/2026

A persona is a mold before it is a mask. Curated by Barbara Horvath at THE HALL of PART International Art Residency Austria in Vienna, persona. fragments of identity gathers Odie Lap Chun Chow, Edith Karlson, Jakob Lena Knebl, Yein Lee and Paulina Semkowicz around one line from Ingmar Bergman, and the self turns out to be a run of imperfect casts.

In Bergman’s Persona (1966), the nurse Alma tells Elisabet, an actress who has stopped speaking, “I think I could turn into you if I really tried.” The line gave the exhibition its title. It sounds like love and works like a technique. Jorge Luis Borges wrote the counter-spell, a fable of mirror creatures sentenced to repeat every human gesture until, beginning with the Fish, they wake: “gradually they will no longer imitate us.” Imitation as longing; imitation as captivity.

PART Residency 周立進 Yein Lee Paulina Semkowicz Barbara Horvath

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Didier Anzieu called it the common skin fantasy: an infant held skin to skin through daily care feels no border between ...
30/09/2026

Didier Anzieu called it the common skin fantasy: an infant held skin to skin through daily care feels no border between its body and its mother’s. Alicia Bilbao and Alejandra Moros, showing together for the first time at KDR in Miami, build a room on that belief and on the moment it gives way.

Dog hair and resin. A surgical needle, nylon thread. Bones, beeswax, a nokogiri saw, tufts of the sculptor’s own hair. The material lists read like the inventory of a reliquary kept by a field surgeon. Nothing in the room is quite a body. Much of it was grown by one.

Katia David Rosenthal Gallery
alicia bilbao
alejandra moros

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Acetone lifts the ink off a vintage holographic Pokémon card in a few passes of a cotton rag, leaving bare silver foil a...
23/09/2026

Acetone lifts the ink off a vintage holographic Pokémon card in a few passes of a cotton rag, leaving bare silver foil and a market value of nothing. Evil Biscuit begins there, and everything that follows, the collections, the lore, the packs, the burning, unfolds from that first act of ruin.

On a UV printer bought the year before, opaque white goes down first, transparency left in it so the hologram can still flare through, then colour, then a texture file of engraving or etched line, then clear ink that refracts across the whole surface. The artist recites the sequence with the flatness of someone reading out a recipe. The object that emerges is not a restored card. It is the same cardboard, the same foil, a different god. An entire industry of graders, slabs and sealed cases exists to protect condition; this practice is built on the opposite instinct, on the conviction that a thing has to be spoiled before it can be made. e.biscuit1133

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A pomegranate is not a symbol here but a method: a single body holding hundreds of seeds, none identical, none obeying a...
29/07/2026

A pomegranate is not a symbol here but a method: a single body holding hundreds of seeds, none identical, none obeying a trunk. This is the governing image of “Seeds know no tree.”, the interdisciplinary performance and exhibition curated by Erifyli Theofilou at New Fears Gallery in Berlin, with fourteen artists and a curatorial text by Kapno.

The premise is stated as a wound. “A performance based on non-hierarchical relationships couldn’t help but recognize that pomegranate seeds are mourning each time one separates them from each other,” the text reads, before turning the observation into a question you cannot answer cleanly: “The red splash won’t get away even if you wash it, will it?” Separation is the condition of the work, and it is treated as loss rather than as a neutral act of arrangement.


Αυγή
Valia Lolidou
Erifyli🍒Theofilou
NEW FEARS Gallery

Z̷u̷ ̷K̷a̷l̷i̷n̷o̷w̷s̷k̷a̷
ℓσℓα ɱα૮ɦαɓε૨ƭ
Eloise’s Art
Solveig Schmid
Delphine Wi**er

Andrea Mineolip

Jana
Erifyli🍒Theofilou
Sandro Mosco

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In a former bathhouse lined with cracked subway tile and encaustic floor patterns, Tristan Gac hangs a row of chrome sku...
17/07/2026

In a former bathhouse lined with cracked subway tile and encaustic floor patterns, Tristan Gac hangs a row of chrome skulls that refuse to finish dying, each one gripping a drawing of the world on fire at Galerie FaVU in Brno.

The room does half the work before a single drawing is read. Whitewashed vaulted brick above, white tile wainscoting below, a floor of worn ochre tiles laced with a dark meander border: a space built for water and hygiene, now dry and clinical, faintly funereal. Along the tiled register the works hang low, at the height of a body rather than an eye. Each is a slab of raw pine, live edge intact, carved so the grain swells around a cast metal skull that seems to have been poured into the wood and left to set.



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do you?
17/07/2026

do you?

Fifteen artists across five rooms at Management in New York, and the first thing you find on the floor is a Pelican case...
14/07/2026

Fifteen artists across five rooms at Management in New York, and the first thing you find on the floor is a Pelican case, open, a tattooed silicone arm resting in the foam: Andrew Roberts’s Remake, reshoot, reprise, the body rendered as prop, as evidence, as something to be checked in and transported.

The grotesque has a long administrative history. Bosch itemized hell the way a clerk itemizes a ledger. Goya treated the disasters of war with the same methodical attention. What the curators at Management are proposing with this exhibition, now spanning multiple iterations, is that the 2020s have produced a grotesque of a different order: not the grotesque of direct suffering but of mediated suffering, a distortion amplified and circulated through platforms optimized to make horror scroll smoothly. As the press text frames it, “a fundamental difference between the past and the present demands a reconsideration of the grotesque as a response to our time”: the common experience of crisis arrives now primarily through Instagram, X, and TikTok, and the image of catastrophe arrives before its weight does.



Miriam Cahn








Sibylle Ruppert




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NADIR gathers Zishi Han and Laurence Sturla at Gianni Manhattan in Vienna around the moment a map stops telling the trut...
09/07/2026

NADIR gathers Zishi Han and Laurence Sturla at Gianni Manhattan in Vienna around the moment a map stops telling the truth, tilting the axis of looking until terrain and its history fold back on the viewer.

The lowest point is a vantage. Nadir names the position directly beneath the observer, the floor of the celestial sphere, and the works here behave as if suspended between that floor and the sky above it. Laurence Sturla’s Fieldnotes (Plant Theatre) lies in a shallow pool of black water, a graphite-dark mass that reads at once as engine block, collapsed architecture, and aerial terrain. The surrounding room falls into the water’s surface. The space overhead is folded into how the piece is seen.



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NADIR gathers Zishi Han and Laurence Sturla at Gianni Manhattan in Vienna around the moment a map stops telling the trut...
09/07/2026

NADIR gathers Zishi Han and Laurence Sturla at Gianni Manhattan in Vienna around the moment a map stops telling the truth, tilting the axis of looking until terrain and its history fold back on the viewer.

The lowest point is a vantage. Nadir names the position directly beneath the observer, the floor of the celestial sphere, and the works here behave as if suspended between that floor and the sky above it. Laurence Sturla’s Fieldnotes (Plant Theatre) lies in a shallow pool of black water, a graphite-dark mass that reads at once as engine block, collapsed architecture, and aerial terrain. The surrounding room falls into the water’s surface. The space overhead is folded into how the piece is seen.

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For one night in June 2004, Alexander McQueen turned the London catwalk into a hall of his own ghosts, restaging the mom...
02/07/2026

For one night in June 2004, Alexander McQueen turned the London catwalk into a hall of his own ghosts, restaging the moments that made him beneath a downpour that would not stop.

The water comes first. It falls in a hard, silver curtain over a floor gone white with salt, and a woman walks through it in a bias-cut sheath that the rain has fused to a second skin. On her head, a crown of black thorns. Her plaits hang like wet rope. She tilts her face up into the deluge as if it were absolution, and behind her, half-dissolved in the spray, a second figure waits her turn. Nothing about this reads as a fashion show. It reads as a rite.

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