The following review was sent to me by Jesse Garon Parsons. As you know ArtHeat welcomes submissions, especially of decent quality like this one:

If you're one of those fervently religious (usually American) people who is able to see images of Jesus in your burnt toast, then you might like Jeanne Hoffman's Strange things travel with you, currently on view at whatiftheworld gallery. I say this because believing that there is anything compelling to be seen beneath the charred crumbs of this burnt-out show requires a leap of faith not possible for the rationally minded among us.

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Allow me to begin again.

Stumble off the sweating asphalt into whatiftheworld gallery, parched and wilting, searching for artistic sustenance, and brother let me tell you, this little confection of a show will quench your thirst - assuming that your body is sustained by moonbeams, pixie dust, and the dreams of children. That is to say, this show is bound to mend your heart and moisten your dreams - as long as you're a thirteen year old girl. It's just all so damn adorable, the only thing missing is a stuffed unicorn, or maybe a poster of some kittens peeking out a gingham-wrapped picnic basket.

Pink is a recurring color, a giant string of pearls figures prominently, and the adjectives cute, squiggly, and/or supercute!!;) apply to most everything in the show. The supercute, squiggly drawings that line the walls are endearing in the same way that child prostitutes are - they're roughly finished, sketchy, a bit tattered, washed out, not terribly sophisticated, and they look like they might have been accidents - but at least they're working for a living. Well, I suppose the drawings are working, but they might need a few more years to mature before they can really get the job done. Some are punctuated by diaristic confessions covering such topics as the excessive consumption of wine (surprise, surprise), fleas, and kidney infection. Who, other than Hoffman's urologist (or possibly her veterinarian), needs access to such information? Apparently the art-show-going public, that's who.

The artist wants to think of everything in the show, including sculptures, as a sort of drawing. Valid. Cute even. But drawings in space, as the artist calls them, may also be known, to grown ups not on intimate terms with their bongs, as sculptures. Near the center of the room hovers a large brown cloud sculpture made of thousands of twist ties. Below it dangle hundreds of brown, red, and pink clay droplets. Aside from invoking a ghostly feeling of carpal tunnel syndrome in my wrists (what mindless, pathetic souls were conned into twisting all those damn things together, anyway?), the cloud made me wonder: is this a cry for help? Is Jeanne a cutter, or perhaps just sad? The bloody tear/rain drops would suggest as much. Were all these quirky little doodle drawings just an elaborate ruse, meant to deflect attention from whatever malady caused the artist to conjure up a storm of blood droplets? Does the viewer care? That all depends on your level of emotional investment in the show thus far. I walked on by, absentmindedly rubbing my wrists.

Beneath this cloudy (potential) cry for help are scattered a few bulbous, organic forms, looking something like genitals of the gods which have been hacked off and semi-lovingly repurposed as sculptures. Some are wrapped in layers of fabric, yarn, or packing tape (or maybe that was actually an oddly shaped package waiting to be shipped...hard to tell with this show). Others are sort of painted, and still others are seemingly just tossed on the floor half baked, as if Jeanne got tired of the whole "making art that has some level of finish and formal quality" charade. You know what, Jeanne? I get tired of it too. Let us once and for all dispense with that level of aesthetic contemplation that differentiates us from apes with paintbrushes. Pull your opposable thumbs out of your collective ass, Art World. Cerebral is out. Jesus-in-the-burnt-toast? So cute right now.

Oh yeah, I forgot - there's also a poorly-knit scarf on display. Your guess is as good as mine.

After the Fresh Meat fiasco, that's two strikes in a row for whatiftheworld. Whatthefuck? might be more appropriate.

Labels: jeanne hoffman, jesse parsons