Art In America

Harry Dodge

at Wallspace,
619 West 27th Street

If the Minimalist monoliths of Anne Truitt or John McCracken are a reference point for Harry Dodge's sculptures, they've been cracked, twisted, made up and otherwise disguised beyond recognition. Wearing coats of glitter, the backward-bending boxes have gouged holes for eyes and dangling, warted noses, with similar protrusions at the rear. Are those long lumps of resin supposed to look like phalluses? Sure, and if there's any doubt, a panel sporting the text of an Amazon review for boxer briefs—where a user takes the opportunity to boast about his endowment—relieves it. As he explores the properties of his materials, Dodge seems haunted (or elated) by the comforts or discomforts that bodies might experience when encountering the sculptures. In a video playing in the back room, Dodge engages in some casual speculation about non-Newtonian physics, object-oriented ontologies and cyborg bodies. But by keeping his own body in the center of the frame and feeling out non-human perspectives with a conversational patter, Dodge expresses the futility of attempting to abandon anthropocentrism. Meanwhile, his sculptures remind us how alien, weird and poorly understood humanity continues to be.

 

Pictured: Harry Dodge: Fuck Me/Who's Sorry Now (Consent-not-to-be-a-single-being Series), 2015, polyester resin, metallic rainbow glitter, socks and plywood, 49 by 32 by 24 inches. Courtesy of the artist and Wallspace, New York.

 

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