• Amande In — A New Perspective for Perspective

Curt and brutal. Which is a strange thing to say about an exhibition which half-consists of rainbow-colored pigment-popsicles, but they’re melting! Slowly and inexorably. When I am there they are still substantial but in ruins, strewn across the podiums and floors. The resulting streams of flowing marks are beautiful.

But the other room! Pairs. Black rug-moons. Cold, dead, flat, and plastic; astroturf rocks cut into clean circles and slathered in a half-inch of Vaseline. Perched throughout are identical squares of glass that are sharper for having been turned 45 degrees, housing single band-aids — there are gleeful whispers that the artist refers to them as “pussies.” And then there are the galvanized twenty-gallon tubs of soap. The smell is abrasive, fluorescent. Being in the room feels like bathing in bleach and gives me a headache. Cascade and Tide made absurd and maybe dangerous by simple accumulation.

“Soap,” the room says, “SOAP,” while punching you in the face, “ALSO PUSSIES.”