I opened my mail to select the posted material for the day and happened upon repetitive styles of imagery offered by two differing galleries. Eduardo Arroyo's composition revisits the Advent Gard through the Paris School. Jesse Harris cites Roland Barthes, twentieth-century art theorists, conceptually within her text to explain the use of her derivative imagery. The application of Barthes theory won't fix a lack of composition and the flat dimensionality within the style offered.
Jamie Ellin Forbes 2/12/2019
Eduardo Arroyo and the Paris School are the stars at LA SUITE
-On the 14th February six paintings by the famous Spanish artist and others by various representatives of the Paris School will be on sale, as well as a large collection of netsukes
February 2019
The first auction of the year at LA SUITE focuses on one of the two specialities of the Barcelona auction house: 20th century art. “After months of selection, we can present paintings by Spanish artists who relocated to Paris in the first half of the 20th century, attracted by the avant-garde. They formed a heterogeneous group which came together with Picasso at its centre, and which was known as the Paris School,” the director of LA SUITE, Beatriz du Breuil, affirms. An outstanding lot from among the 195 which will come under the hammer on Thursday 14th February is Camel, by the recently deceased genius Eduardo Arroyo (1937-2018); it is lot 52, a collage signed in 1986 measuring 38 x 54 cm. There are five more works of art by the Madrid-born artist in the auction, such as lot 3, Fausto, mixed media and collage on paper, also signed and dated (this one in 1989), measuring 47 x 41 cm., as well as two engravings and a xylography.
Other Paris School artworks which will appear in the auction are a marvellous oil painting on canvas by Hernando Viñes (1904-1993) signed and dated in 1930 (81 x 65 cm.), a still life by the Malaga-born artist Joaquín Peinado (1898-1975) from 1958 (38 x 61 cm.) a delicate watercolour by Pere Pruna (1904-1977) depicting three women and dated in 1925 as well as Paysanne an expressive canvas by Antoni Clavé (1913-2005) signed (circa 1946, 81 x 65 cm.) which was originally exhibited in the Parisian Galerie Delpierre.
A large collection of Murano glass will also be up for auction, including vases and lamps by artists such as Vittorio Zecchin, Fulvio Bianconi for Venini, Ercole Barovier, Archimede Seguso, Licio Zanetti, Flavio Poli, Carlo Scarpa, Gino Cenedese and Vittorio Rigattieri.
Also, for collectors of netsukes, a second selection is on offer from a large private collection. There are also Art Nouveau and Art Deco objects and furniture.
It is well worth coming to see the exhibition in our gallery; Erick, our window dressing artist, has created a magical entrance-way, full of different coloured lamps, glass vases, and a bar by the French cabinet maker Jules Leleu. Unmissable.
Buyer´s premium is 26,62% (including VAT).
Exhibition: Until 14th February.
From Monday to Friday: From 10am to 2pm and from 4.30pm to 8pm.
Saturdays: From 10am to 2pm and from 5pm to 8pm.
Conde de Salvatierra, 8. 08006, Barcelona
Twitter: @suitesubastas
Instagram: @lasuitesubastas
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Jesse Harris
Ad Nauseam
February 16 - March 23, 2019
Opening reception: Saturday February 16th, 4-7pm
COOPER COLE is pleased to present a solo exhibition by Jesse Harris. This marks the artists third solo exhibition with the gallery.
While the removal of the author may simply be a part of discourse (Barthes)... by hiring an art forger, the artist produces simulations of paintings that question questions of authorship, ownership, originality and plagiarism, et alia, et cetera, ad nauseam.
The following texts are written by Jenine Marsh.
Jesse Harris (1)
Nothing new is happening here. It’s a doorless hallway of parallel mirrors, an endless regression where nothing is singular, and everything, even the shadows, even the reflections, are for sale. All these fruitless desires are haunted by the spectral original, the phantom of the opera, the specter of the spectacle. But in this vision, there can be no difference between ghosts and actors. Like food that’s been over-processed, boiled and sterilized, filled with fillers, chemical preservatives, fake flavors and dyes, nothing remains that can be called original, real or authentic. The copy of a copy of a copy slips like beads of oil from one economy to the next. Money is simply rejection 1. Fantasy is the only possible product.
Through the 1980s, media shifted from analog to digital, advertisements switched from painting to photography, and markets became more global. These shifts ran parallel to my own developmental and transitional years, and trained in me an anxious expectation for rapid redundancy, not only of products, media platforms and devices, but of my own self images. Known through ever-changing desires, the concept of an authentic self becomes a series of willful hallucinations. A consumer is as faceless as the illustrator, as nameless as the counterfeiter, as unreal as a ghost. All the consumed and repressed images stand to fortify an insubstantial interior; a house of dirty mirrors.
Desire, like spice, is the essential ingredient, and a currency all its own. I was a thirsty little suburban sponge, and in the course of sopping up countless heavy-with-gloss magazines and two-minute commercial breaks, my unconscious mind was flooded by a thousand little addictions. Brainwashed is the word. But this sounds so clean and empty. It was more like a subliminal and thorough brain-staining. Not being a rich-enough kid meant that the ads themselves had to satisfy. And they did, in the way that junk food both feeds and triggers desire without nourishment.
Ads were feasted over, torn from magazines, tacked to walls, savored. The best ones used the theatrical frontality of pantomime and trompe l’oeil to shimmer enticingly as mirages on the page or screen or sign - they look so real. But each devoured image is a still-life painting of yesterday’s banquet, whose imported delicacies were manufactured to cause salivation, not satisfaction. The fruit is painted, cloned meat is already dead, and only sand and cadmium hit the mouth.
Though already slightly dulled by time’s greasy dust, reflected in the sheen of these images is still an unmistakable likeness. I am what I ate. Someday, once their ghostly shimmer has dried up into the sterile hieroglyphs of a long-dead world, they might be used to chart our dogged progress down the drain, to map out the edge where this world finally ended. But now, in the acid vat of the mind, they float to the surface like oil’s Technicolor skin on water, suffocating what it covers. This stain can’t ever be washed or spit out. So swallow it down into the draining SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH of TV static.
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