“The resin sculptures seem, at first blush, almost coquettish, climbing the walls, sitting upon pedestals, protruding in amaranth and aqua and palatinate, their familiar organic forms exaggerated, coated and made fantastically approachable. They dominate Linda Warren Projects; on every surface sans the ceiling, Fox approaches the installation as an integral aspect of the art itself—see “Orange Coral,” shades of heat, from tangerine to rosso corsa, which spreads across the back wall like an anatomist’s plastinated arterial system, impossibly similar to the real thing (if viewed from no deeper than a few fathoms, of course) down to their dimpled surface.”
“Here is Nicole, slight and fleet, less than 100 pounds soaking wet with her straight blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, pacing her Division III cross country team at a regional meet in Letchworth State Park, on the cusp of the Grand Canyon of the East. She looks effortless, fluid, far in front of her teammates. Afterwards, she flops into a pile of leaves near the finish line and smiles broadly, the kind of beaming smile which is brought out only by pain and exertion.
That smile belies terrible suffering. The agonizing fissures expanding across her shins; the apathetic frigidity; her isolation on the bus ride back to campus; the array of pills and emotions which wash across her nervous system.
She is laying in the leaf pile, smiling in pain, and she has just finished her last race.”
“Assange, though his name may well be, at this point, a synecdoche for cyber-terrorist, the 21st-century horror—comes off in his own book as an eloquent, if not unbiased, guide. He turns out to be a shockingly good author, particularly in light of some media stereotyping suggesting a pallid oracle with the sphinx’s leash betwixt his teeth and a bald eagle around his neck, his chemical eyes glowing in the night as government adjules bay outside his window.”
“The look is, without a doubt, virile when flaunted by athletes like Elliott or UCLA wrecking ball Myles Jack; particularly in comparison to the men perched, haunched, flopped, and standing before their televisions each Saturday who can only imagine such physiques in the same dream state they reserve for the personal fantasies of touchdown passes and draft day suits and the egotistical, financial, and corporeal rewards such pinnacles of masculinity reap.”