“Let’s run through those amorphous associations real quick, those things which Shore’s two sets of abstract works (there are really three series here, two of which are abstract while the third, which will be parsed separately, is more representational) echo: Mesoamerican design motifs, Cretan labyrinths, late 70′s/early 80′s Japanese and American video game sprite design, collapsing stars, team sports uniform and logo design—this one is immensely important, giving the show its name and the majority of the pieces their singular characteristic—and first edition hardcover John Updike Rabbit novels, all of which come together, far more gracefully under Shore’s aegis than your reviewer’s, into some inherently approachable, pleasingly intricate, and eye-shaking works which both hum like fluorescent tubes and shimmer like DXM-induced snake skin tessellation in a dark room.”
“The gaunt bone of Rachel Niffenegger’s sculptures, rising from the ground like a ghoul’s rib or dangling a pallid scalp or lofting, at chest height, a cat’s cradle of entrails, use the emaciated and horrifying countenance of a wendigo as fleet vehicle for the implications of societal, psychological and physical violence on the female form, while Dutes Miller’s woven collages of gay porn and professional wrestling force, through obfuscation, an honest engagement with male sexuality and power—via decidedly stylized and fake versions of male sexuality and power—causing hulking brutes, open mouths and throbbing erections to be considered as more than corporeal actors, devoid of spirit.”
“Hearing Lucy think is … well, it’s something. Something frightening and breathless and arousing, in that way in which being taken of can be arousing. Lucy thinks as if a treadmill or dental drill were cognizant, a goal-oriented creature for whom base imperatives—run, lift, push, sweat, eat, DO—become mantras become axioms become catechisms. When she speaks, the gamefowl aggression of her inner monologue is driven like cortisone shots into those she is addressing. One can almost see the em dashes, protruding from chests and eyes and throats, after she has lit into them with that same voice with which Tracy Austin broke hearts and track coaches burst inseams.”
“The moth. Ugh, the moth! Wings folded flat, branched rachni of the antenna slicked back, its whole furry body, so stupidly erratic in flight, now looking determined, sinister, a penetrative medical instrument leaving scale-flecked cerumen in its wake … it could unfurl that proboscis and touch tympanic membrane, could keep forever crawling forward and assault the fleshy nautilus of the cochlea, could cause such unthinkable damage, right?, this harmless little moth, by virtue of its position, by its complete and utter disregard for our great corporeal agreement with the world, namely that we—our precious selves, our physical selves, our prosopopoeia with which we acquire tactile knowledge of existence and so satisfyingly, concretely exert ourselves upon it—is entered into only through our consent.”
Editor’s note: This story originally ran in Newcity’s January 2013 Education Issue.
“It began when false promises of an athletic variety delivered me to a tiny, haunted Catholic campus on Philadelphia’s Main Line, an alien amongst astronauts (the school ran thick with admittedly gorgeous girls who, when freed from the monotony of their fantasy-fueling Catholic school-girl uniforms, would overcorrect and swaddle themselves in sweatpants, thighs once exposed between pleated skirts and bobby socks now covered by comfortable heather gray and emblazoned vertical brands demarcating where they came from, Prendie, Ursuline, Sacred Heart, that they would tuck in to any manner of expensive Ugg boots—that is the astronaut part—which were adored above near all other possessions for their ability to provide individual statement to the aforementioned uniforms; (North Face fleece tops, hair wraps, designer sunglasses and Burberry scarves often completed the uniform) and buried in the demands of an exercise science degree, most notably the dreaded A&P, which required that one not only learn both anatomy and physiology and participate in a lab, but was a two-semester course so that, upon completing one half of it, one went home for the holidays with the chilling notion that, stacked like textbooks in black garbage bags, preserved cats, chest cavities gaping like pink, fleshy clutches, awaited you.”