Finally made it to the Biennial, just a couple of days of days before it closed.
I liked everything & I didn't like anything.
I don't know what I mean by that.
Last night I stopped by the Salmagundi Club to see the American Impressionist show. It was depressing—like a bunch of MFA poems, competent & lifeless. The Biennial was full of life but a lot of the work seemed entirely conceptual, so there was no point in actually executing the piece, or they were op-eds. It wasn't depressing but I didn't leave wanting to charge home & make art.
Then He Who Must Not Be Named stepped on my foot & now I can't walk.