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Alex Jovanovich Quotes
born 1975
Alex Jovanovich (born 1975) is an American artist, writer, and art critic. He is a senior editor at Artforum, where he has written art criticism, reviews, and artist portfolios since 2015.
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42 quotes
Crepuscular, cancerous, unclean: Judy Fox's eerie, life-size effigy of a dead Snow White, 2007, is nothing like Disney's apple-cheeked version of the tortured young blueblood. Fox's is grim—authentically Grimm.
Trump is a travesty of power and virility, a deep-discount Übermensch who rose from the most abysmal of expectations.
There's always a lot of junk in galleries. But here, the garbage is pure gold.
Covert is a kind of noble gleaner for these unsettling end-times, a collector of all those brittle leaves that fell from Earth's once mighty redwoods.
Fat people are intimately familiar with anger, whether it's directed at themselves or at a world that can barely stand to look at them. But when properly harnessed, the feeling can be a luminous, transformative force—both humanizing and galvanizing.
Anything that smacked of sincerity, tenderness, or emotionality was off-limits, and poetry seemed immersed in all of that.
The din was often unsettling. It made me imagine what the hordes assembled around the guillotine during the Reign of Terror must've sounded like: screams of elation, screams of devastation.
Jernigan reminds us that trash is just as democratizing—the same strain of commercial refuse can appear anywhere in this world, from a sleepy college town to a Mexican state that is home to ancient Mayan ruins.
Profane notions regarding old-school faggery, including theatricality, opulence, and camp are in fact among the most sacred, vaporizing all pretenses to normativity in favor of perversity, ostentation, and rabid originality.
Looking at Philip Van Aver's exquisite gouache-and-ink paintings—tiny paper masterpieces no bigger than a valentine, yet filled with more love hours than can ever be repaid—I understand this failure of spirit in the presence of beauty.
A pair of hairy, pendulous tits and a huge belly marred by stretch marks, drooping skin, fresh bruises, and old wounds: This is a general yet reasonably accurate description of an obese, middle-aged physique—one that belongs to me, a gay man.
At this benighted time in history, when the kudzu of stupidity and mendacity is choking out every last beam of light, reading these works reminds us to keep our wits sharp, sparkling, and more than a bit lethal. It's a dumb, dark world out there.
This curvaceous femme fatale takes up extra space without a whiff of apology; each one of her massive legs rests upon its own plush stool like a plump aristocratic pet.
For most of my life, I had relegated poetry to this sort of moribund, romantic ghetto.
Being roughly 320 pounds and a little less than six feet tall, with a fifty-inch waist, I am usually the fattest person in any room. With those stats, how could I not be?
What a funny irony—to be swathed in recherché jewelry and clothes that probably cost more than most middle-class homes, dying for a sandwich. By the time I left, weary and weirded out, I was dying for one, too.
Though most people think of camp as a mincing pink beast in marabou feathers, I like to imagine it as a glittering black widow with diamond fangs, a supple creature that threatens to fatally upend the straight and self-serious aspects of our culture.
This past year was bad. And the next four, I fear, will be hideous. Grace is going to be in perilously short supply—do what you can to preserve yours so that it may be shared with others.
Majoli's pictures feel like transmissions from the afterlife, offering up a heaven of dungeons, slings, and piss parties, where every dimension of gay sex and desire is embraced, exalted—blessed into eternity.
Maybe one day, when the planet's a charred and fallow husk, a lone soul will come across a painting by Covert in a dilapidated museum with the words BETTE DAVIS emblazoned across it. This person, not knowing who she was, will say her name aloud, perhaps with some confusion, bringing the actress back to life for just a few seconds. It's an oddly comforting thought.
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