Ruben Ochoa, Collapsed
I finally made my way this past weekend to view Ruben Ochoa’s Collapsed installation showing currently at Peter Blum Gallery in Soho. Upon entry into the austere space, the viewer is confronted with an intimidating concrete freeway divider slab propped at a 45 degree angle against the gallery wall which is juxtaposed against an immense mound of red dirt that impedes access past the installation. As a result, the viewer can only walk to the rear of the gallery by way of the triangular space under the seemingly precarious concrete structure. The risk of the walk however is worthwhile. Indeed, the full experience of the installation is not complete without it, because this is what you see on the other side of the gallery.
Yes, my brain exploded at this juncture as well. The display is a charlatan! A bamboozlement! A hoodwinking! Is this a metaphor for my entire life? My whole sense of being? I think therefore I am…or maybe I’m not?! There’s only one thing I could do to stabilize at that point: Ask my friend to indulge me in a jumping photo.
More jumping at jumping in art museums, jumping on a bed, and monument jumps.
It’s you, perfected!
