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Zac Hacmon, Elana Herzog, Aga Ousseinov, Tim Simonds, Nari Ward

Nov 14 - Jan 17, 2021


Brooklyn Rail, by Sophia Ma

Art Spiel, by Etty Yaniv

feature on Daily Lazy

Video of the exhibition walkthrough

with the five participating artists, 

recorded January 16.

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Tim Simonds, 'Baby Languages' (2015)

Aga Ousseinov, 'Confusion of Tongues (Kite)' (2020)

Aga Ousseinov, 'Observer (Grappa Fueled Time Machine)' (2020)

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Aga Ousseinov, 'Observer (Grappa Fueled Time Machine)' (2020)

Nari Ward, 'Anchoring Escapement (Baule)' (2017)

Elana Herzog 'Cross Pollination #1' (2020)

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Nari Ward, detail 'Anchoring Escapement (Baule)' (2017)

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Zac Hacmon, 'Capsule #5' (2020)

Tim Simonds, 'Baby Languages' (2015)

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Zac Hacmon, detail 'Capsule #5' (2020)

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Zac Hacmon, 'Capsule #5' (2020)

Tim Simonds, 'Limb Ouroboros (was)' (2015)

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Zac Hacmon, 'Capsule #4' (2020)

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Zac Hacmon, detail 'Capsule #4' (2020)

photos by Dario Lasagni


Perhaps one could say that there has been a correction to what had come to be considered normative time. Lately, time, as it is experienced, has become both more expansive and compressed. 


This feeling crept in and inadvertently influenced the selections for Cathouse Proper’s second ensemble exhibition, More Time Less, featuring the work of Zac Hacmon, Elana Herzog, Aga Ousseinov, Tim Simonds, and Nari Ward.


Another way to describe this time-compressed-expansiveness may be simply contemplation, a contemplation that has been foisted upon us, if not by solitude, certainly by an atrophy of the social, making us all more monastic. 


One has a pervasive feeling of the palace at 4:00 a.m., a skeletal thin haunting with the curtain pulled back, revealing imaginings that now fill the void devoid of other stimuli.


As if no matter the circumstance human consciousness must remain equally active, a prescription for fear and paranoia, grinding on anxious breath now gasping toward the eternal, showing us something of ourselves that has always been latent, our fragility, our fortitude. 


A new condition to digest and evaluate, in the way that humans do, always seemingly like infants still reaching for our toes, adapting, measuring, getting to know ourselves spatially in whatever space we find ourselves, or like water finding its level. 


Yet now, more conscious of gazing out from a time container, not even ticking but stuck at twilight, the sun never fully delivered, the only motion dwindling bank accounts, age, or the memory of flight.


Observer, observed, observing our guilt, our fright, our fight, one more year in the vast overcoming, the global reach disciplined to a guarded room.