R.'s work, his efforts for the past decade or more (the work his gallerist had advertised as his "signature"), consisted of a green-gray oatmeal surface applied over a variety of acutely angled abstract forms. They were sized to stand on the floor, at a height of three or four feet, to stand as unthreatening, enigmatic bodies in public space. The surface was pebbly and matte, neither exactly fleshlike nor vegetal. It was approachable, natural in effect, though actually consisting of polymers and resin. The shapes were derived from elements of functional objects—computer stands, electrical outlets, dish racks, etc.—displaced from their context and enlarged, so as to become unrecognizable. The sculpture was everywhere; it only took his eye to know it, and a few gestures to render it and coat it in the green-gray oatmeal concoction. His eye was good. His work sold in bunches.
In this place, as anywhere, R.'s eye scouted for uncommonly funky or graceful design features—banisters or handles, sconces or vents, junctures where piping met ceiling or floor. He indexed these wherever he went and turned the best he found into new sculptures. Here, there were none.
****
