WRITTEN BY JULIAN FIRTH
YZ KAMI & LARRY GAGOSIAN. Guardi Gargosianii leap into action as I open the door, and it is clear that the Art here is under house rules. The shallow Richterisms of the work, their monotony broken here and there by huge ticker-tape circles of bright despair, are tinsel wrap around the barbed-wire dollar at the heart of this hollow, magnetic asylum. The only thing free is the floor we walk on. That is all that does not divide us with it’s sense of status and entitlement.
Patched and pooled, here like a Monet pond, there like a grey dawn sky, punctuated with lines and scratches patina’d to a shine, rips and grooves, tears of Richard Serra, rusted smears and filled dents of iron. The Guardii Gargosianii are relentless in their presence. They tap and toe and flick like hunting birds in a broom cupboard, gigolos at a funeral. It is clear from their dead eye glances that they do not care for my intrusion, interrupting as I am their low discussion and elegant gum chewing. They stab nonchalence into their phones, and breath the ambivalence of the work, its vague eminent vibrations allowing them to hover above, wrapped in the thermal heat rise of their hair.
Larry, it is a shame you do not spend more time here yourself. We are locked in now by this market force majeur that has drained the life from YZ Kami. This moment in his life that might have been marked by a new departure for his nurtured and fugitive hues and prodigious draughtsmanship. His deeply felt sense of time and loss and the human face, could have described a new shape and color to the soul, but no, you have riddled him like a mistress. In this show where he could have made that fabulous departure into his tertiary phase of dynamic resolve and masterful mature risk exposed experimentation, you have hobbled him like your geisha, and he presents instead these huge postage stamps of painless answered prayers.Because that is what the Banks of River Atrium and Broadgate, Dresdener and Miami demand, and as the river flows south relentlessly, the gates are slowly closing. So you play safe Larry, and these gilded fish you sell insult their creators, and are beginning to smell as rotten as your taste for money.