148 × 210 mm
While it’s super tempting to trot out that tired phraseology so bad it’s good, I’m not sure it covers how particularly bad Travis Jeppesen’s aims are: he wants to bankrupt what passes for most cultural critique, render it worthless, from the inside out, gastrointestinally, giving it food poisoning. (If you think that’s a mixed metaphor, bing Freud on excremental capital.) Which is to say, Jeppesen takes George Kuchar at his gloriously fetid word: ignoring all the societal encouragements to be a flash in the pan, dude’s set his slutty sights on becoming ‘a big soft plop-in-the-bowl … creat[ing] such a stink … that people cannot ignore it.’ Does this moment of ‘clusterfuck existentialism’ really deserve better? He’s the Weird Al Yankovic of art criticism, but gayer.
— Bruce Hainley,
author of Under the Sign of [sic]: Sturtevant’s Volte-Face