Present offers a dynamic glimpse of the creative life of Bakehouse today, foregrounding the multiplicity of voices and modes of expression by which artists both reflect and reimagine the world around us. Against the backdrop of great precarity for cultural producers everywhere, Bakehouse artists have forged their own systems of support– not only through shared resources, but through daily acts of showing up for one another. Across this space, ideas flow beyond studio walls, conversations spill into hallways, and countless gestures of kinship and collaboration become integral to the artists’ practice. Representing a microcosm within a broader cultural ecosystem, these fusions– whether intentional, intuitive, or incidental– embody the transformative possibilities of collective care and community building.
Featuring work by 28 current resident and associate artists, Present reflects the breadth of perspectives, disciplines, and identities that define Bakehouse and, by extension, Miami’s cultural landscape. Rather than advancing a singular theme, the exhibition traces various shared touchpoints, highlighting a strong sense of place rooted in the specificity of South Florida; generational connections and divergences; and an emphasis on the here and now that resonates as both timely and timeless.
Poststructuralism and Self-Censorship at Palais de Tokyo, Louise Darblay (ArtReview)
“Unfolding across the whole of the Palais de Tokyo, Echo. Reverb. Delay. is underpinned by a premise that feels both so evident and yet has rarely been articulated in an exhibition until now: that American artists (and the academia before them) have long absorbed, transformed and re-exported the ideas of French and francophone thinkers from the 1960s onwards, not only echoing but reshaping these ideas in the process. (Although one could argue Beckwith is here picking up where the 1977 Pompidou show Paris-NewYork, which traced similar transatlantic connections from early-twentieth century to the 1960s, left off.) Simply put, it’s a show about how the circulation of ideas can spark radical transformation.”
Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.
O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?
The reach of peace, the sky, the pines, Leave me no more perplexed, In which a memory divines That bodies, buried, yet arise Across the reach of all the skies, Unburied and unvexed. As arisen are the grass, the pines. In upward-grown, delighted lines — As a swimmer with one wave declines And rises with the next.
Goaded and harassed in the factory That tears our life up into bits of days Ticked off upon a clock which never stays, Shredding our portion of Eternity, We break away at last, and steal the key Which hides a world empty of hours; ways Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy. Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun, Scorching against the blue flame of the sky. Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine Within a granite basin, under one The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.
I’m afraid I can’t go anywhere without stacks of books, boxes in the trunk, a book bag over my shoulder—wherever I sit, more within reach, just to sample a stanza, line, or word, someone’s invocation to the color blue, another’s wandering of fields and grief; and some have died I can’t bear losing; in the produce aisle I hear Rilke crying out, wondering who is listening. I am! When I touch the artichoke, Neruda’s ode has guided me. I want to reach inside the glove compartment, hand the cop the poems of Simic so that—parked in an alleyway, on break—he’ll hear the voice of an insomnia, the terror of quiet sounds, how the Infinite is a dandelion carried through bomb-embattled streets. I’m not deranged, though like Thoreau I want to redefine economy so that an insight has more weight than gold. Why not, at the high school football game, read aloud a Saramago sentence with all its interruptions, feints, and secret passageways, its wanderings downfield, its ravings at the sky gone dark past the stadium lights. Proust has something more to say. A treatise on the mourning dove? Of course. Why not. So be it. Another failed peace treaty, another scandal involving high-ranking officials—who learns from Tranströmer to see the sphinx from behind? So much hollowness we’re carrying when sometimes thoughts can soar. So much space between Sappho’s words in order to make us whole. I enter the courtroom with Issa, whose grievances were many but laid aside; because of his presence I cast my vote for the spider clinging to the third-floor window; I forgive the bailiff the order he keeps. The judge, with his gavel, makes a haiku of sound. Is this my own existence, or have I found myself in others’ lives and they in mine? If I’m only myself, I ask a little help to get from who I am to something more than broken, something more than nothing less than these my only questions—oh Kafka, what is this weight upon me, enormous, flailing to touch all the corners of air?
Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagine I was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scent of rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering on bands, leather, and on the inner silk crowns where I would smell his hair and almost think I was being held, or climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent was that of a clove in the godsome air, as now, thinking of his fabulous sleep, I stand on this canyon floor and watch light slowly close on water I’m not sure is there.
The artifice of art, the artifice with which it invents symbols to express the way humans are in community, is consistent with the movement whereby a world becomes a world (JR)
“Like John Smith, I am unhappy with my own name and thought often about changing it. Also like John Smith, “I have always been desperate for fame” but too embarrassed to chase it. Perhaps Leo Tolstoy was wrong, and we are all unhappy in the same way. Perhaps the desire for fame masks a deeper, entirely valid human need, namely to be seen without the discomfort of rejection. A spotlight can be a shield against loneliness, or at least against those awkward companionless moments at social events. One used to pretend enjoying a cigarette. Now I see a lot of people clutching small dogs. If I had to describe Being John Smith, I would say it’s about the failure to cohere—the awkward moments, the missed connections, the sheer difficulty of alignment. The fractures that are the constant, ungainly companions to our most polished fantasies.”
