Word: junkshop
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...Kong?like next year, Macgregor's museum will lose its title as the country's largest exhibitor of contemporary art, though it will perhaps remain the edgiest. (Indeed, it's hard to think of another local institution gutsy enough to take on Ed Kienholz's sex-and-violence-splattered junkshop assemblages, as the MCA will do in December.) Wandering around its modest new permanent collection space, one senses a cultural flowering just as important as any glassy cathedral to contemporary art. Here the fiberglass manta ray and skater-boy video of former "Primavera" artists James Angus and Shaun Gladwell...
...wholeness-to the severe bedroom, with its pressed-metal industrial closets and barracks-like austerity. The collage extends into the cupboards, which, when opened, reveal a hoard of oddments and chotchkes: vanity sets, inlaid boxes, tarnished trays, ugly Edwardian candlesticks with silver frills, like the stock of a dotty junkshop owner who cannot tear to part with anything. Mere presence in the cave signifies "treasure...
...human cost. Davis's book work was also concerned with "ifs:" she tried to see her subject's lives as they might been not as they were. Tillie Olsen first read Life in the Iron Mills when she was fifteen after buying it "for ten cents in an Omaha junkshop." But the work published anonymously, and not until 1958, thirty years later, did she discover the author's identity. Having rescued Rebecca Harding Davis's voice from the permanent silence of a slow, crumbling junkshop death alone makes Silences a book worth reading...
...called some of his friends, put on a Hawaiian shirt, and went down to the corner of Royal and St.Peter Streets and began to play mediocre jazz, which although he is still coroner, he continues to do almost every nice day, to the unending annoyance of the junkshop owners. Dr.Minyard says he is reviving the spirit of New Orieans and keeping the eity from going to the dogs...
Occasionally, she will photograph herself in a mirror--in a funhouse with her grand-children or in the window of a junkshop on San Francisco's Geary Street. Her figure is a strange one, a tiny body swathed in a black cape, an intriguingly wrinkled, amused looking face with a receding chin, the light catching the mirrors of the small, multi-colored Indian cap she always wears. "I photograph anything that can be exposed to light," she says, but complains about too much philosophizing on photography. "People will just have to look at my stuff and make up their...