Triple Diesel

Gina Magid paints on satin, using pencils, paint, and glitter. The drawings depict gesturally dashed animal drawings and abstract streaks. An owl flies into disembodied, cupped hands, a tiger lurks in a shimmering lake, and a cheetah or something eats a deer. The drawings are as static as traced drawings, and the layered interaction between images is unattended and meaningless - no suggestive associations, as in Salle; no virtuosic braggadacio, as in Walton Ford; and no apparent conceptual spin, as in Ann Craven.

Most of the drawings look like bad fashion illustration. Magid's glitter and satin - "girly, gaudy, glamorous," she says - confirm this fashion-inspired superficiality, which often produces base bijoux that remind viewers of embarrassing one-night stands. (Our morning-after pill was Amy Sillman's ambitious, vigorous paintings at Sikkema.)





The one exception is "BMX/Ghost Rider" with a more daring adventure in black & white. She may have consulted Franz Kline.

Gina Magid's paintings would have looked great in the downtown Vice clothing store (is that closed for good?) or maybe a Bedford Avenue coffee shop. It's outdated hipster art - deer and "nature" imagery vanished from hipster handbags and T-shirts a year ago. This just doesn't supplement the fashion-conscious scenes of Elizabeth Huey, the dystopic glamour of someone like Rita Ackermann or the melancholic glamour of Jack Pierson.