The color pink. Flowers blooming from a pile of cigarette packs. Skylines of bottles and jars filled with anything but cherries. Tony Feher started exhibiting in 1980 and 1991 was nationally and world renown. He embarked on complex investigations into the fabrics of being. His tools? Post-minimalistic aesthetic sculptures composed of everyday objects and found materials. Their composure and everything that composes you (as a matter of fact) had once been inside a star that has exploded. The rarest elements (gold, platinum, uranium, truffles, 25-year-old scotch and love) are created only by the explosion of supernovas .
I like to think artist are like supernovas. And! Feher’s imagination had once been inside the nuclear of a star many times the size of our sun. For he is the minister of propaganda for a inevitable bulletproof heaven. As if (if I am reading this right, and I’d like to think I am) he is saying that… Nothing is bad. Everything is good! Hence! He is inviting us to escape the culture of overeating and political compotes and sell ourselves into the glamour of strangeness. Instead of assimilating some fodder (he provides no alibis) do a little exercise. Divide the world’s total wealth by its population so you can get a number that means nothing.
Alternatively occupy your weekend with an exodus to the Bronx Museum of the Arts and arrive at the conclusion that everything is regular in the eyes of the universe. (Allow me to be a little avant-garde.) History is not a metaphor for the present. Do not make this pilgrimage in a rush, you are not climbing the second highest peak in the solar system Olympus Mons (it’s on Mars). No, no. When I came back from Feher’s show I bit on a piece of fat, took a nap and wrote this article. I sold my microwavable teddy bear and smiled. Why? Because according to quantum mechanics there is only a slim chance for me to wake up on Mars. But I can keep dreaming, hoping and all that good staff. You should too, just like Mr. Feher. Stay sophisticated my venerable friends.
