A solo exhibition of new sculptures at mh P R O J E C T nyc

140 2n​ d​ Ave. #306, New York, NY 10003 | www.mhprojectnyc.com | mhprojectnyc@gmail.com​ ​​

Spit Up from a Water Witch

JASON RONDINELLI

OCTOBER 24 - NOVEMBER 29, 2020
OPENING VIEWING I SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24, 3PM - 6PM

mh PROJECT nyc is pleased to present, ​Spit Up from a Water Witch​, a solo exhibition of sculptures by Jason Rondinelli, whose recent body of work expresses the simultaneous processes of coming together and falling apart. Embodied within these works, the opposition between assembly and collapse conveys a parity between the desire to be pure, whole and complete, and an impending sense of failure. This struggle creates a dynamic suspense and catharsis. Instead of pivoting immediately towards rebirth, ​Spit Up from a Water Witch a​sks the viewer to observe and behold the destruction and shame left in the wake of defeat.

Rondinelli’s material play explores the concept of tension between fighting failure versus surrendering to it. Abstracted patterns found in nature on the surfaces of the sculptures convey this conflict. In Blubber Head, ​the wood is partially chopped and burned, marked by a failed attempt to show what lies beneath the surface, and the beginning of destruction. In all three pieces, circular marks decorate the ceramic and wood, mimicking the injuries left on a whale by the squid trying to resist being devoured, and wavy patterns along the sides of each piece allude to the intestinal lining of the whale after the squid has been consumed. The battle results in the emission from the whale’s guts of ambergris, a prized perfume.

The parallels in Rondinelli’s work between natural phenomena and personal narrative extend beyond superficial markings. In ​Blubber Head ​and ​In my Stomachs, Pins and Needles, ​ceramic vessels filled with dripping mouthwash teeter atop the sculptures, referencing the suspense of the dynamic between shame of and acceptance of collapse. Emanating from portions of the sculpture are two distinct aromas that demonstrate catharsis in the act of spitting forth from within. The minty scent of Listerine and the earthy aroma of ambergris saturate the charred wood remains. Rondinelli highlights the act of spitting out liquid as a moment when what lies within is revealed, and though any interior liquid may be vile out of context in the exterior world, it has its own potency and function. Mouthwash is called upon to represent purity before a kiss, and in its sullied state, used to erase the traces of a sordid meeting with a lover in a bathroom stall. The destruction of burning produces its own scent, and smoke, too, is used to subside: a match in the bathroom or a cigarette to deal with stress.

Text by Irene Plax

Studio Views by Glenn Adamson

The gay saunas of New York somehow survived the AIDS crisis, but they couldn’t withstand the introduction of hookup apps.” I had a good laugh when Jason Rondinelli made that observation to me, though of course this is no laughing matter. The horror of the AIDS epidemic has receded now, thanks to Prep and antiretroviral therapy – at least, it has here in America. But it left a permanent shadow, not least on imaginings of gay sexuality. What had been associated with carefree (albeit illegal) hedonism became tinged with trauma, and the memory of the dead. 

Rondinelli’s work sensitively explores this palimpsest of pleasure and pain. He takes into his scope not just the memory of AIDS, but also deeper legacies - like the films and writings of Jean Genet, and even ancient Roman baths. Saunas are particularly resonant spaces for him. No longer used for sex and sociability, they are now finding new uses, or are simply unoccupied, and Rondinelli’s sculptures could be considered affective, abject monuments to this history. There are steam-wet cedar structures, partly sheathed in handmade tiles; drywall structures surreally lubricated with muscle relaxant. These works poignantly evoke scenarios that, to an earlier generation of gay men, would have seemed paradise in miniature. Today they live mainly in the collective memory.

In a particularly arresting move, Rondinelli evokes the trace of bodies through the introduction of heads of cabbage, which give off a palpable, humid smell as the sculptures age. This is an allusion to Genet’s visionary erotic text Funeral Rites: “My gaze was glued to the militiaman's fly… I loved him. I was going to marry him. It would perhaps be enough for me to be dressed in white, for the wedding, though with a decoration of large black crape cabbage rosettes at each joint, at the elbows, the knees, the fingers, the ankles, the neck, the waist, the throat, the prick, and the anus.” Few viewers, perhaps, would make the connection to this gorgeously explicit literary source. But Rondinelli is not providing footnotes. Rather, his work is a primal encounter with the thing that is most immediate, yet most elusive, in human life: desire.

The full text can be found here.

Excerpt from The Brooklyn Rail, ArtSeen, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, by Charlotte Kent, November 2019

Jason Rondinelli’s sculptural works Jitters Beneath the Covers and Untitled (both 2019) can only be fully appreciated in person, as a concrete sense of scale is crucial: they are barely knee high. Constructed from wood and tiles propped against one another, these works present two faces to the observer. From one side, the wood is partly burnt, while the other surface is tiled. Everything here is liminal and precarious, as Rondinelli’s pieces of cedar seem ready to fall at a touch. The flakes of ash on the floor invoke an impulse to remembrance, while the tiles suggest everything from the history of Roman baths to the libidinal use of steam rooms in queer culture. Even without such associations, these unsteady works cultivate the viewer’s concern.

The full text can be found here.

Excerpt from Hyperallergic, An Elegant Swansong at Brooklyn’s NURTUREart by Hakim Bishara, June 28, 2019

This message is acutely conveyed in Jason Rondinelli’s installation “Genet’s Bed” (2017), wherein two rotting cabbages suspended in netted shopping bags ooze their malodorous juices into pipes that drain into ceramic bowls brimming with balms and salves. A layered wall fragment flanking the construction absorbs the cabbage juice as well. The foul odor fills the gallery’s space, especially on hot days. In this work, Rondinelli recalls a hallucinatory moment during his recovery from invasive surgery, when he saw the walls of his house become stained with ointments and salves before cracking open to reveal the pipework inside. Cabbages are replaced once they dry out, and the cycle of decomposition begins again.

The full text can be found here.