A neat bit of Impressionism, this work demands to be read from afar as a more cohesive whole than the sum of its constituent parts. It's only when one nears the fart that it begins to break down: a waft of stale coffee here, a gassy swirl of chicken tikka masala there. Squinting to decipher ever more delicate details, we hunger for more information about this world was there a side of garlic naan? Samosas? We can only guess.
The technical skill behind the fart is not unremarkable and brings to mind a vitality and lustiness reminiscent of Old Roommate's earlier works. When viewed in the context of the stark toilet bowl, however, the fart truly leaves its mark via an almost Pollack-esque splatter. In this piece, form grapples with content and ultimately dominates it.
The piece's near-accusatory volume resounds throughout the cavernous exhibition space, at once belying and echoing the absence at its heart. By presenting noise without odor, Yoga Classmate bends and plays with our notions of what must be true for the term "fart" to truly apply.
Derivative and uninspired.
At first glance, this fart seems to hold a place in the canon of the Dutch Oven Masters, famous for their willingness to confront their audience on a visceral level, trapping us inside the very space defined and inhabited by the work. In this case, though, the origin of the fart has trapped himself in that space as well. The result is an unsettling inversion of the usual relationship between fartist and patron, one that disrupts our comfortably-held notions of guilty and innocent.
The triumph of representation in this piece only serves to underscore the fart's innate failure as a medium. For of course, it is not microwaved broccoli, it is a mere simulacrum of microwaved broccoli, and thusly provokes the question: what is the difference? Can fart ever truly encapsulate what it represents? Is fart dead?