Molly Springfield (2007)


Molly Springfield

Chicago Journal by Kristin Gehring

4/25/2007 10:00:00 PM

From The Real Object by Molly Springfield, at Thomas Robertello Gallery.

Here we thought therapy was a hobby
On the Scene
We just came from the psychiatrist. His view is that all we need is a hobby. Now we are really depressed. We were hoping we just needed better drugs, but apparently one has to stand one’s ground and fight it out with one’s demons, and we are in No Mood.

Fortunately, The Real Object, Molly Springfield’s exhibit at Thomas Robertello Gallery (939 W. Randolph St.), is an ode to futility, which suits our mood precisely. Springfield looks futility in the face and dares to squeeze its blackheads. Her painstaking drawings of photocopies of books-“copies of copies, in other words, that meditate on questions of originality, reproduction, and meaning”-choose not to bemoan the specter of meaninglessness but to celebrate it instead. This is devilish of her and, frankly, lately we are more on the devil’s side than that other guy, wherever the hell he’s hiding.

The nice thing about going to the psychiatrist is that one needn’t try to be nice. Allegedly, he is being paid to examine our demons, so we do not bother to hide them. We are not going to pay you, however, to hear our opinion of Springfield’s drawings at the opening of “The Real Object” on Friday, April 27, from 6 to 9 p.m. (312/421-1587). But we imagine there will be free drinks. Good enough?
Kristin Gehring

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