RECOMMENDED
JUDITH BROTMAN, “White Lies, Delicate Matters,” installation. Walls can talk, or at least they can whisper in your ear a word that can’t be clearly discerned, but puts you in mind of something, though you can’t quite remember what. That name you can’t call to your lips, the song you know four bars of—this uncertainty of language is the effect of Brotman’s “Yesterday, Today, and a Couple of Tomorrows,” a cascading wall of paper circles cut from books, maps, bits of sheet music, wallpaper and gray felt, hung intuitively upon one another, blowing lightly in the wind from the ceiling vents. The work in this show, often sutured together with thin threads and tacked up with specimen pins, plays with language even when there is no explicit text. Tentative masses of yarn and glittery strands act like whimsical speech trembling across a wall. It’s as if you’re floating in white space while a half-audible poem is being played on a tape recorder in the next room—certainly pleasant, though at times all you want is to hear the poem loud and clear, and to be able to reflect on its meaning. “Natural Selections,” from 2005, in which Brotman sutures dead leaves together, making new and surprising forms while maintaining the pleasure of the nearly invisible and the extremely delicate, is a more successful linguistic limbo. (Michelle Tupko) Through January 6 at Chicago Cultural Center