The New Yorker — 2008

There are only five color photographs in this British artist's New York solo début, but they're big, weird, and impressive. Each is a view into a grungy, often subterranean interior space—a workout room, a recording studio, a one-man shooting range—that Hardy constructed for the photograph. Her attention to detail is as obsessive as it is warped, and dirty realism is slowly eaten away by the nightmarish sense that something is wrong here. Black excrescence bubbles out of one wall, plaster is slathered onto another like mocha icing, and every bit of grime and debris is fetishized. Each room has a split personality, and the dark side is taking over.

Q
Going on about town, The New Yorker, Mon May 5 2008