![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Football jerseys hang on a wall, including one for the fabled Oakland Raiders center Jim Otto (his number, 00, puts Barney in mind of extra-bodily orifices). Inside are forklifts to move things like six-ton blocks of salt and sculpturally abetted Trans Ams. Alongside the studio the mercurial river flows, its current changing direction several times a day. On the streets stroll workers whose sturdy coats solicit calls to 888-WASTEOIL, for the service of all waste-oil wants and needs. A couple blocks down is a garage for cast-off food carts in states of obliteration and disarray. Matthew Barney’s studio, the birthing place of some of the biggest and most ambitious art of our time, sits in an industrial New York netherzone by the East River in Queens. ![]()
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