The sex gallery is ostensibly devoted to voyeurism—that’s to say, visual penetration. It is ironic, however, that in such a hot, sticky exhibition (literally, as PS1 is severally challenged in climate control, making the show a dubious summer destination) the cummulative effect of looking at so much biology is ultimately so unvisceral. This has to do with the fact that so many works are dreary black and white photographs and texts. There is barely any painting in the show, and what there is is limp illustration.
The thought I had, on leaving this exhausting, puerile display, is that a single painting by Francis Bacon would metaphorically fuse every sensation laid out so literally by the photographers, performers and video makers in this show, and penetrate the viewer where virtually nothing in this show does—the solar plexus. But metaphor, depictive relish and the catharsis of painting are obviously too trangressive for some.
more from Artcritical here.