The collage work of Lynn Behrendt is as instantly identifiable as that of Jess or of Joe Brainard — haunted landscapes, autopsied houses, birds & babies & the artist’s own visage staring out. With her saturated palette & (winking) nod to Hudson Valley gothic, Behrendt offers an iconography poised midway between Jung & George Romero. I don’t think a person dressed in flesh will ever seem nude to me again.
— RON SILLIMAN
The allure in Bloomberg-Rissman’s work, which has drawn me to it from the start, is his use of appropriative & conceptual techniques toward the exploration of real if unanticipated meaning — the saying, in other words, of that which is crying to be said. While his work is constructed almost entirely of words appropriated from others, this is done without any sacrifice of coherence or feeling or intelligence in a voice that remains unified & “personal” throughout — a testament to the communal nature of language & thought of which our individualities are a crucial if sometimes questioned part. In this he emerges today as a true master.
— JEROME ROTHENBERG
at the self is various and the mind/heart has many stages, prosceniums, theaters and interweavings, so too the marvelous linguistic and visual collaboration of Lynn Behrendt and John Bloomberg-Rissman. What weaves through all the words and images is being-in-the-world, alive and dead at the same time, moving objects by means of creation, as the hands of ghosts, luminosity, and shadows intercede and sometimes overcome the text, changing the collaboration from that of one between two gifted artists/writers to a larger work created by the pressures of being and time (no caps). In a world where the self is inflated and domination too often the medium and form, this democracy of spirit enlightens and opens the reader to another possibility: that art has many doors, all of which are suitable entries to the work. The words are recovered from meaning narrowly by the collages opposing them: naked decomposing humans and incomplete horses stand at a stone wall, whose door leads to darkness while “Lenin on a bench beside a lake/disturbed/Adrenaline-drenched/on a beach at Waikiki/carries a cane” as he wanders into the scene. What more could one want?
— MAXiNE CHERNOFF