ARTHUR RUNS AMOK    

LIKE an irritant of art, Arthur Wicks gets under the skin.  He's a bother, in the most constructive sense of the word. Since critics can't pigeonhole the performing printer-sculptor, he runs amok without regard for categorical status. His first solo exhibition was as long ago as 1966, yet every time he shows it seems the work of a newcomer. At Michael Nagy, Wicks unveils a brilliant suite of tripedal sculptures under the typically ominous title Twelve Riders of the Apocalypse — Dismounted More pathetic than threatening, these top-heavy hominids touch one's heart with their doomed attempts at walking. Doom is rather in the air with Arthur. Several of his flagrantly coloured prints invoke Eva Braun, Joseph & Adolph, the Potsdamerplatz and on to Radovan Karadzic. Douglas MacArthur cops it, too. I don't know what it means, but I know he means it. Occasionally that's enough. Phone 9368 1152. To November 2.

Bruce James
The Sydney Morning Herald
31 October 1997