Chris Lux

September 12th- October 17th, 2026

​GGLA is pleased to present I’d sit inside a bottle and pretend that I was in a can, a solo exhibition by Los Angeles-based artist, Chris Lux. His paintings are hung in relation to a series of organically shaped stained glass, drenching already brilliant colors in another layer of dappled light. There’s an obvious surplus of history in this work, accumulating like geological sediment. The literal material has a nomadic spirit -- textiles and paints found at thrift-stores, half-empty tubes discarded by strangers. Lux’s historical references are likewise restless -- depictions of mental illness by post-impressionists, the walls and fixtures of absinthe bars, the incongruous flatness of Roman frescos. These are paintings of Lux’s friends in the late 1990s and early 2000s. They are captured in a state of debaucherous hedonism, shielded from boredom or death. This bygone layering is reminiscent of a wall that’s been plastered with posters for decades. A civil servant tries to scrape it clean, but the remaining scraps of paper emerge with precision, like they were carved by a knife.

The show’s title comes from “7 and 7 is,” a 1966 single by the rock band, Love. The track’s propulsive proto-punk locates a pressure point between the height of utopian psychedelic exuberance and a depraved Altamont comedown. With its shifting, nonhierarchical perspective, Lux’s work exploits an abandonment of solid ground. One of his found fabrics features an arrestingly beautiful tie-dye. Its melting teals and browns recall Manet. The pattern is visible through holes in Lux’s paint with a disorienting, recessive rhythm. He retains a familiar graphic sensibility, but the lines have evolved towards painterly gesture. Each brushstroke is kept dry and fast with minimal blending. The lines thicken and billow, wisping around figures in mid conversation, gesturing theatrically or staring outward with a jealous gaze. Shadows only exist in their most dramatized form.

When Lux was a graffiti artist, he often violated hierarchical norms to pull punk friends into the work, widening the scene beyond its usual scope. His impulse towards installation has a similar quality. The stained glass skylights introduce an unruly presence, the quality of light spontaneous and unpredictable.

​A small number of people could recognize and name every face in this show, but they are not Lux’s intended audience. His reference photos have evolved into archetypal personae, superimposed with an eye towards narrative. With an affectionate smile, Lux places all the speed freak roommates on one canvas. On another, two men make out next to an ornate self portrait. A schizophrenic break during a mushroom trip coincides with a tender embrace. The original photos become archeological sites, with clues about love and attachment and self discovery. For Lux, the literal moments feel impossibly far away. What was normal and familiar at the time has acquired a caustic distance, incongruous with the more sheltered, prudish sensibility of contemporary youth culture. When he looks at the pictures, he might as well be looking at the Lascaux caves.

There’s a funny process behind these wild, chaotic works. Despite what their kinetic charge might indicate, each mark was methodically planned out in advance. Scans of free-form drawings were digitally layered, collaged on an intimate scale until the composition was settled. Some marks that seem impulsive were actually meticulously considered long before Lux actually set foot in the studio. This juxtaposition of control and abandonment is part of what gives the work its uncategorizable energy. There is something irresistible in the voice of a narrator watching their friend who is more brave and daring, more willing to have the next drink, go on to the next location, forget the risk. Maybe that’s the position of every artist, reflecting and analyzing too closely to ever really participate. You can see outside yourself, but wish you couldn’t.

-- Ruby Zuckerman