Vincent Fecteau has, over the last two decades, forged a singular aesthetic that mixes homespun materials (popsicle sticks, champagne corks, string, and the like), meticulous craftwork, and a curious formal grammar. By turns wonky, erotic, extraterrestrial, or baroque—and sometimes, paradoxically, all of these at once—his sculptures are built from small, slow accumulations in which layering, texture, and the work of the hand are all visible. Rigid geometries and the heft of the modernist sculpture that his work evokes are forfeited in favor of something far more modest, wildly irrational, and psychically charged. The San Francisco–based artist’s sculptural practice is rooted in his early work, in which his fascination with images from cat calendars, the architecture of Neverland Ranch, and the mysterious charge of rooms pictured in home decor magazines formed

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