In Dario Robleto’s world, nothing is at it seems: bone is vinyl, hair is magnetic tape, flowers are paper, skeletons are filled with a marrow of Sylvia Plath reciting her poetry. His touch is so deft, so light, that many casual viewers mistake the sculptures for found-object collage. It is easy to miss the subtle incongruities of material science and alchemy, to dismiss the work as three-dimensional nostalgic snapshots, but such an approach fails to understand the deep meaning in the reconfigured materials.
