Five Hour Gallery Dash in NYC

Late last month, after a short trip to Montreal to work with Mosaika Art & Design on my commission for a new public art project, I took the train to NYC for a couple of meetings and a little bit of gallery hopping. My time in New York was very compressed, and I only had 5 hours available on Saturday, September 28.

When I have an abundance of time, I tend to immerse myself and see as much as possible—the good, the bad and the ugly. My Beloved refers to it as the “Art Death March.” However, with time so short, I prepared a very concise, detailed list that took me to the Upper East Side, the Lower East Side and Chelsea. Of course, I planned my subway trips and my Uber ride in advance, as well as the order of my stops and even my strategy for walking and crossing streets, as I didn’t want to waste a moment. Also, I set a very particular agenda for myself; I wanted to leave New York feeling inspired.

Here’s a summary of what I saw. Many of these shows are still open as of the date of this post. See them if you can!

Alma Thomas: Resurrection, Mnuchin Gallery, through October 19

What a place to start! If this had been the only show I’d seen, I would’ve left New York feeling happy and fulfilled. This beautiful exhibition was curated by Sukanya Rajaratnam. It is comprehensive, with major works as well as a good selection of works on paper. Thomas’ energy and pure spirit shines through every piece. Of course, her story is astonishing. She did not paint full time until she was in her 60s, after teaching in Washington DC public schools for thirty-five years, but she more than made up for lost time. Her work is personal and historically resonant, connecting to Abstract Expressionism, Pointillism, Color Field and Minimalism.

Thomas was the first African-American woman to have a solo show at the Whitney Museum of American Art, and she enjoyed success late in life. Since her death in 1978 and, especially, in recent years, her contributions have been reassessed, and she’s finally getting her due.

I love this direct reference to Matisse’s work, The Snail. I wish I knew how and why Thomas took on
this challenge, but I imagine that it is the peculiar puzzle of the sheer stability of the framework with the rotational, destabilizing movement of the multicolored forms.

Matisse, The Snail, 1953.

Thomas’ version, from 1965.

This piece is pure eye-sizzle. many of Thomas’ works take advantage of optical tricks that fry one’s eyeballs as much as any good Op Art masterwork.

The exhibition includes a few wall-sized photos of Thomas, along with quotes by the artist.

Gorgeous, full-wall installation of paintings and framed works on paper.

Another photo of the artist on one of the gallery’s curved walls. Thomas died in 1978.

Richard Serra: Triptychs and Diptychs, Gagosian (980 Madison Ave.), though November 2

Serra’s triptychs (47.5 x 93 inches) and the diptychs 47.5 x 62 inches) are nothing more, nothing less than groups of pitch-black squares or rectangles, abutting each other and/or adjacent to each other, with the white space of the paper somehow holding equal importance with the black, scumbly forms. The shapes are thick and tar-like, made with paint stick, etching ink and silica on handmade paper, with a few spatters and speckles of black adorning the otherwise pristine, heavy white paper. Throughout, there is a sense of exquisite balance and materiality. In Serra’s own words:

Weight is a value for me—not that it is any more compelling than lightness, but I simply know more about weight than about lightness and therefore I have more to say about it, more to say about the balancing of weight, the diminishing of weight, the addition and subtraction of weight, the concentration of weight, the rigging of weight, the propping of weight, the placement of weight, the locking of weight, the psychological effects of weight, the disorientation of weight, the disequilibrium of weight, the rotation of weight, the movement of weight, the directionality of weight, the shape of weight.

Zao Wou-Ki, Gagosian (976 Madison Ave.), through October 26

I received a press release email for this exhibition a few weeks ago, and thought it sounded intriguing, My gallery jaunt mostly included artists who were already familiar to me, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen works by the Chinese-born, French painter Zao Wou-Ki till now. The works, produced from 1979-2006, serve as a missing link between traditional Chinese painting and Abstract Expressionism. Like Pollock, Zao Wou-Ki worked on the floor, painting with ink on paper (later mounted to canvas). The marks are soft and subtle. Even the darkest, blackest marks are somehow elusive and fleeting. I kept thinking of spurts of squid ink in the deep ocean, flowing, billowing and dissipating. The largest works are about nine feet tall. The soft, matte surface of the paper, with the ink held in rather than on the fibers of the substrate, is so absorbent that your gaze, too, falls into it, rather than skipping over the surface.

John Chamberlain: Baby Tycoons, Hauser & Wirth (69th St.), through October 19

Chamberlain is rather hit or miss for me. He lost me after his early, iconic works. At a certain point, his forms became less dynamic (more vertical, static and monolithic) and his color application seemed more arbitrary (more decorative). At the same time, the sculptures felt overly complicated, with narrower strips of metal that felt superfluous or overly fussed over. However, after seeing a few images of the Baby Tycoons, I thought the exhibition would be worth a visit. First, the title: it all but screams, “Baby Tycoons, here’s something you can afford! Cute little tabletop versions of my big sculptures!” Ah, but I sound cynical (which I am not). Anyway, these little guys pack a real punch. They morph from every angle, they hum with every aspect and shift of color, edge, angle, interior and exterior. They sit like little creatures on their pedestals, full of vim and vigor. As Chamberlain said,

If the scale is dealt with then the size has nothing to do with it.

Forms Larger and Bolder: Eva Hesse Drawings from the Allen Memorial Art Museum at Oberlin College, Hauser & Wirth (69th St.), through October 19

This comprehensive exhibition of approximately 70 works on paper from the 1960s includes Hesse’s very early student work (figure studies, still life drawings) as well as more experimental abstract works from 1964, which she described as “wild space” in a letter to Sol LeWitt, and a good number of working sketches and studies for sculptural works. This show is geared toward Hesse wonks, providing a terrific sense of Hesse’s early trajectory, working methods and thought processes. Individual works are not necessarily mind-blowing but, as a whole, the exhibition lays foundation for Hesse’s more widely known and appreciated sculptures.

One of Hesse’s “wild space” works from 1964.

Ron Gorchov: at the cusp of the 80s, paintings 1979-1983, Cheim & Read, through November 15

This was my first visit to Cheim & Read’s new Uptown digs. It’s a lovely space, though so much smaller and more intimate than the old space in Chelsea. It feels a bit too small for Gorchov’s powerful, aggressive paintings. Much has been written about the structure of his shaped canvases. Yes, they resemble shields and masks. However, on this visit, another analogy struck me: the reference to saddles, thus making the primal associations more even complete, more fulfilled. These works are meant to do battle, to seize, to conquer! They will not lay down arms before any friend or foe! In the confines of Cheim & Read’s new space, they were a band of warriors, poised for attack.

Friedel Dzubas: Affective Color, Yares Art, through November 2

I’m a big fan of Yares Art’s Santa Fe outpost. In New York, the gallery occupies McKee Gallery’s as well as Mary Boone Gallery’s old spaces on Fifth Avenue. The gallery specializes in Color Field painting, so of course it was a necessary stop, even though I was unfamiliar with the artist featured in the current exhibition. I loved the Dzubas exhibition and left with a beautiful exhibition catalogue. Dzubas was championed by Greenberg, was acquainted with Pollock, de Kooning, Kline, et al., and was a member of The Club. He even shared a studio with Frankenthaler at one point. So, why haven’t I heard of him till now? I’m sure I’ve read about him, but for some reason, the name didn’t stick. In any case, I was glad to experience this exhibition, full of large-scale works with stacks and patches of acrylic color, each with a fuzzy, hazy edge that at once distinguished it and associated it with its neighbor. Turns out that that Dzubas was primarily influenced by Tiepolo’s frescoes. I found the use of color oddly idiosyncratic and full of juxtapositions of high color and rather muddy, earthy tones. My favorite piece was the epic Procession, from 1975. This work spans nearly 300 inches and is a true tour de force.

Dzubas made small studies for these works, which seem at odds with the grand presence of the paintings, which feel very spontaneous and in the moment. In fact, most of the large works in the exhibition were accompanied by their studies. I’m not sure if it helps or hurts the overall experience of viewing this show. Rather than studies, they almost feel like after-the-fact miniatures of these epic paintings.

Procession, 1975, Magna on canvas, 116 x 294 inches

Gotta love the Dymo label on the side of the frame!

In a Yares Art side gallery, I encountered this lovely Kenneth Noland painting, Spring Call, 1961, as well as Morris Louis’ Number 9, also from 1961.

After leaving Yares Art, I had a quick bite and then took the subway down to the Lower East Side.

John Zurier: North from Here, Peter Blum Gallery, through November 9

Of course, I know John Zurier from my old life in San Francisco. I greatly enjoyed John’s exhibition, full of wonderful color, subtle brushwork and the introduction (or perhaps just a bit more emphasis on) edges and structure within the fields of color. I’m always interested in observing John’s choice of canvas/linen, which varies from work to work. Sometimes he uses a fine, tight weave, while other times he employs a very nubbly, almost burlap-like weave. These works really honor the edge of the plane, and seem to take compositional cues from the underlying structure of the stretcher bars.

My favorite piece in the exhibition: Hundasúra, 2019, oil on linen 18 x 22 inches.

I wanted to see more galleries on the LES, but I still had a lot on my list, so I Ubered over to Chelsea.

Ed Clark: Paintings 2000-2103, Hauser & Wirth (Chelsea), through October 26

Ed Clark’s paintings remind me a bit of super-sized Howard Hodgkins, albeit with a completely different palette. These works are made using a technique that Clark refers to as “the big sweep”— literally, using a push broom to apply paint to canvas. The scale of the “brushwork” (okay, let’s call it “broomwork”) is epic. There’s no other way one could make these marks and gestures. Clark, a native of New Orleans, spent many years in Paris, hanging out with American expat painters such Joan Mitchell and Sam Francis, as well as a generation of important African-American artists who’d fled racial discrimination in the U.S.

Amy Sherald: the heart of the matter, Hauser & Wirth (Chelsea), through October 26

Amy Sherald’s exhibition was all but mobbed. She’s enjoying a moment, deservedly, after acing the Michelle Obama portrait commission. However, I feel something is missing in the discourse around her work. While issues of race and representation are at the forefront—as they are in the broader culture—they are not what make these paintings successful works of art. What makes these paintings successful is her subject matter combined, crucially, with they way they are painted. Sherald’s achievement is not merely her contribution to our contemporary discourse about race. It’s her contribution to painting, in terms of stylistic leanings and formal decision-making.

In preparation for this writing, I ran across a conversation between Sherald and Osman Can Yerebakan. They covered many topics, including tidbits about Sherald’s partner, her dog, her move from Baltimore to New Jersey, single-hood, romance, her Southern identity…in essence, just about everything but painting, which I found quite curious. However, there were two little factoids to savor: 1) Sherald studied with Odd Nerdrum in Norway, and 2) She buys clothes with which to style her models. The former is so, well, odd, that I don’t even know what to make of it. The latter really piqued my interest, because one of the things I admire so much about Sherald’s works is the way that she uses clothing to construct her compositions, and to signify other value systems that may not be so readily apparent. For example, when I look at the Obama portrait, in addition to Sherald’s stated references to Mondrian and Gee’s Bend quilters, I am reminded of Michelangelo’s Pieta and it’s pyramidal structure, so typical of Renaissance art.

I’m eager to see how Sherald will continue to push the boundaries. This exhibition includes two very large works, one with four figures. However, this is the one that sticks with me. Sherald has a knack for posing her subjects’ limbs in a way that is rather uncanny and strange. It might be my imagination, but I’ve always thought that Michelle Obama’s left arm is rendered in a way that makes it appear bit long. If so, it’s a mannerist tweak that adds yet another layer of art historical references and compositional interest. Similarly, the subject in the portrait below has a strange left arm, with the hand not visibly in a pocket, but awkwardly held behind her back at a strange angle. This lends a bit of tension to the otherwise straightforward, frontal composition. I love this detail, as well as the patterned dress, which harks back to Pop Art (references to Wonder Bread, and/or the game Twister) and also to Op Art strategies.

Luckily I had the forethought to pick up the heavy card for this show at H&W’s Uptown space. In the Chelsea gallery, viewers were frantically trying to grab keepsakes.

Sarah Sze, Tanya Bonakdar Gallery, through October 19

Once again, Sarah Sze creates an exhibition out of anything and everything at hand. The centerpiece of this show, a fragile, scaffold-like structure with scraps of paper and even containers of water serving as screens for tiny video projections, was very similar to an installation I saw in Munich a couple of years ago, In this case, though, Sze uses every inch of the gallery as a studio, laboratory and exhibition space, including the front of the building and various administrative spaces. A backroom serves as a studio space in chaotic disarray, as if the artist had just stepped out for a coffee. Upstairs, there are several paintings that function like accurate 2-D depictions of Sze’s layered, hyper-speed, ad hoc installations. They make sense in a way, and are fully in keeping with Sze’s oeuvre, but I was distracted by their fragile surfaces, with bits of collaged paper tacked on. Although the press release states that Sze was “originally trained as a painter,” let’s face it: that was a lifetime ago. Sze has consistently invested her energy elsewhere, and this exhibition made me think that she has overstretched a bit. To me, the installations incorporating light, video, sound, structure and detritus are still the most interesting and compelling works Sze has created thus far.

Anni Albers, David Zwirner (Chelsea), through October 19

What can I say? This show is both ravishing and rational. It’s logically and materially satisfying, and optically and tactilely engaging. Some of the works show signs of wear and tear, which only serves to make them appear more precious and appealing. I could’ve spent hours here, were it not for all of the mid-century-modern-loving hipsters parading around.

Gorgeous large-scale piece, Camino Real, 1968.

A little threadbare in spots, but very commanding.

Paul Klee: 1939, David Zwirner (Chelsea), though October 26

This exhibition is truly spectacular. The title says it all: 1939. According to the press release:

“The exhibition focuses on Klee’s art from 1939, the year before he passed away, which marked one of the artist’s most prolific periods.

Toward the end of 1933, in response to the suppression of avant-garde art practices by the newly empowered Nazi party, Klee left Germany, where he had primarily lived since 1906, and returned to his native city of Bern, Switzerland, residing there for the remainder of his life. From 1935 until he passed away, in 1940, Klee continually struggled with illness, which at times impacted his ability to work. Yet, in 1939, against the backdrop of immense sociopolitical turmoil and the outbreak of war, Klee worked with a vigor and inventiveness that rivaled even the most productive periods from his youth. The works on view illustrate how Klee responded to his personal difficulties and the broader social realities of the time through imagery that is at turns political, solemn, playful, humorous, and poetic. Ranging in subject matter, the works all testify to Klee’s restless drive to experiment with his forms and materials, which include adhesive, grease, oil, chalk, and watercolor, among others, resulting in surfaces that are not only visually striking, but also highly tactile and original. The novelty and ingenuity of Klee’s late works informed the art of the generation of artists that emerged after World War II, and they continue to hold relevance and allure for artists and viewers alike today.”

The works on view, most very intimate in scale, are by turns delightful and ominous. I was obsessed with Klee when I was a teenager, but lost interest somewhere along the way. Well, I once again count myself among Klee worshippers.

Monsters in Readiness

Ancestor in full vigor

Mask “after the loss”

Nordic artist

Ray Parker: Simple Paintings c. 1960, Washburn Gallery, through November 2

This was my first visit to Washburn’s new space in Chelsea. Washburn, Peter Blum Gallery and a few others were displaced from their Uptown digs in 2017. After 25 years at three locations on 57th Street, the gallery now occupies a modest, street-level gallery in Chelsea. It felt a bit odd to duck in, fresh off the sidewalk, but the minute I opened the door, Ray Parker’s paintings walloped me. What a delight, after the relatively somber (and extensive) Albers and Klee exhibitions. These paintings, with their large, soft-edged, blobby forms (mostly in pairs or trios) occupy the odd space between Abstract Expressionism (Motherwell, Gottlieb) and the crisper geometries and higher color of Color Field painting. The forms have a bodily presence, almost like brightly colored sleeping bags on a neutral ground.

Bernard Piffaretti, Lisson Gallery (Chelsea), through October 19

Last but not least, I straggled over to Lisson Gallery. I loved this super fun, fresh exhibition. Piffaretti has employed his technique of dividing the painting surface and doubling his images for over 30 years, highlighting sameness and difference and questioning notions of originality. He does not exactly “copy” the left side of the painting; rather, he recreates and re-executes the same colors and movements of his hand and brush. Perfect Po-Mo paintings.

Finally, parched and tired, I stumbled back onto the sunny street and hoofed it back to my hotel, before heading Uptown for dinner.

Munich/Salzburg/Vienna Top 10

One of my favorite things is to travel to see art. As you know, I've half-jokingly described myself as an Art Ninja: I feel I'm wearing x-ray goggles, and my mind and heart race as I weave through museum crowds like a wisp of a shadow. Travel, getting out of one's world and away from one's cares and duties, frees up the mind. Art viewing skills are heightened and I have the capacity to clock more museum time. Thankfully, my patient spouse is game for my relentless and (let's face it) greedy approach to museum-going.  But, how much of it sticks? I mean, really sticks? I like to fully immerse myself, see and read as much as possible, take notes and photos, and then sit down a few weeks (or months) later to recall the few works, of the thousands that I may have seen during a trip, that have permanently adhered to my brain cells. My beloved and I recently spent two weeks in Munich, Salzburg and Vienna, and I'm still sorting through museum ticket stubs, catalogues and books, hundreds of photos and a notebook filled with my decidedly unattractive scrawl. But, here are a few things (in no particular order) that I'm still thinking about and continue to see, as afterimages.

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1. Edouard Manet, Luncheon in the Studio, 1868

There are a number of treasures at the Neue Pinakothek in Munich, including several terrific van Goghs, a moody Gauguin, a decent Monet and an interesting Bonnard, but this Manet really knocked my socks off.  The first thing that popped into my mind was, "That black!  Manet's black! Boy, I would love to be a fly on the wall, listening to Manet and Kerry James Marshall discussing the color black!" In this case, the young man's black jacket takes hold of your eyeballs and doesn't let go. It's a bit shocking, really, in a purely retinal/optical sense. And then...the eyes begin to take in the scene. What's going on here? The space has a strange push/pull, like a wheezing accordion, opening and closing in only the midrange. The oysters and the lemon...oh, the lemon peel! So tantalizingly tangible, just falling off the edge of the table. The young man, one Leon Leenhoff-Koella, seems plucked from another scene, and pasted onto this one. He was allegedly the younger brother of Manet's wife, Suzanne Leenhoff, but was possibly her son, maybe from a relationship with Manet prior to their marriage. Thus, the woman in the painting might be his mother, and the man might be Manet, who might be the young man's father. However, scholars seem to disagree about this, and of course we will probably never know the truth. To the left is a pile of weapons and armor, in relatively sharp focus. I thought, "This young man is in a toxic family and he's aiming to get the hell out of Dodge." A fantastic painting, in true Manet-mystery fashion. Apparently, I'm not the only one seduced by the black jacket. I found this quote on www.manet.org:  "Henri Matisse saw Lunch in the Studio in 1910, and was so struck by it that thirty-six years later he could bring details of the work to mind: 'The Orientals used black as a colour, particularly the Japanese in their prints. Closer to us, there is a certain painting by Manet, I remember the black velvet jacket of the young man with the straw hat is in downright black and light.'"

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2. Mike Kelley, Untitled, 1991

I was delighted to stumble across this gem, part of the The Michael and Eleonore Stoffel Foundation at the Pinakothek der Moderne, in Munich. In general, I respond to Kelley's works as I would to an old friend kicking me in the gut: a mixture of surprise, pain, anger and sadness. But, wait! Back up! Before the gut punch: a brief, naive moment of pleasure and joy, even. Pleasure, in response to the formal qualities of the work. Joy, in the feeling of recognition: I know this. Case in point: a patchwork of 70s & 80s wool sweaters, with a carefully arranged assortment of panels, some merely blocks of solids and stripes, some displaying vintage graphic logos of ski resorts. For a moment, I was lost in a reverie, thinking of guys and girls with feathered hair, wearing Levis and brightly colored ski jackets, hot-dogging on the slopes. But... oh, wait, what's that? An oddly-proportioned dummy’s torso, adorned in a sweater of similar patches. But in this case they are arranged like so many colorful bricks, and sewn together with very prominent, thick stitches (think Frankenstein's monster). Suddenly: an intense wave of sadness for the outsiders (Yes, me. Yes, us.) living in a world of insiders.  

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3. Max Beckmann, The Temptation of St. Anthony, 1937

Beckmann painted nine large triptychs in the 30s, following his dismissal from his position at the Frankfurt School of Art in 1933 (after which he fled to the Netherlands for a self-imposed exile from Nazi Germany). I think I've seen three of them. I felt a chill down my spine when I turned a corner in the Pinakothek der Moderne and into a gallery containing several Beckmanns. Seeing them in Munich felt different than seeing them elsewhere. The vivid, relentlessly violent imagery, the compact compositions and the high color are an unequivocal indictment of human cruelty. Legs and arms are torqued into impossible positions, compositions are compressed and claustrophobic and the graphic use of black (and the triptych format) harken to medieval art. The reds and blacks and nickel yellows are thrilling, but they're just a smidge away from being nauseating. I stared at this painting for a very long time. The only other people in the gallery were the guard and a very old German man who brought one of the portable museum stools into the room. He sat. I stood. We stared in silence. 

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4. Martha Rosler, Untitled Postcard, 1973

Well, this was a surprise! We spent a couple of days in postcard-picture-perfect Salzburg, in the historic city center, amidst its Christmas markets, castles, churches, fanciful shops and incredible views of snow-capped mountains. We popped into the Museum der Moderne's Rupertinum  (the old town location; the main museum is situated high above the rooftops of on Salzburg's Mönchsberg). The Rupertinum is a small baroque building in the heart of the old town. We were delighted by the Art & Politics exhibition. An excerpt from Curator Stefanie Grünangerl, Librarian Museum der Moderne Salzburg:

"This exhibition showcases works from the museum’s collections that articulate pointed views and solicit debate on issues in society and politics. Such socially critical art is especially apt to illustrate the value of a collection of prints and other “ephemeral” media that allow for comparatively inexpensive reproduction and dissemination such as flyers, posters, postcards, stickers, and magazines. Politically “engaged” artists do not primarily make work so that others contemplate it with a view to its aesthetic merits; they rather want to broadcast concrete messages. Yet they also reflect on the constraints that circumscribe their scope of action and the limitations of art and political activism in general."

I confess: sometimes my eyes glaze over when viewing a show like this. I mean, it's not exactly a visual feast. And yet, this little exhibition, very text-heavy, minimal and (at first glance) rather dry-looking, was the perfect antidote to the formidable cuteness of Salzburg. There, in long, plexiglass vitrine tables, were countless gems, but this is the one I'll always remember.   From the accompanying text:

"This first-person narrator of a postcard by Martha Rosler would seem to recount trivialities, yet there are subtle but unmistakable political overtones, raising questions of economics and labor. The missive is a prelude to several novels in the form of postcard series...in which Rosler examines the linkages between food, imperialism and exploitation as well as resistant practices."

This piece, so juicy, so dense with layers of meaning, its fragmented thoughts so provocative, absolutely captivated me. The awkward yet pointed phrasing, the balance between what is suggested but not elaborated upon, the contradictions of meaning...I fantasized for a moment that I was back in grad school at CalArts, deconstructing and parsing out meaning for hours, in a windowless room, thick with cigarette smoke under horrid florescent light. I find this small, discolored postcard to be a poetic call to arms. 

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Haus der Kunst, Munich

The Haus der Kunst had not one, not two, but THREE excellent exhibitions on view: Sarah Sze, Centrifuge; Thomas Struth, Figure Ground; and Frank Bowling, Mappa Mundi. Also on view: Oscar Murillo's Going Forth-The Institute of Reconciliation, Polina Kanis' The Procedure and Mel Bochner's The Joys of Yiddish (A small encyclopedia). 

First, a bit of history. From the museum's website: 

"After its opening in 1937 as "Haus der Deutschen Kunst” [House of German Art], the Neoclassical building served to demonstrate National Socialist cultural politics and became the party's leading art institution. After the end of World War II, the museum building was first used by the US army as an officer's club. Art exhibitions took place as early as 1946. The return of modernism to the very place where the denigration of artists had begun served as part of a larger historical contemplation. 

Haus der Kunst became an important venue for featuring avant-garde works - like Picasso's Guernica in 1955 - and thus a counterbalance to its defamatory stance during the Third Reich. Since then, Haus der Kunst has been transformed radically into an international center of modern art exhibitions, and, today into a global museum of contemporary art. The cultural examination and curatorial analysis of this process has become an ongoing, integral part of Haus der Kunst's program."

The Director of the Haus der Kunst is none other than Okwui Enwezor, former Dean of Academic Affairs and Senior Vice President (from 2005 to 2009) at the San Francisco Art Institute , where I taught in the undergraduate and graduate programs for 11 years.  

As if all of this history weren't enough to pique one's interest, the building itself is quite astonishing in both scale and fascistic demeanor. The vast, cavernous spaces have been adapted into serviceable galleries that would likely swallow more intimate or subtle exhibitions.  However, the shows on view were all capable of holding the space. 

5a. Sarah Sze, Centrifuge, 2017

Sarah Sze's Centrifuge is positioned in the main gallery on the ground floor.  The space is enormous, dark and downright intimidating. I was drawn in by the piece, an impossibly fragile structure of reed-thin supports, fashioned into a fantastical, stadium-like form that serves to display fragments of paper, many of which serve as projection surfaces. The projections and sound elements extend into the far reaches of the cavernous space. As is typical for Sze, the piece employs a range of detritus, presumably scavenged on site: office supplies, trash, coffee cups and the like. This fragile arrangement somehow humanized the cold, forbidding gallery, with delightfully fanciful, unexpected detail and delicacy.

According to Sze:  Centrifuge’s “interior sculpture will seem caught in an indeterminable state between growth and decay. As the visitor approaches the sculpture it will immerse them in a micro scale at its interior, while simultaneously gesturing to a macro scale as it projects into the larger space of the hall. The sculpture will function both as a site of action, as well as a projector, illuminating the ceiling and giving the space the openness of a palazzo or city square.”

For me, the sum of this piece is much greater than Sze's description. 

5b. Frank Bowling, Mappa Mundi

Frank Bowling's Mappa Mundi was a revelation to me. I am sorry to admit that I was unfamiliar with Bowling till now.  According to the museum's website:

"Frank Bowling: Mappa Mundi presents a comprehensive overview of rare and never-before exhibited large-scale paintings along with other works by the Guyanese-born British painter Frank Bowling. Born in Bartica, British Guyana, in 1934, Bowling left his native country at the age of nineteen, arriving in London in 1953 as part of the momentous wave of Anglophone West Indian and Caribbean populations who migrated to England in the aftermath of World War II. Later he would study painting at The Slade School, University College London, and the Royal College of Art, distinguishing himself with the silver medal for painting (David Hockney received the gold medal) in RCA's 1962 graduating class.

The principal anchor of this exhibition is the monumental and celebrated "map paintings" (1967–1971) that were first shown to acclaim at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1971. For Bowling, whose art is preoccupied with place and history, like those of his Caribbean contemporaries, the poet Derek Walcott and philosopher Edouard Glissant, the use of maps as conceptual objects of painting make for a fitting transactional trope through which to tackle the idea of geography and narrative. Maps and mapping present not only an exploratory metaphor through which to mirror the physical weight of painting; they also project absorbing, metaphysical and protean domains."

I was blown away by this exhibition. The map paintings, in particular, are gorgeous--especially those employing fiery yellows and hot pinks. The color and surface qualities are compelling,  the progression of thought and action is convincing and the show was perfectly installed. The wall text was informative and direct and the exhibition included the artist's archive, which would more than suffice on its own as a fascinating exhibition. It was pure joy to be surrounded by and immersed in this terrific, accomplished body of work, with only the occasional gallery guard disrupting the view. What a treat! The catalogue for this exhibition is at the top of my post-travel wishlist.

5c. Thomas Struth, Figure Ground

Haus der Kunst describes Thomas Struth's Figure Ground as:

"... a comprehensive survey of his genre-defining oeuvre. Covering four decades of work and every phase of his career, the exhibition focuses on Struth's social interests, which represent the important forces of his influential artistic development. Comprised of more than 130 works, this exhibition is the largest survey of his artistic career to date. It brings together never-before-shown early works and collected research material drawn from his archive; these, elucidate the far-reaching and long-standing ideas behind the works and demonstrate the process of his artistic translation up to the perfection of the image." 

The exhibition was so huge that I kept losing my Beloved in the massive gallery spaces, which seemed to go on forever. Some bodies of work appealed to me than others. My favorite is the recent series "Nature & Politics," in which Struth documents technological environments of the aerospace, energy and medical industries. I had recently seen one of these enormous prints in a collector's home in San Francisco and had been astounded by the visceral, writhing quality of the extreme-focus details. These sterile spaces (research labs, space vehicles, energy facilities) are almost too much to take in, with their harsh, cold light, miles of cables and wires, and vastly complex conglomerations of engineered metallic and plastic forms. Though the human figure is  absent, these environments nonetheless imply the presence of the human body and its frailties, through the technology required to sustain it, transport it and study it. 

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6. The Venus of Willendorf

We had to look high and low to find this little lady, in Vienna's Naturhistorisches Museum. First, I confess that I was surprised to find Venus in a natural history museum...in my mind, she resides in the first chapter of Janson's History of Art. We were in the museum on the one night of the week that it is open until 9 PM (all the better for packing in four museums in one grueling day). We tromped, in reverse order, through the hierarchy of biological classification, beginning with the primates and ending with microscopic life forms. On and on we went, through rooms of massive wood and glass cases full of taxidermy and specimens in jars, flesh and feathers faded to a dull grey-brown. Perhaps it was because we were alone in the quiet, stately galleries, without huge groups of squealing school kids, or perhaps I'd just hit a wall after 10 hours in museums, but I was overcome with sadness. I couldn't look at the elephants or lions. My heart broke when I saw case after case of birds, and then butterflies, the latter being the only creatures who still sported flashes of color. Oh, the loss of animal life over the years, the spoils of human destruction, corridors filled with extinct and near-extinct creatures encapsulated and displayed in eternal stillness. Once, I would've said that I love natural history museums. But now, I'm not so sure. We pressed on, through the gems, the splendid meteor collection and the prehistoric art. Finally, we found our Venus, in a special side gallery--basically, a black tomb--in the dark, lit by a dramatic spotlight. She's small, but mighty. Faceless, anonymous, a symbol...a vessel. My beloved said, "She is the grim little seed of the Patriarchy.  Her humanity is amputated. She has no arms, no feet, no agency, no personhood. Her head is encased in a basket. Things haven't changed much in 30,000 years."

I thought of the Commodores song, Brick House:  

"Ow, she's a brick house
She's mighty-mighty, just lettin' it all hang out
She's a brick house
That lady's stacked and that's a fact
Ain't holding nothing back"

Harrumph. 

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7. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

The Kunsthistorisches Museum is a world class museum, on par with the Louvre, the Uffizi Gallery, the Met, and the like--the grand museums of the world that specialize in old master paintings and antiquities. The museum building is a veritable mirror image of the Naturhistorisches Museum, and the two face each other across Maria-Theresien-Platz. The Kunsthistorisches is literally packed with treasures.  My head was spinning, trying to take in the abundance of first-rate works by Rembrandt, Bruegel, Vermeer, Raphael, Velázquez, Dürer, Holbein, et. al. I often find myself tallying masterworks when I'm in museums such as this. "Okay, there are 35 or 36 Vermeers in the world, and now I've seen 19 of them."  I'm not advocating this, and in fact it's probably a bad habit, but I can't help it, especially when I am surround by masterpieces so old and so rare. So much art, so little time. But, hey, it's not as if I'm tallying Warhols.  

It's tough to pick a favorite, or even a handful of favorites, due to the general level of excellence reflected in the collection. One thing that stuck me: we saw a lot of paintings of decapitated men. I mean, a lot. A good number of depictions of Judith and Holofernes, Salome with the head of John the Baptist, and a very interesting Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath. Perhaps they just happened to be hanging in close proximity, but the quantity seemed somewhat remarkable. Of course, old master depictions of women holding the heads of decapitated men has always provided a bit of relief from Jesus' suffering, Mary's placid steadiness and relentlessly chubby, rosy putti. The triumph of the bloodied, disembodied head represents the feminist impulse within the unforgiving symbolic world and general misogyny of Christianity. So, here are two of my favorites, each of which displays a pretty astonishing level of symbolic gender-bending. 

Lucas Cranach the Elder, Judith with the Head of Holofernes, c. 1530
(The sword! The hands!)

Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, c. 1607
(Um, what's with his shirt, pants and the opening of his shoulder bag?)

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8. Gustav Klimt, Beethoven Frieze, 1902

Confession: I now count myself among the legion of Gustav Klimt fans. Don't get me wrong, I never really disliked his work. If you spend time in Vienna, you will be immersed in Klimt. You'll find his work at the Belvedere and the Leopold, as well as Secession, which houses the Beethoven Frieze. We saw a lot of Klimt paintings, including Death and Life (1910/1915), Judith and the Head of Holofernes (1901), The Kiss (1907-08), all of which are pretty spectacular. However, the piece that will remain burned into memory is the Beethoven Frieze. According to Secession's website:

"Gustav Klimt created the famous Beethoven Frieze for the XIVth exhibition of the Association of Visual Artists Vienna Secession, which was held between April 15 and June 27, 1902. Conceived as a tribute to the composer Ludwig van Beethoven, the presentation epitomized the Secessionists’ vision of an encompassing synthesis of the arts."

After the exhibition, the frieze was cut into sections (overall, the piece is 7' h. and 112' w., with the plaster panels weighing in at about four tons) and stored for decades, both before and after being confiscated in 1938 from the dispossessed August Lederer who bought it in 1915. It is a sordid story, but not an uncommon one. It wasn't until 1985 that the restored frieze was mounted in its permanent installation, which was designed to be similar to the original configuration. One wishes for a lesser degree of veracity; if only one could see it at eye level! I was taken by the composition, most of all. The vast expanses of soft, unadorned plaster punctuated, in a staccato rhythm with delicate figures. About halfway through, a dark, dense, fantastical arrangement of figures, including a serpent and an unexpected gorilla. Then: another soft passage, a few more figures and a final crescendo of lavish gold, patterning, and a couple locked in an embrace, diaphanous fabric falling around their ankles. It's stunning, and was marred only by the fact that the so-called climate-controlled room was cold and damp and reeked of cigarette smoke, presumably emanating from the surly guard. 

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9. Cecilia Bartoli at The Musikverein

I could not capture a decent photo of this magical performance, but here's a shot of the Musikverein. Cecelia Bartoli performed with Sol Gabetta and Cappella Gabetta. The program included works by Vivaldi, Handel, Gabrielli,  Albinoni and Boccherini. During the concert, I was alternately crying and grinning ear to ear. What a night to remember! 

Do yourself a favor:  buy the album, Dolce Duello. 

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10. Franz Mayer of Munich

Last, but not least, the reason for this amazing journey: an invitation from Franz Mayer of Munich, architectural glass fabricators, to work for a week with their artists, in their amazing, historic Munich studio. I am so grateful for this opportunity and the chance to work amongst this renowned and talented group of people.  

Franz Mayer of Munich was founded in 1847. The studio has produced some of the world's most successful public art over the years, in stained glass, glass mosaic and float glass. The range of techniques and possibilities is astonishing. I literally felt like I was entering a magical space, akin to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory: five floors of light and color, incredible work spaces, row upon row of colored glass  (sheets stored in vertical bins, as well as mosaic pieces lining the hallways in rack after rack of numbered boxes) and works in progress by some of the world's most renowned artists. Together, we produced several samples that I will use for future public art proposals. We now have a sense of what it's like to work together; there is a big learning curve for both artist and fabricator, and it takes time to build a common language. 

I did not want to photograph the studio's work in progress, out of respect for other artists, but here are a few photos of FMoM's stores of materials, as well as my samples in progress:  

Luscious chunks of glass, as far as the eye can see.

Work in progress. 

Me, looking up at the ceiling mirror in order to view work on the light table. 

Hand-blown colored glass samples. 

Printed sketch with color notations. 

Hand-blown colored glass, replete with beautiful striations and bubbles. 

Well, there you have it. Until next time!

2016: Memorable Works

2016 was an extraordinarily busy year for me.  I was preparing for my October exhibition, Chopping Wood on the Astral Plane and I worked very steadily through the year, regularly seven days a week.  I confess that I didn't get out much to see exhibitions.  Like most artists, I feel torn about this.  How do we, as artists, approach our art viewing?  Is it a responsibility and an obligation?  Is it a pleasure and a reward?  Or, is it sustenance for our souls?  To me, it's all of those things.  When I am on an Art Ninja trip--that is, a vacation that is largely dedicated to viewing art--I will see anything and everything, voraciously and enthusiastically.  I don't mind seeing shows that fall short, shows that disappoint, shows that "aren't my thing."  However, when I am in town and in the studio with looming deadlines, I am very careful about my time management.  I try to see friends' exhibitions, and things that I am particularly interested in.  This year, I missed a lot.  But, looking back, I experienced some wonderful work that punctuated my intensive hours in the studio.  Here are a few highlights, in no particular order.

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Christian Marclay: Six New Animations at Fraenkel Gallery.  I loved this exhibition.  Marclay, master of time and of whimsical, careful editing, has created mesmerizing animations from thousands of still photographs of urban detritus such as bottle caps, straws, cigarettes, old chewing gum and the like.  The static images are arranged, stop-motion style, so that the objects transform: cigarettes appear to burn, from just-lit to down to the filter and then, miraculously,  back to full length; bottle caps and lids appear as pulsating orbs, increasing and decreasing in size; straws assume the position of clock hands, playfully telling time. Like all of Marclay's work, these projected animations are amazingly clever, poignant and just plain fun.

CHRISTIAN MARCLAY, Bottle Caps (video still), 2016
Single-channel projected animation, silent

CHRISTIAN MARCLAY, Chewing Gum (video still), 2016
Single-channel projected animation, silent

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Bridget Riley: The Interactive Character of Color, 1970-2014 at John Berggruen Gallery.  Riley is one of my favorite painters and also an extraordinarily accomplished writer. I return to her writings on the subject of color again and again. The purity of her approach and her sensitivity to the elusive nature of color is what makes the work effective.  It is difficult to focus one's eyes when viewing the paintings.  Everything moves and shifts. Each shape and color, so deceptively simple and direct, is in flux.  This exhibition included a selection of works (paintings as well as studies on paper) spanning thirty-five years.

“At the core of color lies a paradox. It is simultaneously one thing and several things – you can never see color by itself, it is always affected by other colors…Color relationships in painting depend on the interactive character of color; this is its essential nature.”

— Bridget Riley

BRIDGET RILEY, Chord, 2014, oil on linen, 61 1/4 x 104 3/4 inches
I was very delighted to see this recent work.  It was one of the most vibrant and compelling pieces in the exhibition. 

Yes, I am one of those painters who obsesses over the sides and edges of paintings.  This gave me a little thrill.  

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Nicole Couch (Pink, Fuchsia, Orange), 2010 by Liz Craft at Los Angles County Museum of Art.  I spent at day at LACMA with my friend Tom during Thanksgiving weekend.  We went for the express purpose of seeing the John McLaughlin exhibition, but we also perused the permanent collection.  I hadn't been there in a number of years, so it was nice to reacquaint myself with the collection. I especially enjoyed the Giacometti installation, Matisse's 1953 La Gerbe, and Chris Burden's Urban Light and Metropolis II.  

One work that I am still thinking about is Liz Craft's large figurative sculpture, which was part of her 2010 exhibition Death of a Clown at Patrick Painter, Inc.  To be honest, I am not sure why this work has stayed with me over the past month.  When time is short I am usually determined to see things that I know I will love.  To me, the greatest reward is seeing a painting that I've read about and thought about for years.  To experience it in real time and space and light... well, that is what I live for.  So it is a bit of a surprise that one of the most memorable works that I saw this year is a downright weird, kitschy figurative sculpture. 

LIZ CRAFT, Nicole Couch (Pink, Fuchsia, Orange), 2010, fiberglass and paint, 32 x 98 x 40.5 inches

This life-size figure in repose on a sofa is odd. First, LACMA has the title wrong.  On the card, the title is Death of a Clown, but as it turns out, that was the name of Craft's exhibition at Patrick Painter, Inc.  Nicole Couch is a strange title.  Why isn't it Nicole on the Couch or Nicole's Couch?  Then, there is the color.  The palette is limited to the pink of the couch, the magenta-purple gown, orange hair and near-white skin.  Is the figure supposed to be asleep?  Dead?  There is a romantic, Pre-Raphaelite quality about the piece.  The heavy relief texture of the sofa writhes around the still figure.  The decorative details are sharply incised, yet the figure is somewhat ill-defined.  The piece stands out, I think, because of it's anachronistic, romantic qualities, as well as the use of materials, which have the presence of unfired ceramic clay.  There is something abject and grotesque about it; it's strangely half-baked.  Because it is life-size and rather boxy, it is an awkward presence in the gallery.  For the record, I'm not sure I would categorize this piece as "important."  No matter. It certainly claims its space and it does not allow the viewer to ignore it.  That counts for something, doesn't it?  

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John McLaughlin Paintings: Total Abstraction at LACMA.  This exhibition was the real purpose for our visit to LACMA, and it did not disappoint.  The museum's webpage for the exhibition includes a terrific video, Seeing John McLaughlin, in which artists  Ed Moses, Mark Grotjahn, Roy McMakin, Marcia Hafif, Tony Berlant, Tony DeLap, and James Hayward share their insights on John McLaughlin and his paintings.  It is a treat to hear them address the subtle qualities of McLaughlin's abstractions.  See also Christopher Knight's terrific review of the exhibition.  

Photo credit: Kirk McKoy / Los Angeles Times

McLaughlin is one of those artists who gives us all hope.  He was an odd duck: self-taught and late to the game, having begun painting at age 48.  His brand of abstraction was not so much in line with seemingly obvious antecedents, such as Mondrian; rather, it was based in his interest in Japanese art.  He lived outside of the mainstream, he did not fit neatly into the LA art scene, nor did he teach at any of the local art schools.  However, he (along with Karl Benjamin, Lorser Feitelson and Frederick Hammersley) was included the groundbreaking exhibition Four Abstract Classicists, which opened at SFMOMA in 1959.  How I wish I could go back in time to see that show!  According to the current exhibition's catalogue (which is a great resource and well worth the price) Four Abstract Classicists was organized by LACMA, but opened at SFMOMA because of a scheduling conflict.  The catalogue thoroughly documents the legendary exhibition, which is reason enough to buy it.    

“Utopianism, however, was not his goal. European abstraction provided a form for his art’s embodiment of Japanese aesthetic philosophy.

McLaughlin had looked at Japanese paintings since his childhood outside Boston. Son of a jurist on the state’s Superior Court, he was a regular visitor to the illustrious Japanese collection at the Museum of Fine Arts. His great-uncle was a collector, and he left his Japanese paintings to McLaughlin’s mother.”

— Christopher Knight, LA Times

Photo credit: Kirk McKoy / Los Angeles Times

In LACMA's video, Seeing John McLaughlin, each of the artists attempts to describe the qualities that make McLaughlin's paintings effective.  Tony DeLap says that they exhibit "a depth of feeling."  Yes. And yet...how, exactly, do paintings show feeling?  Feeling. It is essential, yet elusive.  In the exhibition, there is a text written by Edward Albee, who owned several of McLaughlin's works.  

Finally, there is the matter of the patina of age on these works.  It is something that I think about a lot.  Over time, all paintings change-- either a lot or, at best, a little.  Colors darken and yellow, cracks appear in the paint, edges are scuffed during handling.  I worry about how my own work will hold up over time.  I want my paintings to look exactly as they do today until the end of time.  And yet, as a viewer and as a lover of painting, I enjoy the physical history of work; the little bumps and bruises that accumulate over time.  

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Joan Brown: Presence Known at Anglim Gilbert Gallery.  This terrifically strong show included paintings form 1974-81.  I was bowled over by the power of these works.  Everything about them is strident, direct and forthright.  Every formal decision seems necessary and right.  There's so much freedom and humor in these works.  They are personal, yet matter of fact.  The works cross through the categories of Beat, Funk and Pop, but they also go beyond, touching on painterly concerns that have preoccupied artists for hundreds of years.  I greatly enjoy Brown's exploration of the confines of the picture plane and her sophisticated sense of pictorial space. 

JOAN BROWN, The Bicentennial Champion, 1976, oil and enamel on canvas, 96 x 78 inches

JOAN BROWN, The Room, Part I, 1975 , enamel on canvas, 85.5 x 73.5 inches

My favorite piece in the show was The Room, Part I, 1975.  This painting is odd and mysterious.  It took me a while to realize that the bent knee reminded me of several Balthus paintings. It's a familiar gesture: a slumping posture that connotes petulance and boredom, but also flirtatiousness and sexual availability-- at least when rendered by a male artist.  In this case, in the hands of a female painter, the figure is largely hidden by the chair.  The viewer's gaze is directed (by the yellows and reds) back and forth between the shoe, the chair and the painting on the wall in the otherwise bare grey room (which reminds me of Francis Bacon's simply rendered rooms, defined only by a few succinct lines).  The male gaze--that of the viewer regarding the petulant, flirty girl-- is subverted.  Instead, the viewer looks at a girl who is (presumably) looking at the painting. The room is otherwise empty. Nothing else matters. The painting within the painting depicts a group of people (men?) and horses. Perhaps it is a pre- or post-battle congregation of sorts.  The men seem to be "other."  Their hair, garments and horses indicate that perhaps they are Native Americans. I have been thinking about this painting for months.  It interests me on so many levels: formally (color, composition, spatial sense), art historic connection (Balthus, Bacon), state of mind of the artist (the importance of painting), and gender/identity (position of the subject, position of the object).  

BALTHUS, Girl with Cat, 1937

BALTHUS, The Golden Years, 1945

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Landfill/Bedrock at Guerrero Gallery

Guerrero Gallery's new space.  Like many in San Francisco, I am happy to see that Guerrero Gallery has found a new location.  Finding it is a bit of an adventure, as it is tucked behind an interior design warehouse that's full of giant amethyst crystals, Buddha statues, hunks of petrified wood, air plants and antique doors and furniture from Asia.  Once you make your way through, into the bright, clean gallery space, your are in a world beyond a world.  The experience is like emerging from a primeval land into PeeWee's Playhouse.  Two shows caught my attention this year:  Landfill/Bedrock and PURPLE [Tears of Rage].  Both were bright, fun, light, brash and pleasingly rough around the edges.  The exhibitions were beautifully installed, the light is gorgeous, and it is great to see this new incarnation of the gallery, which previously skewed heavily toward young male artists.  Perhaps it's too soon to tell, but Guerrero seems to be showing more abstraction and more women artists in its new location. 

JAMES GOBEL, I Used To/Still Care, 2014-16. Felt, acrylic,
yarn, and embroidery thread on canvnas, 58 x 42 in. 

I was excited to see this new piece by James Gobel in Landfill/Bedrock.  I'm not sure if this is a one-off or a new direction for him, but I love the looseness, even as he adheres to his usual labor-intensive process of piecing together 'paintings' out of felt and yarn.  This piece looks like a sheet of ruled paper, turned vertically and covered with text and scribbles.  Very strong.  

PURPLE [Tears of Rage] was another solid group show at Guerrero.  I enjoyed Sofie Ramos' monochromatic paintings, even though they tend to reside in the 'one-liner' category, consisting of pre-fab textile materials saturated with paint and mounted on panels.   My favorite is outrage, our rage, orange (FTD), which looks like a patch of shag carpet dipped in orange paint, or a pile of cheetos standing up on end. Of course, it recalls Yayoi Kusama's accumulation works, as well. 

SOFIE RAMOS, outrage, our rage, orange (FTD), 2016. Latex, hand sponge mounted to panel. 5.5 x 4.5 x 4.4 inches. 

YAYOI KUSAMA, Compulsion Furniture (Accumulation), c. 1964

I was happy to see Linda Geary's new work at Guerrero.  During the run of PURPLE [Tears of Rage], Linda had work in a concurrent exhibition, I Dreamt Bees Made Honey From My Past Failures at George Lawson Gallery.  When I saw Linda's large painting at Lawson, I thought: "That painting is coming apart.  It wants to be pulled apart.  It's barely holding together."  So, it was surprising and gratifying to see Linda's installation, Everything Comes from Something, Only Something Comes from Nothing, an installation of 100+ shaped paintings, most of them quite diminutive, arranged along one rough wall of the gallery.   

These small works look like they have been cut from existing paintings on panel with a jigsaw or a scroll saw.  The installation takes full advantage of the gallery's architecture; forms are arranged along a ragged concrete ledge. The shapes are engaged in conversation with the other works in the show and with each other. As a group, they are quite lyrical.  They remind me a little of Jean Arp's relief works. Linda Geary is a painter who is always pushing the boundaries, exploring the depths and mixing things up. I always feel the urgency of her painterly inquiry when I see her work.  

LINDA GEARY, Everything Comes from Something, Only Something Comes From Nothing, 2012-2016.
100+ paintings, various sizes, acrylic and oil on panel

LINDA GEARY, Everything Comes from Something, Only Something Comes From Nothing, 2012-2016.
100+ paintings, various sizes, acrylic and oil on panel

LINDA GEARY, Everything Comes from Something, Only Something Comes From Nothing, 2012-2016.
100+ paintings, various sizes, acrylic and oil on panel

A confession:  I have a soft spot for kitsch. Therefore, I greatly enjoyed Laura Rokas' works in PURPLE [Tears of Rage].  These paintings and ceramic sculptures are so fun, personal and clever.  The work suggests that her process involves a continual circuit between 2-D and 3-D object; she makes paintings of sculptures, and sculptures of paintings.  I am really looking forward to seeing Rokas' work develop over time.   

LAURA ROKAS, Stabbed in the Back, Let Your Rage Guide the Way, 2016. Hand sewn patches on felt and linen; cotton embroidery floss, acid washed denim, synthetic hair, 30 x 24 inches 

LAURA ROKAS, R.O.K.A.S. (Rage Out Kut And Scratch), 2016. Hand sewn patches; cotton embroidery floss on felt, vinyl, canvas, 20 x 18 inches.  

I am in love with these custom hand-sewn patches. These works remind me of Matthew Palladino's plaster reliefs.

LAURA ROKAS, various works, ceramic

LAURA ROKAS, Seeing Red, 2016. Oil on canvas, 28 x 36 inches
This painting makes me grin from ear to ear. 

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Suzanne Blank Redstone at Jessica Silverman Gallery

Suzanne Blank Redstone: 1960s Portal Paintings at Jessica Silverman Gallery. I loved this exhibition!  What a treat to see these works unearthed by Silverman.  While I don't know how this show came about, I am delighted that it did (even though it falls into the problematic category of "exhibitions-by-ignored/overlooked-women-artists-rediscovered-by-hipster-gallerists-hoping-to-make-a-killing").  Redstone is in her 70s and has spent most of her career without the support of a gallerist. Looking at the works online before I saw the show, I wasn't sure if they would hold up, but indeed they did.  Some of them remind me of my favorite Al Held paintings. The paintings have a nice, 'complete, yet not overworked' quality.  Some aspects are a bit rough, such as the blended gradient areas, which makes them seem more urgent.  I mused that, if these were made today, they would be more slick, more labored. Redstone's faster, lighter touch works somehow, and helps to locate the paintings within their timeframe.  Her works on paper (which I would categorize as studies) are beautiful, too--very assured--and nearly as powerful as the large paintings, despite their small scale.   

SUZANNE BLANK REDSTONE, Portal 1, 1967. Acrylic on shaped masonite, 44.5 x 66 inches   

SUZANNE BLANK REDSTONE, Portal - Descent, 1968. Acrylic on masonite, 41 x 74.5 inches

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A few other shows worth mentioning, below. Please click links to view.  

RADICAL: Monochrome Paintings from the Goodman Duffy Collection at George Lawson Gallery

WINSTON ROETH, Insider, 2001. Acrylic on Hexcel® honeycomb panel
45 x 32 in.

Louise Nevelson at Pace Palo Alto 

LOUISE NEVELSON, Untitled, 1964
I love the satiny black of this piece, which reads almost like graphite. Once your eyes adjust to the value scale, the whole piece comes into focus. 

Michelle Grabner: Grabner Gingham at Gallery 16 

““My plan is to grow these physical fields of pattern into monumentalized paintings,” says Grabner. “At such a scale, the gingham fields will continue to evoke an American domestic nostalgia but they will also speak to the authority of painting.” With some canvases measuring nearly 100 inches tall, these gingham paintings usurp the viewer’s periphery.”

— Gallery 16 press release

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It's interesting and surprising to me what work sticks over time.  I'd like to write about exhibitions while they're on view, but my thoughts don't solidify quickly, so I like to wait and see what rises to the top over a period of weeks or months.  In the New Year, I'll be writing about my recent trip to London and Paris, so please stay tuned.  

Art Jaunt to Dallas-Fort Worth

A few months ago, my art pal, Tom Mueske, called and said, "Amy, I think we need to go to Dallas."  I'd been so immersed in the studio that I hadn't been aware that the Dallas Museum of Art would be the only U.S. venue for Jackson Pollock: Blind Spots, a comprehensive survey of Pollock's black paintings (1951-53). While we were on the phone, I did a quick web search of the other museums in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.  We set a date, made our travel plans and, a couple of months later, met at Dallas Love Field on a Friday afternoon.  We checked into our hotel, walked over to the DMA (which is free, except for special exhibitions) and headed straight for the exhibition.  Our exhibition tickets allowed for multiple entries, so we went through the show on Friday, twice on Saturday and once more on Sunday, spending about 6 hours total with the black paintings. 

In addition to the DMA, we visited the Kimbell Art Museum, The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, The Nasher Sculpture Center, the Dallas Contemporary and a few galleries.  It was non-stop art for two and a half days, with Tex-Mex and cocktails in the evenings.

I allowed this art pilgrimage to really settle in before writing about it. With these five venues,  the Dallas-Fort Worth area is rich in truly spectacular art and architecture.  So much of what we viewed has stayed with me.  Here are a few highlights:

Dallas Museum of Art.  The DMA is one of those old-fashioned general museums, full of families and school children.  Jackson Pollock: Blind Spots was a special exhibition.  The galleries were were designed to resemble a New York gallery in the 50s: intimate, carpeted spaces with Le Corbusier chairs and Mies van der Rohe benches.  In general, the black paintings have been under-appreciated.  Some regard the move away from the dense and intricate poured paintings toward a more open, pseudo-figurative approach as a step back for Pollock.  However, seeing these paintings together, along with a gorgeous installation of works on paper and a few small sculptures, I was extremely aware of Pollock's technical mastery and willingness to experiment with techniques and materials, and his ability to expand upon the techniques he had previously developed.  The fluidity of line is perfectly confident, varied and purposeful.  The hints of figuration are integrated with pure abstract elements. Christopher Knight reviewed the show for the Los Angeles Times, and I agree with his assessment: Jackson Pollock: Blind Spots is the rare exhibition that triggers a revision of one's long held beliefs about an artist and his work.  One thing that really struck me was the patina of the raw canvas.  It is pleasantly aged and tawny (almost golden)  creating an aura of authenticity and historical import.  I wish I could go back in time and see these works when the canvas was new and just barely off-white.  Did the paintings have a different impact? 

Echo (Number 25, 1951), 1951

View fullsize

Convergence: Number 10, 1952, 1952

This painting is the perfect blending of the techniques of the black paintings and the earlier poured paintings.  It literally sizzles with opticality. 

[detail] 

The catalogue for the exhibition is an excellent resource.  I was so saddened to read this on the first page:

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If only he knew...

[detail] Silver Square, c. 1950  

This piece was painted on the rough side of a piece of Masonite.  I love the silver ground and the lively line work.  I also enjoyed Pollock's experiments on various papers: Japanese, mulberry and Howell.  He treated each so differently, with absolute sensitivity to the surface texture and absorbency. 

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Orignal exhibition poster.

After a couple of hours in the exhibition, we went back to the hotel, had dinner and went to bed early.   

Kimbell Art Museum. The Kimbell is one of my "bucket list" museums.  The original Louis Khan (1972) building is complimented by the Renzo Piano Pavilion (2013). Both are wondrous.  The Khan building is possibly the most perfect building I have ever seen.  The materials, the proportions, the light.  Oh, the light!  The natural light enters in a way that is gentle and diffused.  The entire space is luminous.  The museum is small, and filled with high-quality, mind-boggling treasures.

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The vaulted ceiling lets in diffused light that floods the space. 

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Giovanni Bellini, Christ Blessing, c. 1438-1516

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Tintoretto, Portrait of Doge Pietro Loredan, 1518-1594

The ermine cape is so incredibly rendered.  The brushstrokes are so loose that it is impossible to discern the image when you are close to the painting. 

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Picasso, Nude Combing Her Hair, 1906.  This painting really stayed with me.  The concrete awkwardness of the figure, mass of hair, mask-like face, soft brushy background and the placement of the figure within the picture plane gave me a sense of physical tension and compression.  

The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth.  This museum was the biggest surprise of our trip.  The building was designed by Tadao Ando in 2002, and it is hands-down one of the best museums I've seen for contemplating works of contemporary art: galleries are perfectly proportioned, works of art have plenty of room to breathe and sight lines are excellent.  The museum is situated near the Kimbell.  We were there on a Saturday, and the museum was pleasantly quiet, allowing for private, extended engagement with the art.  Works from the permanent collection were on view.  WOW!  I could include a hundred things, but here are few highlights:

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Andy Warhol, Self-Portrait, 1986

The placement of this painting could not be better, with Andy presiding over the museum with an eerie Wizard of Oz effect.

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The museum has many single-artist spaces.  I love this Ellsworth Kelly installation. 

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A small, but terrific, painting by Roy Lichtenstein. The museum also holds Lichtenstein's Mr. Bellamy in the collection, but I particularly enjoyed this simple yet powerful piece. 

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One of the best Pearlsteins I have ever seen: Two Female Models on Eames Chair and Stool, 1976. The use of color, diagonal figure-eight composition, strong vectors and repetition of linear elements (fingers, stomach, breastbone) make for a very dynamic picture. 

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Lynda Benglis, For Carl Andre, 1970.  This terrifc Benglis looks so fresh, as if it had been made yesterday.  The foam is in great condition. 

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Morris Louis, Dalet Kaf, 1959.  The Modern has two Louis paintings, both absolute exemplars.  This is probably the best of the Veil series works that I have seen.

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Joan Mitchell, Untitled, 1961.  A really wonderful Mitchell with a great palette of purples and earthy golds. 

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[detail] It was timely for me to see these color relationships as I am working on two paintings with strong yellow and purple elements. 

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A small gem by Howard Hodgkin. 

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Tom, with an enormous stunner by Mark Bradford. 

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Dan Christensen, Pavo, 1968.  We weren't allowed to photograph this painting.  I've seen it in reproduction a lot. It is really spectacular in person. The ground is luminous and metallic, glittering in its iridescence.  It is one of those works that, had it not been so perfectly executed, would be meaningless. 

I could go on, but let it suffice that the Modern is a destination museum, and the fact that it is next door to the Kimbell makes Fort Worth a necessary stop for any art pilgrim. 

Dallas Contemporary.  After a full and satisfyingly mind-boggling day in Fort Worth, we made it back to Dallas in time to see the Dallas Contemporary, a non-collecting exhibition space in the warehouse district.  We were delighted to find Black Sheep Feminism: The Art of Sexual Politics on view.  The exhibition included four radical feminist artists active since the 1970s: Joan Semmel, Anita Steckel, Betty Tompkins and Cosey Fanni Tutti.  As scholar Richard Meyer has written, they "eroticized the male body in ways that conformed neither to heterosexual convention nor to mainstream feminist thought at the time...The art they produced reminds us that sexuality cannot be made to align with politics, including the politics of feminism." Photos were not permitted, but here is a terrific overview of the exhibition by curator Alison M. Gingeras.  Tom and I agreed that some of the work, while important and radical in its time, appears dated now.  However, Betty Tompkins' work looked fresh and timeless.  It was great to see such a fine selection of her Fuck Paintings from the early 70s.  Much like the Tintoretto we saw earlier in the day at the Kimbell, the images fall apart when you stand in close proximity to the work. All you see is paint, surface and technique, until you move back far enough to perceive the image. The Dallas Contemporary was a perfect, jarring, gritty end to our day. It was really wonderful to experience this 70s feminist time-capsule exhibition.  It reminded me how much can be--should be!--at stake in art making.

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Betty Tompkins and her work, c. early 1970s.

On Sunday, we went to see the Pollock show one last time, first thing in the morning when the museum was still quiet.  It was great to have the opportunity to see the show multiple times over the course of two and a half days. I really had the chance to let the works burn into my eyes and memory.  

As it turned out, a beautiful Rebecca Warren exhibition, The Main Feeling, opened that very day.  While some of the DMA's galleries are a bit dated and stodgy, the Warren exhibition was in a suite of light, airy, beautifully proportioned galleries, and included three different bodies of work: blobby works in clay and bronze, some small and painted, displayed on plinths, and some tall. thin and figurative (here is a short Art Forum piece in which Warren discusses her recent bronze works); works from her vitrine series, which employ wall-mounted cabinets, small objects and neon light; and large works made of welded steel slabs.  I respond most favorably to the first group, which heavily draw from de Kooning, Degas and Giacometti. While the other two bodies of work are also interesting, Warren's divergent approaches prompted me to wonder about a particular (unfortunate? problematic?) phenomenon of postmodernism: the gratuitous diversity of practice.  Or, phrased differently: at what point does the extreme diversity of practice become gratuitous, a mere market strategy? This has nagged at me a bit, even though I greatly enjoyed this exhibition. 

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Rebecca Warren.

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Rebecca Warren.

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Rebecca Warren.

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Rebecca Warren. 

From there, we went to the Nasher Sculpture Center. Another spectacular building filled with the best of the best; too many treasures to count.  Here are a three of my favorites:

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Willem de Kooning, Clamdigger, 1972.  After seeing the Rebecca Warren exhibition, it was great to see de Kooning's large plaster sculpture.  I love this piece.  It is simultaneously scary, sad, pathetic, powerful...so expressive, with a lively surface and a patina made of linseed oil and soap.  It's mesmerizing, lumpy, barely a figure, but terribly human. According to the wall text, de Kooning wore three pairs of heavy work gloves, one over the other, so that his hands and his gestures would be bigger.  Brilliant. 

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Okay, I like Richard Serra as much as the next person, but this is the first time I ever had a truly spiritual experience with a Serra.  Why?  Well, this piece, My Curves Are Not Mad, is in the Nasher's beautiful garden.  The day was gorgeous, warm and sunny, and the light was dappled and brilliant in spots, animating the surface of the piece. Trees swayed in the breeze, casting elegant shadows on the Cor-Ten steel surface. The brilliant green of the lawn reflected off the steel. And then, the church bells rang for three full minutes, providing a soundtrack for the moving shadow forms. Unbelievable.  I was lucky to capture a video. 

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Somehow, the brilliant green grass cast a reflection on the inside of the piece. It was a hovering cloud of bright green, impossibly beautiful. 

Last, but not least, I enjoyed at terrific piece by Ann Veronica Janssens, Blue, Red and Yellow, 2001, an outdoor box-like room made of translucent walls, colored with blue, red and yellow films, illuminated by natural light, and filled with thick fog.  Upon entering, one immediately loses one's bearings.  The viewer is enveloped in colored fog and is unable to see more than a few inches.  Really, there is nothing to see but color and light. Magical, fun, and disruptive.  In a way, it is similar to the experience of being inside a pitch-dark cave, but one is lost in light rather than darkness. I watched viewers going in and coming out. Some people were terrified (losing all sense of their visual control, not knowing whether anything else would "happen" to them as they stumbled about in the space) while others found it relaxing, peaceful and enjoyable. I found it to be a unique, pleasurable and pure sensory experience. 

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Somehow, the colored films shift and mix, producing a soft and playful cubic form. 

This is what it looked like inside, but the color is variable and the piece shifts through the color spectrum,  Beautiful. 

After the Nasher, we popped into the DMA one last time to peruse the permanent collection, which contains a number of gems. I will end with this piece, a painting by an  artist unfamiliar to us, Sadamasa Motonaga.  It surprised and delighted both of us and looks particularly fresh and timely, as if a young LA artist made it yesterday. Ah, nothing is new. 

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Sadamasa Motonaga, ine, Line, Line, 1979. 

We headed back to Dallas Love Field, had a beer and boarded our respective planes. What a great, unforgettable trip.