Or, rather, Gainesville, but every single time that I have visited this place within the past three years, it has rained. I kid you not. Besides gray clouds, I associate this town with hangovers (unavoidable really, tis a college town, come on) and art. No trip is complete without a meander through the Harn, where there is always a lovely guard to mention something (check your bag! Is that gum you're chewing? No photos even on telephones, oh, it's a text? Well that's not allowed in here either, HOLD IT, is that a pencil or a pen??? I'm just being whiny, I completely understand the importance of protecting the work that institutions house, especially when it's on loan or purchased for an abundance of money, but forreals, they always have to say something, and usually snarkily.. but I digress, this isn't a post about museum atmospheres and why they tend to be uninviting and scary).
They had a lot of new work on display, and I was really, terribly excited about a third of it (pretty good, usually there are only one or two pieces that I spontaneously connect with; don't get me wrong, I'll spend ages thinking about and trying to understand work, but if that guttural, emotional response isn't there, it's much harder to get excited about). My favorites, in no particular order other than how I wandered through the museum and thus how they are written down in my notebook: "Los Carpinteros", by Dagoberto Rodriguez Sanchez; "Untitled" (I think, no title written down, oops), by Roberto Matta; "The Start of a Fairy Tale", by Eric Fischl; pretty much all of Hiram William's work except for "Some Parallel", I'll talk about why in a minute; "Untitled" (from the Somnambulist), by Ralph Gibson; " A Scene from Pina Bausch's Ballet..", by Helmut Newton; "Illuminated Man", by Duane Michals; all of Betty Hahn's 4 prints/photographs tucked away in the corner (I'm not exactly sure what they were); and lastly, the tenderness of "New York, 1953", by Elliott R. Erwitt.
Though all of these works are different aesthetically and conceptually, there are some underlying themes that draw me to them: scale, depth, nuanced color palettes, simplicity (of design? of appearance? of whatever media is being used? I'm not sure how to clearly describe this) and a sense of some kind of fragmentation.
Scale: The triptych presentation of "Los Carpinteros" was absolutely amazing and engulfing. That it was paper (more delicate) and an illustration-y/recognizable image on a stark white background allowed it to not be overwhelming . I like that. Large scale without the terror? (For lack of a better word). I stood for fifteen minutes or so in front of Fischl's piece. Dang. Things kept popping out, subtle colors and washes, even pieces of the composition (I didn't realize the girl was on a tightrope until I was walking away? How observant, Lks, hah). The work was huge, composed of five differently sized canvasses (an interesting idea, also something I've been observing with Sarah's work lately, alternative configurations, definately something I would be open to trying). The photographs were as per usual, smaller, as that's just the nature of the medium. Kenneth Josephson's works had me on the fence - their scale needed to be brought up, magnifying their importance, or decreased, which would require the viewer to commit and thoroughly observe the work. I've been thinking so much of scale lately, having those five 3x3's all stretched and gessoed and breathing down my neck asking to be worked on. And those bitsy things I just made, I'm not sure how I feel about them, if their miniscule nature diminishes them or truly adds to the intentionally ironic daintiness of them. HMMM.
Depth: Okay, darling readers and my future self (since this is mainly for me to remember and revisit as my hand writing is chicken scratch and it's far easier to dump pix on the internet nowadays than have them printed and glue 'em in my notebook), I'm just going to put this on the table: I love washes. Lovelovelove - am forever amazed at the sensuality and simplicty of them, am enamoured with the artist's hand for being so delicate, at the vibrations that can be created just by the subtleties of paint. It's bananas how over the moon I am for them. Yet, I adore boldness. The implications of rawness, frankness, and strength. Proof of life rearing it's head (or hand, I suppose). One way or the other, right? Pfft, no. I think both are valid, and I think that the two are necessary, working together, to create strong and visually appealing works. Take again for example, Fischl's piece. The one large plain of wash, almost a chartreuse-y yellow, that stood out perfectly highlighed an important aspect of the work, the symbolic article of red clothing the young girl holds, scratchily rendered. Voila. Holy guacamole on to Hiram Williams, those things are AMAZING. His washes, which range from tenative to heavy, almost bloody, juxtapose so beautifully with those dark marks, circular map-like lines of graphite. It just moves. The paper is dancing under that glass, it's not something flat, or dead; it's vibrantly alive, and I can almost see his hand there pushing them out. I feel him. I feel myself. I'm conscious of both, and that is the duality of art - that you can never fully understand the context in which work was created, only in the context of yourself; but to be aware of the presence of both - that is marvelous.
My foot is falling asleep and Rebecca Lucille just woke up from her nap, so I shall continue with my thoughts on color, simplicity and fragmentation later on!
