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Maverick #579
Chelsea Notes: 2009 New York Gallery Shows Through the Holidays Maverick #578 Irreverent Object Museum Level Survey at Luhring Augustine Maverick #577 Eric Fischl Is Full of Bull at Mary Boone The Eyes Have It for Marc Quinn Uptown Maverick #576 Inigo Manglano-Ovalle Stands Modernism on Its Head Inverts Mies Glass House at Mass MoCA Maverick #575 Lynda Benglis Retrospective at Dublin's Museum of Modern Art New York Show at Cheim & Read |
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Fe Fi Ho Hum May 10, 2006 The 2006 DeCordova Annual Exhibition 51 Sandy Pond Road Lincoln, Massachusetts April 29 through August 20 The Artists: Gregory Miguel Gomez, Christopher Gray, Anna Helper, Joe Johnson, Frank Poor, Alexander Ross, Evelyn Rydz, Joe Sarkin, Jen Simms, Gretchen Skogerson and Garth Zeglin, Naoe Suzuki, Matthew Swarts. The Curators: Rachel Rosenfield Lafo, Nick Capasso, George Fifield, and Dina Deitsch. Catalogue: 28 Pages, illustrated, published by the DeCordova Museum. It was a nasty, cold, rainy, dismal afternoon in May when we ran the gauntlet of upscale, Republican mansions along Trapelo Road to view the 2006 DeCordova Annual Exhibition, in posh, bucolic Lincoln. Generally, it is more fun to attend the lively opening, which tends to create a more upbeat mood, and risk of being influenced by the opinions anxiously expressed by art mavens in attendance. But this time we took on the Annual cold turkey. The galleries were relatively empty the better to see the work without interference. There was a group of elderly Russians pausing to chatter and debate in an animated manner each and every work. Perhaps, lost in translation, their enthusiasm did not spill over to me. I encountered a couple of artists, and two of the curators, briefly, formally and awkwardly. But there was nothing but the work itself, the ultimate challenge, to alter my mood. Not that there were great expectations. Based on past experiences one approaches these exhibitions more with a sense of duty and obligation than the possibility of joy and discovery. The work itself, mostly numbingly ordinary, competent, and well crafted (favorite criteria of the curators of record), but little more than that. Until, seeming that, yet again, all was lost in yet another salon of mediocrity, we came to the last two spaces. Be still dear heart. There to feel our pulse quicken and spirits soar at the contemplation of work by two quite marvelous artists. The first of these rooms displayed a portfolio of digitally layered images by Matthew Swarts. Through search of the internet he finds and reconfigures images which get broken into psychedelic patterns, in some examples, or geometric patters in others, which are then layered over images which are at times readable as portraits and also not. The patterning is rich, complex, gossamer and very post acidic. Redolent of the magic carpets of the mind or endless hours spent gazing at wallpaper or lava lamps. That strange land from which few travelers return with lucid memories of every mutating mandalas. Trippy, but post new age. Strange now that people speak to god on the internet. But coming down seems a lot easier. These are works that one might contemplate for hours, and hours, and hours, under the proper circumstances of mooshmagique. This proved to be the ante chamber, the eat me, drink me, before the sober reality check of Joe Johnson’s cat burglar, nocturnal views of the city looking down canyons of brick. The large color prints are just gorgeous. They upgrade Edward Hopper’s views of the empty, lonely, naked city. There is a romantic urbanity here. The beauty of the flower pot on a balcony or light glowing through a skylight with its suggestions of human activity. The angles and positions of the camera create wonderfully skewed geometries. Mostly it is the rich, saturated color and originality of the images that completely ensnares and seduces us. The urban has never felt more wonderful, It is an abstracted and unpopulated view but without the angst and desperation of Hopper. Just empty; but more as a poetic metaphor than socio political allegory. A paean to the poetry of silence. There is a long vertical wall in the stairwell that has been a singular challenge to a series of artists. This time, Gregory Miguel Gomez, has triumphed over the demands and limits of the space. He created a tall, narrow, soaringly vertical, abstract relief sculpture in cast bronze. It is evocative of an elongated droplet with a thick, rounded bottom, seemingly formed by surface tension and gravity. From this base extend four, thin, vertical accents in pairs progressing from the unevenly distributed sides of the bottom lozenge. Descending the stairs from the upper galleries our eyes are riveted upon it for that brief passage of time. In that regard it is rather Futurist in its implication of motion: Ours but not its. We move while it stays still but the event is inevitably kinetic. The quasi representational, monochromatic (values of green) sometimes shaped canvases by Alexander Ross seem to have touched on a look that is going round. Based on his credits in the catalogue the work is getting a lot of attention which is why it may be included here. But, count me out. There is too much of this ersatz surrealism circulating rather like a virus. Similarly, the edgy, narrow, bowed out, unframed works on paper by Evelyn Rydz either represent some imagined microbes or she has just, like Ross, caught some art bug. Were its references to the surrealism of Matta and Tanguy less evident it might appear more compelling. Like many graduates of MFA programs she has assimilated so much modernist art history that even Rydz may not be aware of just what she is channeling. It would be tempting to say that artists might profit from less education. Here we could use a chorus from the Futurist Manifesto of “bomb the museums and a speeding bullet is more beautiful than the Mona Lisa.” We might veer off into quotes from the “Noble Savage” by Rousseau and all that Lancanian verbum dictatum. But a room of kid’s stuff, ranty, speedy drawings, what the catalogue discusses as by the “entirely self taught” Jon Serkin dissuades us of that strategy. This nonsense would be more compelling from a kindergartener. These are at best the kind of prodigy moments that we find tacked to the refrigerators of suburbia. Put there by proud soccer moms. But, good grief, we learn that Serkin, this year’s “outsider artist and idiot savant” holds a B.A. from U. of Penn. and D.C. from the Palmer College of Chiropractic. He would be best advised to confine himself to cracking backs and leave art making to adults. Naoe Suzuki clearly has learned to draw. But, again, this work by an Asian American artist seems all too familiar and formulaic. There is yet again the combination of surreal figures, suggestions of nature, delicacy of touch and the mystical. Been there done that. The first couple of works commanded attention that quickly wandered off after a few more examples. The “technology” submissions, clearly the choices of Fifield in this selection, were just annoying. I couldn’t stand the video by Christopher Gray. In the room is a small, yellow, geometric object. Just beyond, the monitor displays the artists circling the same object in a long, fixed position shot, ranting away some Shakespearian, sophomoric monologue that deconstructs approaches to theory and criticism. It is supposed to be clever but is mostly just boring and dumb. Ditto the “talking” convex mirrors of Gretchen Skorgeson and Garth Zeglin. In the vocal aspect we are reminded of Tony Oursler’s video projections but without the video projections. This is the point in our essay when all goes down hill. So, perhaps it is best to cut to the chase and list names of the remaining artists: Anna Hepler, Frank Poor, and Jen Simms. Tonight the Red Sox and Yankees are scheduled to play in New York. Our guy, Beckett, up against the Big Unit. But its raining hard here in Beantown, as it is in the Apple, so, like this review, it looks like a washout. Postcript. The morning after. The Sox blew out the Yankees even though rain prevailed locally. The Big Unit was shelled and left after three error plagued innings. Thanks Geoff Edgers for posting the Maverick DeCordova piece in the Globe Blog. And got an e mail from friends Steve and Jan Nelson, who formerly lived in Gloucester the residence of Jon Serkin. Seems he was their chiropractor before illness induced him to take up art. But heck, I'm going to stick to my original impressions. Today the weather is crappy once again. Spring? Bah humbug. ----- 
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