JOHN WILL: Suspicious Minds. June 9 - July 6, 2017
opening reception / friday june 9 / 5-8 pm
Jarvis Hall Gallery is pleased to present a solo exhibition with legendary Calgary artist, John Will. We hope you will join us on Friday, June 9th between 5-8 PM for the opening reception. This exhibition will feature a number of new (tounge-in-cheek) paintings that John has been working on over the past couple of years. Never to miss a good party, the artist will be in attendance.
These works are a selection from a body of work spanning the past two to three years. For better or worse, the ideas behind many of them seemed to come out of nowhere. I do sense that the content often times relates to my own life and to my own reaction to the world around me and also that the form (and forms) are sometimes a result of accident, chance, or frustration occurring when making the work.
I don't expect viewers not to read or possibly reflect on the texts contained in the work. At the same time, I hope that, because they are pictures, the viewer will look at them before deciding if they are any good or absolute rubbish.
If you are uncertain, take solace in Nietzche's conviction that madness is the result of certainty or the old Chinese proverb, that to be certain is to be ridiculous. - John Will
John Will is an established artist currently living and working in Calgary, Alberta. His work can be found in the collections of the Art Gallery of Ontario, Vancouver Art Gallery, Museum of New Mexico, Art Institute of Chicago, Alberta Foundation For The Arts, the Glenbow Museum as well as many others.
For more information or questions, please contact: gallery:http://www.jarvishallgallery.com/contact/
Canadian and Indigenous Art: 1968 to Present
May 3rd 2017 - April 30th 2018
Lower and Upper Contemporary Galleries
B101 to B109 and B201 to B205
Discover the many themes and movements that have shaped Canada’s visual arts landscape since 1968. Continuing the storylines from the new Canadian and Indigenous Galleries, this special exhibition invites visitors to experience more than 150 works in all media, including sculpture, painting, video art, installation, drawing and photography. From the feminist art movement of the 1970s to present-day Inuit art, the richness of the national Canadian and Indigenous contemporary art collections is on full display. Highlights include Shary Boyle’s work on paper Untitled (the Porcelain Fantasy series), Joyce Wieland’s O Canada, and Brian Jungen’s impressive sculptures inspired by whale skeletons: Shapeshifter and Vienna.
Should you find yourself in the Arctic Circle fishing village of Henningsvær in Norway’s remote Lofoten archipelago, perhaps you will be surprised to stumble across the minimalist seafront contemporary art space, KaviarFactory. Opened to the public in 2013 by Oslo-based collectors Venke and Rolf Hoff, the building was, as its name suggests, a caviar factory—and a source of much local pride—for over 40 years before the Hoffs bought it in 2006 to keep it from being demolished. Since then, the site has played host to one exhibition per year largely comprised of works from the owners’ private collection, including a solo show of Bjarne Melgaard’s work in 2015 and, the year after, a group show of 38 female artists including Marina Abramović, Nicole Eisenman, Ceal Floyer, and Cindy Sherman.
For their 2017 exhibition, KaviarFactory probes the potential of contemporary painting practices in “Painting | or | Not,” which opens to the public May 1. It showcases the work of roughly 40 artists, who range from sculptor Angela de la Cruz and Iranian modernist Reza Bangiz, to millennial digital artists like Ryan Trecartin, Lizzie Fitch, and Paul Kneale. Additionally, the Queen of Norway will oversee an official opening ceremony for the show on July 15. Venke Hoff chatted with ARTINFO about KaviarFactory’s history, what it means to be a painter today, and the Queen’s impending visit.
Graeme Mitchell interview by Anne Marie Taylor
Interview by Anne Marie Taylor
I met Graeme Mitchell at the opening of his first exhibition at Wilding Cran, in 2014. After speaking about his work, LA, and life in general, it was obvious he had a critical mind and articulate manner, in some part from schooling in literature at Oregon State University and living in New York for several years. Well known as an editorial photographer of portraits for The New Yorker, The New York Times and WSJ Magazine, Mitchell has only recently--considering the span of his career--included fine arts in his practice. In anticipation of his next solo exhibition at Wilding Cran (opening Saturday, April 8 in Los Angeles), I met with him at his studio on Slauson and Normandie, to catch up and see where this new body of work has taken him.
The studio, fairly large, is set up with new paintings, along with older paintings I’d seen before, small "installational" sculptures of chicken wire and photographs, tables of paint, and stacks and stacks of printed images. We sit in tall chairs by the recorder and delve right into the bigger questions.
Anne Marie Taylor: Would you describe your move from editorial and commercial photography toward fine art as a switch? Transition? Deviation? How do you find that they inform each other? Or are you working with a different set of concerns for each?
Graeme Mitchell: I think about it as more of an evolution, because to me an evolution is something that happens both naturally and out of necessity, and that's how I felt when I added painting to my photo practice. I think it’s important to explain my history in photography. It's all I've ever done, the only job I've ever had, and it was largely based on commercialism. Once I began to work within an art practice, I started to use drawing and video alongside photography. Still, I kept finding that photography was putting me in these cul de sacs. I thought maybe it was because I’d done it since I was so young and I had all this information, all these things I had learned--I couldn't take a photograph without allusions and automatisms. Or maybe the difficulty was that it was always based upon a commercial career. But then I started to play with paint and I started to look at photography through painting, and something clicked. It was a way of stripping away everything I knew about making pictures, and starting with something very, very basic.
This conversation about using painting now is difficult for me though, because generally I feel like I’m offered these narrow definitions of things; like you were this, now you're that. And it makes it feel like there's a sense of leaving something... I don't really feel that. You said this really interesting thing about how nobody talks about what happens when you get to a place, or when you realize you never actually do get to that place. It makes sense, but sometimes it can be silly. And it’s come up a lot lately, but it often is more about how to define or understand something than what is actually happening.
I’ve come to understand one of the primary concerns of my work is pictures, and I wanted to try something, try to go deeper with this new medium, go further along this path that I've been walking. And there’s nothing strange in that to me.
AMT: I feel that you're also an editor in almost every aspect; you even edit your speech. You make so many versions of these paintings, apart from studies, that there's room for mistakes and for failure. And that's basically how you learn, right?
GM: It's also often the most interesting part of the work. That's one of the reasons I really grasped onto painting--there were so many more opportunities for failure within it. When you're trying to understand pictures, almost on a philosophical level, like what they mean to you, every opportunity for failure is an opportunity for discovery.
This is also what makes painting so frustrating, because there are no road marks at any point in this process. With each mark you have no indicators of why something works or doesn't work, except your gut. Seeing what is good, or what is there, is the most difficult part. With painting, you're contending with that aspect of virtuosity--either trying to attain it, or to try to create friction against the idea of it. Virtuosity isn’t really something you think about in photography.
But yes, that’s how I learn, through practice, trying and seeing. The best advice I got when I first really started to get knocked around by painting was from a good friend, who said painting is pretty much about getting to work on it.
AMT: Do you place yourself in the work, or is it more like you're a vessel of some kind, or a translator for the image which is a separate thing from you? Your hand is in it, obviously, because you're making it, but are you personally involved in it, other than on a conceptual level?
GM: There are two sides to that for me. I often look more to literature, because when I hear writers talk about the process, it makes a lot of sense to me. My bodies of work begin with a premise of cataloging what’s around me, a kind of journaling. In that sense, it’s personal. It's things around me that I start recording, and making piles and making pictures, and then only after I’m maybe halfway into a body of work am I able to step back and it begins to outline its edges. It’s a very natural process. I like for it to be wide open, something that can take on a life of its own.
In the actual making of the painting, I don't want any sense of me in it. Even my hand, as you put it, is something I’m trying to distance myself from. I like it to be ambiguous. My presence isn’t useful in what I want the picture to achieve either in my making it or in my audience’s viewing it. This goal of being apart from the work is fundamentally contradictory to a hand-painted picture, but that dualism is maybe the meaningful part to me. With it, a sense of longing or searching can be manifested in the picture--it is art as a means to witnessing faith. There’s just no ego in it.
Cage and Richter were extremely influential in that regard. I didn't come from art, so I assumed for a long time that art had to have a level of expressionism in it, but they taught me that expression could be an operation of chance. That chance is often how my hand happens to move when I stop thinking about it.
AMT: It's also that sort of Cageian idea of putting a frame around something, like the ordinary or slightly askew situation. Because of its semi regal history, as soon as you make a painting of something, it becomes important. Doing that with these images you find on the Internet is a strange juxtaposition. It adds something to it, I think.
GM: Someone could also see that as a gimmick, but I say that maybe because I don't see paintings as regal. Or maybe I do, but not in the sense that it’s innate in their history. Any art can be regal, and I think the tremendous thing about art is it can be so many things at once. Some of these works have this bizarre sort of amateurism to them, but at the same time are not functioning at all as an amateur easel painting might. I think art that I enjoy most when I'm seeing it--you just can't place it fast. It creates this complication of being two things at once, or three things at once. And it won’t tell you what it is, but it’s quiet and allows you to discover for yourself.
continue reading: http://curator.site/writing/2017/4/18/graeme-mitchell
Sharon Engelstein // Ever To Find. Pick Of The Week by Ezrha Jean Black
Sharon Engelstein – Ever to Find
It is for some of us (the more fortunate among us) the first fear or horror we know – our first encounter with something at first glimpse familiar that upon extended gaze or lingering examination reveals itself as utterly transmogrified, and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, entirely alien. What follows, though, is usually more thoughtful and inquiring, even analytic. (Horror can be fascinating.) We’re picking ourselves apart even as we’re picking apart the object of horror or fascination (to see if we want more – we usually do). Alternatively, the object is transformed into its own raison d’être – an idée fixe that seems the end-product of a perfectly logical evolution. Sharon Engelstein is not the first artist to explore this psychological dimension in ceramic sculpture, but she is entirely original and expansive in a direction that is rarely seen in the contemporary landscape. Unlike say, Ken Price, her glazes are relatively neutral; but Engelstein introduces other materials (e.g., wax, copper, gold leaf and other metallic elements), extrusions and the occasional shock of color into the composition. This has a counterpart in her drawings, too – similarly both abstract and biomorphic, but frequently dissolved into a kind of rationalized mapping or modeling (e.g., a Sushi Eye whorling into a black hole of netting; mitotically Split Eggs; morphing cranial forms further wreathed in a swirl of polygons) – where an azure-auraed sapphire star explodes in a quasi-botanical mapping. The permeable divide between skin or envelope and structures, both invasive and extrusive, becomes the locus for analytic dissection, invention and wholesale transformation. (Why wouldn’t a bowl unravel in shards and take wing?) Ambiguity rarely presents in such crystalline fashion. Free Wall presents folly as dissertation – on the notions of barrier, containment, sequestration (also penetration, infiltration, corruption, exposure). There’s paradox for you: each of these compact sculptures contain entire worlds yet split them right open again – a moment of potential horror rendered ecstatic.
Show runs thru March 19, 2017
at Wilding Cran Gallery
February 15, 2017
Text by Jessica Simmons
If the vessel is traditionally ceramic’s primary form, Sharon Engelstein’s solo exhibition at Wilding Cran dislocates the material from its expected physical manifestation. Elevated and staggered on an imposing horizontal plinth, her glazed ceramic sculptures mimic the bone-white, pristine finish of porcelain, yet also possess a quiet heft that subtly reveals the dexterously hewn, hand-wrought process of their making. Bulbous, angular, and intimately-scaled, these paradoxically static yet undulating objects fold into puddles of matter, and ultimately shed categorization as vessels by functioning as solidified, amorphous containers for their own formal logic.
As sculptures, they propose an archeology of the absurd, which offers beguiling visual riddles, as if Engelstein has anointed the viewer a sleuth tasked to decipher all plausible permutations of an unknown organism. These petrified, formless amoebas resemble corporeal orifices, deep-sea membranes, and, in the case of First Find (2016), a prostrate and partially melted Venus of Willendorf, buttressed by slabs of broken concrete. Oftentimes, the sterility of the sculptures’ white finish is punctured by translucent glazes of bright color: in Leg Foot (2017), a subtle drip recalls the prismatic glint of an oil slick; in Accidental Medicine (2016), a wound of pink recalls the flesh of the interior body.
While bodily references viscerally permeate all of these sculptures, Engelstein nonetheless manages a deception of scale that upends the human body as a reference point. Just as the plinth-based sculptures—elevated to the height of the viewer’s torso—appear organ-like, they nonetheless read as shrunken cartographies for other monumental, unknown structures. By transmuting these myriad references into mercurial spectrums of scale and matter, Engelstein folds the futuristic into the archeological, and the microscopic into the monumental—a fluid addendum to ceramic’s indexical, seemingly fixed material history.
Sharon Engelstein: Ever to Find runs January 25-March 19, 2017 at Wilding Cran (939 S. Santa Fe Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90021).
WILDING CRAN GALLERY
Catharsis, according to the American Psychological Association, is “the discharge of previously repressed affects connected to traumatic events that occurs when these events are brought back into consciousness and reexperienced.” Karon Davis’s solo exhibition “Pain Management”could easily be described as cathartic, availing itself of the transformative powers of painful memories recalled. Davis’s two large-scale installations revealed the emotional depths of their maker. As the exhibition’s press release explained, they were based on a “hospital-bound” reality of illness, which Davis and her late husband—the artist Noah Davis, with whom she founded Los Angeles’s celebrated Underground Museum in 2012—experienced for many years during his treatment for cancer. Through Davis’s recounting, this reality was both fleshed out and theatricalized, the artist’s elegy giving way to mythology.
In an epic visualization of the passage from life to death, the first section of the exhibition featured a tableau of eight life-size bodies made of plaster, wire, and other materials. Three female nurses dressed in hospital scrubs served as psychopomps, their clothing and accoutrements littered with shredded medical bills. The effigies Morphine, Nicotine, and Ifosfamide (all works 2016) seemed to indicate both earthly and otherworldly purpose. Morphine, for example, was hunched over in exhaustion, delirium, or sorrow, with two giant shredded-bill angel wings affixed to her shoulders. As a tender of the sick, she appeared caught between life and the hereafter. Her colleague, Nicotine, smoked a cigarette, lost in thought.
The last of the trio, Ifosfamide (named for a drug used in cancer treatment), was hauntingly propped up like a scarecrow, looming over several of a second set of figures in the exhibition: the five bright-white plaster-cast sculptures from the series “The Children of the Moon,” which presented more hopeful or innocent spiritual manifestations. With angelic, masklike faces, and concavities where the backs of their heads should have been, “The Children of the Moon” were delicately posed seated, standing, or in recline, engaged in childish activities (closely observing a scarab beetle, catching a moonlike orb, gathering flowers). Despite their ghostlike ephemerality, they possessed an uncanny humanity, their glass eyes enlivening serene expressions. The figurative sculptures were installed around the nine-foot-tall Cry, Baby, a massive Kleenex box with a painterly floral motif and brand-name logo on its surface. This densely populated scene contrasted starkly with the desolate Waiting Room installed in a smaller chamber. An environmental replica of a standardized medical-center lobby, the piece was complete with New Age music, houseplants, magazines, tissue boxes, and a generic wall work that read, futilely, BELIEVE, DREAM, LIVE, SUCCEED, ACHIEVE. Much like its real-world counterparts, the space was sanitized of emotion, an anxiety-inducing purgatory.
One might situate Davis’s practice in a line of postwar figurative sculpture that includes the work of George Segal and Duane Hanson, realists with a keen eye for capturing the prosaic background characters that populate our daily experience and yet go largely unnoticed. But unlike these abjectly anonymous figures, Davis’s sculptures retain a sense of intimacy and kinship with their living models. Perhaps it’s more useful to recall lessons learned from artists such as Marisol, Alina Szapocznikow, and Paul Thek. In the work of these artists, the ordinary, mortal conditions of corporeality—the “stuff” of our humanity, of the people we know and love—is exaggerated to dreamy, ritualistic, and sublime extremes. If Davis’s figurative works embody a melancholy around death, they also navigate the heaviness with hopeful confidence. And they usefully remind us that when theories regarding mourning or trauma fail us, we can always rely on stories, the buried inner narratives that emerge when a painful experience is revisited and inscribed.
WILDING CRAN GALLERY
939 South Santa Fe Avenue
September 17–November 12
A consortium of props and decor offers a capacious mix of memories, myths, and maladies in Karon Davis’s solo exhibition “Pain Management.” Reflecting on the physical and emotional experience of suffering and loss, Davis brings us into what was, until recently, her world, which was confined to her husband’s bedside in a hospital as he underwent cancer treatment. She takes us on a hallucinatory journey as told through the re-creation of a waiting room and eight characters composed of plaster casts, and one of shredded medical bills, indicating the financial as well as affective burden she carried throughout this ordeal. The omnipresent nurses in scrubs take center stage: Here, they assume the symbolic form of a narcotic angel in Morphine (Angel) (all works 2016), a scarecrow for Isosfamide (Scarecrow), and a caretaker in Nicotine, (Seated Nurse Smoking), eschewing the humor, affect, and pathos that the artist likely negotiated throughout Noah Davis’s stages of illness. The sculptures of children, a series titled “Children of the Moon,” include Mawu (Holding a Basket), who seems to be grimly reaping Elizabeth V. Spelman’s “fruits of sorrow” from the scarecrow’s field, while Mary (Catching the Moon), attempts to play catch with the moon; another, Oya (Holding a Scarab Beetle), gazes upon the insect resting on the palm of his hand. These melancholic figures reference Davis’s interest in Egyptian mummification, providing a historical and cross-cultural perspective on the treatment of death, transcendence, and preservation.
The largest piece is the one that ties this exhibition together—an overwrought box of Kleenex tissues titled Cry Baby. Davis’s rapport with this icon of sorrow transports us into familiar recollections of affliction. As if to encourage catharsis, an unobtrusive box of Kleenex similar to the artist’s sculpture sits near the guest book, waiting for you upon checking in or checking out.
By Amanda Cachia
Karon Davis' 'Pain Management' plumbs loss and love in a tribute to her late husband, Noah Davis
By Deborah Vankin
Karon Davis knows about waiting.
Dressed in a long, silky, gold head scarf, sparkly wrist bangles and laced-up rain boots, Davis settles into an armchair inside her sculptural installation at Wilding Cran Gallery, a re-creation of a hospital waiting room. The piece, part of her solo exhibition “Pain Management,” is a generic-looking medical space: Canned music prattles in the background, abstract prints adorn the walls, US Weekly magazines are laid out for distraction, floral tissue boxes are tucked into corners.
It’s a scene Davis knows intimately. In 2015, her husband of seven years, Noah Davis — a rising L.A. art star whose work had been acquired recently by L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the Studio Museum in Harlem — died at 32 from a rare form of cancer, myxoid liposarcoma, that had wrapped around his heart.
“There’s a lot of anxiety and prayer that goes on in this room,” Davis says. “We spent so much time waiting — waiting for a doctor, waiting for an answer, for a cure — sleep. It just seemed so fitting.”
Noah, whose brother is artist and director Kahlil Joseph, founded the Underground Museum in 2012, a partnership with MOCA aiming to bring high-quality art to the working class neighborhood of Arlington Heights. His death left a void in the art community and in Davis’ life. She managed to keep moving forward, raising their now 6-year-old son, Moses, and serving as president of the Underground Museum, which she co-founded. But Davis remained in a liminal state, functioning “like a robot, just to get through and take care of business,” she says — waiting to feel whole again.
Leaning back, Davis surveys the room and releases a giggle-studded exhale, a combination of relief that the long drive from Ojai, where she lives, is over, mixed with the satisfaction that her first solo gallery exhibition has come to fruition. The show of installation work and figurative sculptures — ethereal, white plaster casts made with the couple’s shredded medical bills — is about pain, physical and emotional. It’s both an ode to the transitory state of grief so many people find themselves stuck in after a loved one has died and a personal tribute to Davis’ late husband.
Creating the work was a key part of Davis’ grieving process.
“I wasn’t sure if I was ready to step back into the studio I shared with Noah and make work,” Davis says. “But actually, it’s what I needed — to pull back from life and be quiet and be in our space. It was very comforting and inspiring to be there. I feel like he was guiding me the whole time.”
Five dreamy and haunting sculptures, which Davis calls “Children of the Moon,” anchor the show in the gallery’s main exhibition space. They’re modeled after real kids in and around the Underground Museum area or Davis’ Ojai neighborhood, and they’re named after saints from different religions. Their gauzy, plaster exteriors conjure the process of Egyptian mummification, something Davis says she’s deeply interested in, since it’s about the preservation of memories and holding onto the past, but they all bear prominent, glossy glass eyes conveying acute, in-the-moment emotion.
Three larger figures, nurses dressed in colorful scrubs, watch over them. They’re named after drugs that, for better or worse, treat pain or anxiety: morphine, nicotine and the chemotherapy drug ifosfamide. The “Morphine” nurse is collapsed on the ground, as if praying, under giant, feathery angel wings made of shredded bills. “She’s just exhausted,” Davis says. “So many people are weighed down by debt because of medical bills, so I really wanted to show how that feels.”
The sculptures are at once delicate and rough-hewn. Little girls’ dresses are flowy, with lace cutouts, and children’s’ skulls are only partially sculpted, precarious and porous. But the plaster is also layered on thick in places, lumpy and textured, or spread so thin that scratchy patches of gauze peek through the cheeks on their faces.
“I like the roughness, just letting the plaster be wild,” Davis says.
In the center of the room is an 8-foot-tall tissue box called “Cry, Baby.” “There’s no tissue box large enough for my tears,” Davis says.
As much as the show is a heartfelt nod to Noah and Karon Davis’ love, says MOCA chief curator Helen Molesworth, the work is particularly powerful because it transcends their personal story.
“It’s about Karon’s period of mourning the loss of her compatriot soul mate, but it’s also a really beautiful meditation on the way we die now,” Molesworth says. “I find the waiting room just devastating. That’s how we’ve decided to organize ourselves around illness in our society. Those horrible rooms are so impersonal. And the figures composed out of shredded medical bills. It all points to this larger problem we have as a culture: We’ve lost touch with this fundamental part of being human, which is dying. I found it really poignant in that way.”
The theatricality of Davis’ work is no surprise. She grew up in Manhattan and New Jersey, the daughter of Broadway actor Ben Vereen and Nancy Vereen, a ballet dancer. She attended USC film school and was doing freelance film production work when, in 2005, she met Noah through a mutual friend she was rooming with in West Adams. The two would spend long periods of time together “locked in the house” making art. Noah helped her to develop a cross-medium visual art practice, she says.
“I called myself a closet artist for so many years,” Davis says. “I never thought of showing or putting myself out there. I always just made work for me or my family — collage and sculpture, video art, photography. Noah was like: ‘You got something.’ He made me believe in myself.”
They married in 2008 in a Miami courthouse during Art Basel, at which Noah was exhibiting work in the Rubell Family Collection’s first incarnation of the “30 Americans” show.
Karon Davis went on to show video work in a 2009 group show at the L.A. gallery Roberts & Tilton; and in 2013, she debuted her first solo exhibition at the Underground Museum. “Pain Management” is her first solo gallery show.
As heavy as “Pain Management” is, it’s also inspirational and brimming with love. Noah Davis’ presence is palpable. Shortly before he died, Noah pushed Davis to finish a piece they had started making together, an amalgamation of the caregivers who’d been treating him. After he died, it became the first piece Davis finished for the show, the nurse “Nicotine.”
One of the child sculptures in the show, “Gabriel,” of a little boy clutching purple flowers, is based on an image from Noah’s painting “Green Behind the Ears.” Another of Davis’ sculptures, “Mikail,” who’s lying on his side by the front door of the gallery, was taken from the last work Noah made, an untitled painting of a man lying in the grass.
The first art project Noah and Karon made together for fun, after they’d started dating, was a cardboard tissue box. Davis adorned the outside of the new, giant one in “Pain Management” with Noah’s trademark paint drippings and her style of ripped and torn plaster.
Davis eyes the absurdly large tissue box from across the room, a monument to both of their artistic styles.
“We were so silly and free together — that’s what I miss about him the most,” she says, wiping tears from the crook of her eyes and laughing.
“This piece, it represents us and our sadness. Our art,” she says. "Noah’s everywhere in here. This show’s for him. It’s like: ‘Look what I did, Boo!’”
By Max King Cap
During a Cabinet Council meeting three years into her mourning of the death of her husband, the still distraught Queen Victoria “rose from the table declaring that she could come to no decision without consulting with Prince Albert.” That display moved one of her Lords to suggest that she abdicate, having been so clearly driven mad by grief. The Karon Davis exhibition, “Pain Management,” is also a display of public lamentation, and a purgation, related to the death of the artist’s spouse, a visual shiva to which we are all invited.
Dolefully, the project room reveals the source of the paper in the papier-mâché figures—shredded medical bills from the cancer ward. This waiting room, with dreadfully upholstered chairs and factory wall art mimics the forced cheeriness of hospital waiting rooms yet remains tedious and dreary. Here, though, we also find a park bench on a carpet of, again, artificial turf. It is perfectly smooth until it finishes abruptly, crumpled at the end of the room. This is not the road not taken but the path interrupted; it is the bookend of the boy reposed on his runner of time run out.
It is upon exiting, however, that one discovers that twinge that will continue to revisit. In most galleries there is a small table or shelf with exhibition information, price lists, artist CV, as well as arts district propaganda. This gallery shelf is no different except it also contains a box of tissues, just sitting there like an urn on the mantel, normalizing the pain, making it commonplace, and reinforcing the tragedy of time and memory and forgetting.
Karon Davis’ “Pain Management” at Wilding Cran
by Genie Davis
There’s nothing painful about Karon Davis’ Pain Management, a beautiful solo exhibition that creates a world filled with weary-angel caregivers, supplicating patients, and a way to move beyond pain, and reach an inner sense of peace.
Physical and emotional pain is the theme in the artist’s recreation of a world inhabited by seven sculptures, shaped from plaster casts and shredded medical bills. The somewhat biographical works include three nurse figures attired in patterned scrubs, the exhausted angel, “Morphine”; “Ifosfamide” a frightening scarecrow; and “Nicotine,” a stoic, smoking nurse. These figures have the substantial quality of fully formed sculpture, made with paint, plaster, cloth, synthetic hair, and objects grounded in reality such as a coffee cup and shredded bills. The pieces include color in their depictions, the color of the caregivers’ skin, their attire, their hair.
Four other pieces depict children, or as Davis calls them, “Children of the Moon.” Representing a preservation of the spirit, health, and memories, and the fragility and perhaps fleeting nature of these ideals, they are ghostly and enigmatic, emblems of peace, purity, and an afterlife free of pain. As such, they are devoid of color, white and drifting, mute butterflies.
The artist is interested in the idea of mummification, and as such, these sculptures take on that role, of a being bound or contained, pinned; prepared perhaps for burial or reincarnation. Crafted of plaster, wire, plastic pipe, paper, and glass eyes, their shapes are incomplete, delicate, and seem to float. The openings in these casts present the idea that the spirits these children contain have already broken free of the bodies that bind them, or that bind older incarnations of the self. Each child has a name: “Oya” holds a scarab beetle, “Mary” catches the moon, “Mawu” holds a basket.
Karon Davis Mourned the Loss of Her Husband, Artist Noah Davis, By Turning Grief Into Art
BY MATT STROMBERG
“If I could have made it 50 stories high to explain how painful this has been, I would have done that,” artist Karon Davis says. “It's like no tissue box is big enough to dry my tears, our tears.”
She’s referring to Cry, Baby, a nine-foot-tall plaster-and-wood sculpture of a Kleenex box that is included in her solo show, "Pain Management," currently on view at Wilding Cran Gallery. Dealing with themes of grief, mourning and resilience, the exhibition is an elegiac response to the loss of Davis’ husband, the artist Noah Davis, who succumbed to a rare form of cancer last summer.
The Davises are also known for founding the Underground Museum, a non-profit arts space in the central-L.A. neighborhood of Arlington Heights, just north of the 10 freeway. Through various collaborations — including a multi-year partnership with MOCA — the space became the nexus of activity for many in the African American creative community, providing a space to display works and even address recent racial turmoil by offering a forum for Black Lives Matter. Noah also shared the space with his brother, Kahlil Joseph, a filmmaker who created works for artists like Flying Lotus, and who was recently nominated for an Emmy for directing a part of Beyonce's visual-album, "Lemonade."
Alongside the oversized tissue box, Davis has created an array of life-size sculptural figures that relate to the years spent dealing with her husband’s illness. Made by wrapping strips of plaster-dipped cloth around live models, they are uncannily life-like, despite their bone-white color. Three nurse figures in scrubs, each personifying a different drug, stand in for all the individuals who helped them over the years.
“The first piece I created was Nicotine Nurse, and actually Noah worked on that with me,” Davis says. “We had talked about this series of nurses, and I promised him I'd finish it.”
The veteran nurse rests on bench, taking a break between shifts with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. A scarecrow nurse named for the chemo drug Ifosfamide stands watch over rows of tissues that sprout up from a plot of earth like crops of sadness. Near the gallery’s entrance an Angel nurse representing Morphine kneels. Her flowing wings are made from shredded medical bills, a physical manifestation of the financial burden so many sick Americans struggle with.
No Not Never None, Jeremy Everett and Fabio Lattanzi Antinori at Kristin Hjellegjerde Gallery in London
Sometimes things are not as they seem, and other times things seem to be as they are not. But very often we simply do not know how things are; we just rely on our senses and our assumptions to guide us through this uncertain world. In No Not Never None, Jeremy Everett and Fabio Lattanzi Antinori investigate this disconnect between how things are and how they seem. Through a mixture of painting, sculpture, photography and installation, they reveal a world which is full of negation loops, where a thing is both not something and not nothing.
The world, for Jeremy Everett, is filled with mystery. His work explores the infinitely nuanced contours of experience, taking the way we see the world as a starting point without assuming there is one particular way of seeing and rejecting the notion that what is seen is the whole story. He is interested in the object’s relation to space and its environment, the perennial question of what lies behind what we see, and the notion of an unfinished landscape in which the perceiver furnishes the final component. Fabio Lattanzi Antinori takes this notion of the unseen to its tangible extreme by analysing the silent, and yet fully palpable, motions of financial markets. His work focuses on how the languages of corporate systems inform the way we shape our communities and the actions we take towards our survival. At the root of this is the observation that financial data, although abstract and essentially ethereal, controls our resources and ultimately binds us together. Both artists are thus concerned with the precarious balance of hidden structures, unveiling a substructure of volatility and vulnerability which is – for better or worse – the very basis of a fragile human existence.
The title of the exhibition, No Not Never None, captures the sense in which we are always caught in a state of apparent contradiction; the sense in which our lives always and forever seem to be something and nothing at the same time. The gallery becomes a site of profound uncertainty in which norms and conventions are destabilised, while also offering a penetrating insight into the fundamental forces of finance and perception that govern how we live.
Fabio Lattanzi Antinori presents a brand new sculpture which creates an immersive, multi-sensory experience exploring the financial practice of ‘front-running’ – trading on advance information provided by brokers. Whilst the work visually references the microwave towers used for the high-speed transmission of financial data, Lattanzi Antinori has collaborated with perfume designer Sergey Dziniruk to develop a range of fragrances that will be omitted by the sculpture. Lattanzi Antinori also presents ones of his interactive screenprints which, when touched by the viewer, translates financial data into song, giving musical expression to the otherwise stark and inhuman data that constitutes so-called ‘dark pools’ markets.
Jeremy Everett destabilises the architecture of the gallery with an installation of his ‘shims’: these immaculately folded white dress shirts are placed under the gallery’s central column, causing the structure to lean to one side. In this work, Everett explores associations of daily work and the precarious structures that underpin it. He also presents a series of photographs which explore the theme of decay, where a partially obscured image is achieved by burying the print in the earth for a number of days. In a further concern with process-driven work, Everett’s paintings use a fine dusting of colour in a process that uses air and pigment in the same way a photocopier uses light to reveal the canvas stretcher as the geometric content of the painting. Here he explores the notion of that which lies beneath or behind the world we previewed as the hidden structure of experience.
In both Everett and Lattanzi Antinori, there is a simmering sense of dystopia, as they uncover the chaos and peril that lies only just behind the apparent order and control of our world. But as the title No Not Never None suggests, things are not quite as they seem, since just as that negation falls into a loop, the idea of dystopia inverts itself on closer inspection. After all, the existential uncertainty bubbling under the surface of our experience is just the substructure that supports it; as such, what appears to be a fantastical dystopia might just be the true nature of the world according to these two artists.
Seriously Funny: Chris Cran at the National Gallery of Canada
Chris Cran is one of Canada’s most celebrated painters, but he’s rarely written about as just that. The cult of the Calgary-based artist’s personality precedes him. Many reviews of Cran exhibitions reveal that he is down-to-earth, charming, very funny and prefers to wear all black. Known as a godfather of the Calgary art scene, he’s a board member at Stride Gallery, a teacher at the Alberta College of Art and Design and a mentor and magnanimous supporter of up-and-coming artists in his hometown. To six kids, he’s also Dad. Before his National Gallery of Canada survey exhibition, “Sincerely Yours,” which is on view in Ottawa until September 5, Cran was there in spring 2015 to put together “It’s My Vault,” a showcase of works by 15 artists he admires and is influenced by—a wonder wall of sorts. He included one of his own works in that selection, which makes sense, because he has long been one of his own favourite subjects.
The person responsible for this Cran fandom is Cran himself, of course. In 1984, he began painting The Self-Portrait Series, whose central character is the artist, bedecked in a brown or blue suit and trilby, often playing the self-satisfied salesman. Like a photo-bomber, the main character of the series—Cran’s surrogate, his puppet—wanders in and out of massive realist paintings that depict shop-worn jokes, idioms, tropes and fantasies in flawless oil renderings. There’s a man literally shooting himself in the foot; a wife admonishing a husband (both roles played by Cran) for coming home late; and even a group of gun-toting naked women in wartime Vietnam up to their waists in water, while Cran, in suit and trilby, impotently holding a plywood rifle, enters from stage right. It’s all utterly ridiculous, and it’s meant to be, without equivocation.
The first work he produced in this series was Self-Portrait with Large Audience Trying to Remember What Carmelita Pope Looks Like (1984). Cran remembers being a kid in Salmon Arm, British Columbia, watching television, when a woman came onscreen and introduced herself, saying, “Hi, I’m Carmelita Pope.” Cran, then 10 years old, remembers thinking, “Why does she think I’m supposed to know who she is?” In the painting, he sits in a chair trying to recall this trivial childhood memory, while a large, crudely sketched audience eagerly waits for the fuzzy picture of a woman beginning to form above his head to sharpen into focus. The real joke here is that the woman depicted isn’t Carmelita Pope at all; Cran ripped the image out of an advertisement for a Magic Art Reproducer in one of his old pulp magazines, where he sources much of his material from.
In other works from this series of self-portraits, we see beginnings of techniques that show up in series to follow. After The Self-Portrait Series, Cran moved away from photo-realism and experimented with Op art, Pop art and abstraction. He likes experimenting, keeping things fresh, but what remains near constant is his Kodachrome palette, suitable for someone whose aesthetic sensibilities were moulded by an early love of 1950s toy and product packaging. In Self-Portrait – Temptation of a Saint (1986), the Cran character temporarily loses his sense of self as he becomes transfixed by an image projected by his cathode-ray television set: a tarantula has crawled onto James Bond’s pillow, and Cran’s crept to the edge of his seat, gripping the armrests. On the surface of the glowing-blue television screen, which is painted with lighter brushstrokes, there are faint traces of horizontal scan lines, the kind that used to appear on television and computer monitors when you tried to capture their screens on another screen.
We naturally know how to look past such visual obstructions and isolate the images contained behind the lines. Cran’s Stripe Paintings (1989–) and Halftone Paintings (1990–93) play with this human propensity to find and make meaning. He distorts still lifes, portraits and landscapes by adding screens of stripes (also nodding to Modernist painting conventions) or by enlarging images until they nearly dissolve into abstraction entirely, becoming collections of dots that only coalesce into discernible shapes when you squint or step backwards. Nowadays, of course, you get the same effect when you view the paintings through a smartphone, whose screen does the work for you—or takes the fun out of it, depending on how you look at such things. These distortions are cheeky misdirections that hold the viewer captive for a little bit longer than they ordinarily might linger in front of a painting. “It’s a cheap trick,” Cran tells interviewer William Wood in the exhibition’s award-winning catalogue, “but it works.”
Audience engagement is paramount to Cran. We see it in his Abstract Paintings series (1995–2009), where he creates optical illusions that reward the viewer who takes time to move around and consider the picture plane from various angles, and notably in his Chorus series (2012–15), which positions tondi of blown-up, close-cropped faces, ripped from 1950s and ’60s ads, displaying ranges of emotion, around works from other series, such as Framing Device Paintings (1996–2001). Just as the Cran character in The Self-Portrait Series is a stand-in for the artist, the anonymous faces that make up Chorus—how quick we are to try to see if we can recognize any of the faces, to ascribe meaning to them—are stand-ins for the audience, like the chorus in Ancient Greek theatre. They smirk, gasp, look apprehensive, quietly observe, or ooh and aah like rock ’n’ roll groupies, creating different dialogues depending on how they are arranged and around what other works. They set the tone. As anyone who’s bad at telling jokes knows, it’s not what you say that counts, but how you deliver it. At the end of the National Gallery’s exhibition, there are works from Chorus installed in the staircase, surrounding you, in effect making you the artwork.
Cran has called art “a mute apparatus”—it’s not complete until a viewer applies thoughts, words and meanings to it. It can only speak when spoken to. The words “Sincerely Yours” necessarily preclude “Dear —.” They’re an invitation in, addressed to fans, long-time and first-time alike. When Cran came up with the title, he was thinking of signed photographs of movie stars that were mass-produced in the 1950s (so not really “sincerely” anyone’s, in fact).
Cran’s autograph appears in the last work in The Self-Portrait Series: Self-Portrait Practising Signatures (1989). In it, Cran’s writes various versions of his name, in curlicued cursive, block capitals and simplified minimalist construction of loops and lines. But the painting isn’t a self-portrait at all. Cran took the image he based it on from in a British publication made in the 1950s. He found it and thought, well, “Close enough.”
“Sincerely Yours” is also a signing off, signifying the end, but the prolific Cran isn’t nearly finished yet. After this exhibition wraps, he’s showing a suite of new paintings at Toronto’s Clint Roenisch Gallery, in a show cleverly called “Anon Anon”—the perfect punchline to end a retrospective with.
Thank you Vogue España for featuring us along side the The Broad, Bestia, Otium, Batavia & The Box.
First U.S. show for German woodblock artist is delectably disorienting
By Leah Olman
Martin Werthmann’s huge, engrossing woodblock prints recall the surfaces of paintings that have been built up in layers and then sanded down in areas, revealing glimpses of the history of their own making.
In the Berlin artist's work, stratification and discontinuity are actively in play, yielding a sense of cohesion interrupted.
Related prints on the artist's website feature female nudes and other recognizable figures, and the show's press release describes his use of found images of car accidents and other catastrophes, but there are few identifiable subjects in the six pieces at Wilding Cran Gallery in L.A. that constitute Werthmann's first solo U.S. show.
A bridge appears in two prints and a seascape in another, but the overall lack of specificity is not a detriment. Teeming patterns propel our eyes into restless motion and our minds into an animated, agitated, delectable state of disorientation.
The inked layers oscillate between conjuring the fluidity of water and the mottled granularity of stone. Werthmann organizes each massive monoprint (a two-panel piece here measures about 10 by 13 feet) collage-style, as an assembly of geometric and organic shapes, setting passages aflame with burnt orange against areas of cool cobalt. The spaces are ambiguous and the imagery diffuse, but experience of the work is fully immersive.
Martin Bennett: When I Can No Longer Give Air To Fire. Exhibition runs through 16 July, 2016
This solo exhibition by Saskatoon-based Martin Bennett will present continuations of three main strands of the artist’s practice: the Static Image Paintings (an expansion of image-based paintings started in 1999), the Grey Volume Paintings (a continuation of monochromatically flooded canvases started in 1995), and the Variant Flash Paintings (a continuation of gestural works initiated in 1996). Aesthetically, two unifying elements bind the works - firstly their black and white palette, and secondly the unusual finishing process of electrically sanding the surface of the painting to give the works a distinct, stripped back texture.
The exhibition’s title 'When I Can No Longer Give Air To Fire', is also a continuation, carried across from Bennett’s previous solo exhibition at Birch Contemporary. The exhibition title and the works make connections with varied, culturally loaded references including William Golding’s Pincher Martin, Prometheus, Percy Bysshe Shelley, the Non-Catholic Cemetery for Foreigners in Rome, Stonehenge, A dead rabbit, burial mounds, bird song, the pond at Villa Borghese and more.
For the Static Image Paintings Bennett draws upon imagery from photographs he has taken in the past decade, which emerge from time spent on long walks. Bennett reflects on the experiences connected to the photographs and endeavors to produce paintings that do not diminish those experiences. Speaking of the connections between the works, Bennett says:
“As the paintings are being made they tend to reveal things in relation to one another that I wasn't anticipating; and certainly not planning at the early stages - I try to extend these moments. Because I spend a lot of my time in a dark studio painting the images I tend to keep myself occupied by thinking about all the different ways the images and paintings might connect.”
Catherine Fairbanks has work in two group shows this month, BBQLA and Artists Curated Projects.
End of Semester at BBQLA. Opening Reception this Friday, July 1st 2016, 8:00pm – 12:00am.
On view through Saturday, July 9th, 2016.
On My Volcano Grows The Grass at Artist Curated Projects. On view though July 11th. With Zarouhie Abdalian, Erica Mahinay, James Gregory Atkinson & Helen Demisch, Dashiell Manley
and Chase Wilson.
Maria Lynch at Wilding Cran by Claire de Dobay Rifelj
Walking into Maria Lynch’s exhibition at Wilding Cran—the artist’s first showing in Los Angeles—visitors come immediately face-to-face with a makeshift enclosure containing nearly one hundred large, and brightly colored, transparent beach balls. In theory, the concept of a larger-than-life ball pit exudes playfulness. To move through Lynch’s pen, however, you must proceed slowly, pushing balls up and around your body with concerted effort in order to forge a path through the rubbery plastic. A meditative soundtrack by the Brazilian musician and composer Rodrigo Amarante adds a soothing aural layer to the awkward, if amusing, experience. One is left to imagine the dramatic impact had logistics allowed the prismatic balls to overtake a larger percentage (if not all) of the exhibition space.
In the remaining two-thirds of the gallery, paintings and sculptures incorporate the same aesthetic vocabulary that Lynch has adopted over the last few years: wildly colorful, nearly abstract canvases, and assemblages of homemade soft sculptures made up of whimsical appendages that avoid coalescing into recognizable forms. The latter recall work by Mike Kelley, though without the pathos of his sutured stuffed animals.
Instead, Lynch’s stated aim is to activate her viewers’ bodily and sensory awareness in order to overcome ingrained patterns of rational thinking. Her installation accomplishes this, forcing you to attend to the space you occupy in the here and now. And while Lynch’s paintings and sculptures present a visual feast—Vanity (2016) offers a particularly alluring marriage of color and form, as if a Matisse cutout were beginning to morph and metastasize—there is still room for the young artist to delve deeper into questions of perception and mindfulness, particularly in an age of pervasive screens and quickening attention spans.