NINE opening

(photo by Alex Ebstein)


Last night's opening of "NINE," showcasing work by AU's first year MFA students was well-attended.

If you missed it, you missed out on some awesome krab dip, sweet ASICS, and of course, ART JUMPING!!!!

(photo by Alex Ebstein)

(photo by Alex Ebstein)



Luckily, you can still see the terrific art. "NINE" will be up until Tuesday, so be sure to check it out.

"Proximity," our MFA Thesis Exhibition will open Friday, April 18th, from 6-9 pm. Mark your calendars!

To read more about "NINE" and for more awesome images of the opening, check out ArtCade Forum and There Were Ten Tigers.

Friday Night!!!

"NINE"
First year MFA candidates present new work.

Opening reception Friday, April 11th, 7-9 pm

Josh Baptista
Kate Gartrell
Nikki Painter
Igor Pasternak
Allison Reimus
Katherine Sable
Bonner Sale
Lana Stephens
Zac Willis

Work will be exhibited April 10th- 16th in the Katzen Arts Center.

For museum hours and information, please click here.

We hope to see you there!

“Everything’s Coming Up Roses!"

By Katherine Sable


For those who aren’t engrossed in the now dominating teenybopper shows in the lights of Broadway, rest assured that the latest Gypsy revival will not fall short. A canon of American Theater and on its fourth revival- this time, folks, I confidently declare that it’s worth every minute.

Last summer I was fortunate enough to attend the closing night performance of Gypsy presented off-Broadway in the City Center Encores! Summer Stars production. It was a big night for Gypsy and Patti LuPone, Broadway bigwig and lead role in this show, exclaimed that no one would “close the curtain on Gypsy.” A big statement, as talk had been going around that the summer’s highly applauded production could head straight to Broadway. Well, the St. James Theater opened its doors to Gypsy fans abound this past Wednesday night, March 26th and you simply cannot miss this one.

The key to the success of this latest revival is not only in the direction of Tony award winner and writer of the original book, Arthur Laurents, but more in the casting of Patti LuPone as Mama Rose, a character often believed to be the most difficult and complicated of the Broadway canon. Funny thing is, Ms. LuPone dreamed of playing Rose and had been told years ago by Laurents that it would never happen (due to a decade-long contract argument between the fellow theater big names). Needless to say, and why I write now, LuPone and Laurents eventually made up (Laurents’ partner of 52 years said on his dying bed that Patti should play Momma Rose), and lucky for us, this is how a Rose worth remembering is born.

Ethel Merman first veiled the character Mama Rose on stage in 1959. She showcased a Rose with powerful vocals and bam theatrics within the musicality, but she simply couldn’t act! During a time when the lights of Broadway were at their biggest, flashy, loud, show-stopping performances were all that seemed to matter. The complicated characteristics were completely denied and hidden by mere theatrics. Rose was only understood as an evil stage mother, with not a redeeming characteristic in sight. Angela Lansbury and Tyne Daly also took on the role during the first two revivals. Both characters display certain specific singular qualities, as Lansbury’s take shows some of the softer qualities, and more subtle realness- but the dark depths, the scary Rose, isn’t to be found; there aren’t enough psychological contradictions. Tyne Daly’s Rose portrays a pretty charming and dark lead woman role, but her vocals didn’t showcase enough of the drama within the amazing Sondheim lyrics. Mama Rose has a musical breakdown at the closing number, and “pretty charming and dark” simply do not add up to psychological, mental breakdown.

Clearly, any number of stage actresses could take on one or two of the many characteristics of the difficult Mama Rose, but no one could actually embody all of the so-called contradictions of this female Broadway character. It was less than five years ago that a Gypsy revival surfaced, starring Bernadette Peters, and I would agree with many that they simply missed the boat that go around. In 2003, Peters fleshed out a Mama Rose in the often-claimed worst rendition of Gypsy. Possibly an attempt to liven up old-school Broadway and situate it more in the realm of the ticket selling teenybopper productions (popularity contest?), the casting directors may have tried to play the sex card to sell- and a contemporary Rose, a sexy, or dare I say “feminine” version of Rose was constructed. Boy, that’s laughable, too. Not only did the casting director not set out to find the real Rose, rather they set aside any desire to portray a woman who in all respects can be equally dark, forceful, vulnerable, sexy, and feminine.

Patti LuPone creates a human Rose, a mother and a lover, pushy but still very likeable. LuPone’s Rose is not dominated by her unfathomable intensity, or her driven force, but she creates a character that is situated in a more inclusive in-between type of woman. It was as if it, until now, was unbelievable to have a woman who could be vulnerable, be surprisingly seductive, and at the same time be brash and loud. Merman simply embodied the obvious, safe characteristics of the stage mom. Rose is nurturing and selfish, intense and intimate, irresistible and hard-edged, throwing the kink in by being all of that and sexual- redefining the feminine character. It is her hunger to fill her own voids by forcing her children into the lights of vaudeville that becomes more than just a typically sad quintessential stage mom.

Patti LuPone was born for this role, she is not only a powerhouse Broadway star, an icon, but she alone has revealed the depth of Mama Rose for the first time since Laurents sketched out the devious character. And it’s a damn shame it took almost 5 decades for it to finally flesh out! You simply must see Gypsy at the St. James Theater. This is one not to be missed, even if you aren’t a Broadway fan.

A Selection of Haiku Poems On Life at the Katzen

By Katherine Sable



Heavy words and smoke
Supported on wobbly legs
A plastic table



Coffee and sandwich
A full semester’s stipend
At Katzen Café



Contents old but cold
I would like to scrub you out
Refrigerator



A vigorous wave
Arms, legs, and other limbs
The lights come back on



Staff meeting persists
Sandwiches are hostages
Tighten your belts, kids



Bidet from commode
Important differences
I shoot pee at you



Green macaroni
Moldy, oldy, smelly foods
Spare a lunch some space



A sign could explain
What a student is made to
Which way to the show?



Popular venue
Please come, hold a fundraiser
Don’t mind the artwork

Master Drawings at the National Gallery

Mary Cassatt, "Margo Wearing a Bonnet," 1903


By Katherine Sable


I spent another Saturday at the National Gallery drawing from the work in the Baroque Woodcut exhibition. As I wandered out of the three large spaces encompassing the works for that exhibition, I found myself in a dark, small room filled with drawings ranging from the 1500s to the early 1900s. At first glance, the exhibition seemed only a side note, a peculiar little room filled with a small collection disconnected from everything else in the museum. I passed by each piece quickly in awe and excitement at which one I would come to next, as each sketch held its own presence. Only later did I realize that they were drawings by Mary Cassatt, a few by Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Picasso, Durer, and a Bonnard, to name a few. There was little text, which I liked very much, leaving space for my eyes to wander and my mind to survey. The frames were as ornate as you would expect in a venue like the National Gallery, but the room was not grand and the ceilings were not high. The walls were dark and the lights dim. Not what you would expect for a show filled with the starts and honest explorations of the renowned masters of our art history. It succeeded in creating the most intimate of environments perfect for sharing a moment (or an afternoon, as I did) with these works on paper.

I was impressed by the representation of such highly esteemed artists contained in this small collection. As I stepped forward towards the second room, I found myself standing about 6 feet away from a dark drawing behind thick glass. This was a set up. I was clearly supposed to find in this room the highlight of the exhibition, the most “important” drawing. It was a Raphael and it was big, and it had its own room. The piece was almost creepy, a ghost image of a Madonna and child scene; only upon close examination did I find delicate and deliberate marks functioning to model the figures and the quiet face of the Madonna. I’m not sure if it was the atmosphere or the actual drawing, but when I entered the space designated for this drawing, I had to remind myself to breathe. Of course it is a Raphael, and it’s dated 1507. This thing shouldn’t even still survive; it was a preparatory drawing for the larger painting he would later do of "Madonna and Child with St. John the Baptist." This drawing is definitely one to write home about and it seduced me- but in my opinion, any number of the drawings in this collection deserved its own room.

I would have to award the best drawing in the house to an Albrecht Durer piece titled "The Centaur Family," dating to 1505. This miniature drawing resembles a cross-sectional study, each line carefully articulated, aiming to describe volume, mass and form of the figures. Durer’s line far exceeds description of volume, mass, and form and takes this drawing into a realm of complete complication. It is descriptive, yes, but it’s so candid. There is a curious smudge near the top of the drawing, revealing Durer’s search in this small composition. The marks are reminiscent of delicate curls, few and far between, light on touch, and completely perfect in place. This drawing is right on point. The marks are careful and quick and at the same time calculated. I spent a long time drawing from this small set of characters, each time hoping to come closer to the rhythm held comfortably in the miniature piece of paper.

Both of Van Gogh’s drawings held a completely different presence from that which I have described above. They were bold and aggressive but not contradictory; rather, they were very straightforward. The figures in "Man Polishing a Boot" and "Old Man Carrying a Bucket" held a peculiar, awkward, weighty stance. The lines, heavy and strong, faultlessly described the tired men, their exhausted bodies held a sameness with the exhausted shapes that described their bearing. I was much impressed by the quality of line Van Gogh achieved through seemingly quick mark making. The marks were deliberate but also at times haphazard. The boldness was drawn onto the surface of the paper, drawn above, paper used only to catch the day's end moments of the two men.

I also found Mary Cassatt’s graphite sketches to be quite beautiful. Cassatt’s drawing of "Margot Leaning Against Reine’s Knee" seemed to be drawn in the air, the paper acting purely as the space within the depicted world. Her lines inform the paper, but in the end surpass it and float above. In "Smiling Margot Wearing a Ruffled Bonnet," Cassatt’s ability to search and find during mark-making is much more evident. The face of the child looks to be revealed from lines and characters coming from her bonnet; slowly but suddenly my eyes find the child’s face. Cassatt exposes the child to us, and to me it felt as if that which I experienced was the same as Cassatt when the figure revealed itself during mark making.
Each drawing could stand alone, and with moments like these, I don’t know how anyone could decide which gets to be showcased in its own special room.

Visiting Habatat Gallery in Tyson’s Corner

Janus Walentynowicz, "Waiter Heads 1," glass/mixed media

By Katherine Sable


I was curious to see what types of galleries are located outside of the District, crossing into the state of Virginia. I found Habatat Gallery via an online search, and I didn’t know what to expect. As I walked up to the façade of Habatat Gallery, on the ground floor of a tall office building located amidst many other development projects in Tyson’s corner, I was a little excited to find a quiet, professional entrance, which was surprisingly similar to many of the strong, intimidating galleries in Chelsea. There were no 50% off signs, absolutely no buy-one-get-one-free bulletins, only tasteful signage with the name of the gallery and hours located on fingerprint-less glass doors. Upon entering, I heard classical music drifting quietly in the background and found some to-die-for lighting. The front desk was larger than you would find in a typical Chelsea gallery, and very welcoming and approachable. I came specifically to review a photography show, but I was tempted past the photographs on aluminum and into the other spaces with remarkable sculptural items twinkling on display.

It’s evident that Habatat Gallery has worked to perfect its display of sculpture. Within the lofty space, with high dark ceilings and darkly stained industrial floors, it felt like a gallery while at the same time a little like home. It was warm, inviting, friendly, and this made me want to venture further into the space. They have a small variety of ways to display their sculpture pieces- rather than using the typical white pedestals, Habatat has installed a focal point of fabulously designed dark wood cabinetry with various cubicles, each equipped with its own lighting. The wall of individual sculpture pieces was not overwhelming, and the lighting enabled each piece to stand out in its own right.

As great as the space was, there were of course also a handful of art pieces that interested me. Working with glass as a fine art medium has had a recent revitalization, and Habatat Gallery has a secondary market for glass sculpture. Emily Brock’s cast flame-worked glass vignettes of "His Office" and "Her Office" caught my attention. Although Brock’s use of pink either irritated or excited me (I can’t decide), she still creates particular little worlds, a little stereotypical, that drew me in, if only by their size and detail. Nevertheless, Brock seems to push the potential glass provides for her. Within the pieces I saw, she incorporates painting, fusing, cutting, blowing, engraving, grinding, sawing, and polishing to create all the little shapes located within her miniatures. Little books and pieces of colored stationary are only a few of the small details in the office settings that make walking up to these sculptures worthwhile. The content (or maybe simply subject matter) is topical and the pieces really only stand as descriptions or scenes; I hoped for more. But that may be ok for Emily Brock, as she clearly loves the use of glass to create these delicate, safe little worlds. For me, I can’t stop imagining myself, or maybe something bigger and stronger- like a bull, running through and breaking this delicate silence, a thought that is definitely fallout of the artist’s choice of medium.

A very different sculptor who also uses glass as a fine art medium, Janus Walentynowicz, displayed peculiar wall-hung pieces titled "Waiter Heads." The heads were significantly different than every other piece of art presented in Habatat Gallery. They were not clean and shiny; they did not meld with or “match” the décor in this modern architecture. They stood out. Walentynowicz denies the qualities of glass (shiny, smooth, seductive) which the rest of the glass artists here utilized and preferred. His pieces were raw: cracked and pitted, full of flaws, semi-opaque. These “waiter heads” interested me the most. Firstly, after viewing all of the other glass art in the gallery, I started to pinpoint more particularly what the glass was making me think about- finding fragility, weakness and transparency being of utmost importance to me. I think that’s the reason I couldn’t stop imagining running into Brock’s little worlds and wrecking them. Walentynowicz's pieces have such physical presence; you cannot deny looking into the works rather than simply admiring the glossy surface. This is key! This quality rendered the faces painted below the glass evocative. The surface of the painted face and the surface of the glass drowning the faces became one and at the same time were fighting with each other. I began to wonder about the identity of these waiters, and in doing so, I was forced to look through, intensely, the surface of the semi-opaque glass and into the actual depths of these pieces. What a success; I kept jumping back and forth, in and out, and the properties of the glass are essential to that dynamic.

Habatat Gallery will celebrate its first year anniversary with drinks, food, and dancing on Thursday, March 27th from 8pm to 12 am. I say check them out, Tyson’s Corner isn’t that far away.

The Baroque Woodcut at the National Gallery

Christoffel Jegher after Sir Peter Paul Rubens,"Hercules Fighting the Fury and the Discord"


By Katherine Sable

I’ve had the Baroque Woodcut exhibition on my to-do list for at least a month now. I knew that in order to get the most out of this exhibition, I needed to set aside at least a few hours in order to be able to view each small print on display in the National Gallery. I knew I would be drawn in by each carefully articulated line and I wanted to give each print its due. This particular exhibition included sixty-five16th and 17th century woodcuts that define, in my mind, the high point of woodcut as a medium. This exhibition highlights the union between the master painter as designer and draftsman and the woodcutter as craftsman and creator. This fusion is almost seamless in the work presented because the imagination, drama and energy are preserved within each delicately executed composition. One grasps more than a collaboration of creativity and skill, the marriage of a vision by both partners is also apparent. Before seeing this exhibition, I was completely unaware that the woodcuts I attributed to Peter Paul Rubens were actually carved by a man named Christoffel Jegher.

The progression of prints, wrapping around the walls of three rooms, was a delicious adventure. Never before had I seen such varied handling and line making at this quantity. The delicate and calm work of Titian, Hans Baldung Grien and Albrecht Altdorfer rang differently than the Dutch designer and cutter Hendrik Goltzius. His were bold, reminiscent of caricatures and very stylized; the line acted more like design and decoration, filling in more than describing form and depth. The Crowning with Thorns captures violence with aggressive line by Andrea Meldolla (Schiavone). The actual lines seem as though they were carved as violently and haphazardly as the depicted soldiers pierced the central figure with their spears. My eyes moved rapidly over each descriptive line, passing over the obscured faces embellished only with dark, cold lines. The handling of the block is completely appropriate to the scene.

I passed into a calmer grouping towards the end of the exhibition where I found prints by Titian and Rubens and an amazing set of miniatures by Callot. The walls were adorned with humble mark making by Jan Lievens and Giuseppe Scolari where in Rape of Persephone marks read more like natural, organic grains of wood vertically presented on the paper.

A few pieces stood out, particularly the work of Master G.G.N after Luca Cambiaso. The energy and emotive mark making produced in his woodcuts almost reduce the drawing to mere gestures of figures where he emphasizes sensitive yet descriptive contours of each bodily pose. They begin to transform into calligraphic letters of some abstract form. The strangest print in the entire exhibition, the one image that I can’t get out of my mind, was Jan Muller’s depiction of the Greek God of Silence, Harpocrates. Throughout the show, there were beautiful moments where the drawing of generic drapery still pulled me into the windy dramatic scene and here Muller depicts not a stylized headdress, but rather a particularly stiff and fragile cloth using the white space effectively and specifically. Scolari also did this, as he used white space in moderation, and when the paper did show through, completely untouched by line or merely peeking through masses of line, it was a clear and effective device.

I had always assumed the carving of a woodcut was a very limiting medium, as it seems so very permanent. I learned that there was much tweaking that the carvers did in order to get the image just right. Three versions of Herodias and Salome by Guido Reni showed the clear progression from the working line carving to the finished block. I was completely unaware of the fact that subtle changes were possible in carving a wood block, and they made all the difference in the finished print. Reni both refines and perfects this scene while at the same time he is able to keep the work fresh and alive.

The piece I kept going back to was Jan Lievens’ Balding Man. This portrait was both dramatic and yet surprisingly humble. While viewing the other prints in this survey, I couldn’t help but imagine the physical process involved in carving a woodblock, and each time I strived to view a small group of lines, or an individual line as a singular mark, I was distracted by my wandering mind, stuck on how the block would be carved. I wanted to concentrate on the role each line has as a descriptor for form. All of the prints were sophisticated, dramatic, full of energy- everything they were hyped up to be. But the Balding Man that Jan Lievens himself carved, was the epitome of austerity, subtlety and yet was at the same time so very real and even a bit whimsical with the few curls drawn upon the figures head. How could this singular piece be so emotive and yet so quiet and still? It held a presence that none of the other pieces seized. This print embodied everything I wanted to find all in one place, and on one surface.

Also included in this exhibition are woodcuts by Andrea Andreani, Jost Amman, Wilhelm Traut, Domenico Beccafumi, and many others.

OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Delight at the American Visionary Art Museum

By Katherine Sable

A Friday afternoon trip to the American Visionary Art Museum proved to be quite the eye opening experience for me. I found myself browsing through each room much differently than I do in more traditional art museums, such as the National Gallery of Art. It is clear that this establishment does not follow typical museum trends, and I was less distracted by wall mounted paragraphs and info lines. I let my eyes wander and simply take in the amazing art. A surprise was found around each corner, glistening gems and mirrored surfaces, and satisfying over-ornamented sculptures with glitter and all that glistens. This was right up my alley.

As I made my way to the top floor of the museum via the impressive grand staircase, I began to ask myself what this place was really all about. I kept repeating the word “visionary” in my mind. I began making connections to my very straightforward understanding of outsider art and during this experience, I began to see fabulous examples of this pure inner vision that I have heard so much about, but felt I had never really seen before. There was no apparent response to the art world; there was only a driving force, maybe a belief system, that compelled these artists to make authentic, honest paintings and sculptures. I started looking all around for the particular innocence in this type of art-making, but as I reached the top floor to the show “OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Delight,” I questioned my notions all over again.

OCD is one of AVAM’s permanent exhibitions that showcases artists who are driven by their compulsion to make art. I was drawn in by the title, expecting something novel from clinically disordered individuals fighting battles everyday with different aspects of an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Instead, I was confronted with the exploitation of an artist with Down syndrome, one who was clinically depressed her entire life- an introvert, and another raised by a mother who was emotionally unavailable. Each of these women lived with difficulty, produced possibly tragedy-driven or inspired work, but may not have been consistently driven by compulsion. The connection between artists was in the word “compulsive,” but after seeing the exhibition, I found it much less interesting, and a bit misleading.

I have to say that I wasn’t turned off by all the work, but rather the structure of the show and even more so, the trajectory of the show. I enjoyed Judith Ann Scott’s sculptures, the artist with Down syndrome who had been institutionalized her entire life. After her twin sister rescued her from the institution as an adult, Judith began making incredible sculptures out of yarn, found objects, foam, and fibers- basically anything she could get her hands on. She was a kleptomaniac, one veritable compulsive amongst the included artists. Judith Ann Scott had a burning desire to steal things and hoard them away. Influenced by craft events that she and her sister frequented, she began binding the stolen objects into the center of her sculpture pieces, hiding them, as if in the center of a coconut. The need for her to wrap her objects up, binding them into a work of art moved me, and the sheer monumentality of the sculptures made this artwork powerful. However, I could not help but find this entire grouping of Judith Ann Scott’s work questionably exploitive. I have to say, at least with this part of the OCD show, a driving force of the work was an actual clinical obsession.

Moving on to Zona Gordon’s work, I was compelled to move close, and then step back as I tried to put together stories of each rag doll presented behind glass. The peculiar little fabric dolls lacked arms and legs, and they resembled many different archetypes of female figures. The sewing seemed intimate, and the different textiles used to create each doll gave a small clue to the decisions this private woman made. Because Zona Gordon was a loner, a creative type who preferred to be in the comforts of her own home, she was included in this exhibition. I had a peek into the life of a woman who wouldn’t let people in. Was her work the result of a compulsive disorder, or merely her lifestyle?

Lastly, the works by Ted Gordon, which seem to be the museum’s prize possession, are included in this presentation. A hint of OCD is credited for Gordon’s ability to generate a prolific and focused body of work, and to the Visionary Museum, this is a seemingly good reason to have this whole exhibition. His drawings of faces made by pressing a ballpoint pen deeply into cheap school grade papers to create a variety of linear patterns could easily be called doodles. In fact, he did consider them doodles, and I agree. Perhaps it was his lifestyle and challenges which gain this extra consideration for doodles, and make them art.

Skin City: The Art of the Tattoo from October 12- December 31, 2007

By Kate Sable


I found myself pleasantly surprised upon entering The Arts Center in St. Petersburg, Florida this weekend. I have always been drawn towards work that finds its roots in the ‘arts of the street.’ The show Skin City: The Art of the Tattoo showcases quite a few artists who draw inspiration from the age-old tradition of the tattoo. This exhibition draws light on this form of art that has been long considered taboo, underground to the normative crowd. Decoration of the body exists in our earliest recollections of human history. However, individuals who use body art as a means of self-expression have always been of a social domain in which one is either a member, or simply an outsider. Throughout the show, I saw very specific and extremely powerful cultural symbols geared directly toward a language used in the world of tattoo art. I felt comfortable viewing this specific type of imagery, maybe because I have seen it so often in the alluring form of tattoo; however, the disconnect was there, I definitely do not have the same awareness and appreciation many of these artists do toward this specific language. Self-expression, personal experiences, social values, and myth are all references for the art pieces in the show and the work effectively challenges serious ideas about identity, beauty and of course, the body.

I was immediately drawn to the photographs by artist John Wyatt. The black and white photographs seemed so generous, making each individual portrayed readily available to me. Most of the figures were heavily tattooed artists and patrons who share this common love for the art of the tattoo. While first viewing the photographs, I found myself constructing stories and ideas about these beautiful decorations and their relationship to the person marked, making my own secret assumptions about why they have each specific design or ornamentation upon their bodies. I was feeling quite voyeuristic, attributing each image on their body to some powerful moment, person, or event in the lives of the portrayed, this person I didn’t know at all. After having played these games in my head, I noticed many of the pictures had specific narrative directly beside the image. To my surprise, Wyatt included very personal dialogue alongside the images to let the viewer in on harder evidence of the diverse backgrounds and lifestyles of the figures in the photographs. The photographs really did expose a part of the people, much like the marks on their body can do to an outsider studying the clues of personal expression inked into their skin. I’m not sure if the dialogue available was necessary for me to be drawn into the photographs, but after already having spent so much time looking at the work, I found myself easily and happily passing another 40 minutes reading each description, providing some satisfaction to a risen curiosity.

The show also included drawings, prints, assemblages and sculpture work by Nick Bubash, who has been working as a tattoo artist since 1972. The collages and assemblages were particularly interesting to view. These pieces were very strong compositionally with fabulous color use; a great dialogue is created between each piece. The work is visually complex, I found that I really enjoyed the use of figures, pop culture, and mechanics. He creates work that seems rather specific, as if each image has a very particular function, but upon further inspection I gathered that each created figure or space was completely nonsensical. The images chosen are, as I mentioned before, images in which I feel very comfortable viewing, because I felt as if I had seen them many times before, on the body. Only with this work they have been taken out of context, off the body and onto a formally strong and equally aesthetically pleasing artwork. The paper pieces dance off the page and show a very interesting crisscross of culture. I was also interested in how nicely his artistic sensibilities transferred into book form, exhibited by his book art pieces in cases on the floor of the gallery. Bubash completely rules when it comes to owning decorative and ornate design. I wanted so much to run my hands across the papers and stitched book pieces.

The types of imagery that fill this gallery space are cultural images powerful enough for individuals to choose their permanent placement upon their bodies. By transferring these same images into a gallery space, this show harnesses some of that energy and enthusiasm and finds much success.

Benjamin Jurgensen and Paul Jeffreys at Meat Market

REVIEWED BY KATE SABLE


On Sunday, the Meat Market gallery closed the show Conscious Inaction, a two-person exhibition of sculpture by Benjamin Jurgensen and photographs by Paul Jeffreys. Both men aim to examine ideas of contemporary masculinity, through themes of youth culture and materialism in Jurgensen's case, and an exploratory juxtaposition of images of strip joints and hunting trophy rooms in Jeffreys'. The Meat Market gallery can call this show another success, their exhibition design gave the works their due, with a particularly interesting parallel arrangement of Jeffreys' photographs, highlighting the comparison of the subjects, and lending to the message.

Jurgensen arranges representations of plainly painted inanimate objects made out of MDF and wood in awkward and often sexual setups, creating short narratives. The arrangements are sometimes perilous, sometimes secure, and the interaction of the objects points directly to the title of the show, Concious Inaction. The objects have been removed from their active context, in position and medium, but do not necessarily take on a new life in their discrete groupings, perhaps highlighting the similar circumstance of many people's lives. The objects seem to reach toward some meaning together, but only in a half-hearted manner, as if arranged precisely toward no potential objective. For some, that circumstance would speak volumes.

Paul Jefferey's neutral photographs, on the other hand, utilize places that seem to allude to the man's man of the rural United States. Images of an American sitting room overcrowded with a hunter's preserved trophies of game animals, isolated to a direct comparison with scenery from a over-neglected backstreet strip club point to the misguided intentions of a distinct subculture of men. It would seem that the meaning of preserving an animal for display or creating a stage and lighting to host naked women for view would be to elevate the subject, somehow enhancing them from their natural states of being. However, isolated or jammed into these unnatural spaces, both subjects are distinctly degraded, the animals by losing their beauty of life, the women by performing in much less than pristine conditions. The images lack the human denizens of the spaces detailed, allowing the viewer to enter and examine the static world presented in the first-person, benefiting in a way from the focus on inactivity.

These viewpoints on the two artists' work bring about an interesting connection, by their focus in this specific context the subjects are degraded to a point of pointlessness. With Jefferey's taxidermy animals, it is clear that people cannot enjoy inhabiting the tiny space left between the multitude of animals. The animals lose the little function left them, they fail to beautify their space, and become an impossibility of reason. The strip club images highlight the dingy and worn qualities of the objects that host the sexual encounters of the people that frequent these places. The objects fail to enhance the space or the experiences held there, but continue to exist only as a matter-of-fact. Similarly, the sculpture objects that Jurgensen creates are also pointless, stripped from their function, happy only in their coexistence with the others in their groupings. Sometimes I suppose, pointlessness does not imply meaninglessness.