We Don’t Need No Education…

tinyOne tricky thing about writing a blog is resisting the urge to begin with, “oh, and another thing…”  Constant ranting might be cathartic, but it doesn’t exactly make for the best reading experience. And after all, if a tree complains in the woods and there’s no one there to hear it…well, you get the idea.  I’ll bet you’re expecting a ‘but’ here, and there probably would be except that events this very week have transpired to calm my irksome inner whiner.

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Some time ago, I was giving an ‘artist talk,’ (no lecterns or AV equipment, just a sparsely attended gallery thing) when someone brought up the subject of ‘art education.’  This was in the context of a discussion on city-owned works, as in, “if the city is going to spend money on art, shouldn’t it be on art education?” Thankfully I suppressed my urge to scoff.  (Scoffing’s not recommended when addressing the few folks who are kind enough to show up to your little gallery thing).  My response was to turn the discussion fine-artwards.  After all, if the art these kids are being ‘educated’ on is purely historical, then how can it ever truly speak to their experience? That just perpetuates the idea that art is made by “other people,” not anyone you could ever know or interact with.  Cities should spend money on local contemporary art and artists because contemporary folks, (kids and grown ups alike) need the shock of pure pleasure that a good public piece can provide.  And people should know that artists are hardworking, normal people that live among them.

Troy Stanley's truck

Troy Stanley’s truck

So: back to this week’s spirit bolstering events.  On Wednesday, HAA quite literally rolled out the newest pieces in the city’s collection.  These were in the form of six recycle trucks, wrapped in vinyl designed by as many artists.  The trucks have already been roaming the streets for a few weeks now, so we’ve spotted a couple in transit.  Ariane Roesch’s looks almost quilted, and Troy Stanley’s like it’s carved out of a single block of milled wood.  Kia Neill’s digitally altered photograph adds a dimensional twistedness to the flank of one truck, and Aaron Munoz’ apocalyptic wry humor is evident in his mechanized bomber birds.  These trucks are pure fun, but what really stayed with me is their impact on the non-art folks.  Their drivers posed for pics with the artists, obvious pride undiminished by the August heat.  We heard stories of people in neighborhoods coming out to greet the trucks.  In a way this is the perfect public project,  these pieces will travel into neighborhoods that have very little in the way of public art, and hey transform an ordinary fact of daily life into a moment of reflection and fun.  

detail of Kia Neill's truck

detail of Kia Neill’s truck

What stuck with me was something HAA’s Matthew Lennon said about the importance of creating jobs for artists in this city.  This project easily could have veered into the territory of “art education,” by becoming a contest for schoolchildren or the like.  Of course that would be wonderful for the child who won the contest, even life-altering.  But what happens in giving contemporary artists these kinds of opportunities is that the entire city has potential to change.  And this is what public art should be about, not ‘education,’ in the dry, didactic, top-down way we tend to look at it.  I would even venture that encouraging people to look at the world differently is education, but it puts the tools in the hands of the learner.  Education, museums, art (even public art), shouldn’t be some medicine that we have to hold our noses and swallow down, they should be generative, self-perpetuating forces that transform our experience.  All of that starts with a little unexpected aesthetic pleasure.  

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Pablo-Gimenez Zappiola’s truck (left) and CORE design studio’s (right)

Kids and Art

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Recently Jake Chapman, famous for his controversial installation pieces with brother Dinos, stoked the perpetually seething flames of internet rage with his comments about children looking at art. His statements ranged, the most incendiary about a child looking at a Pollock. [It’s] “like saying… it’s as moronic as a child”, said Chapman, adding “children are not human yet.” Since children looking at art is kinda our bread and butter at the Artstroller, Chapman’s comments got me thinking. In a sense, he’s right. There is some futility in taking a child to an art gallery. Art (especially art like Chapman’s) is about raising the level of spectacle to the highest degree. Through spectacle, artists can elicit in adults that thing that children take for granted: wonder.

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It’s not that art is “too good” for kids, but the other way around. When you’re two, everything in the world holds fantastic possibility, there are no limits. If everyone around you is making art, there’s no reason to think it isn’t as natural as breathing or eating. Of course learning is a process of paring this endless possibility down, assigning a hierarchy to objects and people and thoughts. It’s both exhilarating and painful to watch a child learn, because knowledge unlocks some doors (reading, communicating) and slams others shut (falling, learning patience.) Wading through the Jesus Soto Houston Penetrable at the MFAH yesterday morning clarified this distinction for me. I thought about Latin American op-art, minimalism, the struggles of being a museum preparator who has to install this thing, or a guard who spends entire days untangling plastic tubes. But Clementine tried at least six different ways of walking through this installation. She “found” other bright-eyed kids inside and mimicked them or startled them or was startled by them.

Jay Shin at Barbara Davis

Jay Shin at Barbara Davis

Ed Wilson

Ed Wilson

So here’s the secret: when I lug Clementine through hushed galleries to look at art that is full of the best examples of adult “wonder,” it’s not so much for her absorption of those objects. I don’t see museums or galleries as a kind of medicine or health food; something to do because it’s good for you. Kids don’t need to have their minds cracked open by spectacle, because they’re already there. But in order to function normally in life, she’ll have to close a few of those doors…already has. It’s my hope that by making art a part of our “normal” experience, she’ll find that transcendent balance between knowledge and wonder. That’s a thrilling place to be, and for me the only essential qualification for being an artist.

Inside Paul Kittleson's whale

Inside Paul Kittleson’s whale

Special thanks to Anne Ferrer for sending me the link to Jake Chapman’s comments.

Blaffer Part II

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Francesca Dimattio’s ceramic sculptures and paintings give a merry nod to abstract expressionism, especially such clunky medium-fetishists as Peter Voulkos and Philip Guston.  But she’s too aware of the vast history of her medium(s) to fret over that boys’ club for too long.  The sculptures offer lively riffs on ceramic tropes: there’s a quirky little Wedgwood blue teapot-like form, and sinewy animal and human figures curl as graciously as any Han dynasty dragon along the edges of several of the sculptures.  But it’s her simultaneous mastery of these historical bits and her wacky irreverance that make these works so breathtakingly contemporary.         

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Two pairs of overweight, overwrought sculptures balance daintily in the main upstairs gallery: a bit like Disney’s tutu-ed hippopotomi frozen in place.  The lovingly sculpted figurines on their surface are in some places so globbed with multiple glazes as to be barely recognizable.  (I have to admit it was Clementine who pointed out a small  “doggy” to me)  

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The largest single work in the show is a three-thousand-pound chandelier hoisted in the middle of the smaller upstairs gallery.  Like Dimattio’s tiny teapots, the chandelier winks at the idea of “function,” a deeply fraught issue among all ceramicists/potters/ceramists/academics with a focus on ceramics.  We know she knows about all that malarkey, (she shows us by perching single Edison bulbs on the end of each impossibly heavy arm of the chandelier) but she’s commiserating slyly us. Sure, this “light fixture” alleviates the dimness in the room, but the primary function of those piddly bulbs is to illuminate the splashy, gorgeous ceramics on which they are perched.  There are candy-cane striped ropes, delicate chinoiserie, and brutally chunky slabs mingling in the golden light.

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Dimattio’s paintings are really good, too, but don’t embrace the wild abandon as freely as her three-dimensional works.  The patterns and references just aren’t as twistedly specific as the ceramic pieces.  Her real strength is letting loose the staid conventions of a medium that’s possibly older than painting.  It’s as if Dimattio were throwing a really great party,  and all the grumpy set-in-their-ways opposing camps finally let loose and ended up dancing with lampshades on their heads.  

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Backstage at the Blaffer

Parenthood has the perhaps not-so-surprising side effect of making one so much less judgmental of other parents.  In the pre-kid era, it’s so much easier to roll your eyes at an operatic tantrum and say, “my kid will never…”   I guess that’s the thing about inside knowledge, suddenly black and white make room for myriad shades of gray, and a pesky thing called nuance creeps into your perspective.  But some parental decisions continue to boggle my mind, including the phenomenon of the “stage parent.”  An exhibition of video works at the Blaffer by Candice Breitz had me pondering this topic deeply, even though not  one spray-tanned harpy (ala Toddlers and Tiaras) makes an appearance.

courtesy of Blaffer website

courtesy of Blaffer website

Breitz has included three separate pieces in The Woods, an exhibition that reveal various complicated facets of the world of child acting.  World is an apt description, as the artist has chosen American child actors for the Audition,  Indian actors for The Rehearsal, and two former child-stars of Nollywood (Nigerian) fame for The Interview.  The presentation of the videos is visually flawless. The ultra-hi-def, perfectly syncopated video monitors switch on and off as Breitz conducts our attention.  We encounter The Audition first, a set of several roughly half life-sized screens against one wall, and a large triptych of screens adjacent.  On each screen is a different kid.  When Clementine and I entered the deeply black screening room, a child’s voice was sweetly lilting.  The prepubescent voice addressed a pop song’s generic “girl,” abstracting the concept of unrequited love.  In each featureless white frame, a child stood and looked at the camera, or danced, or wriggled happily but nervously.  After the song ended, they began alternately reciting lines.  Rather than any dramatic piece, Breitz has created a sort of monologue based on quotes from “industry insiders,”  the very people who decide which of these kids will sell the most cereal, or make the best Annie.  

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It’s this weird turn about that transforms the documentary leanings of this work into fine art.  The children literally become vehicles for adult opinions.  The knowing voice of the monologue exhorts the children to, “be themselves…know their strengths…not dress exactly like mom.”  It’s probably the reason that the far wall of the gallery shows alternating child actors (this time not speaking) in a sort of larger-than-life video portrait.  After a time, the “voice” of the adult speaker usurps the images of the cute kids.  We become painfully aware of the pressures placed on them by adults on both sides of the audition process.  It’s certainly subtler than the “Toddlers and Tiaras” approach, and I think much more powerful.  By physically removing the adults in the equation, but making us no less aware of their presence,  Breitz doesn’t allow us to easily dismiss them as some flawed caricature.  We see the direct evidence of their actions presented in the hopeful and beautifully un self-aware children.  And as an adult viewer, Breitz turns the onus on us, we become the elephant in the room.  

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As you can imagine, all this is particularly pointed with an almost two-year-old clinging to your hip.  She’s so unaware of film “convention” that a dark room is still just a scary place she doesn’t want to be alone in.  There’s no expectation of entertainment.         

20140718_133712Stay tuned for our review of the other equally interesting exhibition on the second floor of the Blaffer Museum…

Filling Up the Tank

The art world has a tendency to become a bit self-referential. If you’re not careful, you can find yourself making paintings about painting for other painters. With the”season” officially ended, we at Artstroller found it restorative to take a little break from openings, lectures, and the whole meta shebang and head out for a good old-fashioned road trip. For two days we toured the hill country, dropping in swimming holes, picnicking, and hiking. It was an excellent reminder that there is a whole universe outside of art’s comparatively miniscule one. We did cheat, just a little, on our art moratorium, stopping by Ken Little’s new public installation on Lady Bird Lake Boardwalk in Austin. Little (never been one to eschew a good pun), titled the series of stamped bronzed belts belting it out.

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Two Shows, Five Hundred Years, and a Whole Lotta Artists

enjoying the opening

enjoying the opening

It’s easy to forget that printmaking techniques were once cutting edge technology.  The ability to disseminate images on the scale of Instagram would no doubt leave Gutenberg aghast.  But Houston’s Print Matters exhibitions prove that there is still something enthralling and relevant in the hand-printed image.  Tinee and I have attended a couple of recent openings, with more or less interest on her part.  (Her measure of the success of an opening seems to be directly related to how much cheese and grapes she can sneak.) The Mariago Collective, a small but sleek new venue in Montrose, showcased prints by nine artists; some emerging, others household names.  Just down the road at the Houston Arts Alliance we saw an exhibition of prints that reveals a breathtaking historical arc of the medium, titled 1511-2014.

from 1511-2014

from 1511-2014, photo courtesy of Marc Newsome

 

Starting Gate, the Mariago show, features several artists who toy with the boundaries of printmaking.  Traditionally, printmakers strove to create editions in which each print was indistiguishable.  But Aaron Munoz, Gissette Padilla, and Brian Curling seem to use printmaking as a jumping-off point.  The mechanical processes of printmaking feature heavily in their work, but there is room for paint and collage as well.  Padilla’s subtle use of color and ambiguously figurative work is especially sophisticated.  Julie Speed and Tanja Softic are more entrenched in the history of the medium, working in highly traditional intaglio processes.  For Speed this seems particularly important, as her imagery is so tied to European painting.  A scowling, grotesque figure hacks away at a dead fish.  It could be a Flemish “daily life of the peasants” scene were it not for the character’s extra eyeball.

 

Gissette Padilla and Tanja Softic

Gissette Padilla and Tanja Softic

Brian Curling

Brian Curling

This sense of history is explored in all it’s postmodern electic-ness in HAA’s exhibition.  It’s a fabulous study in the proximity of disparate imagery.  Most of the work in this show comes from Gus Kopriva’s vast collection of prints, no doubt a curatorial goldmine.  On one wall, there’s a Mel Chin, an Ed Ruscha, and a Rembrandt, all similarly-sized but with obviously wide-ranging thematic concerns.  What is particularly interesting is the combination of necessarily religious work (due to patronage), and the much broader range of subject matter amongst the contemporary artists.  Earlier artists innovated with process because their conceptual concerns were dictated, and later ones pushed conceptual boundaries with less focus on new techniques.

Mel Chin, Ed Ruscha, Rembrandt...oh, and Albrecht Durer. Photo courtesy of Marc Newsome

Mel Chin, Ed Ruscha, Rembrandt…oh, and Albrecht Durer

 

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photo courtesy of Marc Newsome

Both of these exhibitions make the case that man (and woman) cannot live by jpeg alone.   In fact, I would argue (not that I have to, because these shows do it for me) that the mix of hand and machine-made that goes on in contemporary printmaking should ease any luddite’s fears (everything was technology at one point, right?)  But hopefully it can help the technophiles slow down just a bit, too.  There’s still no adequate substitute for the evidence of the human hand.

Not looking at art at the Mariago Collective

Not looking at art at the Mariago Collective

Book Mining

There is something that feels a bit like cheating in Anton Christian and Al Souza’s Edinburgh Connection.  The collaboration began with handsome old books, the kind with gleaming gilded edges, packed with ornate engravings of generals staring heroically into the distance.  These were objects already loaded with craft, so finding visual inspiration must’ve been a bit like those early days of the California Gold Rush-little nuggets of beauty there for the taking.  But rather than churning out the tired tropes of “book art,” (book as object or landscape or even archaic reading device) they’ve managed to imbue them with a delicate balance of humor and subversion.

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Christian picks apart the engravings’ contents, positioning his elegantly uniformed characters above blood-soaked battlefields.  The gore is splashed with painterly concern, but it’s stickiness is not at all muted.  The effect is not only a literal deconstruction of  well-composed images, but a conceptual dissection as well.  Individuals are unidentified and therefore generalized, becoming stand-ins for all 18th-century “men of means.” The torchbearers of the Enlightenment, they are too high-minded to wallow in the mire of their hypocrisy.  The viscera of the battles they created seems to pass unnoticed under their aquiline noses.  But Christian doesn’t indulge himself in too much finger-wagging, (hindsight being 20/20, etc). He tosses in some levity for balance. In one notable example, the artist focuses his collage solely on the beards of his subjects.  Their self-styled regal-ness becomes a parody.

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Christian’s collages are necessarily small, as it appears that he and Souza gutted the actual books for this endeavor. Souza’s similarly scaled sculptures occupy pedestals and vitrines near the wall-work.  He’s hacked apart the shining edges of the books, stuffing them into a variety of antique containers.  Each box or tin or wooden stump is jammed to its brim with dismembered book parts. The function of the containers is realized, but the books (at least their content) is entirely neutralized.

 

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We’ve all been warned that history is written by the “winning” side, but Edinburgh Connection reminds us of the possibility of artistic re-interpretation.  These books recorded history from a particular bias, but their visual language of heroic portraiture, gold and marbled inserts is exactly what gives Souza and Christian’s work it’s visual power.

 

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