Channel
Surfing
by
Stacey Lauren
Metroland
Wickedly,
I am tempted pounce on them as if they were prey. But let us ignore
for the moment some of the unbelievably embarrassing “artist
statements,” including a moronic monologue on the virtues
of pissing and a cerebral fart expelled from the mind of a certain
someone shamelessly confessing that his motivations for creating
works of art “stem from an unyielding desire to meet chicks.”
Instead we will focus on the serious in the exhibition Clickers,
a show curated by Jed Cleary at Fulton Street Gallery featuring
the work of artists under the age of 30.
The
delightful works by Michele Molea’s Banana Mary and
Bobbing for Jesus more than make up for the insincerity
of others who have not yet ventured forth from adolescence. Banana
Mary is aptly titled, for the beautiful iconic form the Virgin
Mother has taken in the shape of a banana, then joined with more
of the same, to create bunches. Bobbing is, as expected,
a number of red apples floating a vat of water, each lovingly
adorned with precision Jesus protrusions. Though these pieces
are inspired by a professed cynicism of religion, they are reverently
irreverent and refreshingly so. They are not the typical vitriol
one encounters when disillusioned artists attempt to drag the
rest of the world into their abysses of hopelessness. Instead,
they are a commentary brought about by ingenuous searching (somehow
the artist found salvation in an aisle in CVS). It brought to
mind a character in a Flannery O’Connor novel; I might expect
Molea to be walking around with stone and glass in her shoes or
barbed wire wrapped about her torso. These works are truly wonderful.
The
omnipresence of John Hampshire’s portraiture in the Capital
Region has made it easy to trace his experimentation with style.
Laura, an oil on paper work, is an interesting example,
for the wild Linda Dennis-like markings have been subdued in favor
of a pointillist television-realism (if I dare use such an oxymoron),
which in turn evolves into something more akin to the agitation
of van Gogh. I couldn't help but think of Chuck Close, but Hampshire's
Laura is generally more satisfying, because it’s not
simply about technical perfection but about paint and the nuances
of application.
Realism
is the intended result of Scott Hook's grandiose painting The
Enemy Is Come. Hook provides a lengthy statement that informs
the viewer of his intent (which is good) to show the “grisly
spectacle of man's unleashed barbarism.” The presentation
is very impressive, given first impressions. The trouble is that
Hook tries too hard to say too much; eloquence succumbs to hyperbole
in a sea of magenta. A passerby remarked, “The painting isn’t
very peaceful.” That’s neatly all it succeeds in conveying,
however, for the attempt to reveal the atrocities of war only
serves to display or glorify rather than condemn. A comic-book
depiction of a man’s face blown off and the splayed legs
of a woman mounted by a soldier are handled with too little sensitivity
to be effective. The violence is thus rendered gratuitous, reducing
viewer to voyeur, never quite differentiating between the reality
of war and the nonsense escapism of cinema. The painting itself,
rather than the subject matter, has become the source of offense.
Colleen
Cox’s large vertical painting of windswept spectral chairs
escapes the ordinary through the beauty of color and chimerical
stealth. Though seemingly uncomplicated, the hypnotic sense of
movement, the sway within a sea of midnight blue, is strangely
satisfying in a visceral way (it made me think we might not be
in Kansas anymore). Her small monoprints possess an unpretentious
beauty. Circulation is an organic, womb-like mass engulfed
in a gray-green haze. Untitled is similar, though less
biotic and hence less striking.
Both
photography and traditional sculpture make poor showings; many
of the artists are still apparently experimenting and struggling
with content and intent. Denee Guenette's multiple-exposure black-and-white
photographs are just “more of the same.” Using the image
of a naked woman, Guenette once again invokes the much-proliferated
negative association between woman and nature, as in the work
of Gisela Gamper and thousands of others. There was some reference
to fairy tale in her statement, but there is no apparent connection
between these images and the aforementioned unless “woman”
is the big bad wolf. Abraham Ferraro’s fetish for power tools
and longnails left me vexed, for small ironies are not enough
to sustain, and Jodi Case's suspended metal leg did little but
create a modicum of intrigue. As for the insincere, their work
is easily dismissed.
Clickers
meets and surpasses expectation, both in the negative and the
positive. There is a good deal of potential from the generation
born with a remote-control appendage. Thankfully their art does
not, in general, reflect their idol worship of the all-engrossing
boob tube.
Facts:
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