The Art of Self-Disclosure

It wasn’t really that long ago that the proper subject matter for great works of art was somewhat narrowly defined. Tales from religions, mythology, and history were the only subjects deemed worthy of our highest regard. Disruptions in this belief became evident with Realist artists like Gustave Courbet and Edouard Manet during the nineteenth century. Within one hundred years it seemed that the entire hierarchical structure had crumbled and that the politics of personal identity had displaced the previous themes.

This is a somewhat dramatic oversimplification, but there have been significant shifts. While there may only be a fraction of contemporary artists producing work that fits the traditionally held formats of history and religious painting, many artists continue to reference these same stories of humanity’s past. The purpose may be to scrutinize long-held beliefs the artist finds to be false, or to align the work with some sub-theme from the past. Likewise, not every contemporary artist utilizes his or her artwork to investigate questions concerning gender, race, or sexuality, or to exorcise some specific personal demon.

One thing that is certain, the realm of the personal and intimate has a prominent position among the various and valid themes in the contemporary discourse. From Tracey Emin’s rumpled bed sheets and womb-like tent installation listing every person she has ever slept with, to the sado-masochistic performances of the now deceased Bob Flanagan, who mixed elements of his cystic fibrosis with his art and sexual practices, the highly personal has become highly public. My question as an artist is where do we draw the line?

I am not saying that these particular artists, and others like them, have crossed some moral boundary that marks their work as something other than, or less than, art. All these categories and many others are certainly fair game for the creation of art. If the work takes us no further than the bathroom humor of a fifth grader then I question its artistic merit. If it has a more transcendent presence, even if the medium used to get us to that place is a difficult one, then it is valid as art. My question is more about my boundaries.

The creation of artwork is, by its very nature, personal. Andy Warhol may have worked to destroy some of that notion, but there were still aesthetic choices made in his "machine-like" works. The Duchampian emphasis on the choice of the artist finds contemporary artists inhabiting a different system than our forebears did. If multiple artists were given the same basic task and tools, the results would still differ in regard to style. Even when we try to hide the evidence of individual style it is bound to show through in some way.

Since text is a major component in much of my work I vacillate between the extremes of how much of it I should reveal. The books I read certainly tell viewers something about me. Is it better to spell out why some specific work has impacted me by making certain passages fully readable? Is it better to obscure the passages under paint so that they are still integral to the work but not a road sign pointing out a particular path?

It isn’t just the text—the physical objects and scenes depicted have personal meaning, too. These are often more highly symbolic for me, but that poses another problem. If I, like Joseph Cornell, am employing everyday objects to form a new personal, symbolic vocabulary, do I not risk being misinterpreted?
All of these possibilities are part of the fabric of contemporary art and its interpretation. It can often be a misinterpretation. While the role of the personal in art production has introduced the personal more fully into interpretation of the same works, the artist has to be somewhat comfortable with the misinterpretations that may result. The savvy artist uses the interpretations of others to assess how well his or her goals are being met and to recognize if there are apparent aspects of the work that he or she didn’t even consciously intend during its creation.

I have always employed a somewhat personalized and symbolic form of figurative imagery. Often, it retained a distinct connection to the historical and religious stories or themes mentioned earlier. As my imagery began to veer into directions that were increasingly personal I had a fear that the work would cease to find a connection with a broad audience. I soon learned that even highly personal themes retain enough of our common human truth to be approached as fully human, and therefore something to which any viewer can relate.

The probability of misunderstanding symbols and texts is great. I connect my pantheon of images and resources in my own specific ways. I associate them with things most viewers commonly would, but also with things almost nobody else would. In the end, my work is not meant as full and perfect communication. It is partial communication and partial self-discovery. I don’t mean this as some form of art therapy. It is more like a pathway, subconsciously directed, from one piece to the next.

Whatever Happened to Art Criticism?

The contemporary art world, like any subculture, is a symbiotic community. While talent, hard work, and timing are factors through which artists and artworks find a place into the canon of art history, there is also a good deal of nepotism. This “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine” state of affairs has resulted in a recent dearth of genuine art criticism—though this may have always been part of the system.

Writing on art still exists, but it often avoids stating strong opinions in black and white. An article in the February 2009 issue of Art in America touched on this in terms of market characteristics. The author lamented the loss of standards of quality which he claims has been one reason for such sharp increases in the valuation of art by living artists. A major point was that a pluralist view in the art world, along with a refusal to state that there could feasibly be some system of quality standards, has resulted in a lack of experts who can truly assess this.

I do not expect that the reviews written in major art periodicals and newspapers are going to be scathing censures of particular exhibitions or artworks. I have first hand experience with the inherent dilemmas of writing art criticism. When I was writing art reviews for a newspaper in Boise, Idaho I routinely wrote about exhibits and artists that interested me—ones I felt had merit. One gallery owner complained to my editor that his gallery’s shows were never covered. My assignment, with my editor’s full understanding that I would likely be less generous with my compliments, was to review their next show. The gallery owner didn’t complain again.

The art community in any region or municipality is small. Even New York and London have quite manageable art communities. You can accurately surmise that Boise’s is a rather small one. Even when my reviews were mostly positive I would sometimes point out problematic display issues or inconsistencies in the selected works. Once, after mentioning that the enormous frame on a particular landscape painting dwarfed the better features of the piece, the artist took me task. While attending opening receptions during the following Boise First Thursday festivities I was harassed and followed by the artist from one gallery to another. I eventually left earlier than I had planned and decided that large opening receptions were likely not the best setting to view works anyway.

I think this might be one reason for the lack of true critical writing. In the smallness of the art world it is far too easy to anger not only an artist, gallery director, or curator, but the associates of those same people. Unless the critic has a stable position with a particular publication she may be walking on very thin ice when negative criticisms are relayed.

However, all publications are complicit in this lack of true criticism. In an effort to publish what sells best, journalistic integrity is compromised. What we are offered, instead, are synoptic reviews that provide a written facsimile of the exhibition inventory and layout, while avoiding any meaty discussion of the works’ merit, or lack of it. Expert opinion may still just be opinion, but it has the backing of the author’s expertise which should carry the appropriate weight. It is always the similar opinions of many experts that create a consensus that work is of great value. The critical opinion of one bad review will not end a career.

This disappointment in a lack of real criticism was made manifest in an art review of an exhibition of work by Stanley William Hayter, printed in the March 2009 issue of Artnews (the exhibit was of Hayter’s work from 1940-50 at Francis M. Nauman Fine Art, written by Alfred MacAdam). I had been immensely disappointed that I was not able to view the exhibition. The artist’s work has made a significant impact on my own printmaking. I own the catalogue raisonne of his prints and have read most of the available literature on his life and work. I even own several of Hayter’s etchings.

I could have written a more accurate critical review without seeing the exhibit or even knowing which specific works were in it. This was merely a biographical snippet gleaned from either sources I had already read, or perhaps from the catalogue for this exhibit. I gained no new knowledge or insight on the artist, his work, or even this show. There wasn’t even a sense of what specific techniques comprised the works in the exhibit—how the works related both to one another and the decade in which they were created.

I don’t fault Mr. MacAdam for all this. He gave readers exactly what the magazine editors had requested. And the brief piece was helpful if only to provide an introduction of Hayter’s work to a much larger audience. At the same time, I wanted something more substantial from the review, and from many others that I read.

Instead of just accepting the way things are I take this as an opportunity to make what little difference I can. While this blog continues to be written with those who are somewhat estranged from the art world in mind, I now have more resolve to provide additional critical analysis than what may already be available. In fact, there will certainly be some attention paid to Stanley Hayter in the coming weeks. Assessing art and artists of our time is valuable for everyone and hopefully creates more interest in a field that remains insignificant to far too many.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold

I didn’t set out from graduate school with a plan to coat absurd and obscure objects found in junk shops with gold. I was a painter and it was only logical that my artwork would reside mostly within the arena of painting. Yet I am a strong proponent of trusting in whatever direction the artwork is leading. And this gilded path is eventually where it led.

Innocent choices inspire fateful results. My Altarpiece of St. Thomas Eliot was the first official work I produced in the altarpiece format. The original concept for these pieces involved weathered and rusted structures that indicated items far older than their production date. They were like Protestant altarpieces left in the wake of reformational iconoclasm. With this work there was both the rusty grate and the weather stained wood. But when the wood was cut to size it left edges of fresh, clean lumber.

I decided that since so many renaissance era altarpieces were coated in gold that this would be a suitable finish option for those edges. I went to Boise Blue Art Supply (one of my favorite places in Idaho) and purchased a little gold leafing kit. It was actually imitation gold leaf, which is really brass and considerably less expensive. It worked perfectly but it soon presented another finishing option.

There are chemical treatments (surface patinas) that can be applied to brass and other metals if one wishes to give them an aged appearance. Since that was really part of the whole concept I decided to try this with a couple of the next pieces—Altarpiece of St. Francis of L’Abri and Altarpiece of the Martyrdom of St. Bon. After that I have never used real gold leaf because the manipulation of the imitation gold was much more appropriate for my purposes.

What you will find is that the use of gold (or silver or copper) in the works vacillates from worn and degraded to bright and pristine. Aside from referencing age, the treatment of the metal leafing in the altarpieces is quite similar to the use of nude figures in the painted passages of these works.

The figures, referencing saints, take an elevated position in the works. Ordinary people are paid honor and reverence because of their extraordinary character or deeds, At the same time, their nudity places them on the same level or sphere in which you and I inhabit each day. The gold (or imitation gold) that covers the reliquary objects causes those objects to seem valuable, exceptional, and even holy. Yet it can tarnish. These are the common materials of this world that operates in transcendent ways.

By the act of plucking common and unusual objects out of their original contexts I am re-presenting them to the viewer. This allows for a new kind of thinking, a re-imagining of the purpose and power within the objects with which we so easily interact. It enables a reconsideration of the gracious quality that the material world possesses.

Why Art is Essential, Even When the Economy is in Freefall?—The Art of Cynthia Gusler

It is entirely too easy to nominate art as superfluous and extravagant while weathering an economic climate that is shaky, at best. As a member of the creative class (see Richard Florida’s book The Rise of the Creative Class for an excellent analysis on this segment of the population) I can attest to how acutely the artists among us feel the downward spiral. Not that things aren’t hard all over; I do appreciate how the economy has effected millions of others. My point here has less to do with the struggles of hundreds of thousands of jobless—sometimes overqualified jobless at that—than with an overarching lack of respect for the place of the arts in our society.

We write off art when the economy is bleak because we, as a culture, essentially write it off when times are good. Barring private academies, primary and secondary schools do little to foster an understanding of and interest in visual art for future generations. While athletics are extracurricular activities that involve a minority of students, funding for arts programs—invaluable programs that should involve every student at some level—are routinely placed on the chopping block before sports unless there are specific state mandates that prohibit this.

This sad state of affairs is born out of a misunderstanding of what art is, what it is for, and what it can be. If art is limited to the pretty—and I don’t mean beautiful, rather simply innocuous and pleasing colors and scenes—then it risks existing as merely decoration. If it is meant to simply be in the background then it really is non-essential.

Yet art is so much more. It intersects with every aspect of life in ways that make this planet a better place to inhabit. No matter what other topics in this world interest you, there are artists creating extraordinary works corresponding to those ideas. Some do it with humor, some with grace, but no doubt somewhere you will find an artist working on art that resonates with several key aspects of your personality.

This brings us to the unusual work of Virginia artist Cynthia Gusler. Socially conscious art is nothing new, but Gusler’s version of it displays her specific brand on it. A professor at Eastern Mennonite University, Gusler takes concepts from the studio to the classroom, and ultimately into the wider community.
With the success of television shows like Project Runway, Gusler’s students’ Trash Fashion shows are not completely original, but their combined impact on the EMU community is likely greater than Tim Gunn’s impact on Manhattan. Recycling old clothing materials (bell bottoms made from neckties) is but one of the options for the designers. They are also encouraged to incorporate unusual discarded materials that one would never expect to find on a hanger in the closet.

The point of producing a runway show with these reused products is to engender wider commitment to positive action when it comes to product consumption and disposal. Gusler’s concern for the environment and our relation to it is extended from herself to others, and from that small group to a larger group. It isn’t the typical form of "performance art" but it does act in a similar way, motivating others to consider their choices and actions.

When it comes to Gusler’s own studio work comparable concerns are addressed, but in various ways and with slightly different materials. Her geode project is a good introduction. Here, the reuse of discarded materials is not the only factor at play. In these sculptures the artist also incorporates craft materials not typically associated with fine art. The work attempts to break the boundaries between high and low art. The materials may not be those sanctioned for use in fine art, but their low state is essential to the message.

The geodes are produced in a tromple l’oeil (fool the eye) fashion. They mimic naturally occurring crystal formations. In fact, you would guess them to be just that when first approaching them. The illusion, however, may not last very long. When using the glass from a shattered car windshield the appearance of crystallization is maintained. It is when softer materials like paper and acrylic pom poms are employed that the geodes lose their sense of illusion. This is not to say that they are poorly crafted or are missing the mark. On the contrary, part of Gusler’s project is to cause viewers to question these objects.

Questions of high and low, real and fabricated, natural and synthetic, sustainable and disposable are all offered. At times the work may seem humorous, but the intent is still deadly serious. For those interested in matters pertaining to the environment, consumerism, and materiality these works will find an audience. The works’ low art style, a barrier to some, is just part and parcel of the larger concept.

Humor is an even stranger element within the birdbrid (hybrid bird sculptures) pieces. Again, Gusler makes reference to the role humans play within nature. She taxidermies small birds she finds dead in their natural habitats and then combines them with other elements. They may become mobile when combined with toy cars or allude to sacramental practices when gracing a PEZ dispenser.
Humor, however, is not the end point but a vehicle for the message. Birds are often utilized as metaphors in art and literature. They appear as messengers of the spirits or gods. Doves and ravens make appearances throughout the Bible, acting in this very mode.

Gusler’s work, like that of so many other artists, imparts essential wisdom to our culture. Why is it essential? Couldn’t she just list the facts and figures of pollution, recycling, and sustainable products? Isn’t that the point? It is part of the point, true, but Gusler achieves something more by creating these complex pieces. When viewers question her materials and processes they internalize the fullness of the message. They have participated in an interior dialogue that requires much more of them. And though not all artwork is based in socially conscious concepts, all good artwork requires something similar of viewers. This is why we need art. We need to see it, live with it. We need to purchase it and support its production. It may be possible to exist without art, but it is not possible to live in a life in fullness.

What’s in a Name?

Sometimes the words spoken or written by someone else impact us in unexpected ways. My altarpiece series of personal saints is almost entirely based on my study of the writings of others. There are, however, several altarpieces that are currently in the construction stage that came about by much more haphazard means. For instance, the concept for one piece was born out a fairly minor point in a sermon I heard a few years ago. I think it was a Good Friday sermon, but who knows now because what I retained was a vivid image that took me in a direction that my priest would certainly not have anticipated.

The most unusual case like this began sometime in the mid-1990s. The band Sixpence None the Richer, long before they had a hit song on the teen television (melo)drama Dawson’s Creek, released a CD entitled Tickets for a Prayer Wheel. I was always struck by this title and kept it in the back of my mind for some future use.

About four or five years ago the title became the impetus for an altarpiece exploring the concept of prayer. The only problem was that I had no idea what a prayer wheel actually was. I used the term to conjure up my own meaning and imagery. Upon researching the term I learned that a prayer wheel is used in Buddhist practices and that Annie Dillard, of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek fame, had actually first written a poem that shares the title, which is included in her book of poetry of that same name.

I came to the phrase through the backdoor, but by the time I recognized the genesis of the term my personal conceptualization of a prayer wheel was well underway. My prayer wheel would need to present a characteristic similar to a carnival game. My reasoning was that our concept of prayer often expresses a quality that resembles games of chance (for this I owe a debt to both Joseph Cornell and Robert Indiana). The prayers in my game/altarpiece lack a certain amount of faith and are often self centered. They are somewhat like the prayers that Anne LaMott, in her book Traveling Mercies, places in the categories of Help Me! Help Me! Help Me! and Thank You! Thank You! Thank You! Sometimes that is all we can muster. And I am well aware that, when uttered in desperation and faith, God answers them. This rudimentary format is, nevertheless, the basis of the practice of prayer and so this almost comical side had to come through.

One of the first objects, or relics, I envisioned for this altarpiece was one of those sets of chattering teeth that you wind up. I looked high and low on trips all over the U.S. and could never find them in any store. I think I would have had better luck checking the back pages of comic books, and could probably have found some X-ray specs, too! Just before I was settling on purchasing some chattering teeth—ones I didn’t even like that much—online I stumbled upon a much better replacement. (along similar lines, I am currently searching for a small plastic chameleon and always appreciate a good lead!)

One Saturday morning I was wandering the streets of lower Manhattan, on my way to visit the galleries in the Chelsea district, when I stumbled upon a flea market located in a parking garage. I found out some months later that this was one of the last Saturdays the flea market was still open. It no longer exists. Always on the lookout for some specific or not yet discovered/uncovered object, I stopped inside. Amongst the oddments I saw them. A slightly oversized set of teeth. These plastic teeth are the sort that a dentist uses when showing a patient the proper method for brushing. In fact, there was also an oversized toothbrush, but I passed on that, even though the dealer really wanted to unload both items.
I was able to talk the dealer down to $20 from the $30 he was asking, I spent the remainder of the day traversing the streets of New York with these oversized choppers in my Timbuk 2 messenger bag. I can only imagine the private conversation the teeth held with my Mac laptop. I suspect the prayers had already begun.

Now the teeth are gilded in silver and gold. That was always my intention. Their size was much more appropriate to the task than the wind up teeth. They invoke the same humorous presence, but the gilding elevates their station. They are now a relic. They possess a presence of holiness that belies their common and humorous stature. The gilded teeth are much like humans—crass and comical, we are created with much more dignity than we often display or comprehend.

Floorplans: Text as a Foundation

Just as I am interested in the added complexity that the combination of both words and images brings to an artwork, I also like to explore the multiplicities that are inherent in each of those symbolic systems on their own. Like most artists, I tend to revisit themes and subjects that I once used and thought I was done with. In 2007 this happened when I brought back the motif of the cathedral floorplan for an edition of etchings used as thank you gifts for individuals involved in the CIVA biennial conference—Transforming Spaces.

I originally worked on a series of cathedrals/crosses as a way to learn and experiment with the color viscosity etching process. In 2007, the new image—Plan—was the first such print to incorporate text. I had used text as a pictorial element in other etchings, but this was a new experiment with the floorplans. My technique and process for viscosity etching had evolved over the eight years I had been using it and this new work was markedly different from earlier pieces. The text is somewhat faint in Plan, but working on that image was enough to re-ignite my interest in this format.

The new series came from my recognition of the similarities among more conservative, even fundamentalist, branches of religions. The emphasis on the written word, on the law given by each religion’s god, is of prime importance. To simplify my task I decided to limit my investigation to only Judaism and Christianity, as they hold many scriptures is common. The new series not only used the cathedral layout, but included both English and Hebrew texts from the Pentateuch—Deuteronomy. The words work both as readable text elements and as textural design features within the larger compositions.

The central theme was the concept of the mezuzah. Jewish tradition requires all the faithful to adhere a portion of a parchment to the doorpost of the home. While some more orthodox Jewish sects do this with nearly every interior doorway, it is common that most families and persons of Jewish heritage do this with the main entrance of the home.

This act is a mitzvah—a biblical commandment. The command is found in Deuteronomy chapter six, where the LORD instructs Israel to not forget the laws and words given to them. They are compelled to teach them to their children and write them on their doorframes. They do this by affixing a tiny scroll in a small container to the right doorpost. The scroll contains the prayer known as the Shema Yisrael: “Hear O Israel, the LORD your God, the LORD is One.”

While evangelical and fundamentalist Christians do not feel an obligation to adhere physical scripture to the frames of their doors, they do hold biblical texts in equally high regard. The belief that the Bible is both infallible and inerrant results in the spare artworks in their homes that often include a verse of scripture in some form or another. In fact, Christian bookstores have made a huge industry of marketing and selling such works. I won’t waste space by offering my low views of Thomas Kinkade and his copycats here. However, I do appreciate the piety of those who purchase these kind of items. The American Church has done little to encourage a high regard for art, so we cannot expect the most art savvy Christians in a culture where art has a common status that is quite low.

This new series still places the cruciform image of the floorplans in the central, prominent region. The Hebrew and English texts become the foundation of the work in both conspicuous and subtle ways. Just as the Hebrew scriptures are the foundation for the Christian New Testament, so is Christ the cornerstone and foundation of the Church.

Only one edition of this new series has actually been printed—Fix these words in your hearts and minds. There are five smaller plates (including Write them on the doorframes of your houses, above) that have been proofed but not yet printed as editions. In fact, I still need to do some color tests before I choose the final color combinations for a few plates. Individual prints from the editions will be available, but the idea also evolved into the concept of a limited edition artist’s book that will be a gift to some friends and family. Each book will include prints of the five smaller plates along with text that explains the idea behind the project.

Andrew Wyeth: Farewell to a Pariah

On Friday, January 16, the world bid farewell to one of the most popular American artists of the twentieth century—Andrew Wyeth. Many people would be hard pressed to name off more than a few Modern artists (I am using a narrow definition of Modern Art here, in which many concede that it was initiated with the creation of Picasso’s painting Les Demoiselles D’Avignon). Aside from Picasso—and people would simply associate him with some vague notion of abstraction much more than any specific images or the concept of Cubism—the general population is often at a loss when it comes to Modernism. Yet there remain two mid-century American paintings that are easily recognized by the masses. Grant Wood’s American Gothic is one and Wyeth’s Christina’s World is the other.

But familiarity breeds contempt. Such is the case with Mr. Wyeth. His realism flew in the face of the Modernist movements that were desperately seeking validation and acceptance within the American art establishment of the mid-twentieth century. Modernism had moved past representation and that, after all, was Wyeth’s chosen style. He was to some another version of his father, N.C. Wyeth—merely an illustrator.

It is almost unimaginable that Wyeth’s widely recognized image, Christina’s World, is in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA). MOMA is the great white cube; the quintessential home for elite art. It stands for the epitome of high art and is the repository of the iconic images of the twentieth century. Granted, when the museum acquired the work, Surrealism was just making inroads to the U.S. and Abstract Expressionism’s New York School was not yet the loose grouping of tendencies and persons that it would eventually become. Today, MOMA is nearly embarrassed to own the work, yet it is one of only a small number of pieces—Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory is another—that the majority of visitors readily recognize and want to see on their tour of the galleries.

This iconic status is somewhat of a black-eye for the art establishment. One would be ridiculed in certain circles for having any affection for Wyeth’s work. It is seen as a sign of an undeveloped aesthetic sensibility. It might even be consider facile, sentimental, or nostalgic.

The artist is difficult to place within the timeline of Modern Art History and is summarily deleted from many art history texts. His work isn’t even placed alongside Regionalist artists such as Wood and Thomas Hart Benton. And so he floats around as a recognized figure, both praised and dismissed.

Wyeth’s own behavior in the art world has damaged his reputation within that sphere, to be fair. We may never know exactly what happened during the Helga Hullabaloo of the 1980s. When the nearly 250 works—many of them nude—representing Wyeth’s neighbor Helga Testorf were exhibited, there were rumors of an affair between artist and model. This only added to the hype generated from the sale of the entire suite of paintings and drawings to a single collector for the amount of $6 million. The collector later sold the works for over $40 million, total. The affair may or may not have taken place, and Wyeth’s wife may or may not have known, but the Wyeth’s did gain both a substantial income and increased notoriety at the time.

Aside from all this, why is Wyeth’s realism so appalling to the contemporary critics? I expect we will never know for certain. No one can bring serious accusation against his technique. At a time when practically no American artist used the early renaissance medium of egg tempera (though Paul Cadmus, Jared French, and George Tooker soon took it on within their own particular form of Magic Realism), Wyeth was creating some of his best known works with the archaic medium. Dry brush, another obscure technique utilizing watercolor, was Wyeth’s other medium of choice. Among his contemporaries Wyeth had no equal when it came to his facility with these mediums.

My hunch is that Wyeth’s subject matter is equally as problematic as his realism for some of his critics. His landscapes and portraits lack obvious evidence of critical theory and exploration of newer modes of art making. But this is on a first glance. The images seem familiar but these are not simple portraits and they are not typically commissioned portraits. Wyeth chose his subjects, not the other way around. The landscapes and figures epitomized the artist’s keen sense of the laborious life of the common person. His paintings are peopled with characters that, like their ancestors, struggled for generations to sustain life on unforgiving plots of land. That conflict is reflected in their eyes and written on their faces. In that reflection the average viewer sees herself.

While the specific struggles of these figures may not be those of the average Manhattanite, let alone the contemporary art historian, the basic strains of life remain the same. It may come down to class conflict. The critics believing that the unenlightened masses can enjoy nothing but simple representational art, while their own sensibilities have far surpassed that lowest common denominator. That would truly be unfair. Enjoying and appreciating certain Modern and contemporary works may be contingent upon the viewer being educated in the contemporary idiom, but it does not mean that traditional formats and techniques are inferior.

New art does not negate the significance of work from the past. There is no set number of masterpieces that requires one work to lose that distinction if a new work is conferred with the title. And the pluralism of the 60s, 70s, and 80s actually gave rise to sub-movements like Photorealism. If these works could be honestly assessed by art critics why could Wyeth not receive the same treatment?

I think all can agree that we have, at the very least, lost a master craftsman. Perhaps one day Wyeth will be re-evaluated in a more favorable way. For now, I will be one of those who claims that Andrew Wyeth and Damien Hirst actually have sought to answer (or at least ask) some of the same looming questions of life with their work. There is room for both at the table, if we only allow them.

Santos: An Unlikely Case for Veneration

My formative years were spent in the bosom of the conservative Protestant Midwest. It is a land and culture essentially devoid of any mixing of art and religion. Save for the occasional and obligatory portrait of Christ by Warner Sallman (and the one at my church had an incandescent glow from a light bulb located behind the frame), the only matrimony these two shared was in the kitschy figures that populated the Sunday School flannelgraph board. I expect there was an underlying fear we might be breaking the second commandment’s prohibition on idolatry. At the very least, we didn’t want to be accused of being papists.

A lot of artistic and religious water has passed under the bridge in the intervening decades. I have arrived at the other side with some rather divergent conclusions. It would certainly prove difficult to work as an artist if I held the view that the creation of any and all images is an affront to God. And while some still hold that view or struggle with it—for them I recommend the novels of Chaim Potok: My Name is Asher Lev and The Gift of Ashe Lev—a clear understanding that God wishes for us to place nothing in this world above him allows much freedom in the creation of images. Graven or otherwise.

But back to the derided Catholics, and the Orthodox for that matter. There is no doubt an allure to these traditions for those who have existed in a visual vacuum. A large percentage of the art produced in the Western world for the last thousand years was made in service of these traditions. But with the birth of the Protestant Reformation, countless statues of various saints were obliterated. The clear message was that Christians were not to be in the business of this image making. And for almost five hundred years that was the sole message that some Protestants received, as misguided and unbased in actual scripture and history as it was.

The tradition of creating these statues of saints to supplement religious contemplation and devotion did not end with the Reformation. On the contrary, Rome redoubled its efforts with the Counter-Reformation. The far ranging effects of this initiative shifted the Catholic faith into and throughout the New World. Without a common language in these new territories, it was the artwork that revealed the story of Christ to the indigenous peoples. In Christ and the saints they found the archetypes and personalities already represented in their own religious systems.

This transplantation of the Christian saints to new cultures is where my interest in the santos figure began. In the American Southwest these figures abound. Natives of the region now known as New Mexico were naturally drawn to a religious experience that incorporated ritual. The veneration of saints, aided by statues depicting them, provided a palatable transition.

Here I must delineate the difference between veneration and worship. This is, indeed, at the root of the iconoclasm that sprouted in the Reformation. For Christians, worship is given unto God alone. In some traditions, veneration is permitted when it comes to canonized saints, through their icons and relics. To the casual observer, it might appear that the person venerating an icon of a saint is in fact worshipping a painting—and there can be a fine line—but something else is really taking place. He or she is actually honoring those Christ-like qualities present in the life of that saint, worthy of our consideration and contemplation.

The santos figures themselves are based on prototypes of saint sculptures created in Catholic Europe. With the dynamic expansion of the Catholic faith in the New World the demand for religious art surpassed the supply. The Church eventually relented and allowed craftsmen in these "new" territories to create religious art for use in their new missions and churches. These New World santos often have a bit of a folk art sensibility that comes from an overflow of the traditional art of the original cultures.

The image above is a type of mass produced and generic santo. I found it at TJ Maxx in the home decor section. I felt that, with a little alteration, this could easily be incorporated into one of my altarpieces. I am still figuring out who this little figure will represent and what the scheme of the rest of the altarpiece will be. It is a logical progression, however, to add such a figure. The concept of veneration was an essential element of the first series of altarpieces.

Edward Kienholz: A Study in Interaction

If the mid and late twentieth century saw an increasing trend toward conceptual art, where even a traditional medium like painting was expected to behave more as an object of pure contemplation, how could an artist get the average viewer to engage his or her work? This was somewhat complicated because the imagery—if there was any—might not always be what it appeared to be. The coded visual language of postmodernism became an instantaneous barrier for many viewers. Bypassing the work was a far simpler option than expending the time and energy to unravel some inner mystery.

Some artists found that placing the viewer in a role where he or she was required to physically interact with the work was an appropriate solution. Western art was even steeped in a tradition of this very kind. Christianity, in both the East and the West, had a productive practice of interactivity within the arts. Music and theatre (mystery plays) were highly interactive. The Mass itself is set up as a call and response. And participation with the visual arts could be found in the veneration of saints through icons and relics, as well as the comprehension of biblical stories through the presence of mosaics, murals, and stained glass within churches and chapels. However, by the mid-twentieth century these participatory traditions had been lost to only but a handful within the larger society.

Edward Kienholz was one of the pioneers who chose interaction as a defining element within his work. The scope and scale of his work was such that it transformed how future generations would conceive of and produce artwork. While Kienholz’s name is not well recognized outside of the closed circle of the high art elite, understanding his impact on his art world progeny provides great insight into the current state of art production.

Surveying current gallery exhibitions in New York’s Chelsea district, Beijing, or London on any given week will enable one to see that nearly half the exhibits are likely in the form of what is called an "installation." Those not accustomed to this format might find it perplexing. Many shows will appear to be a gallery room full of junk. I mean this literally. It will seem like piles of trash and cast-off objects, haphazardly piled and scattered within the space. You may ask, "Where is the artistry? The talent? The toil?" Admittedly, these installations may simply be trash in another context, but one must understand the evolution of the form to properly engage the work. And it is in the output of Kienholz from the 1950s and 60s where we must begin.

Kienholz did not refer to his early experiments as installations. He called them tableaux. The term environment was often used by his contemporaries in those early days, and that is a rather apt term that offers a good starting point. Kienholz created small room-sized spaces that the viewer often actually needed to enter to fully experience. Once inside, the viewer was surrounded by the elements that the artist had carefully selected, crafted, and arranged. It was not simply viewing work but being subsumed but it.

Among the most famous of the early tableaux is The State Hospital. While viewers did not enter the space of this work, it did lay the groundwork for future pieces. Kienholz had spent some time in 1947 working in a state-run mental facility in Washington. The impact on him was such that he was compelled to create a socially conscious work about the inhumane treatment of the patients.

The viewer unsuspectingly approaches The State Hospital perplexed by the casement. The exterior is similar to a large metal freight container except for the inclusion of a locked central door with a barred window. The entire exterior structure is covered with a coat of institutional white paint. Peering through the window the viewer is confronted with the scene of a mental patient’s cell.

One finds two identical, emaciated, and naked male figures lying on a less-than-sanitary metal framed bunk bed. In fact, the whole room is conspicuously filthy, including the bed pan cast to the side. Closer investigation reveals that the heads of the figures have been formed from fishbowls, in which swim a couple live goldfish each. The figures are duplicates—they are the same person. A neon "thought bubble" proceeds from the fishbowl head of the lower figure and envelopes the upper figure. This patient’s pathetic self-image exists no further than the confined space in which it lives out its endless days. From within the space the fetid odor associated with nursing homes and hospitals is emitted.

A social and moral conscience was the foundation of all Kienholz’s work. Another early, seminal work, Roxy’s, was comprised of multiple rooms of a brothel. The prostitutes were part mannequin and part machine. One, Five-Dollar Billy, was laid out horizontally with a sewing machine treadle at her base—apparently for the client to pump with his feet to make Billy "work." The vulgarity found in Roxy’s was evident in many Kienholz tableaux. It was through the scandalous qualities of the works that he could most successfully express his concepts.

However, the interactive quality, while still theoretically present, was rarely enacted after exhibitions premiered. The insurance value of the works has caused exhibition venues to disallow full interaction. By that time, actual planned interaction was minimal anyway. Kienholz had begun to incorporate another key, though often overlooked, element within his work. The television set began appearing as singular sculptural works or within larger tableaux. Kienholz was not engaging with video elements but was again making social commentary.

The television is a passive form of communication and entertainment. Kienholz recognized how easily people believed what they saw on the television. His televisions were typically non-functioning—or at least not functioning in the expected sense. Some were simply other items, the detritus of everyday life, that the artist fashioned into something that resembled a TV. One made from a cinderblock comes to mind. Kienholz had purposely negated the interactive quality by enhancing the passivity.

With this shift, the interactive quality had not actually been eliminated but transformed. Instead of bringing the viewer into immediate physical contact with the work, Kienholz was prompting the viewer to make connections between the various physical objects placed within each environment. He was giving viewers the raw visual materials and requiring their mental interaction to connect the dots. This concept is still what drives the installations of many contemporary artists.

To bring this process of interaction full circle, it seems appropriate to consider Kienholz’s early years. Though he never graduated from college, Kienholz did attend two colleges in the Northwest for brief periods of time. The second institution, Whitworth College, is a Christian liberal arts college in Spokane, WA. Some would find this an odd choice since a segment of Kienholz’s mature work appears heretical, at best. As Eleanor Heartney points out in her book Postmodern Heretics: Catholic Imagination in Contemporary Art, early religious fervor later transformed to nearly blasphemous art is not uncommon among contemporary artists. There is a residual interactive connection between Christianity and art.

In his final year, Kienholz (along with his wife Nancy, with whom he collaborated for much of his career) produced a wall mounted work entitled 76 J.C.s Led the Big Charade. The work consists of seventy-six crucifixes fashioned from the cast-off elements of toys, with kitschy printed images of Christ crowning each. Some included small doll hands and arms at their extremities. The title gives the indication that this is yet another social commentary.

The expected reading of the work would be an indictment against Christianity. I find that far too simplistic of a reading. From the first, Kienholz’s work brought attention to injustices and incongruities. Just as he was skeptical of government and politicians, he was skeptical of organized religion and clergy. It is entirely possible that, like many artists nearing the end of their days, he was increasingly consumed with the ultimate questions of life. He had consistently produced work that considered existence and the motivational power of death. And, in the end, he would also be pleased to have viewers filling in the pieces to his puzzle.

Repurposing Refuse

It comes as a surprise to some that my formal art education is actually in painting. Many first discover my work in printmaking and assume that I am primarily a printmaker. Those who have viewed my more recent "paintings" are well aware that the painting portion of those pieces is actually only a small element within a much larger construct.

It wasn’t until I was in the final semester of my graduate work that it dawned on me where my natural artistic interests were. My MFA thesis exhibition was actually comprised of paintings that connected with two works from my undergraduate thesis show. All of these employed fairly typical painting technique and realistic imagery, but they were composed of multiple panels that revealed only partial segments of larger pictorial schemes—with gaps in between the smaller panels.

By then, the painting was pretty much second nature. I always improve and shift my style a bit over time, but painting is not overly complex to me; it is just something I do. Yet from a fairly young age, the one thing with which I had often occupied my time was constructing things. I used cardboard, paper, styrofoam—whatever was on hand and free. Long before everyone had a personal computer at home and we were accustomed to typing PIN numbers into keypads after swiping debit cards, I was constructing three dimensional keypads and ID cards from paper for my cousins. These gave us special access as secret agents, as I recall.

There is something about the physical object that is essential to my artwork. Even with printmaking, the tactile quality of the blocks and plates is a part of my satisfaction. But it is not simply the construction of the objects (i.e. the enclosing structure of an altarpiece) that intrigues me. It is the interaction of images and objects within the works that most interests me.

It is only natural, therefore, that I have such a great appreciation for the work of Joseph Cornell (see previous posting). Even though Pablo Picasso and Marcel Duchamp were the innovators who first placed everyday objects into artworks, Cornell became and remains the master of the technique. The key to the success of his assemblage work is in placing unlikely objects in an environment in which their interactions are not obvious but still seem natural. Cornell is often cited as tapping into the elements of childhood and nostalgia. It is, nonetheless, more complicated than that. His choice and placement of objects and images touches on some collectively recognized and seemingly unnamable qualities.

I had started incorporating assemblage-like objects into my early altarpiece works nearly a decade ago. They had a fairly specific and more obvious function at that time. In each of these you will find small glass bottles and jars that contain bread and wine—the elements of the Eucharist. Since the first series was concerned with personal saints—individuals who have influenced my art and thinking in one way or another—the Eucharistic devices made reference to the "great cloud of witnesses" and our connection to them within the Church universal.

I still use these elements in newer altarpieces, but other objects started to make their way into the works, too. Visually and aesthetically, I liked how the pieces were evolving, but often an artist’s work begins a process of transformation before he or she recognizes why. Furthermore, I was beginning the sketches for a new series of altarpieces, starting with objects I had found at flea markets and antique shops, before I discovered how they were driving the work conceptually.

It was about three years ago, while I was taking the train from Boston to New York, that the implications were exposed. While I do artificially age some objects within the altarpieces, I tend to find older objects that seem to reveal a story. They have an inherent beauty to them, based on their worn and battered state. Beauty is not even the proper term. Sublime is a more passable word for what I am getting at. Artists, however, have conflated the two words, using them interchangeably, and that has caused no end to the confusion that confronts those removed from art world conversations. So, when someone talks about the beautiful qualities of something any reasonable person would find to be truly ugly, realize they really mean the sublime. But back to the train.

For those who do not regularly ride the train I need to set the stage. Lining the tracks there is always an accumulation of debris that is both accidental and intentional. In the same way that you might see a lone shoe or a forlorn recliner in the median of a highway, inadvertently ejected by a passing vehicle, some items make their way to the train’s pathway as a pure mishap. Then there are items that were obviously deliberately discarded. Mattresses, for one. A filthy, ragged, full-sized mattress is not blown by the wind over a twelve foot high retaining fence. And the range of the discarded objects is truly astonishing. Their condition is decrepit, at best, since once they end up on the train side of the fence they might be stuck there for decades.

As these soiled and sullied items briskly passed me by, I was drawn to their "beauty." They each had a story and the odd juxtapositions of equally odd objects was as poetic as the best Cornell shadowbox. Abruptly, without warning, I recognized what my great attraction to the articles was. I wanted to pluck them from their despair and disuse and place them within a new context; elevating their status within an artwork. This garbage was a metaphor for the transforming work of Christ on fallen humanity.

Trash. Refuse. The discarded stuff of the world… It can all be made new. Christ came not just to save humanity from the trash heap, but to transform each person (item) into a new creation. God sees something beautiful in the ugliness. The blotches and bruises are not fully erased because they tell the story of grace. I might not always provide my viewers with all the clues as to why I choose specific objects, but the story of grace and transformation is there for any who wish to see it.