Whitespace exhibit contemplates intersection of culture and the cosmos
From Cosmology to Neurology and Back Again is ambitious, cerebral, and worth your time
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Images alternately hide in the corner of their paintings or splash across the middle, overwhelming the viewer with visions of plantations, lawn jockeys, and riverboats. Iconic symbols — catfish, gourds, cotton, and crows — bear weight in the paintings, blending into a larger narrative. The assault of imagery in the paintings nicely mimics the billboard culture of the car-centric American South.
Graffiti-like phrases such as "envy," "slop surrealism," and "cotton belt route" further accentuate the superimposed quality of the works. Some are scribbled on top of the painting, almost narrating it. Often they even title the work, such as in "Date Night," where the phrase is emblazoned in pink underneath a light-skinned woman with an elaborate coif. Others are more descriptive and carefully designed, such as the 3-D clip-art aesthetic in "Dixie Playboy." In this font, the words "what wondrous love is this" are scrawled above the intricate geometry of a stylized catfish.
A few of TindelMichi's busy, symbolism-laden paintings feature the disembodied heads of African-American figures reminiscent of the plethora of Martin Luther King Jr.'s statues and murals found around Atlanta in which his bust looms like a beneficent Big Brother. "Detritivores of a System" edges close to cliché, showing the face of a black man in the right-hand corner and, on the other side, the torso of a young black kid whose lower half dissipates into a giant cotton flower. The potential lameness of glorifying anonymous men and women reduced to a representation of their race is tempered, though, by placing them among the swirling symbolism and groundless atmosphere in the heavily decorated paintings.
The artists reset the pace of the show from this modern, urban context with their sculptures made of wood and metal. Like something found propped in a barn, "M. Dixon" is a massive work in which slats made of dresser drawers and window shutters are flanked by rusted tin. A portrait of a black man in uniform, modeled as a Civil War tintype, appears on a wooden plank, seen through a dangling chain that also obscures a pair of white doves. Birds reappear in the two other sculptures as creatures who make a home wherever they can, with crude nests made in plows. But in "The Bird Kachina," feathers emerge from a glass bottle filled with what appears to be bird bones — almost like a warning to those who have found freedom.
John Tindel and Michi Meko, a white man and a black man, circumvent the textbook versions of slavery studied in school, which glaze over its cultural implications to emphasize only that we ended it, and the often saccharine abbreviations of Civil Rights imagery. Rather than thinking of these intrinsic facts of Southern heritage as something that happened long ago, that we can only reflect upon, TindelMichi reintroduces it as a cultural weight carried into the present. "
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The artists reset the pace of the show from this modern, urban context with their sculptures made of wood and metal. Like something found propped in a barn, "M. Dixon" is a massive work in which slats made of dresser drawers and window shutters are flanked by rusted tin. A portrait of a black man in uniform, modeled as a Civil War tintype, appears on a wooden plank, seen through a dangling chain that also obscures a pair of white doves. Birds reappear in the two other sculptures as creatures who make a home wherever they can, with crude nests made in plows. But in "The Bird Kachina," feathers emerge from a glass bottle filled with what appears to be bird bones — almost like a warning to those who have found freedom.
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Images alternately hide in the corner of their paintings or splash across the middle, overwhelming the viewer with visions of plantations, lawn jockeys, and riverboats. Iconic symbols — catfish, gourds, cotton, and crows — bear weight in the paintings, blending into a larger narrative. The assault of imagery in the paintings nicely mimics the billboard culture of the car-centric American South.
Graffiti-like phrases such as "envy," "slop surrealism," and "cotton belt route" further accentuate the superimposed quality of the works. Some are scribbled on top of the painting, almost narrating it. Often they even title the work, such as in "Date Night," where the phrase is emblazoned in pink underneath a light-skinned woman with an elaborate coif. Others are more descriptive and carefully designed, such as the 3-D clip-art aesthetic in "Dixie Playboy." In this font, the words "what wondrous love is this" are scrawled above the intricate geometry of a stylized catfish.
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TindelMichi takes its Baptism by Fire Article
Tuesday December 18, 2012 08:20 am EST
The collaborative duo has no use for Southern cliche in this Barbara Archer exhibition
| more...
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After earning her BFA at the Atlanta College of Art, Cawley studied bookbinding in England. Her works feature youthful storybook elements such as hot-pink silhouettes of pigs, words like "fortune" and "gift" scrawled into the wax with a finger, and peppy primary colors. Paper cutouts, scribbles, amoeba-like splotches of paint, and dictionary pages patch together a subconscious landscape with little spatial logic. Opaque wax encases the collages and distorts the paintings, as if viewing them through a sheer white curtain. In some works, strokes of slick-looking paint sit thickly on top of the wax.
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Cawley's ideas about sensory processing often manifest literally. In "Comfort Level," a stairwell fills the silhouette of a head, out of which comes a speech bubble made from a dictionary page. But Cawley's work is more successful when it has a sketchier, more ambiguous feel. "Hotdog" and "Perhaps," for instance, have more in common with the bold abstractions of a Cy Twombly painting than a page from a children's book. In both cases, the bright hues that dominate most of her paintings are used sparingly to enliven the muted, earth-toned backgrounds. "Perhaps" is particularly whimsical, with a derby hat, a row of disembodied teeth, an encyclopedia cutout of dancing feet, and her signature dots and dashes of paint.
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Internal struggles manifest as off-kilter mental maps in You Can't Get There From Here, her current exhibit on view at Emily Amy Gallery. In her artist statement, Cawley explains how mental processes follow disjointed, nonlinear paths: "When the brain does not follow expected sequences to problem solve or synthesize information, the result is an alternate perception." This phenomenon can occur in situations as mundane as a visit to a crowded mall or as devastating as dealing with death.
After earning her BFA at the Atlanta College of Art, Cawley studied bookbinding in England. Her works feature youthful storybook elements such as hot-pink silhouettes of pigs, words like "fortune" and "gift" scrawled into the wax with a finger, and peppy primary colors. Paper cutouts, scribbles, amoeba-like splotches of paint, and dictionary pages patch together a subconscious landscape with little spatial logic. Opaque wax encases the collages and distorts the paintings, as if viewing them through a sheer white curtain. In some works, strokes of slick-looking paint sit thickly on top of the wax.
Several paintings have the fresh-looking paint formed into rows of serpentine dashes. In "Amble," the lines loop around parasitic imagery that looks like worms writhing in the holes of a tree. A simple illustration of a man and woman eating at a nearly bare table heightens the painting's melancholy undertone. Red dashes curl atop an inky blue bloom of dyed wax and transform into a loose bouquet of flower petals in "Gift." The sinuous lines escort the eye through the works, effectively conjuring the show's title, You Can't Get There From Here.
Cawley's ideas about sensory processing often manifest literally. In "Comfort Level," a stairwell fills the silhouette of a head, out of which comes a speech bubble made from a dictionary page. But Cawley's work is more successful when it has a sketchier, more ambiguous feel. "Hotdog" and "Perhaps," for instance, have more in common with the bold abstractions of a Cy Twombly painting than a page from a children's book. In both cases, the bright hues that dominate most of her paintings are used sparingly to enliven the muted, earth-toned backgrounds. "Perhaps" is particularly whimsical, with a derby hat, a row of disembodied teeth, an encyclopedia cutout of dancing feet, and her signature dots and dashes of paint.
Maybe Cawley intended to have the viewer contemplate the brain's complexities by creating an atmosphere of sensory overload. Her eye-catching symbols and the colorful webs that connect them capture imagination, but might not hold one's attention. Allowing her paintings room to breathe lets her ideas move through the work like a fishing line. Not every one will catch, but there's a soothing rhythm in their capture and release. 13071616 7070810 Jennifer Cawley paints alternate realities "
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A primitive motif runs through some images, expressing a connection with an unearthly realm summoned by death alone. Like flashes of a dream, figures symbolic of death and dying are cast into black shadows surrounded by a haze of gray. In "Untitled — Phantasm series," (all of the show's images are untitled) a hooded black figure carrying a child in a white bodysuit emerges from a gray background. The white form glows against the shadows, articulating a stark contrast between light and dark.
Animal imagery also conveys notions of ritual sacrifice and pagan spirituality. One image shows a man's arm extended, a dismembered deer hoof balancing on his forearm. Other works visualize a peaceful spirituality associated with the afterlife, where a monument or person seems to be lifted into the sky: In one, a woman levitates above the tree line. In another, a rudimentary ladder leans against an empty bed, suggesting an ascent from a deathbed into heaven.
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In some cases, the symbolism is too obvious, such as one work depitcing a dome encircled with astrological signs. Nease's photographs are like scary camp stories everyone's heard, but retold by a good storyteller. And when his pictures capture only a moment of an otherworldly atmosphere, the supernatural feels thrillingly intimate. "
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Ghostly photos blur the lines between this world and the next
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string(3473) " Artist's subjects find their happy places in Parker's Whitespace exhibit Letting Go 2012-11-13T20:33:00+00:00 Suellen Parker's claymation figures break the mold Grace Thornton 5672689 2012-11-13T20:33:00+00:00 Unrefined clay sculpture and computer-generated imagery recall the relatively tech-deficient cultures of eras past. Movies such as 1987's A Claymation Christmas Celebration and even Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, released in 1999, now seem kitschy because of their animation's crude feel. For the photo illustrations in Suellen Parker's current show at Whitespace, Letting Go, the artist embraces such rudimentary techniques, photographing clay figures against intentionally amateurish computer-animated backgrounds. Parker's simple presentation reveals a calm joy in each of her characters.
Modern art is riddled with desperate, lonely, and imbalanced figures. It's difficult to authentically portray someone in a moment of joy without going sickeningly sweet or turning it into an overwrought display of emotion. But the cartoonish qualities of Parker's clay figures counter the realism that might have made these portraits cloying, had they been shot with real people. Parker's settings serve as symbols of the characters' states of mind, with figures perched atop rocky cliffs or lying nude on a beach. Others are in more personalized spaces, such as the grandmother sitting near her many knickknacks in "Moments of Pleasure." Clearly they're in their respective happy places, which gives the viewer an easy entrée into the characters' personal lives.
The characters also appear to be seeking an escape from social expectations such as beauty or popularity. Many of the figures are gender nonspecific, lumpy, and/or bald. Each is seen alone, reposing during a calm moment. As Parker explains, "My characters are attempting to find a sacred space, a place of vulnerability, a place where they allow themselves to be really seen. By quieting one's life, even momentarily, an opportunity is presented to learn truths about oneself."
Some of Parker's works seem like a snapshot of a stolen few minutes in which the figure drops its social roles. Take "Dressing's" androgynous person, who is outfitted in the classic male uniform of jeans and a white T-shirt. The dresser in the background, however, overflows with bright blue floral dresses and a pink polka dot shirt. A classical portrait of a woman, reminiscent of a Renoir painting, is reflected in the mirror. The woman in the painting gazes at the scene, faintly smiling, perhaps representing the alter ego of "Dressing's" subject.
Other characters unabashedly embrace their quirks. In "Twirling," a particularly clumsily sculpted little girl, hairless and awkward, lets her girly pink dress float gracefully around her knees as she spins atop a coffee table. Her complete ease is similar to that of the businessperson in "The Tie That Binds." Also ambiguously gendered, this person crosses one socked foot over a knee while kicking back in the office. A record player, a portrait of a Tibetan monk, and a delicate picture of ballet slippers are nestled into a series of cubbyholes.
Letting Go fondly points out the primitive aspects of elementary CGI and claymation. The sentimentality is unironic, which opens the door to an elegant study of small joys and self-fulfillment. 13071242 6874465 Suellen Parker's claymation figures break the mold "
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Suellen Parker's claymation figures break the mold Article
Tuesday November 13, 2012 03:33 pm EST
Artist's subjects find their happy places in Parker's Whitespace exhibit Letting Go
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string(3551) "Laurel Nakadate: Photographs, Video & Performances, now on view at the Atlanta Contemporary Art Center, highlights the well-established artist's recent work. In the last three years alone, Nakadate has shown a 10-year retrospective of her work at MoMA PS1, earned an official selection at the Sundance Film Festival for her feature-length film Stay the Same Never Change, and another film, The Wolf Knife, was nominated for an Independent Spirit Award.
Nakadate's art focuses on voyeuristic tendencies, particularly those aimed toward young women. While stating that women are frequently objectified is not novel or shocking, it is undeniably relevant, particularly in this heated election season. The overwhelming scope of women's issues often transfers into artwork quite clumsily, the themes too broad and blatant, the tone generally admonishing. Nakadate's movies and photographs, however, are portraits of vulnerability that thoughtfully consider the scrutiny and sexualization women experience in their lives.
A broad collection of photos and videos comprise the ACAC exhibit. Some works are excerpts from past series, such as 365: A Catalogue of Tears, in which Nakadate photographed herself crying once a day for a year. Though these images are the show's least intellectually stimulating, the concept's simplicity effectively translates the cerebral artist's fascination with intimacy and the nature of performance.
Taking up the gallery's large, central room, the 365 series creates a foundation for the more esoteric works that border the room like peepshow booths in the back of a sex shop. In the three-minute film "Say you Love Me," a middle-aged man sits on a bed, looking out of sliding glass doors toward a glimmering body of water. A few seconds in, Nakadate walks into view on the balcony, looks at the man through the glass, and lifts her dress up as the words to Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" kick in. She poses and sways as the man orchestrates her movements, raising and lowering his hand like a puppeteer to indicate that she do the same with her dress.
Adjacent to "Say You Love Me," the film "Good Morning Sunshine" shows the artist rousing teenage girls from their beds. From behind her handheld camera, Nakadate sweetly persuades each of them to strip. Nakadate makes her requests for a sock or shirt to be removed sound like trivial, unassuming favors. As she coos, "You know you're the prettiest girl, right?" over and over, followed by, "Just let me look at you," the girls' resistance crumbles until they're left in their bras and underwear. It's devastating to see how well the lame lines work: First, because all women have heard some variation of this "C'mon, it's not that big a deal" shtick from men, and second, because watching the film quickly becomes an act of voyeurism, making the viewer feel that the girls are disrobing for his or her benefit.
Feminist art of the '90s, such as Kiki Smith's sculptures of practically faceless ladies with their internal organs exposed, tended to simplify individuals into a representation of all womankind. Nakadate represents a generational shift in female artists who prefer to explore pathos over politics. Her subjects, both male and female, are humanized to a point that would seem pathetic, if not for the extreme isolation of the worlds Nakadate creates. Within these small scenes, she effectively constructs an aversion to the watchful gaze cast on women. And instead of being punished for it, we are asked to watch and to empathize. "
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Nakadate's art focuses on voyeuristic tendencies, particularly those aimed toward young women. While stating that women are frequently objectified is not novel or shocking, it is undeniably relevant, particularly in this heated election season. The overwhelming scope of women's issues often transfers into artwork quite clumsily, the themes too broad and blatant, the tone generally admonishing. Nakadate's movies and photographs, however, are portraits of vulnerability that thoughtfully consider the scrutiny and sexualization women experience in their lives.
A broad collection of photos and videos comprise the ACAC exhibit. Some works are excerpts from past series, such as ''365: A Catalogue of Tears'', in which Nakadate photographed herself crying once a day for a year. Though these images are the show's least intellectually stimulating, the concept's simplicity effectively translates the cerebral artist's fascination with intimacy and the nature of performance.
Taking up the gallery's large, central room, the ''365'' series creates a foundation for the more esoteric works that border the room like peepshow booths in the back of a sex shop. In the three-minute film "Say you Love Me," a middle-aged man sits on a bed, looking out of sliding glass doors toward a glimmering body of water. A few seconds in, Nakadate walks into view on the balcony, looks at the man through the glass, and lifts her dress up as the words to Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" kick in. She poses and sways as the man orchestrates her movements, raising and lowering his hand like a puppeteer to indicate that she do the same with her dress.
Adjacent to "Say You Love Me," the film "Good Morning Sunshine" shows the artist rousing teenage girls from their beds. From behind her handheld camera, Nakadate sweetly persuades each of them to strip. Nakadate makes her requests for a sock or shirt to be removed sound like trivial, unassuming favors. As she coos, "You know you're the prettiest girl, right?" over and over, followed by, "Just let me look at you," the girls' resistance crumbles until they're left in their bras and underwear. It's devastating to see how well the lame lines work: First, because all women have heard some variation of this "C'mon, it's not that big a deal" shtick from men, and second, because watching the film quickly becomes an act of voyeurism, making the viewer feel that the girls are disrobing for his or her benefit.
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string(3885) " The well-established artist explores the sexualization of femininity with photos and video 2012-11-01T08:00:00+00:00 Laurel Nakadate gives a command performance at ACAC Grace Thornton 5672689 2012-11-01T08:00:00+00:00 Laurel Nakadate: Photographs, Video & Performances, now on view at the Atlanta Contemporary Art Center, highlights the well-established artist's recent work. In the last three years alone, Nakadate has shown a 10-year retrospective of her work at MoMA PS1, earned an official selection at the Sundance Film Festival for her feature-length film Stay the Same Never Change, and another film, The Wolf Knife, was nominated for an Independent Spirit Award.
Nakadate's art focuses on voyeuristic tendencies, particularly those aimed toward young women. While stating that women are frequently objectified is not novel or shocking, it is undeniably relevant, particularly in this heated election season. The overwhelming scope of women's issues often transfers into artwork quite clumsily, the themes too broad and blatant, the tone generally admonishing. Nakadate's movies and photographs, however, are portraits of vulnerability that thoughtfully consider the scrutiny and sexualization women experience in their lives.
A broad collection of photos and videos comprise the ACAC exhibit. Some works are excerpts from past series, such as 365: A Catalogue of Tears, in which Nakadate photographed herself crying once a day for a year. Though these images are the show's least intellectually stimulating, the concept's simplicity effectively translates the cerebral artist's fascination with intimacy and the nature of performance.
Taking up the gallery's large, central room, the 365 series creates a foundation for the more esoteric works that border the room like peepshow booths in the back of a sex shop. In the three-minute film "Say you Love Me," a middle-aged man sits on a bed, looking out of sliding glass doors toward a glimmering body of water. A few seconds in, Nakadate walks into view on the balcony, looks at the man through the glass, and lifts her dress up as the words to Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" kick in. She poses and sways as the man orchestrates her movements, raising and lowering his hand like a puppeteer to indicate that she do the same with her dress.
Adjacent to "Say You Love Me," the film "Good Morning Sunshine" shows the artist rousing teenage girls from their beds. From behind her handheld camera, Nakadate sweetly persuades each of them to strip. Nakadate makes her requests for a sock or shirt to be removed sound like trivial, unassuming favors. As she coos, "You know you're the prettiest girl, right?" over and over, followed by, "Just let me look at you," the girls' resistance crumbles until they're left in their bras and underwear. It's devastating to see how well the lame lines work: First, because all women have heard some variation of this "C'mon, it's not that big a deal" shtick from men, and second, because watching the film quickly becomes an act of voyeurism, making the viewer feel that the girls are disrobing for his or her benefit.
Feminist art of the '90s, such as Kiki Smith's sculptures of practically faceless ladies with their internal organs exposed, tended to simplify individuals into a representation of all womankind. Nakadate represents a generational shift in female artists who prefer to explore pathos over politics. Her subjects, both male and female, are humanized to a point that would seem pathetic, if not for the extreme isolation of the worlds Nakadate creates. Within these small scenes, she effectively constructs an aversion to the watchful gaze cast on women. And instead of being punished for it, we are asked to watch and to empathize. 13071055 6782563 Laurel Nakadate gives a command performance at ACAC "
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Laurel Nakadate gives a command performance at ACAC Article
Thursday November 1, 2012 04:00 am EDT
The well-established artist explores the sexualization of femininity with photos and video
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