By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Sometimes it works, splitting and crumbling the concrete roadblocks like brittle clay, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes that jarring lump of scrutiny or dismissal lives on, intact and sneering.
As an individual whose creative expressions are rooted in personal experience, a common denominator among artists, Otto is acutely aware that she's a chick living in a man's world. If she addresses that reality in her work, men and critics and even a lot of women will look and say, "Ugh. Another strident bitch." If she doesn't address it--if she downplays it or sublimates it into work that comes off as non-gender-referenced, then she's lying about her feelings--which takes all the purge out of her process. Which renders art moot, because great art is about the purge. And Susan Otto, ultra-educated, duly noted artist of feminist perspective (or shall we now call it "gender awareness"?), will have none of that backing down stuff.
There's a mighty conflict between first and second impressions at Otto's current Dallas show. When you initially walk into her one-person exhibit, Romeo is still dead at gallery: untitled in Exposition Park, it's impossible not to read the overall vibe as political. And with every wall touched by her work, it's equally hard not to feel besieged by a female cynicism on the part of the artist. In her multi-media displays, men are mocked. Women are mocked for worshipping men. Women are mocked for their own self-consciousness (which, in effect, is created by the "male gaze," is it not?).
Yet, individually, the works are subtle and smart, and sidestep any label by way of a light-heartedness not associated with socio-political statements. Take a closer look at each piece, and slowly they seem more intimate, even affectionate. Non-threatening but questioning. It's that familiar dichotomy, then--the fight between a viewer's gut reaction and a viewer's ability to think about what he's seeing. Otto is winking at you. Do you get her jokes?
gallery: untitled is a small space, and the two main entry walls--the tallest and widest in the gallery--are covered with 56 large drawings of snakes. Titled "Reptile Experiment #1," it's a collection of works by men--all kinds of men--each asked by Otto to sketch a snake any way they want to. Some of the drawings are awkward, some are graceful, some are meek, some are heavy-handed; the men have signed the works with their first name, age, and occupation. While this may come off at first as some trite Freudian mockery of the male ego and the manifestation of their feelings about their own genitalia, a closer look tells a bit more. These guys are funny. They know what Otto is getting at, and they either challenge her posit by drawing with arbitrary abandon, or they join in her game by playing into stereotypes.
Mike the 35-year-old banker has drawn his snake as roadkill; Milton the 30-year-old scuba diver has drawn a fat, rolled-up thing with spots; Kevin the 27-year-old animator has drawn the simplest and plainest of the lot. Tony, a 31-year-old doctor, draws his snake with a human face and receding hairline.
Whaddya know? Instead of Otto's project making the men look obtuse or self-serious, which was never really her point, the male subjects reveal something far more thoughtful about themselves and the way they're perceived--by society, by women, by the very woman who asked them to draw such a phallic thing.
The next two pieces, on interior walls, are from one project though titled separately. The first, a three-by-four-foot digital print--textured, distorted, saturated with heavy electric reds and blues--shows the slumped and skinny silhouette of a lone guitarist: the anonymous Rock Star. "Romeo! Humors! Madman! passion! lover!" it's called, and the quasi-heroic stance of the musician says it all. He's in shadow because, as a newfangled and sensitive indie-rock type, he's not allowed to preen too much. Yet he's worshiped and he knows it. He deserves to be on reverent display, even if it is in a Dallas art gallery, and women who look upon him should swoon and drool like Pavlov's dogs accustomed to his brand of importance. As a symbol of the cult of celebrity, of the blinding madness caused by fandom or groupiedom or even honest appreciation for the visceral power he evokes with his music, he epitomizes what's goofy and pathetic and cool about rock and roll in all its testosterone.
The eight smaller photos on the opposite wall, collectively titled "Stills from a Silent Film (Nice Dreams)," are variations on the larger image: The same hero stoops, solos, sweats, and meditates over his guitar strings (or at least these familiar antics are implied), and the series flows with grinding deliberation. Kinda like a rock video. Which is exactly what Otto was watching when she snapped these photos off her TV. Her darkroom manipulation of the colors and shapes only amplifies the cartooniness of the image and its implications. The Rock Star is a "nice" dream for both women and men, though presumably for vastly different reasons. The woman wants him in her bed; the man wants to live vicariously through him.