By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Granted, just over a year ago during Sales' last one-woman show at Craighead-Green Gallery, a buddy and I walked through the exhibit and made a list (a yeah-you-wish list, really) of the pieces we'd buy, if only we had the cash. Sales' superficial aesthetic evokes Rothko and de Kooning--in their less tortured moments, obviously--the fluidity, the slick density of the shapes and colors, and the gorgeous subtlety of the lined colorplanes were irresistible that night.
So here she is again, back at Craighead-Green with more works in tow, which, on the surface, are as visually satisfying as those in the last show, but their lack of emotional core is more noticeable this time. Still great dive-in-for-a-swim depth; thick, glassy oil wash; and wonderful putrid greens and acrid reds and pithy blues that transcend the inherent ugliness of their tones (even the flat meanness of black) to become something surprisingly graceful and tranquil. That's quite a trick, and one of Sales' fortes, and while she's gotten away from the buried-grid theme of last year's work and moved into purer gestural color field, her color choices and brushwork still imitate the abstract expressionist tradition. "When was this painted?" someone might ask, and the answer might as well be "around 1954." She could be Rothko's happy-go-lucky niece, a new kind of traditionalist who would no more slash her own wrists than Big Bird would.
The power tool of Sales' paintings is the superior glossiness, so thick and viscous that while you can see the brushstrokes, see the actual layering of colors and shapes, you couldn't touch their texture if you tried. They're essentially encased in lacquered washes and sandings and more washes, topped off by a varnish that might as well be a real glass shield. It's a great effect, a technique that gives the works the biggest chunk of their visual interest, and perhaps what deceives people into thinking there's more going on here than there really is.
If you saw and liked the grids from before, you won't miss them here. Her motif is more central and sturdy now--thick, hefty planes of layered single color taking up the majority of the canvas, with the underlying counter-tones and brushwork showing from behind around the planes' edges. It's implied and built-in framing. It's nice to see an artist trying new things, however small the risk (seeing grids again this year might have really stoked some suspicion of her motives: "I sold all the grids last year. I'm gonna do more grids"); again, most all the works have sold, and the happy new owners get to take this stuff home in time for the holidays. Gift-wrapping for the townhouse drywall.
Sales' story may be telling. After years as a standard yuppie in the corporate haze of Los Angeles, she once helped a friend do some interior decoration, and bam!--she suddenly wanted to paint. So she packed up in 1990 and moved out to Santa Fe. No training, no formal art education, yet she found her calling. The incredible balance and tonal interplay in her works expose her formidable visual instinct. Her late coming to art reveals what the paintings whisper: her drive to express inner life is secondary, if even an issue. No catharsis here, no irony either. Yuppie painter. Painting yuppie. A classic case of style over substance, and not in the wink-wink-nudge-nudge way of other style-only freaks. (Peter Cain and Jeff Koons come to mind.) If you're looking for angst, compulsion, or wit, or works that are creepingly informed by an artist's reckoning with long-term art history, or paintings that hold your gaze forever as you search them for answers about humanity, look elsewhere.
The DMA has some nice de Koonings.
Susan Sales is at Craighead-Green Gallery through December 20. 2404 Cedar Springs, Ste. 700. Call (214) 855-0779.
Mosquito-infested, smelly, littered stretches of beige beach; brackish tides polluted with red algae and decomposing fish. Let's face it: the Texas coastline is pathetic against the world's other beaches, even others facing the Gulf of Mexico. We've been warned by the media never again to eat raw oysters from these waters; we've run away cursing from waves infested with Portuguese man-of-wars; we've glared at the murky brown tide and willed it to turn azure blue. No go.