By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
Sometimes contemporary art can get so damn abrasive and antagonistic and pretentious that, after about two dozen of these "happenin'" gallery openings, you just wanna hurl your controversy-weakened body through the next gallery's plate-glass window. What's happening to me? I'm becoming one of the Chapman brothers' mutated children!
So it's anodyne time. Time for dense and brilliant landscapes, sparkling vistas, and velvety still-lifes. Sofa art? Forget it. I'd rather kiss Chris Burden's scars than look at that banal stuff.
For the jaded, bereft legions of contemporary-art fans, the works of the British landscape painters on display at the ever-noble Valley House Gallery can be interpreted two ways: as a gentle, calming drug, like a modest dose of morphine after a long night of crank; or, as nothing more than glorified sofa art. It's easy to dismiss these artists as not contemporary--though they are--because they're so steeped in tradition. These are the painters honored by their homeland's Royal Academy for their talents and given the queen mother's nod for their achievements. These are the painters upheld by the conservative contingent, the sphere that screamed bloody murder when Damien Hurst was asked to join that venerable Academy. No wonder we young'uns tend to think of it as "us" against "them," and for some of "us," the Valley House exhibition is like walking out of a HYsker DY show straight into a string quartet playing Bach. It takes a moment to adjust, but it's worth it.
Believe it: Renoir, Monet, and Degas were, to the 19th-century French establishment, rebels. Now their pervasive aesthetic draws sighs of ecstasy from unsophisticated suburbanites and sighs of crippling boredom from every fan of every new art movement since then. I know about a dozen or so conceptual artists who would rather pour Tabasco sauce in their eyes (not a bad performance piece, come to think of it) than contemplate the works of British landscape painters. On the other hand, I know about a dozen or so artists who couldn't capture light and movement in oil paint to save their ironic souls. But then, neither can those Hundreds of starving artists! Selling their artwork in bulk! at a steal! this weekend at the Holiday Inn North!
The gallery's 15 exhibited painters hunt and peck their mid- to late-1800s styles in both oil and watercolor, turning traditional means to their current ends. Over here, elements of realism; over there, impressionism and poetic romanticism. Claude Lorraine meets J.M.W. Turner meets Thomas Cole at the same salon party to compare notes on Venice, the English coastline, what have you. Peter Kuhfeld's "The Salome Grande, Palazzo Babaro" has the thickened, satisfying shapes and dark jewel tones of its subject and oil medium, while Jane Corsellis' sun-baked "Central Park Triptych" might float away on its misty atmosphere. Both are stunning, both could have been painted a century ago, and both boast a timelessness that holds the gaze far longer than you might expect. These works soothe the eyes.
Which makes you curse your own Aunt Rhetta and her acrylic bluebonnet fields. She gives the good artists--the real-deal painters like those at Valley House--a bad name. Because there's far more work by hack amateurs like Rhetta out there than there is work by the truly gifted, and the hacks' insistence on copying the good guys' impressionism-realism hybrid results in horrific guilt-by-association. To the uninvested eye, Ken Howard's northern beach, "Windy Day, Shinnecock," looks a lot like Rhetta's version of Galveston, thanks to her by-the-book (albeit earnest) tricks.
But when it's done very well--these fields and beaches and flowers--then we're onto something potentially powerful. Narcotic. Looking at Richard Pikesley's oil-on-canvas harbor scene, "Weymouth Quay"--windy, cool, and buzzing with marine activity--is about as satisfying as looking out a real window at the real thing. And while Pikesley's personal poetics make it into the mix (hence, the term "art" instead of "copy"), this ups the visceral quotient. And for those who use such views to meditate and escape, that kind of window, however interpretive, can make quite an impact. How can we dismiss traditional forms when they still carry that soulful power?
That said, even this eye couldn't find any redemptive qualities in Jacqueline Williams' vapid scenes; take the shallow sentiment of Hallmark, add some Mary Cassatt fem focus, and end up with frothy, sappy nods to gardens and waking maidens and the color pink. Williams doesn't have nearly the aptitude for light and color as her fellow academics on display here; though, again, unless you pay attention, you may miss that point.
Contemporary British Painters is at the Valley House Gallery, 6616 Spring Valley Road, through April 24. Call (972) 239-2441.
On the road, again
The thrill is in the hunt. I've spent close to a decade with a Matthew Barney fixation, and I have to wonder whether it's because I never get to see his work. Like most good fixations, mine has been fed in fits and starts, through interviews and descriptions of his installations and films--his singular, psycho-sexual narratives with their own odd-but-fitting vocabulary. Weight benches made out of Vaseline, indoor obstacle courses traversed naked in a mountain-climbing harness, his obsessions with athleticism and Harry Houdini.
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