By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, with its usual breakneck pace of major shows, sometimes gives itself a breather after such a successful run of public enlightenment. The Modern has had a great year: We marveled at the soulfulness of American folk art, gasped at the creepy-charming genius of Walt Disney, swooned at the evolution of sculpture and the brooding compulsions of Francis Bacon. Now the Modern is yawning and stretching like an exhausted greyhound after a long, sweaty day at the races. Time for auto-pilot.
And the Modern can pull it off; its version of auto-pilot consists of throwing a bunch of pieces from its permanent collection up on the walls and letting the public get a rounded, narcotic dose of solid modern and contemporary art. These are the pieces the Modern normally has stashed away in storage, the pieces the Modern simply doesn't have the space to showcase year-round. You have to admire an institution that knows you can't keep a Pollock or a Motherwell locked up and gathering dust in some crate indefinitely. You'd be surprised at how many collectors and museums commit such a crime.
When the Modern brings out a selection from its permanent collection, which it has done for this millennium-straddling season, the non-event is a subtle windfall. It's a bit like taking a vitamin for the soul: undeniably good for your eyes and mind, a sharp reminder of the sheer volume of great art in this world that's ours for the looking if we can...just...get ourselves to a museum. Granted, a few early-career Pollocks and meditative Rothkos might not have folks lining up the way they did for the giant and controversial survey of Bacon's work, but this isn't a bitter pill to swallow. It's a Flintstones vitamin. It actually tastes pretty good as it boosts your immunity to ignorance and other modern-day viruses.
What the Modern chose to haul out into the light this round is curiously calming. Notable gems, certainly, but the aesthetic spectrum is so wide -- whispering Rothkos, quipping Lichtensteins, staring Shermans -- that the overall effect is that of a wash. Every piece is both tempered and put into perspective by the other works surrounding it. A Rothenberg horse gallops opposite a Guston peeping Tom; Richter's Italian auto zooms past Celmins' German bomber.
While this diversity isn't jarring or clashing, it doesn't exactly steer you into the focused zone. Walking through the museum is something like channel-surfing on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sometimes you have to jerk yourself into consciousness in the face of one of those early Pollocks: "Ah, good ol' Jackson. Haven't seen his figurative stuff before...Oh, my God -- this is a figurative Pollock!" The personae of the artists are so disparate, the motivations and end results of each so liberated from the rest, that the works threaten to cancel each other. Sometimes you forget you're looking at the real thing by the actual maker.
But that aforementioned perspective is key. You may not feel your brain synapses crackling so much during the tour of the museum's cozy galleries, but afterward, some thoughtful lightbulbs sputter on, and an overall sense of an era sets in. It takes time to process something so complex and insidiously appealing as modern art, and since the museum refuses to bully and prod you with it, it's up to you to let the works speak for themselves.
But that's all postscript. Since built-in intensity isn't a luxury with general shows such as this, it's not a bad idea to home in on a few pieces and spend some time with them. Much like tossing the remote control aside once you've found a particularly compelling nature documentary or hockey game, walk through the whole, find the works that jolt your attention, then return to them. You may never get this quality time with this artist again.
I originally trekked out to Fort Worth to see the Philip Guston pieces in the show, since I've not had the pleasure of his one-on-one company before, but I ended up ditching Phil and hanging out with Motherwell. The Modern's Gustons aren't what I had hoped for; instead of brash cartoon cigars and white hoods and all kinds of psycho-social angst, I found one rather low-key painting with his familiar sprawling limbs and not much more. This is typical of a permanent collection show. You go to see the epitome of an artist's work and find instead what the museum bought on its own aesthetic whim.