 | TIM RODA Untitled #22, 2003. Photograph on Fiber Matt Paper 22 x 30.5 inches. Courtesy of Greg Kucera Gallery. |
Tim Roda at Greg Kucera
Through August 28th
By all accounts, Tim Roda was a standout among the recent graduates of the MFA program at University of Washington School of Art. Critics discussing the exhibition at the Henry in late May, such as The Stranger’s Emily Hall, singled him out for praise while expressing some discomfort with his subject matter and decision to incorporate his young son into his photographed sculptural compositions. These sentiments were echoed by many people I spoke with, both inside the gallery and out.
Roda’s work is quite unlike anything I have seen before. He has turned his studio into a theatre of worn, ramshackle props, putting himself and his son squarely in the center of the frame. At least a few critics have likened his black and white family portraits to the work of Sally Mann, but his photographs’ gritty sense of confinement, hazy illuminations, and surrealist trappings present us with a world that is a far cry from languorous, idyllic one of Mann.
The heightened, self-conscious nature of the stagecraft in these works, with their lurid distortions and murky light, depict a reality that has been broken by the penetrating eyes of the child. The boy and the artist - his alter ego and father - appear trapped within this Kienholz-like setting, engaging one another as they attempt to sort out their surroundings.
While there is surely something frightening going on in these works, there is also the sense of unfettered possibility so characteristic of magical realism and the furtive, underlying humor that accompanies it. The compositions themselves, which often resemble tableaus of Medieval or Renaissance painting, have faint religious overtones. When we least expect it, some kind of spiritual force enters through the shattered back door and takes us by surprise, leaving the scene emblazoned in our memory.
 | ALEX MORRISON, sketch from the series Every House I’ve Ever Lived In Drawn From Memory, 2002. Courtesy of Catriona Jeffries Gallery, Vancouver, B.C. Private Collection Vancouver. |
Alex Morrison Every House I’ve Ever Lived
In Drawn From Memory
Henry Art Gallery
Through October 10
How well do you remember the house you grew up in? Alex Morrison’s Every House I’ve Ever Lived In Drawn From Memory (2000) asks this question by presenting the viewer with 29 pencil drawings of houses he lived in. Morrison depicts his houses as transparent three-dimensional floor plans that strip all exterior characteristics from their structures. Each drawing leaves a series of rooms, hallways, and stairs, superimposed and overlapping one another in a forest of vertical lines. The viewer’s eyes chase through these lines trying to disentangle the spaces Morrison depicts.
Morrison makes two intelligent decisions in rendering his houses. First, by removing all sentimental objects, Morrison forces the viewer to concentrate on the interior spaces themselves. The structures in the drawings emerge only after the viewer enters the house; such recognizable features as windows and stairs act as anchors from which our eyes float through the rooms, discovering which lines construct the space we’re standing in. Without objects in the rooms, we must concentrate on space itself: where to turn a corner, finding the door. Only by visually moving through these spaces can we understand what the houses look like.
Morrison also chooses to retain ambiguities from his memories in his drawings. Mistakes are everywhere. Hallways and dissolve into rooms, floors are superimposed awkwardly on one another, and stairways are sometimes rendered as impossibly steep. The simplest of the drawings depict single rooms or basement spaces, while the most complex include walk up apartments and multi-level houses. Some of the drawings are very small, perhaps indicating that Morrison remembers less of these structures. Others have no obvious entrances. These characteristics may be intentional, but the piece’s title suggests that these mistakes are instances where Morrison is struggling with his memory. With 29 houses in the series, it’s not surprising that details become blurred (Morrison has recently expanded the series to include 35 houses). Seeing Morrison struggle with his memories of these spaces reveals the gestalt of spaces we live in. All of the characteristics of our living arrangements, rooms, objects, and people, combine to create our memories of space, but when we leave, only the space itself remains.
Looking at Morrison’s houses forces the viewer to reevaluate his own memories. How clear are our memories of the places where we spent so much time? We may remember, say, “the room with the grandfather clock,” but can we accurately render the vessel that held us and the clock within the house? Morrison’s work separates memories of objects from memories of space. Looking at these drawings brings to mind moving out of a house, seeing the rooms without any of your belongings and wondering what of the place you will remember, just before you lock the door for the last time.
 | EMMET GOWIN, Pivot Agriculture, South of Moses Lake, Washington. 1991. Toned gelatin silver print, 27.9 x 35.6 cm (11 x 14 in.). Collection of the artist, courtesy Pace / McGill Gallery. |
Emmet Gowin: Changing the Earth, Aerial Photography
Henry Art Gallery
Through November 11
The view from up above brings with it an almost unsavory aesthetic pleasure. Before we understand what we are actually looking at, it is too easy to be overcome by a false sense of balance and harmony. It seems that even the most widespread devastation can look beautiful if we are given the opportunity to stand far enough away from it.
Emmet Gowin began his career as an aerial photographer documenting the eruption of Mount St. Helens for the Seattle Arts Commission in 1980. He later shifted his focus from sudden, violent acts of nature to man-made earth movements of similar scale, returning to Washington State six years later to photograph the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. The current show at the Henry Art Gallery was organized by the Yale University Art Gallery, but also includes these early Mount St. Helens photographs that are not part of the touring exhibition.
From high above, rapid human alterations of the landscape take on the look of long-term geological transformations. When scale is removed within the boundary of the framed print, the forms of these man-made movements resemble the familiar ones we see in the natural world. Buried ammunition depots appear at first to be prehistoric fossils. Massive trenches of erosion on a constructed hillside look like the roots of an upturned tree.
This familiarity lulls us briefly until the moment of awe and terror strikes. The scope of this human activity is simply impossible for the individual to physically comprehend. Photographs of an actual, unseen world, the images are both real and surreal, disrupting our casual, everyday notions of order and logic.
Associate Curator Robin Held, who organized the Gowin exhibit for the Henry, traveled to the Nevada Test Site with me in 2001 on an incredible tour organized by the Culver City-based Center for Land Use Interpretation. As she and I walked through the gallery last week we saw Gowin’s aerial photographs of the craters at Yucca Flat and Frenchman’s Flat, sites of the earliest nuclear tests in this country. We had wandered around these areas on foot during our tour, but saw nothing of the surrounding contours so visible in these photographs. All we saw at the time were remnants of a residential home built specifically to test the effects of the bomb blasts.
Alternately mysterious and sobering, Gowin’s photographs evoke beauty to create a poignant sense of alarm. They remind us of our responsibility to be conscious of things too vast to see and too troubling to look at.
Emmet Gowin will give a lecture at the Henry Art Gallery on Sunday, September 19th.
 | MARK NEWPORT, Batman (detail), 2003. Hand-knit acrylic yarn with wood hanger, 80 x 30 x 6 inches. Photo: Greg Kucera Gallery; image courtesy of the gallery. |
Mark Newport at Greg Kucera
Through August 28
Just how is a superhero created? Stitch by painstaking stitch, apparently. As Mark Newport’s bright-colored, woolly, hand-knit costumes lie deflated on the gallery walls, we find ourselves contemplating the intricate labors of self-invention and the potentially dubious outcomes of success. These soft, disarmingly sophisticated works remind us that the creation of persona — that quantity so integral to one’s artistic career — can ultimately lead to a kind of hollowness in the artist and work itself.
On a more basic level, Newport is addressing traditional Romantic concerns about the relationship between the creation of art and the loss of identity. These thick, flattened costumes can be seen as grotesque answers to Yeats’ famous question, “How can you tell the dancer from the dance?” Also, the Blakean, superhuman powers of the Romantic artist are downplayed in favor of the more mundane reality of material fabrication.
Not that there was anything mundane about these costumes. My father, a self-made man himself and one of the West Coast’s most celebrated knitters, was amazed at Newport’s skill with a pair of needles. “The intarsia work, the fashioning — its incredible.” he said.
 | ROSS PALMER BEECHER, Radio Flyer mixed media sculpture. Photo: Eric Gould. |
Ross Palmer Beecher, Radio Flyer
On the Edge Sculpture Invitational, Harbor Steps
Through September 12
Controversy erupted in downtown Seattle last Thursday when Harbor Properties threatened to remove Ross Palmer Beecher’s sculpture Radio Flyer from the On the Edge Sculpture Invitational it sponsored at Harbor Steps, one block south of the Pike Place Market and across the street from the Seattle Art Museum.
Radio Flyer stood apart from the serious-toned, monumental sculpture in the exhibition, all of which was either cut from stone (wood in the case of Steven Jensen) or forged from steel or bronze. Typical of Beecher’s folk art-inspired work, it is a makeshift U.S. flag constructed from wooden casements, crushed beer cans, bullets, jawbone, and grime-caked baking pans, all set atop a child’s red wagon.
Objections to this work of art centered upon the use of Busch beer cans, bent in such a way that the “c” was hidden under the fold and the name of the president repeated itself across the flag’s surface. Although it was unclear how they chose to interpret the work, Harbor deemed it “political” and sought a way to disavow any message it might contain. After seriously considering its removal from the outdoor exhibit, Harbor management chose instead to post a confusing disclaimer, hoping no doubt to protect itself from the wrath of Michael Medved-type ‘patriots’ in our midst.
There is a long tradition this country in this country of citizens being outraged by high-art improvisations upon the stars and stripes, going back at least as far as Jasper Johns. But there is an older, anything-goes tradition of American Folk Art where florid, enthusiastic appropriations of our nation’s symbol are manifest everywhere. American Folk Art frequently celebrates U.S. Presidents as well, and it has been the nature of this medium to generate homespun representations of the chief executive that, however reverential, might appear somewhat heretical to contemporary viewers. The Smithsonian has a collection of bizarre presidential folk art that includes, among other things, a coconut carved into the shape of Harry Truman’s head. It is not hard to contemplate how such an innocent foray into presidential portraiture might be looked upon today in this highly-polarized political climate. Certain parties would probably find a similar, crudely-rendered representation of George Bush inappropriate and disrespectful while others would regard it as humorous and satirical.
Ross Palmer Beecher operates at this rich, confusing intersection of American Modern and Folk Art traditions where she is able to explore history and consider the present. Radio Flyer — with its cheap, manufactured beer, Second Amendment freedoms, and grandmother’s cookie sheets — is both a ragged and energetic expression of honest, unpretentious “red state” values and a discourse on the president’s untreated alcoholism, lust for conflict, and assorted masculine anxieties. It is the most sophisticated political work I have seen during this most politicized of Presidential election years.
The mostly facile group of artists showing their work at CoCA’s current exhibit, 101 Way to Remove a President, could certainly learn a thing or two from Beecher. But the less said about this unfortunate but well-intentioned show, the better.
 | LAURI CHAMBERS, not titled oil stick / paper, 2004, unframed: 22" x 22" |
Big and Small at Francine Seders
Through August 28
If you did not get a chance to see this wonderful group show of abstract painting during the month of July, it has, thankfully, been extended through August. The title entreats us to compare the artists’ work in terms of its scale, but the fun comes — as always — from contemplating the ways in which different artists choose to work in the vein of abstraction itself.
The lyricism of Robert Jones’ bright colors and powerful brushstrokes sweep you upwards like a diva breaking out into song. Lauri Chambers’ stark black and white compositions transfix us, forcing our eyes to lock on the areas where opposing forces give way to one another. Denzil Hurley’s monochromatic meditations open our consciousness to light and color. Along with artists Alfonse Borysewicz and Julie Shapiro, these artists are engaged in a dialog about pleasure and perception — a conversation that is delightful to observe.
 | ROBERT C. JONES, Picnic oil / canvas, 2004, unframed: 29½" x 41½" |
Flintridge Foundation Awards for Visual Art
Presented at Museum of Northwest Art, LaConner
July 31
It would be hard to imagine a Washington day more beautiful than the recent Sunday in LaConner when the Flintridge Foundation chose to present its visual art awards for Northwest and California artists at the Museum of Northwest Art.
The Flintridge Foundation gives a $25,000 award to five artists from Washington and Oregon and five from California. The award recognizes “artists who have sustained a career in the arts for twenty years or more, but are not currently recognized at a national level commensurate to the quality of their work.” Northwest artists receiving the award for 2004 were familiar ones: Randy Hayes, Robert Helm, Robert C. Jones, James Lavadour, and Akio Takamori. The California artists: Carl Cheng, Lewis deSoto, Mike Henderson, Oliver Jackson, and Susan Rankiatis - none of whom I knew prior to this event - were a similar group, but their art reflected the great artistic traditions, sunny climate, and urban grit of the Golden State.
Flintridge recipients tend to be artists who have labored at their craft for a long time, usually showing at a commercial gallery every few years while on the faculty of a state University. They have long ago ceased to generate a high level of interest among collectors but are too young for the sweeping career retrospective. Many have focused their attention on public art commissions over the years and do not fit into conventional categories.
To me, these men and women are the unsung heroes of the art world. Collectively they have taught thousands, brought established art traditions to the West Coast, and helped define regional styles. Most important of all, they had the guts to commit to a lifetime of art making. Lord knows it must not have been easy. But it must be pleasant to contemplate such struggles from the beautiful vantage point of a sunny Skagit Valley afternoon.
 | PHILIP McCRACKEN, Mole Greeting the Sun bronze, 6 1/2", private collection. |
Philip McCracken
600 Moons: 50 Years of Philip McCracken's Art
Museum of Northwest Art, LaConner
Through October 17
Seventy-six year-old Guemes Island sculptor Philip McCracken, the subject of a career retrospective at the Museum of Northwest Art and a University of Washington Press monograph by Deloris Tarzan Ament, is the latest (and probably among the last) artists to have the title of ‘Northwest Master’ conferred upon him.
Taken as a whole, this exhibit is an odd collection of McCracken’s figurative wildlife sculpture, carved in stone or cast in bronze, and his more abstract, three dimensional pieces in wood heavily lacquered with stains and epoxy. There are a lifetime of other curious experiments thrown in the mix, but the standouts are these vulnerable, moonlit owls and starry, dramatic depictions of the night sky.
It is hard to say whether McCracken’s sculpture will endure the test of time, but his best work will continue to embody the mystery and allure of the curious darkness that surrounds us here in the Pacific Northwest.
