Angels at MAG

It’s one of those stories that everybody loves. 

At the turn of the last century, members of a small church in Ohio commissioned Louise Comfort Tiffany to create seven large stained glass windows for their church. Then came the 1950’s.  The church was razed to make way for highway building.

The story might have ended but a group of church people pooled their money and purchased the salvaged windows back from the state highway department. The windows were crated up but the church was never rebuilt. The crates found their way to a sister congregation in Pennsylvania where they were stored in members’ basements and attics.  The crates were finally opened after nearly 50 years and a glass authority confirmed their value.

The windows have been beautifully restored (amazingly enough, very little damage resulted from their long sleep) and are traveling the circuit of medium sized art museums.  I visited the Memorial Art Gallery Sunday with out-of-town guests: the windows and their survival story were receiving attention from a respectful audience. 

(And, by the way, our art museum has done an outstanding job of presenting this modest little show.)

Obviously, reviewing this story, one must wonder what treasures we’ve lost over the years to the bulldozer of progress. 

I spent most of my early life in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, yoked to the Olivet (southern) Baptist Church, built sometime around 1900. It was the core of our social, educational, cultural and spiritual universe.  When I was 4 or 5 years old, Grandma Clark, the ancient woman who lived next door, told me how she, her husband and other true believers carried stones down from the upper hill until the pile was enough to build Olivet Baptist (it got its name by member vote). 

I remember that building as being huge: I’m certain it was not. I remember it as substantial and beautiful. Maybe.  It’s gone and the four-lane highway there now is none of those things.  

(I took my g-kids on an auto tour of the city Saturday to find all those aforementioned wall murals.  I stand pat on my previous analysis.  It was fun driving around with the list on the hunt but I don’t need to see them twice.)

The Wall/Therapy Project

“The mural is lewd. It depicts two…creatures …(in) a sexual position that is lurid.  We will see it at breakfast, lunch and dinner and so will any guests we have in our apartment.”

These words come from a letter to City Newspaper written by Paul Goldberg referring to one of the 10 wall murals installed in our city recently, this one outside his loft window.

In response, Dr. Ian Wilson, a radiologist at the Univ. of Rochester Medical Center and founder of Wall/Therapy, defended the drawing by international mural star ROA. He used many of the arguments that I and many “art people” have used over the years: interpretations are personal, these are meant to stimulate conversation and view surroundings in a new way and (the ultimate of course), we in Rochester are lucky to have ROA work here.

(Please go to The Wall/Therapy Project to see all murals and read the gist of this event. I, frankly, am a little befuddled.  In my experience, such public installations needed to go through a review and approval process by SOMEBODY.  As near as I can tell, Dr. Wilson is not only the founder of this project who invited the artists and got building owners to agree to use their exterior walls as art billboards, he also is chief financial underwriter.)

I despise painted horses, cows, dogs, cats, deer, giraffes, elephants, tigers, benches and Peanuts characters that have blanketed ours and other city sidewalks during the past few years in the name of “public art projects.”  They are fun for about 3 weeks before revealing what they truly are: urban clutter. If they all mysteriously disappeared as quickly as they sprouted up, that would be one thing. But they don’t.  They hang around  because somebody actually invested real $$$ in these things and were misled to believe they were doing all of us a cultural favor.

As for wall murals, I place them right after painted frogs. They hold public attention (for better or worse) just about as long. Some are cute, clever, and well-executed. So what? Like the example: one pink flamingo on the lawn is tacky - 10,000 is an art statement. Rarely, do murals extend beyond one pink flamingo.

Public art is always a tricky subject (we’ve already gone through the Otterness trauma.)  W.  Gary Smith in his book “From Art to Landscape” says “I think the basic difference between art and design is that design solves problems while art raises questions.”

City streets and urban neighborhoods need creative design solutions and artists are uniquely equipped to interpret the dis-connects and find good fixes.  So are some architects…and landscape designers…and space planners... dancers…musicians. We, the public, need to insist on good design in the first place! Not every solution needs to be wrought metal or carved in stone.  Witness the Jazz Festival that has given Rochester a whole leap of Pride of Place. But please put wall murals and painted horses in their place: view them as temporary, talk about them if you want, but come Fall, let them all disappear.

August and Other Insights

Why is August such a sad month? Could it be because we’re past the adrenalin rush of spring and the explosive summer symphony of color is coming to an end?

In my part of the country, hydrangeas are the signal that summer is nearly over.  Sunflowers and black-eyed susans do their best to drive a late crescendo but we all know that in August, the harmony is winding down.

The art community is nearly invisible during this trimester. New exhibits rarely open in late summer so out of the catacombs of museums come old stored treasures, curated under some new title in an effort to seduce anyone spending a lazy Saturday in town.  Private galleries (if they stay open at all) advertise “group shows” – usually unimaginative rehashing of previously seen pieces.

People traditionally feel that Fall is the saddest season but I vote for August, thirty-one days to hibernate under a fan and wait for the energizing winds of September.

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I’ve spent time on the laptop recently and discovered notes on a lecture by W. Gary Smith, a landscape architect/artist. He says that certain shapes and patterns repeat mysteriously in nature that please the human eye and lift the soul.  He uses scientific data to prove that good design isn’t some fad, or a matter of “having good taste.” We humans are hard wired to respond psychologically (and therefore, physically) to this miraculous order.

Here are photographs from his web site illustrating two parts of a garden he designed for Longwood Gardens in Philadelphia.

Next, I discovered Mari Anderson an artist who calls herself an “obsessive collector of fragile objects that might otherwise go unnoticed.” 

Her installations (beginning with her studio walls) instantly make me smile and I begin thinking about  “noticing” and arranging? Why are some people so much more attuned to these bits and “see” what others of us walk right past?  And what about her arrangements? 

In my imaginary salon, I would seat Ms. Anderson and Mr. Smith across from one another and prepare to be dazzled by their insight.

A Small Rant on a Hot Day

CHANGE. 

COMMUNITY. 

DESIGN IMPACTS HOW PEOPLE LIVE AND RELATE TO ONE ANOTHER.

ART IS NOT ISOLATED BUT SHOULD BE INTEGRATED INTO EVERY ENVIRONMENT.

These truths I hold self-evident. 

I am being tested at every turn these days.  I live in what should be a perfect set-up that enfolds privacy but close proximity to others, walking distance to the city and its services but surrounded by broad lawns with 100-year-old trees.  This is small foot print living and I am one of the elite of this world: an educated, intelligent, talented woman of means.  What’s not to like?

Absolutely NOTHING!  Except that “change” for most people is a threat to be avoided with all effort possible because “the devil you know is better than the devil you haven’t met yet.” “Community” brings with it a willingness to become involved with each other and shared issues and I am feeling alone in the struggle on my little corner.

As for “art” and “design,” I might as well introduce cannibalism.  Most Americans know about as much about one as the other. It is a tragic oversight in our educational, political and even professional conversation.  And I’m not talking about “the history of painting” or “Drawing 101”. I’m referring to the choices we make every day and “settling” for the easy, the convenient, the “o.k.- is- good -enough” trap.

For too much of our lives, most of us feel overwhelmed and merely keeping our feet traveling forward and our heads straight requires all the energy we can muster. I do appreciate that.  And if you are raising teenagers or corn, if you are fighting for civil rights or better health care, if you are doing ANYTHING that’s hard, that’s exhausting, that forwards civility, BRAVO AND HATS OFF TO YOU!   

BUT THE DESIGNED ENVIRONMENT STILL COUNTS. IF YOU DON’T KNOW – OR DON’T WANT TO KNOW HOW TO MAKE IT BETTER – PAY ATTENTION TO THOSE THAT DO.  SPEND SOME MONEY IF YOU CAN.  DO THE WORK IF YOU’RE ABLE.

AT THE VERY LEAST, GET OUT OF MY WAY!

Garage doors show "before" and "after"...too much for my neighbors. I got slapped on the wrist.
The lattice wall shows most recent change. It was pink before...we painted and added trim and thanks to dear Jeff Kell, I had photo showing exactly what change would look like. Oooooops....

Charles Ladson, Painter

I own a painting by Charles Ladson. He’s a true son of the South and three years ago, when my family took on a southern winter address, I felt I needed to live with part of that heritage.

I found Ladson’s work at one of those “too slick to really like” galleries in Asheville which itself has become too trendy to be real. Asheville car bumper stickers read “If you’re too weird for Asheville, you’re just too weird!” But that’s not true exactly because while there are some really cool people who live there, others are simply trying too hard. Scratch the surface and they’re Republicans. I never did see Andie McDowell who’s supposed to live there running errands in her SUV wearing no makeup and blue jeans even though I stood on a few street corners looking but I did find Charles Ladson’s paintings.

The painting I bought shows a negro male half-figure sitting under an umbrella  - except that it’s not clear if the figure has legs so I’m not sure “sitting” is the correct descriptive – peering out across the landscape.  The landscape itself has lots of strange shapes and doodles that could be almost anything and if anyone is given to making up stories to accompany strange paintings, Ladson is your guy!  Even if you’re not, his use of color and shape and texture is beautiful and I like them (the newest ones) even better after learning that his day job in Macon, Georgia, is restoring old houses.  There’s a broad hint of geometry and rusticity in these works. I’ve fallen in love with nearly anything recycled and I like that he works those elements into his imagery.

Ladson has a one-man show currently on view at that too-slick-gallery and they kindly mailed a catalog to me. Lovely photographs are spread throughout and a couple of very learned (meaning: obscure artspeak) essays “explaining Ladson’s motivation, etc.” I have come to truly hate such nonsense.  These things are written to impress…..? The rest of us can feel further alienated from work that should be appreciated from the gut.

Ladson himself writes “My work is a collection of mostly bad ideas…the paintings ramble along in all directions then they arrive. People see what they want…”

Amen, brother.

A Temporary Vacation?

I follow one or two blogs regularly and feel personally insulted when those writers let days pass without bothering to update entries. Yet, here I sit with nearly half 2012 gone and my blog entries are so few that even I am bored! I am considering folding this tent and calling it a day.  But first, I owe it to anybody out there who’s interested  - an update, an apology and my heartiest thanks for caring what I had to say at all!

Earlier this year, I wrote that the nomadic spirit was gaining on me and sure enough, we are nearly “on the road again.”  This house is for sale; I am packing everything in sight, movers arrive May 1 and in the ultimate downsize, I am sending a house full of goods to various destinations beginning with Goodwill, Habitat, Salvation Army followed by stops at various friends’, each of my two daughters and finally back to Rochester, New York.

Somewhere in all this mushing about, I sense something greater than mere need for change going on although that’s enough of an incentive for me. (It’s a personality disorder; what can I say?). Again and again during the past few months, HOARDING, OWNERSHIP, OBJECTS…these subjects keep showing up in my conversation, reading, and thoughts and I don’t know what any of that means or how they connect with my life. For several years now, I’ve wrestled with the whole idea of art as commodity; how does anybody decide “value?” (Versus “values”.) It’s a good thing I no longer sell art! Philosophy is not a good retail partner!

Just about now, I should insert some remarkably insightful “truths” but guess what? I don’t have any to share.   I do – and will always!- pass critical judgments on art and I am self-assured (arrogant?) enough to believe that my analysis is clearer and better defined than that of mainstream citizenry.  I believe that I have a talent for writing about art in ways that respect artists and under-informed readers without being condescending or opaque and I hope I can always find ways to use that experience and talent.  

Meanwhile, I have a raft of unanswered questions and my challenge is to find a few like-minded searchers who want to explore this territory… or simply chat and laugh over a good chardonnay. 

 (I happen to love this version of a wall.)

NATHANIEL ROGERS AT DAVIDSON COLLEGE

I like narrative paintings, pictures (usually realistically painted) that include clues and insider jokes that lead through a maze of story telling. Sometimes the story is easy to follow and the clues are trite and I’m left thinking, “this artist is really an illustrator. Get a job with LIFE Magazine! Oh wait! Norman Rockwell already did that!”

Often the story is embarrassingly revelatory and since all good art is somewhat biographical, I applaud the bravery of the artist allowing the rest of us to enter the realm of his or her psychosis even when it makes me squirm a little. After all, I don’t need to know all those fears and shortcomings unless of course, I share them. Then the artist has become EVERYMAN, holding up the anima/animas to the rest of us blind troglodytes.

Sometimes the lines squiggle, fade and disappear and the painted objects make no sense at all and one is left wondering, “what in the world is inside that painter’s mind?” “What was he smoking that day?” “Did she go off her meds or something?”

Or equally unenlightened thoughts. These works are perhaps the most fun of all. At the very least, they convince the rest of us that artists truly are different, marching to the beat of some weird interior voices, just baring it all, gritting their teeth, hunkering down to do the hard work. Then they hang that painting up and take whatever comes after. I do so like those people!

This is all preamble to report that Nathaniel Rogers, a young artist who graduated from Davidson College mere minutes ago (actually in 2002) is back in town, teaching this year at his alma mater and he is sharing his own narrative paintings in a one-man show at Belk Art Center. The exhibit is titled “Secret Things, Tiny Rituals.”

I insist that everyone make a habit of stopping in the art center to see ALL the exhibitions – the place is an absolute treasure! This show is a romp.

Sometimes Mr. Rogers (no cardigan sweater in evidence) takes himself a little too seriously and begins edging awfully close to the land of illustration (“Trapped” is simply too easy. I mean, the overwhelmed young mother and all that Cinderella stuff? Shame on you, Nate.) A few of these images suggest a less than wholesome all-American attitude to such things as generational reverence. But by and large, the paintings are wonderfully executed, hysterically funny and the best ones show the viewers an honest glimpse into the interior life of a young adult who does NOT yet have all the answers, is largely flummoxed by modern life and while the rest of the world burns, he is still trying to figure out how to transition from the “cared for” into the “care taker.”

And that’s a pretty scary journey. So laugh a little along the way.