“Bangs! I crack myself up” was the text message that accompanied an installation photograph of Mopping Up at Frank Juarez Gallery. The artist, Melissa Dorn Richards, who works between painting and sculpture, snapped the picture and sent the text as I churned through my course syllabus for Women in Art, contemplating the implications of feminist art and activism. I quickly realized, that beyond the humor of the Dorn Richards artwork is a set of serious ponderings about identity, women’s rights, and issues of labor.
A row of bangs greets me at the gallery door and welcomes me, with a touch of textile softness, into an exhibition that is at once both cool and closed and warm and open. This rare and intriguing ambivalence questions the validity of the art world’s obsession with transparency and revelation. These mop bangs adorn both the entry and back wall of the space. Mop fringe also adorns the floor along the baseboards, soft anemone tentacles that pull me in.
Mopping Up is full of tactile pleasures from latch hooked mop strands to highly textural paintings. Dorn Richards, who describes her hair as moppy, recalls her mother calling her a mophead as a teen. With this added context, the paintings become self-portraits, mop heads, capturing a mood or feeling in the gesture of simple forms, complicated by the maximal use of texture.
After the initial sensory experience, I begin to muse: Why mops? What does it mean to work with mops? textiles? craft? Is this women’s work? labor? The art objects, in their messy, wild state, refuse to be hemmed in. They are an investigation of independence, as Dorn Richards thoughtfully notes, “The form needed to rely on itself.”
A pair of small paintings, Mop XXI and Mop XXII, converse about shape and texture. Each is a stray strand of mop, cut during production of the latch hooking project that adorns the same wall. Other artists would ignore these scraps, but Dorn Richards looks at the overlooked and asks others to do the same.
Mop XXV, composed of latch hook and snow fence, draws in and then envelopes me as I approach. The 8 x 4 foot wall hanging provides warmth and comfort like a blanket on a snowy afternoon. Mop XXV manipulates the minimalism of geometric abstraction, conjuring Agnes Martin and Eva Hesse.
Finishing out the wall, Mop XXIII is a protest sign; mop handle and oil painting combine in the imagery of dissent. Dorn Richards uses the tools and materials of women’s work (a mop handle, her own painting) and and her own particular visual vocabulary (maximal texture, outlines that function as negative space, and her unique mop form) to call attention to feminist issues.
Mopping Up is an unusually successful solo exhibition. With an entry point of humor and softness, it is a holistic experience that examines memories of the past, compels a vital dialogue about issues of the present, and proposes a new possibilities for the future. Dorn Richards has created an exhibition that relies on itself. She is mopping up.
Skully Gustafson. Madam Zola & Stan. 2017. Acrylic on canvas.
Recalling the Milwaukee Art Museum’s New Figuration in America (1983), Now Figuration explores the figure within the context of today’s contemporary art landscape. The painting heavy show also includes echoes of MoMA’s The Forever Now: Contemporary Painting in an Atemporal World. Now Figuration also presents many mirrors that might reflect the viewer’s many selves.
Skully Gustafson’s Madame Zola & Stan blends abstraction and figuration, engaging in semiotic and formal play. Madame Zola & Stan welcomes viewers to the gallery and immediately confronts them with difficulties (and pleasures) of reading images in contemporary figuration. Just when viewers think they’ve figured it out, the painting breaks down and reinvents itself. Gustafson arrives at this sort of fluidity through the materiality of the paint and through his application: allowing smears, drips, and broken outlines. The composition of the piece is straightforward, allowing Gustafson to access a full range of colors and marks without losing intelligibility. In the end, Gustafson disassembles viewers expectations, making the placement of this piece on the wall outside the gallery significant and smart.
In Herman Aguirre’s lush and chunky portraits, colors, textures, and smells lure and hold viewers gazes as inspection and introspection collide in an art experience. These portraits are profoundly beautiful yet evoke pulverized meat, scraped skin, and the scabs that form as the body heals. This sort of rawness, damage, and revitalization gives Aguirre’s work implications beyond sensuous experience and encourages viewers to return to themselves changed.
Rafael Salas’s mixed media collage-paintings appear as relics of a bygone era placed in shadow boxes for preservation. Yet, digital glitches appear, holes are cut in canvases, and figures are collaged into sparse landscapes utilizing the language of contemporary abstraction. Stretching the limits of memory, Salas’s Prairie Musicians conjure passing shadows of what is being lost and move into the future as collective memories.
Now Figuration works despite its diversity. A level of abstraction stitches the work together and allows for an odd (but successful) combination of salon and traditional gallery installation. The resulting juxtapositions create conversations between individual artworks. The installation Silhouettes by J. Shimon is the only hiccup in the show. It feels crowded into the space and this viewer would like to experience it with more room to breathe.
Now, figuration is anchored in postmodernity along with the rest of contemporary art. Anything goes, and the particular mashup presented in Now Figuration informs how viewers see not only the world, but themselves, and what might be.
David Najib Kasir. Multiply Bombings / Add Losses. 2016. Encaustic and mixed media on panel. 7 x 11 inches.
My first experience of Fragmented Home & Place, an exhibition of recent work by David Najib Kasir and Fahimeh Vahdant, was a visceral sort of punch to the gut. Donald Trump should see this show, I thought, because, in the words of Vahdat, “Art is a catalyst for change.”
A grouping of mostly small scale works, each made with tenderness, care, and sadness, this powerful exhibition asks the viewer to contemplate war and humanitarian crises. The work fits together like tiles of an ancient mosaic (some missing or crumbling, some still tight and bright). The placement of the work is natural and enhances their visual and contextual impact.
Using imagery of Arab men, women, and children, Kasir successfully fragments the narrative viewers seek as they move from panel to panel, artwork to artwork; mimicking the destruction war wreaks on civilian populations. The viewer must negotiate this fragmentation despite the soft colors, exquisite lines, and beautiful mosaics. The flesh tones and textures of the encaustic equally repulse and connect viewers to each moment. Neither the labor or the pain are immediately evident in the work, but the Kasir acknowledges the the physical and emotional demands of the making. Perhaps, pain and labor contribute quietly to the effectiveness of the work.
Vahdat’s work lives even as it contemplates questions of violence, abuse, and death. Monotypes flash color and images, installations invade space and insist on being present (stand-ins for those who can’t speak for themselves?), and fabric dances over prints of text and female bodies. Indeed, as Vahdat notes, “In my work I seek to create a more fluid boundary between art and life to perhaps influence cultural and personal transformation.” Viewers interact with Vahdat’s art, building a relationships with it, learning and growing from it.
After recent news, I wonder if President Trump or the majority of Americans have the capacity for either empathy or change. As Stokely Carmichael notes in Black Power Mixtape, nonviolent resistance (art) assumes your oppressor has a conscience. But this exhibition affirms that art can change the world. Vahdat says, “I insist at all times on hopeful outcomes and the buoyancy of the human spirit under even the worst conditions.”
I witnessed "Hail We Now Sing Joy" at the Milwaukee Art Museum during the Members Only opening on Thursday. I also witnessed Johnson's accompanying artist talk. Johnson is interested in, as he put it, "cultivating witnesses." Witnesses can tell the story of the art object. Witnesses make experiences into history.
I witnessed Antione's Organ, a giant installation of plants in Johnson's handmade pots (accompanied by bugs and dirt), books (Wright's Native Son, Beatty's The Sellout, Coates' Between the World and Me, and Dickerson's The End of Blackness), fluorescent grow lights, boxes of African shea butter, sculpted shea butter, and small tvs playing short films (one of Johnson applying shea butter, another of a woman from a gospel choir, another of Johnson watching Coates on TV). These objects live in a black grid structure, all activated from within by a secret piano player.
After experiencing Antione's Organ for a few minutes I became aware of how others were interacting with the installation. The majority of the large crowd stood a significant distance from Antione's Organ. The installation is very tall, so perhaps they stepped back to take in the entire piece, but I suspect most people didn't know how to interact with it. Great art makes viewers (witnesses?) uncomfortable and Antione's Organ had the contradictory effect of making people feel both unease and peace. This sense of peace, or perhaps wholeness, pushes toward another of Johnson's objectives: healing.
Johnson's Anxious Audience paintings filled the walls of the exhibition's largest room, giving the witness the feeling of being on stage, a silent drama where the actors and audience stare at each other and then look away. Hundreds of witnesses fill this room and the work sharply contrasts the show title, Hail We Now Sing Joy. I felt troubled as I sat on a comfortable black bench in the middle of the room. The gaps in the work, the unoccupied spaces, made me sad. Why weren't they here with us?
At the back of the gallery is a separate reading room that includes multiple copies of the books in Antione's Organ, along with some comfy seating. A handful of people browsed the books, another handful read intently despite the bustling opening: witnesses.
The curation of the show is standard. The work is grouped by series: Antione's organ in the first room, Escape Collages in another, Falling Men in another, Anxious Audience in another, and the reading room in the back. I can't help but wonder how a single room of work would change my experience. Instead of progressing from relative calm to significant distress, what sort of emotional cacophony would I witness?
Gregg Bordowitz asked me (as I'm sure he has asked Johnson and hundreds more of those he teaches), where does the emotion lie? in the artist? the artwork? the viewer? My answer is in the experience of the work. It is at the level of experience that the viewer witnesses the work. (John Dewey pronounced so much with his seminal text Art as Experience.) Now, I think art objects can be witnesses as well. Perhaps Johnson would agree.
Amy Feldman. Heavy Vector. 2013. Acrylic on canvas. 80 × 80 in.
You missed it. But, I didn't. Riot Grrrls was an important counterweight to the overwhelming Takashi Murakami retrospective. Featuring 10 feminist, punk painters, the show stands in clear opposition to Murakami's work and words, carving out an important space for feminist voices. Each artist, with an interest in visual and written language, engages in an act of refusal: refusal of imagery, beauty, convention, or history.
The show also works together because of the artists' hyperawareness of edges. As Edward S. Casey notes in "The Edge(s) of Landscape: A Study in Liminology," "The power is in the edge." Having awareness and control over edges is an act of political agency and power. Amy Feldman exercises this control in Heavy Vector, boldly asserting her mark-making in steel-gray on white. Attacking the canvas, Feldman mobilizes edges; they are where the action happens, where the power resides, where forces collide.
Similarly, Judy Ledgerwood's Sailors See Green is a conglomeration of edges that recall textile patterns while showing evidence of Ledgerwood's hand and establishing a relationship between Ledgerwood's body and the the superhuman-sized canvas. The best moment of this painting, however, is a subtle edge. (Casey defines this as an edge that is "ambiguous in its appearance.... We cannot track, much less name or number the transition from one to the other.") This moment is at the top of the canvas. Is the canvas warped? Sagging? Where does the canvas end and the wall begin? The canvas appears to be unstretched, yet the other edges clearly tell the viewer that canvas is rigid.
Molly Zuckerman Hartung's Hedda Gabbler is a frenzied externalization of Hedda's inner world. Zuckerman Hartung respects the picture plane around three edges, but advances, penetrates, the edge on the fourth side allowing her marks to meet and presumably escape the edge, just as Hedda escapes the power of Brack (through suicide) at the end of Ibsen's play.
Mary Heilmann has mastery over the edge in Metropolitan, laying out two grids, one on top of the other. The irregularity of the edges of the stairs provides visual interest in an all-over Pollock-like way, yet refuses the apparent happenstance of Pollock's compositions as well as the precision of tile flooring. Heilmann's red lines form a more precise grid, meticulously taped. However, Heilmann is unselfconsious about the moments where the background bleeds under the tape. In this way she asserts her own subjectivity.
The curation of Riot Grrrls is strong, but Ree Morton's One of the Beaux Paintings (#4) is out of place visually. Hanging Feldman's Heavy Vector alongside Ledgerwood's Sailors See Green creates a strong visual presence and opens up a conversation between two works from 2013. This strong wall, however, unfortunately cancels out Jackie Saccoccio's Portrait (Stubborn) from the same year on the adjacent wall.
The exhibitions wall labels are disappointing (they almost always are), especially the text for Ellen Berkenblit's Love Letter to a Violet which states, "A female face in profile dominates this work, expanding beyond the confines of the canvas. Ellen Berkenblit includes stereotypically “girly” details: thick eyelashes, a hair clip. Step closer to the surface and the confident, assertive lines she uses to depict these elements also become part of an abstract composition. Interlocking planes of punchy colors run through both figure and background, keeping the eye in vigorous motion." The directive to "step closer" to the surface is a clear power play that assumes the viewer cannot see the work properly on her own. The rest of the text introduces the notion of strong figuration in the work which sacrifices the opportunity to let abstract possibilities play in the viewer's mind. The use of "girly" in quotes leads to many questions, especially because the next sentence discusses Berkenblit's "confident, assertive lines."
Overall, Riot Grrrls delivered just like the feminist punk scene with all its accompanying messages and art forms.
Tomma Abts (German, b. 1967)
Ellen Berkenblit (American, b. 1958)
Amy Feldman (American, b. 1981)
Mary Heilmann (American, b. 1940)
Judy Ledgerwood (American, b. 1959)
Ree Morton (American, 1936–1977)
Joyce Pensato (American, b. 1941)
Jackie Saccoccio (American-Italian, b. 1963)
Charline von Heyl (German, b. 1960)
Molly Zuckerman-Hartung (American, b. 1975)