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"content": "\u003cp>It is less scary to walk through a dark house when you can name the pieces of furniture you bump into. The same rationale applies to geography as a whole. The world feels safer when we can name the different parts of it. And we learn at an early age, from maps painted on playgrounds to ones un-scrolled over chalkboards, precisely how we should name the world. Traditional maps and their layers of classification leave no room for ambiguity. Longitude and latitude lines, continents, countries, states, and streets pinpoint our locations and discourage alternate interpretations of place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Such maps excel at expressing certainties — compass points, solid borders, precise distances. But they are less able to represent geographic instability — blurred nationalities, eroding borders, or multiple homelands. As a result, many of us live beyond the bounds of traditional cartography. This condition and its visual representation is the subject of \u003cb>Geographies of the Imagination\u003c/b>, artist and anthropologist Lydia Nakashima Degarrod’s current exhibition at California College of the Arts’s Oliver Art Center.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unlike some art exhibitions that broadly interpret themes of migration or geography, Degarrod focuses on a specific migration and group of people. Nine viewing terminals are arranged in the gallery; each monitor features an interview with a Chilean immigrant who fled Pinochet’s regime and moved to the San Francisco Bay Area between 1976 and 1980. I watched four of the nine videos and heard four stories that, while unique, were related. Each interview is structured into sections, “Migration,” “Memories,” “Identity,” and “Passport.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each story begins with an account of the political circumstances that forced the subject to leave Chile — his or her name on a list, months in prison, the threat and reality of torture. Leaving is presented not as a decision but as an imperative that could not be questioned or regretted. The individual reasons for staying away are less urgent, slower to unfold, more confusing. “The first time I could go back, I realized I had changed,” recalls Jaime. “Chile had changed. I realized I could not go back there and live.” Eliana stumbles over the question of her identity. “My grandparents came to Chile from Russia …,” she says. “I’m Russian, I’m Jewish, then I was labeled as a Chilean leftist. Then I came here — what am I now?” she asks. “I don’t belong to one specific place.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These tangled allegiances are the videos’ richest material, as the men and women wrestle with the knowledge they have left a home they cannot return to, a lost ideal whose existence negates the possibility of another place ever assuming that status. One of the interviews takes us outside to the hills surrounding the East Bay. Standing before a brown grass background, Hector tells us the ways California and Chile overlap, how aspects of his former home exist here. “They share the same forests, the same flowers, although with different names,” he says. Vistas of Santiago are overlaid with scenes from the Oakland hills and it becomes clear that one person can live in two places simultaneously.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exhibit also includes Degarrod’s prints and collages. Hung from the ceiling above each monitor like flags, the prints use portraiture and cartographic iconography to visually represent the sense of geographic alienation shared in the videos. The comprehensive exhibit, the result of Degarrod’s yearlong residency at CCA’s Center for Art and Public Life, also contains a participatory component. Visitors are invited to draw their own trajectories on photocopied maps placed at the rear of the gallery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I have one criticism of the show, it’s the chapter headings, which interrupt the flow of the video interviews by announcing themselves in large type across the screen. Besides being aesthetically disruptive, the use of such discrete categories is conceptually jarring. It seems to fly in the face of the exhibit’s overall premise — the ambiguity of and fluidity between supposedly separate entities. But such a concern is minor. Through its specificity and oral histories, this exhibit transcends typical artistic treatments of geography, becoming more than just a theoretical discussion of place or a display of maps. Ultimately, \u003cb>Geographies of the Imagination\u003c/b> succeeds because its treatment of geography is not purely imaginary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Geographies of the Imagination\u003c/b> is on display through November 21, 2008 at the Oliver Art Center at California College of the Arts, 5212 Broadway, Oakland. Hours are 8:30 a.m. to noon and 1 to 4:30 p.m., Monday to Friday. For more information, call 510-594-3757.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exhibit also includes Degarrod’s prints and collages. Hung from the ceiling above each monitor like flags, the prints use portraiture and cartographic iconography to visually represent the sense of geographic alienation shared in the videos. The comprehensive exhibit, the result of Degarrod’s yearlong residency at CCA’s Center for Art and Public Life, also contains a participatory component. Visitors are invited to draw their own trajectories on photocopied maps placed at the rear of the gallery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I have one criticism of the show, it’s the chapter headings, which interrupt the flow of the video interviews by announcing themselves in large type across the screen. Besides being aesthetically disruptive, the use of such discrete categories is conceptually jarring. It seems to fly in the face of the exhibit’s overall premise — the ambiguity of and fluidity between supposedly separate entities. But such a concern is minor. Through its specificity and oral histories, this exhibit transcends typical artistic treatments of geography, becoming more than just a theoretical discussion of place or a display of maps. Ultimately, \u003cb>Geographies of the Imagination\u003c/b> succeeds because its treatment of geography is not purely imaginary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Geographies of the Imagination\u003c/b> is on display through November 21, 2008 at the Oliver Art Center at California College of the Arts, 5212 Broadway, Oakland. Hours are 8:30 a.m. to noon and 1 to 4:30 p.m., Monday to Friday. For more information, call 510-594-3757.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Close your eyes and picture something delicately subversive, femininely masculine, perplexing and just plain sweet. Now don’t open your eyes until you get to the ‘loin and head into White Walls Gallery to see the work of artist Jim Houser. You’ll see what I’m getting at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On election eve, I went to see Richard Colman and Jim Houser’s duo show, \u003cb>Awful Mountain\u003c/b> in hopes of diverting my nervous attention toward rainbows. I’d missed Colman’s previous show at White Walls and looked forward to an up-close inspection of his massive paintings. His characters and compositions, while contemporary, are also reminiscent of art from the Middle Ages. Loaded with tiled rainbow patterns, the pieces were the perfect introduction to the pot of gold in the back gallery space — Houser’s incredible installation of paintings and objects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The installation’s palette was both warm and cool, shades of turquoise and reddish brown abounded. Walls were painted right down to the outlet coverings with big characters, including one that was sculptural — a sad but peaceful blue figure with his arms in the air and three-dimensional handmade arrows puncturing his chest. A stack of small amps sat in a corner with painted ropes acting as electrical cords, connecting them to handcrafted plants. There were candles on the floor throughout the installation, some with little notes tucked underneath.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Houser considered every corner of the space and there was a sense that he’d also been thoughtful of each potential viewer. Each piece was made with care and attention to detail. Simple stringed instruments hung on the walls, and tiny cubes, painted to look like bricks, had paper sprouts growing from them. And then there were the words. Everywhere I turned, there was something painted in a fragile script that must’ve been done with a single-hair brush. Every object had something to say. Like calculated, obsessive notes, phrases were related but rarely repeated. My favorite lines were about subtlety. “Subtle like the jargon of criminals.” “Subtle like the air around a bird’s wing.” “Subtle like a rare book.” “Subtle like a hand not being held.” Phrases like these were scattered throughout the paintings, linking each piece to one another. When I came across a nickel-sized image of a hand painted directly on the wall and labeled “hold,” I felt I’d discovered some intimate meaning in this seemingly nonsensical puzzle. Jim Houser likes to hold hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other subjects addressed: ghosts, teeth, machines, pills, and animals. Houser is prolific: photos can be found online of equally complex installations at galleries coast to coast. He designs skateboards, and he’s a musician, which could explain the lyrical nature of the text in his art. He is not the product of a fancy art school, though he did work as a parking attendant at RISD. I learned this in a 2007 \u003ca href=\"http://www.fecalface.com/SF/index.php?Itemid=92&id=852&option=com_content&task=view\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">interview\u003c/a> (at fecalface.com), where I also read an excellent piece of advice from the artist — “Give away your first 100 paintings.” I’m up to number 86.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Awful Mountain\u003c/b> is on view through December 7, 2008 at White Walls Gallery in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Close your eyes and picture something delicately subversive, femininely masculine, perplexing and just plain sweet. Now don’t open your eyes until you get to the ‘loin and head into White Walls Gallery to see the work of artist Jim Houser. You’ll see what I’m getting at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On election eve, I went to see Richard Colman and Jim Houser’s duo show, \u003cb>Awful Mountain\u003c/b> in hopes of diverting my nervous attention toward rainbows. I’d missed Colman’s previous show at White Walls and looked forward to an up-close inspection of his massive paintings. His characters and compositions, while contemporary, are also reminiscent of art from the Middle Ages. Loaded with tiled rainbow patterns, the pieces were the perfect introduction to the pot of gold in the back gallery space — Houser’s incredible installation of paintings and objects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The installation’s palette was both warm and cool, shades of turquoise and reddish brown abounded. Walls were painted right down to the outlet coverings with big characters, including one that was sculptural — a sad but peaceful blue figure with his arms in the air and three-dimensional handmade arrows puncturing his chest. A stack of small amps sat in a corner with painted ropes acting as electrical cords, connecting them to handcrafted plants. There were candles on the floor throughout the installation, some with little notes tucked underneath.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Houser considered every corner of the space and there was a sense that he’d also been thoughtful of each potential viewer. Each piece was made with care and attention to detail. Simple stringed instruments hung on the walls, and tiny cubes, painted to look like bricks, had paper sprouts growing from them. And then there were the words. Everywhere I turned, there was something painted in a fragile script that must’ve been done with a single-hair brush. Every object had something to say. Like calculated, obsessive notes, phrases were related but rarely repeated. My favorite lines were about subtlety. “Subtle like the jargon of criminals.” “Subtle like the air around a bird’s wing.” “Subtle like a rare book.” “Subtle like a hand not being held.” Phrases like these were scattered throughout the paintings, linking each piece to one another. When I came across a nickel-sized image of a hand painted directly on the wall and labeled “hold,” I felt I’d discovered some intimate meaning in this seemingly nonsensical puzzle. Jim Houser likes to hold hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other subjects addressed: ghosts, teeth, machines, pills, and animals. Houser is prolific: photos can be found online of equally complex installations at galleries coast to coast. He designs skateboards, and he’s a musician, which could explain the lyrical nature of the text in his art. He is not the product of a fancy art school, though he did work as a parking attendant at RISD. I learned this in a 2007 \u003ca href=\"http://www.fecalface.com/SF/index.php?Itemid=92&id=852&option=com_content&task=view\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">interview\u003c/a> (at fecalface.com), where I also read an excellent piece of advice from the artist — “Give away your first 100 paintings.” I’m up to number 86.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Not to re-fight old battles, but the domestic sphere as a feminist art concern never lets me be comfortable. On the one hand, raising The Domestic to the level of high-art-worthiness most “masculine” subjects enjoy, is all to the good. On the other, I’ve been dismayed by the overwhelming rush of women artists of my generation to fetishize the ironically tacky feminine sphere of our childhood. We hit the mid-nineties — our cultural ascension — and pseudo-primitivist folk painting, handicrafts, and seventies home decorating colors became a cliché faster than you could say “Margaret Kilgallen at the Whitney.” The noise of such blatant bandwagoning eventually had the effect of drowning out the intended dialogue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But since we went to war (a conjunction to be plumbed another time), the tsunami of fashion victims worshipping orange shag has receded, and left the artists who set the terms of the debate in a high and dry place. High and dry, or rendered and clarified; what a difference half a decade makes. This month, Megan Wilson, an artist so centrally situated within the third-wave domestic aesthetic that the connection can sometimes be hard to see, is offering tours of the high and dry in her installation \u003cb>Home: 1996-2008\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The installation \u003ci>is\u003c/i> Wilson’s home; her apartment since 1996. Since 2004, Wilson has been turning her space into an art installation — one never finished and therefore never made public. But now, the victim of an Ellis Act eviction that will have her out of the apartment before the end of the year, Wilson is opening up the space to visitors and giving guided tours, for the entire month of November 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those who have been following Bay Area arts for the past decade, \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> offers an unexpected completion…a closing of a circle you may not have felt was open. For Wilson’s prolific and ubiquitous practice tends to abstract and reduce; in each piece or installation the artist picks out one element of the home aesthetic — a cartoon flower, a cut-paper curlicue, a discrete form in an upholstery pattern — and repeats that module in a pleasing and decorative format until its origin is completely obscured, and the individual piece approaches the purely formal. Extending these modules over the surfaces of an entire apartment over the course of nearly five years has allowed these … ideographs …to accrete geologically. The apartment installation serves as a lexicon of the past decade of Wilson’s work. In \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> the abstracted finds its way back to context.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or is further abstracted. What’s most noticeable — and what Wilson, on her tour, first points out — is the set of curtain-cloth shapes she has cut out and pinned to the walls and ceilings. You’ve seen these before if you’ve seen Wilson’s work before; here they are in such profusion because of the number of rooms they must decorate. Yes, these decorative items, snipped and abstracted from decoration, have been turned back into decoration. It’s a double inversion that takes you back to the same longitude, but a different latitude. You are here in a meta-home: a meta-seventies-childhood-home, a meta-Wilsonian-childhood, and a meta-gallery-of-Megan-Wilson’s-ideas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll see other familiar images. On the bedroom door hangs one of the 250 panels Wilson painted with the word “Home” and a flower, distributing them in 2000 to individuals and organizations all over the city who were homeless or about to be. It’s not even ironic: Wilson’s understanding of the domestic sphere has always extended into public space, and for distinctly political reasons. She has always taken eviction and enclosure personally. That we are no longer facing the internet bubble doesn’t mean that artists are no longer getting evicted, or that Wilson herself was ever safe. Another circle closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the bedroom you’ll also see the sign-painterly flowers that are, as much as anything, her trademark. These flowers, large and small, perky and melting, tie her bedroom to loci all over the world: hipster art spaces and art-sale-collections in SF, transport bicycles in \u003ca href=\"http://www.meganwilson.com/projects/118_Sama%20sama-Together/1_sama.php\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Yogjakarta, Indonesia\u003c/a>, a wall in \u003ca href=\"http://galleontrade.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Manila\u003c/a>. In a career that has carefully and deliberately practiced collaboration and exchange, these flowers have become almost a hallmark of Wilson’s process of stretching the idea of home to absurd and profound distances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wilson says her intention was to eventually show the installation, but she was in no hurry and her perfectionism could have prevented it indefinitely. On the other hand, living in such a profoundly presentational space, dripping with irony, self-awareness, and deliberate reconstruction, must have been difficult. \u003cb>Home’s\u003c/b> root in feminist Art/Life experimentation resonates strongly for me, but I have to admit that I’ve always spent more time cringing in sympathy with such artists than analyzing their fortitude. After five years of living in a space meant for other people to view, that no one was viewing, it must be a profound relief to finally invert the space one last time, and make the private public, the domestic professional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Home\u003c/b> serves as a key to a practice that has woven itself into the recent history of community and political art in San Francisco. Do not miss this installation. Do not miss your chance to ask the artist questions. Don’t miss seeing her in her fake/real habitat, adjusting herself to your presence, in a context built from the detritus of public and private life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Home\u003c/b> is open for walk-ins Monday-Wednesday 2-5 pm through November 26, 2008. Throughout the month of November, artist Eliza Barrios will be projecting a series of images on the exterior of the building. \u003ca href=\"mailto:megawilson@aol.com\">Email Megan Wilson\u003c/a> for more information or for an appointment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More information on \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> at \u003ca href=\"http://www.meganwilson.com/projects/146_Home%201996-2008/1_Home_1996-2008.php\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">meganwilson.com\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Not to re-fight old battles, but the domestic sphere as a feminist art concern never lets me be comfortable. On the one hand, raising The Domestic to the level of high-art-worthiness most “masculine” subjects enjoy, is all to the good. On the other, I’ve been dismayed by the overwhelming rush of women artists of my generation to fetishize the ironically tacky feminine sphere of our childhood. We hit the mid-nineties — our cultural ascension — and pseudo-primitivist folk painting, handicrafts, and seventies home decorating colors became a cliché faster than you could say “Margaret Kilgallen at the Whitney.” The noise of such blatant bandwagoning eventually had the effect of drowning out the intended dialogue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But since we went to war (a conjunction to be plumbed another time), the tsunami of fashion victims worshipping orange shag has receded, and left the artists who set the terms of the debate in a high and dry place. High and dry, or rendered and clarified; what a difference half a decade makes. This month, Megan Wilson, an artist so centrally situated within the third-wave domestic aesthetic that the connection can sometimes be hard to see, is offering tours of the high and dry in her installation \u003cb>Home: 1996-2008\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The installation \u003ci>is\u003c/i> Wilson’s home; her apartment since 1996. Since 2004, Wilson has been turning her space into an art installation — one never finished and therefore never made public. But now, the victim of an Ellis Act eviction that will have her out of the apartment before the end of the year, Wilson is opening up the space to visitors and giving guided tours, for the entire month of November 2008.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those who have been following Bay Area arts for the past decade, \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> offers an unexpected completion…a closing of a circle you may not have felt was open. For Wilson’s prolific and ubiquitous practice tends to abstract and reduce; in each piece or installation the artist picks out one element of the home aesthetic — a cartoon flower, a cut-paper curlicue, a discrete form in an upholstery pattern — and repeats that module in a pleasing and decorative format until its origin is completely obscured, and the individual piece approaches the purely formal. Extending these modules over the surfaces of an entire apartment over the course of nearly five years has allowed these … ideographs …to accrete geologically. The apartment installation serves as a lexicon of the past decade of Wilson’s work. In \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> the abstracted finds its way back to context.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or is further abstracted. What’s most noticeable — and what Wilson, on her tour, first points out — is the set of curtain-cloth shapes she has cut out and pinned to the walls and ceilings. You’ve seen these before if you’ve seen Wilson’s work before; here they are in such profusion because of the number of rooms they must decorate. Yes, these decorative items, snipped and abstracted from decoration, have been turned back into decoration. It’s a double inversion that takes you back to the same longitude, but a different latitude. You are here in a meta-home: a meta-seventies-childhood-home, a meta-Wilsonian-childhood, and a meta-gallery-of-Megan-Wilson’s-ideas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You’ll see other familiar images. On the bedroom door hangs one of the 250 panels Wilson painted with the word “Home” and a flower, distributing them in 2000 to individuals and organizations all over the city who were homeless or about to be. It’s not even ironic: Wilson’s understanding of the domestic sphere has always extended into public space, and for distinctly political reasons. She has always taken eviction and enclosure personally. That we are no longer facing the internet bubble doesn’t mean that artists are no longer getting evicted, or that Wilson herself was ever safe. Another circle closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the bedroom you’ll also see the sign-painterly flowers that are, as much as anything, her trademark. These flowers, large and small, perky and melting, tie her bedroom to loci all over the world: hipster art spaces and art-sale-collections in SF, transport bicycles in \u003ca href=\"http://www.meganwilson.com/projects/118_Sama%20sama-Together/1_sama.php\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Yogjakarta, Indonesia\u003c/a>, a wall in \u003ca href=\"http://galleontrade.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Manila\u003c/a>. In a career that has carefully and deliberately practiced collaboration and exchange, these flowers have become almost a hallmark of Wilson’s process of stretching the idea of home to absurd and profound distances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wilson says her intention was to eventually show the installation, but she was in no hurry and her perfectionism could have prevented it indefinitely. On the other hand, living in such a profoundly presentational space, dripping with irony, self-awareness, and deliberate reconstruction, must have been difficult. \u003cb>Home’s\u003c/b> root in feminist Art/Life experimentation resonates strongly for me, but I have to admit that I’ve always spent more time cringing in sympathy with such artists than analyzing their fortitude. After five years of living in a space meant for other people to view, that no one was viewing, it must be a profound relief to finally invert the space one last time, and make the private public, the domestic professional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Home\u003c/b> serves as a key to a practice that has woven itself into the recent history of community and political art in San Francisco. Do not miss this installation. Do not miss your chance to ask the artist questions. Don’t miss seeing her in her fake/real habitat, adjusting herself to your presence, in a context built from the detritus of public and private life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Home\u003c/b> is open for walk-ins Monday-Wednesday 2-5 pm through November 26, 2008. Throughout the month of November, artist Eliza Barrios will be projecting a series of images on the exterior of the building. \u003ca href=\"mailto:megawilson@aol.com\">Email Megan Wilson\u003c/a> for more information or for an appointment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More information on \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> at \u003ca href=\"http://www.meganwilson.com/projects/146_Home%201996-2008/1_Home_1996-2008.php\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">meganwilson.com\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Imagine “cute” as a place. It would be populated by kittens and puppies that never age, bunnies that hide brightly colored eggs, and impossibly chubby cheeked infants who never soil their diapers or cry all night long. Such a world, soft and full of happy endings, is a refuge from the one we live in, where accidents occur, bad guys often win and forgiveness is rare. Our collective desire for this fantasy world manifests itself in our popular culture and even in our relationships with our pets. Dogs starring in movies, uncomfortable pet costumes, kitten calendars — too often our domesticated animals become victims in our pursuit of “cute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lauren Davies’s dog sculptures are not cute. On display at the Nelson Gallery at the University of California, Davis, through December 7, 2008, Davies’s sculptures take anthropomorphism to an absurd extreme. Made of shed dog fur collected from pet groomers, the small models (they range from 7-by-8 to 17-by-14 inches) are closer to taxidermy than the stuffed animals that crowd toy store shelves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davies does not craft generic dogs, or even mutts, but specific, built-to-scale breeds — the Maltese, the Australian Shepherd, the West Highland White Terrier, the Shetland Sheepdog. Fur is carefully arranged into appropriate color patterns — Davies’s Australian Shepherd has the characteristic brown coat with black patches. Her Old English Sheepdog’s fur is realistically matted and curled. The sleeping Cocker Spaniel is a dormant puddle of curled auburn fur. I wanted to ignore the sign and touch the dogs. Would I feel a warm, breathing belly underneath that familiar fur? I snuck a quick pinch, a brush of a leg, and it was cold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As animated as Davies’s creations are, they haunt more than they charm. Lacking eyes, noses, and mouths, they are faceless reproductions filled not with organs but with fur. Significantly, Davies builds the animals from the undesirable part of the dog. Shedding is the seedy underbelly of dog ownership. Shed fur snowballs beneath beds and in corners, upsetting clean houseguests; it coats black clothing and car seats, deterring passengers. Unlike rabbit fur, it is not spun into wool or knit into sweaters. It is thrown away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davies uses dog waste to create ghosts, models too real to be cute. In doing so, she mocks our culture’s desire to turn pets into malleable stuffed animals with human needs and characteristics. Her sculptures both tempt and thwart our impulse to view pets as cuter versions of ourselves. It is a human impulse, this desire for another version of our world. For in the land of “cute,” death and dust bunnies have no home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lauren Davies’s \u003cb>Dog Models\u003c/b> is included in the exhibition \u003cb>Aggregate: Three One-Person Shows\u003c/b>, which also includes work by artists Laura Breitman and Camille Utterback. The exhibition is on display at the Richard L. Nelson Gallery, located in Room 124, the Art Building, at UC Davis, through December 7, 2008.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Imagine “cute” as a place. It would be populated by kittens and puppies that never age, bunnies that hide brightly colored eggs, and impossibly chubby cheeked infants who never soil their diapers or cry all night long. Such a world, soft and full of happy endings, is a refuge from the one we live in, where accidents occur, bad guys often win and forgiveness is rare. Our collective desire for this fantasy world manifests itself in our popular culture and even in our relationships with our pets. Dogs starring in movies, uncomfortable pet costumes, kitten calendars — too often our domesticated animals become victims in our pursuit of “cute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lauren Davies’s dog sculptures are not cute. On display at the Nelson Gallery at the University of California, Davis, through December 7, 2008, Davies’s sculptures take anthropomorphism to an absurd extreme. Made of shed dog fur collected from pet groomers, the small models (they range from 7-by-8 to 17-by-14 inches) are closer to taxidermy than the stuffed animals that crowd toy store shelves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davies does not craft generic dogs, or even mutts, but specific, built-to-scale breeds — the Maltese, the Australian Shepherd, the West Highland White Terrier, the Shetland Sheepdog. Fur is carefully arranged into appropriate color patterns — Davies’s Australian Shepherd has the characteristic brown coat with black patches. Her Old English Sheepdog’s fur is realistically matted and curled. The sleeping Cocker Spaniel is a dormant puddle of curled auburn fur. I wanted to ignore the sign and touch the dogs. Would I feel a warm, breathing belly underneath that familiar fur? I snuck a quick pinch, a brush of a leg, and it was cold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As animated as Davies’s creations are, they haunt more than they charm. Lacking eyes, noses, and mouths, they are faceless reproductions filled not with organs but with fur. Significantly, Davies builds the animals from the undesirable part of the dog. Shedding is the seedy underbelly of dog ownership. Shed fur snowballs beneath beds and in corners, upsetting clean houseguests; it coats black clothing and car seats, deterring passengers. Unlike rabbit fur, it is not spun into wool or knit into sweaters. It is thrown away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davies uses dog waste to create ghosts, models too real to be cute. In doing so, she mocks our culture’s desire to turn pets into malleable stuffed animals with human needs and characteristics. Her sculptures both tempt and thwart our impulse to view pets as cuter versions of ourselves. It is a human impulse, this desire for another version of our world. For in the land of “cute,” death and dust bunnies have no home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Printmaking is a mysterious art form. Its techniques include sassy-sounding phrases like spit bite, aqua tint, and sugar lift. To an untrained viewer, these terms are meaningless but no less intriguing. Before perusing the latest edition of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=15046\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Crown Point Press\u003c/a>‘s \u003cb>Magical Secrets\u003c/b> series of books on printmaking, I stopped by their gallery to check out the latest group exhibition, \u003cb>Invention/Tradition\u003c/b> to see if I could detect whether or not “spit bite” actually involves spitting and biting. It doesn’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To know me is to know that I’m drawn to color. With this disclaimer out of the way, I can tell you about my favorite prints in the show created by artists Laura Owens and Jockum Nordström. In Nordström’s print titled \u003cb>House and Bugs\u003c/b>, awkwardly charming, folksy characters meander between skewed simplistic architecture and piles of wood. The print looks like a disturbed child’s watercolor rendering of Abe Lincoln’s days in office. Though at first glance it seems child-like, Nordström’s work has subtly dark and erotic edges. A print called \u003cb>Back to the Land\u003c/b> features two women and a sailor-suited man near a fruit tree with an oddly shaped gloomy cloud looming overhead, and the artist’s sauciest print was suggestively titled, \u003cb>Lick My Hand\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A colorful image of a chicken by Laura Owens graces the cover of the \u003cb>Magical Secrets about Thinking Creatively\u003c/b> by Crown Point Press founder and director, Kathan Brown, but it is in the newest \u003cb>Magical Secrets\u003c/b> book where you can read about Owens’s process for creating one of her pieces in the new exhibition, a whimsical blue horse with a flowery vine for a tail. After seeing the piece in person, I cracked open \u003cb>Magical Secrets about Aquatint\u003c/b> by master printer Emily York to learn how it was made; what chemicals were used, how Owens’s brushstrokes appeared on the horse but not on the background, and how each layer affected the final, printed image. York also worked with Nordström on his prints in the show, and her book includes detailed accounts of her experience working with other artists who have spent time at Crown Point Press. Reading about these renowned artists’ processes through the eyes of the expert printer who worked alongside them is, indeed, like discovering a magical secret.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is a liberty in printmaking that other art forms lack — it is meant for more than one person, and it takes more than one person to create a fine art print. At Crown Point Press, prints are run in limited editions, and many of the images are eventually published as beautiful books for sale in the cozy bookstore next to the gallery. The store also sells decks of playing cards with Nordström’s designs, that’s 52 little pieces of art. Want to make your own prints? The bookstore has supplies and instructional books, or you can purchase a kit with a copper plate and materials to create your own etching to be sent back to Crown Point for printing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>True appreciation of fine art printmaking is cerebral. You can contemplate the image that the artist has carefully selected to be repeated, and you can also examine each layer and mark, considering the steps that have been taken to preserve the presence of the artist’s hand in the original gesture as it is transferred to the final print. In short, a mark may look like it was made by a pencil, but it wasn’t. And what might look like watercolor paint is actually color spit bite and sugar lift aquatint. There is a complicated alchemical and often magical process that happens during the transfer, and the results can be, in York’s words about a \u003ca href=\"http://www.crownpoint.com/artists/smith-0\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Kiki Smith\u003c/a> print, “Stunning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Invention/Tradition\u003c/b> is on view through January 3rd, 2009.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\n\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Printmaking is a mysterious art form. Its techniques include sassy-sounding phrases like spit bite, aqua tint, and sugar lift. To an untrained viewer, these terms are meaningless but no less intriguing. Before perusing the latest edition of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=15046\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Crown Point Press\u003c/a>‘s \u003cb>Magical Secrets\u003c/b> series of books on printmaking, I stopped by their gallery to check out the latest group exhibition, \u003cb>Invention/Tradition\u003c/b> to see if I could detect whether or not “spit bite” actually involves spitting and biting. It doesn’t.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To know me is to know that I’m drawn to color. With this disclaimer out of the way, I can tell you about my favorite prints in the show created by artists Laura Owens and Jockum Nordström. In Nordström’s print titled \u003cb>House and Bugs\u003c/b>, awkwardly charming, folksy characters meander between skewed simplistic architecture and piles of wood. The print looks like a disturbed child’s watercolor rendering of Abe Lincoln’s days in office. Though at first glance it seems child-like, Nordström’s work has subtly dark and erotic edges. A print called \u003cb>Back to the Land\u003c/b> features two women and a sailor-suited man near a fruit tree with an oddly shaped gloomy cloud looming overhead, and the artist’s sauciest print was suggestively titled, \u003cb>Lick My Hand\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A colorful image of a chicken by Laura Owens graces the cover of the \u003cb>Magical Secrets about Thinking Creatively\u003c/b> by Crown Point Press founder and director, Kathan Brown, but it is in the newest \u003cb>Magical Secrets\u003c/b> book where you can read about Owens’s process for creating one of her pieces in the new exhibition, a whimsical blue horse with a flowery vine for a tail. After seeing the piece in person, I cracked open \u003cb>Magical Secrets about Aquatint\u003c/b> by master printer Emily York to learn how it was made; what chemicals were used, how Owens’s brushstrokes appeared on the horse but not on the background, and how each layer affected the final, printed image. York also worked with Nordström on his prints in the show, and her book includes detailed accounts of her experience working with other artists who have spent time at Crown Point Press. Reading about these renowned artists’ processes through the eyes of the expert printer who worked alongside them is, indeed, like discovering a magical secret.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is a liberty in printmaking that other art forms lack — it is meant for more than one person, and it takes more than one person to create a fine art print. At Crown Point Press, prints are run in limited editions, and many of the images are eventually published as beautiful books for sale in the cozy bookstore next to the gallery. The store also sells decks of playing cards with Nordström’s designs, that’s 52 little pieces of art. Want to make your own prints? The bookstore has supplies and instructional books, or you can purchase a kit with a copper plate and materials to create your own etching to be sent back to Crown Point for printing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>True appreciation of fine art printmaking is cerebral. You can contemplate the image that the artist has carefully selected to be repeated, and you can also examine each layer and mark, considering the steps that have been taken to preserve the presence of the artist’s hand in the original gesture as it is transferred to the final print. In short, a mark may look like it was made by a pencil, but it wasn’t. And what might look like watercolor paint is actually color spit bite and sugar lift aquatint. There is a complicated alchemical and often magical process that happens during the transfer, and the results can be, in York’s words about a \u003ca href=\"http://www.crownpoint.com/artists/smith-0\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Kiki Smith\u003c/a> print, “Stunning.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In the Bay Area, when we hear the word “culture,” we hide our checkbooks. We’re the “second city” in a state that has gone from one of the best-funded to one of the worst-funded in the nation for the arts, and it shows. We’re permitted pragmatism — arts-in-education, arts as salvation for at-risk youth — and we’re permitted entertainment, as long as we pay for it ourselves. But cultural traditions, community building, the echo chamber of aesthetic conversations … none of these is of any value during a war, or a recession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is no money for space rental or improvement, no money for staff salaries, no money for materials, expert consulting, or artist fees. I won’t ride this hobbyhorse too far. Suffice it to write that the crazy local real estate market and the loss of much of California’s operational funding for small arts nonprofits since 2001 have made our public community arts infrastructure a fantasy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the Bay Area arts scene has a couple things going for it: 1) we won’t admit we’re provincial, and 2) individuals continually?contiguously waste non-existent resources on unsustainable and short-lived \u003ci>private\u003c/i> arts infrastructure. This phenomenon is known as the community storefront gallery, and thank god for it, too. If it weren’t for our overeducated local Quixotes and Rosinantes, that vast grey area between art school and museum collections would be an empty field in the Bay right about now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s one way to look at the newest exemplar, the MG Gallery in Oakland’s Temescal district. M and G stand for Kari Marboe and Adam Green, life and project partners who found a house to live in on the Oakland end of Shattuck that also possessed a strange wannabe barbershop space sticking out onto the sidewalk in front. The space is an add-on: two tiny, low-ceilinged rooms with no back or storage areas, and a large picture window to each room bearing on the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s more of a diorama than a gallery, a fact Marboe says they’re ready to exploit. The gallery entity is still in transition: intended for a nonprofit, MG has no fiscal sponsorship or tax exempt status yet. Marboe has no camera-ready soundbite of a mission statement, either; the impetus is strong but the ideas are still fuzzy. There will be something about local artists, something about site-specific installations, something about audience engagement and drawing the community together. \u003ci>Something\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As frustrating as the vagueness is, the gallery’s third exhibition, \u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b>, a mild revision of \u003ca href=\"http://www.exquisitecorpse.com/definition/About.html\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">exquisite corpse\u003c/a> processes, speaks its own and the gallery’s intentions quite clearly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The larger room displays single sheet exquisite corpses — text followed by image, followed by text, etc. — created by groups in a “sentence drawing sentence” event held on October 11. On the ceiling hang larger scrolls of paper created over a longer period through individual engagement with a roller device. In the smaller room hang photographs of folks mugging in front of a wall sign. This was the weaker portion of an exhibition that might have suffered from too straightened a focus. But even this segment underlined the overall openness and community sensibility of the space and its organizers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marboe and the show’s curator, George Pfau, say that their neighbors have been walking into the gallery to play the game and take pictures, and opening the gallery has caused excitement in a neighborhood just a few blocks too far from the amenities to the north and south. So \u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b>, with its easy access to participation singly or in groups, its inviting display of results, and its unchallenging conceptualism, is the perfect project to introduce the space to the neighborhood. It’s a bit like a sophisticated version of ceramic-painting shops: hands-on arts for grown-ups — a little creativity in your day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a promising formula for the new gallery: a cheerfully painted, light-filled space (there are skylights in each room), a low-budget creativity that has already conquered the difficult cinderblock walls, and a clear, if inarticulate, community service aesthetic and ethic. If the funding issue can be tamed, MG Gallery is poised right at the opening of a number of Bay Area paths: community studio, residency space, artists collective, local gallery. Any of these is fine, and necessary, but MG has the potential to create a very modest but high-energy combination.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If they can avoid the personal (ego, ambition, cliquishness) and public (funding, funding, and, uh, funding) pitfalls that make these private/public dots on the landscape implode with geologic regularity, they might have the next hot idea, or hotspot. Here’s hoping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b> runs through the end of November 2008. A live event involving group game-playing takes place on Saturday, November 15 at 3 pm. MG Gallery is open 10-2 Saturdays and Mondays.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In the Bay Area, when we hear the word “culture,” we hide our checkbooks. We’re the “second city” in a state that has gone from one of the best-funded to one of the worst-funded in the nation for the arts, and it shows. We’re permitted pragmatism — arts-in-education, arts as salvation for at-risk youth — and we’re permitted entertainment, as long as we pay for it ourselves. But cultural traditions, community building, the echo chamber of aesthetic conversations … none of these is of any value during a war, or a recession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is no money for space rental or improvement, no money for staff salaries, no money for materials, expert consulting, or artist fees. I won’t ride this hobbyhorse too far. Suffice it to write that the crazy local real estate market and the loss of much of California’s operational funding for small arts nonprofits since 2001 have made our public community arts infrastructure a fantasy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the Bay Area arts scene has a couple things going for it: 1) we won’t admit we’re provincial, and 2) individuals continually?contiguously waste non-existent resources on unsustainable and short-lived \u003ci>private\u003c/i> arts infrastructure. This phenomenon is known as the community storefront gallery, and thank god for it, too. If it weren’t for our overeducated local Quixotes and Rosinantes, that vast grey area between art school and museum collections would be an empty field in the Bay right about now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s one way to look at the newest exemplar, the MG Gallery in Oakland’s Temescal district. M and G stand for Kari Marboe and Adam Green, life and project partners who found a house to live in on the Oakland end of Shattuck that also possessed a strange wannabe barbershop space sticking out onto the sidewalk in front. The space is an add-on: two tiny, low-ceilinged rooms with no back or storage areas, and a large picture window to each room bearing on the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s more of a diorama than a gallery, a fact Marboe says they’re ready to exploit. The gallery entity is still in transition: intended for a nonprofit, MG has no fiscal sponsorship or tax exempt status yet. Marboe has no camera-ready soundbite of a mission statement, either; the impetus is strong but the ideas are still fuzzy. There will be something about local artists, something about site-specific installations, something about audience engagement and drawing the community together. \u003ci>Something\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As frustrating as the vagueness is, the gallery’s third exhibition, \u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b>, a mild revision of \u003ca href=\"http://www.exquisitecorpse.com/definition/About.html\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">exquisite corpse\u003c/a> processes, speaks its own and the gallery’s intentions quite clearly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The larger room displays single sheet exquisite corpses — text followed by image, followed by text, etc. — created by groups in a “sentence drawing sentence” event held on October 11. On the ceiling hang larger scrolls of paper created over a longer period through individual engagement with a roller device. In the smaller room hang photographs of folks mugging in front of a wall sign. This was the weaker portion of an exhibition that might have suffered from too straightened a focus. But even this segment underlined the overall openness and community sensibility of the space and its organizers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marboe and the show’s curator, George Pfau, say that their neighbors have been walking into the gallery to play the game and take pictures, and opening the gallery has caused excitement in a neighborhood just a few blocks too far from the amenities to the north and south. So \u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b>, with its easy access to participation singly or in groups, its inviting display of results, and its unchallenging conceptualism, is the perfect project to introduce the space to the neighborhood. It’s a bit like a sophisticated version of ceramic-painting shops: hands-on arts for grown-ups — a little creativity in your day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a promising formula for the new gallery: a cheerfully painted, light-filled space (there are skylights in each room), a low-budget creativity that has already conquered the difficult cinderblock walls, and a clear, if inarticulate, community service aesthetic and ethic. If the funding issue can be tamed, MG Gallery is poised right at the opening of a number of Bay Area paths: community studio, residency space, artists collective, local gallery. Any of these is fine, and necessary, but MG has the potential to create a very modest but high-energy combination.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If they can avoid the personal (ego, ambition, cliquishness) and public (funding, funding, and, uh, funding) pitfalls that make these private/public dots on the landscape implode with geologic regularity, they might have the next hot idea, or hotspot. Here’s hoping.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sentence Drawing Sentence\u003c/b> runs through the end of November 2008. A live event involving group game-playing takes place on Saturday, November 15 at 3 pm. MG Gallery is open 10-2 Saturdays and Mondays.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Last summer I visited Intersection for the Arts to see an installation by artists Weston Teruya and Michele Carlson that resembled a chaotic classroom. While discussing the project with curator Kevin B. Chen, I learned that he was nearing his ten-year anniversary at the organization, so I asked Kevin some questions to learn more about his contributions to our local arts community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Briefly tell us what Intersection for the Arts is all about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> Intersection is a multi-disciplinary arts space based in the Mission District. Established in 1965, we are one of the oldest non-profit alternative arts spaces in the country, and the oldest one in San Francisco. We currently develop, support and present work in a number of different disciplines — visual arts, theater, dance, jazz, literature, interdisciplinary projects — as well as incubating and supporting dozens of projects and small organizations throughout the Bay Area with our Incubator Program. In the history of Intersection, there were also moments in time where other fields and disciplines were supported, like stand-up comedy, film, and experimental music. Intersection started off in the Tenderloin as a merger of several faith-based experiments that were using art to reach disenfranchised neighborhood youth while also providing artists who were conscientious objectors with an alternative to serving in the Vietnam War. Intersection found its first home in the basement of a church in North Beach, where it was located for the first twenty years and was initially called Intersection: A Center for Religion and the Arts. There hasn’t been a religious affiliation since the early 1970s, but it is an interesting history, when forward-thinking members of the church were positioning art to help build-up and construct community when it was being so devastated by the social and political upheavals of the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Describe your role at the organization and how it has evolved over the past ten years. Also, how has your personal aesthetic valuing process evolved during your time at IFTA?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> I didn’t have formal training to curate and organize projects. I learned a lot of it on the job. One of the great things that we’ve been able to do is to provide a lot of development space and time for artists to realize their vision in the actual building itself, whether it’s upstairs in the gallery or downstairs in the theater. We frequently work with artists who want to create new work, and we’ve been fortunate to be able to provide the framework where that work can organically grow and develop in front of our eyes. I have a very hands-on approach to working with artists, helping them out in whatever way possible to realize an exhibition or installation. I’m a practicing artist myself, and over the years I’ve also learned a ton about installation techniques and the best ways to work the particular physical layout of our gallery. I wouldn’t even think twice about staying late to work with an artist, and…[giving] as much they do [in] realizing the idea. Because of this, my own personal aesthetic valuing process has definitely morphed over the years. It has been an incredible learning experience…being exposed to the many different ways in which artists approach their work and how they execute their ideas and thoughts. Now, after 10 years and over four dozen exhibitions and installations later, I feel like I value the process more than what ultimately winds up in the gallery on the night of the opening reception.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Can you tell us about one of the most successful (or one of your favorite) gallery exhibitions at the Intersection?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> Each exhibition that I’ve worked on at Intersection has had its own pool of memorable moments, but I’ll mention a couple that were especially memorable:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We worked with local artist \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=23019\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Victor Cartagena\u003c/a>on a project back in 2000-2001 that was his investigation on how the mainstream media presented the two sides of capital punishment, especially as it was relating then to the case of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh. Part of Victor’s process was his forced consumption of media — for the project, he read thousands of issues of newspapers and magazines and listened to hours and hours of talk radio and television news programs to compile both sides of the argument on the death penalty. He saved all of these papers and magazines and audio tapes and in August 2001, we moved it all from his studio to Intersection. Our gallery was filled with stacks of newspapers, rows of audio speakers, and several television sets. Scheduled to open on September 12, 2001, we were working long hours in the days leading up to the opening. We had our checklist boiled down to a few remaining things to do, and after a long night of working in the gallery on September 10, we both went home planning to meet up at Intersection again the following afternoon to complete the show. After waking up the next morning and hearing the news of the terrorist attacks, I listened to the radio for a couple of hours, and then wanted to get outside to get some fresh air and clear my head. Like many of us across the country, confusion set in when I had a moment to breathe. I went back inside and listened to the radio for another hour, and with no new information about the attacks, I felt like I needed to get away from all of it for a while. I went down to Intersection to continue working on the exhibition, and Victor was there, as was our director Deborah [Cullinan] and some other staff members. We were all sitting in the gallery talking about what had happened, and then turned on one of the television sets in the installation to see if there was any new information about the attacks. It was a surreal moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another project that was especially memorable was an international exchange project that we worked on with artists from San Francisco’s Clarion Alley Mural Project in 2002-2003. The exchange happened with four artists from Yogyakarta, Indonesia, who all were members of an artist collective called Apotik Komik, and seven artists from the Bay Area. Even though less than a dozen artists participated in the exchange project, the larger communities of San Francisco and Yogyakarta were exposed to the human side of each other, leaving a deeper understanding of our world today. After the 2006 earthquake in Yogyakarta that devastated the city, we called upon the larger arts community here in San Francisco to help us with a fundraiser to send some support to our friends and their community in Yogyakarta.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> What are your goals/dreams for the gallery as you head into your next decade of curatorial projects?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> To have even more memorable moments, to have the opportunity to work with more artists, to have the chance to create dialogue about the issues in the work with even more people in the community, to continue to make the case of why art is absolutely necessary for a healthy and open community. And hopefully to work on projects that can continue the legacy of Intersection into its fifth decade.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Lastly, tell us about your own artwork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> I’ve always been making art since I was a kid. Although my parents aren’t artists, they were incredibly encouraging of me and my older brother in drawing and painting. We always had colored pencils and paper around. We both were really interested in spending time over a sheet of paper lost in imagination and creating worlds from our heads. Even though I didn’t study art in college, I was always making work — sculptures, drawings, paintings. At one point, I was strictly working in relief printmaking — woodblocks and linoleum cuts. I loved the process of being able to make multiple pieces of art. I moved out to California from New York City, and one of the first contrasts I noticed, which is not specific or special to me, was the difference in spatial experience. Out here in California, there is a lot more space and vistas where you can see the urban fabric from a distance. I became entranced trying to capture the feeling you can get from seeing the city from afar. I’ve been recently working on a series of drawings that I’m calling “The View From There.” They’re very minimalist graphite drawings on paper of fictional cityscapes. Most of the composition is just blank paper, the drawing lives only on the bottom inch or so. I frequently draw with a magnifying glass to intensify the detail of windows, facades, and building caps. I wanted to create a series of work that rewards the viewer with each subsequent deeper look. Part of these series are going to be on view in two group shows this fall: “Double Exposure” at \u003ca href=\"http://www.blankspacegallery.com/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Blankspace\u003c/a> in Oakland and “Shifted Focus: 10th Anniversary APAture Retrospective Exhibition” at \u003ca href=\"http://www.kearnystreet.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Kearny Street Workshop\u003c/a> in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Last summer I visited Intersection for the Arts to see an installation by artists Weston Teruya and Michele Carlson that resembled a chaotic classroom. While discussing the project with curator Kevin B. Chen, I learned that he was nearing his ten-year anniversary at the organization, so I asked Kevin some questions to learn more about his contributions to our local arts community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Briefly tell us what Intersection for the Arts is all about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> Intersection is a multi-disciplinary arts space based in the Mission District. Established in 1965, we are one of the oldest non-profit alternative arts spaces in the country, and the oldest one in San Francisco. We currently develop, support and present work in a number of different disciplines — visual arts, theater, dance, jazz, literature, interdisciplinary projects — as well as incubating and supporting dozens of projects and small organizations throughout the Bay Area with our Incubator Program. In the history of Intersection, there were also moments in time where other fields and disciplines were supported, like stand-up comedy, film, and experimental music. Intersection started off in the Tenderloin as a merger of several faith-based experiments that were using art to reach disenfranchised neighborhood youth while also providing artists who were conscientious objectors with an alternative to serving in the Vietnam War. Intersection found its first home in the basement of a church in North Beach, where it was located for the first twenty years and was initially called Intersection: A Center for Religion and the Arts. There hasn’t been a religious affiliation since the early 1970s, but it is an interesting history, when forward-thinking members of the church were positioning art to help build-up and construct community when it was being so devastated by the social and political upheavals of the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Describe your role at the organization and how it has evolved over the past ten years. Also, how has your personal aesthetic valuing process evolved during your time at IFTA?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> I didn’t have formal training to curate and organize projects. I learned a lot of it on the job. One of the great things that we’ve been able to do is to provide a lot of development space and time for artists to realize their vision in the actual building itself, whether it’s upstairs in the gallery or downstairs in the theater. We frequently work with artists who want to create new work, and we’ve been fortunate to be able to provide the framework where that work can organically grow and develop in front of our eyes. I have a very hands-on approach to working with artists, helping them out in whatever way possible to realize an exhibition or installation. I’m a practicing artist myself, and over the years I’ve also learned a ton about installation techniques and the best ways to work the particular physical layout of our gallery. I wouldn’t even think twice about staying late to work with an artist, and…[giving] as much they do [in] realizing the idea. Because of this, my own personal aesthetic valuing process has definitely morphed over the years. It has been an incredible learning experience…being exposed to the many different ways in which artists approach their work and how they execute their ideas and thoughts. Now, after 10 years and over four dozen exhibitions and installations later, I feel like I value the process more than what ultimately winds up in the gallery on the night of the opening reception.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Can you tell us about one of the most successful (or one of your favorite) gallery exhibitions at the Intersection?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> Each exhibition that I’ve worked on at Intersection has had its own pool of memorable moments, but I’ll mention a couple that were especially memorable:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We worked with local artist \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=23019\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Victor Cartagena\u003c/a>on a project back in 2000-2001 that was his investigation on how the mainstream media presented the two sides of capital punishment, especially as it was relating then to the case of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh. Part of Victor’s process was his forced consumption of media — for the project, he read thousands of issues of newspapers and magazines and listened to hours and hours of talk radio and television news programs to compile both sides of the argument on the death penalty. He saved all of these papers and magazines and audio tapes and in August 2001, we moved it all from his studio to Intersection. Our gallery was filled with stacks of newspapers, rows of audio speakers, and several television sets. Scheduled to open on September 12, 2001, we were working long hours in the days leading up to the opening. We had our checklist boiled down to a few remaining things to do, and after a long night of working in the gallery on September 10, we both went home planning to meet up at Intersection again the following afternoon to complete the show. After waking up the next morning and hearing the news of the terrorist attacks, I listened to the radio for a couple of hours, and then wanted to get outside to get some fresh air and clear my head. Like many of us across the country, confusion set in when I had a moment to breathe. I went back inside and listened to the radio for another hour, and with no new information about the attacks, I felt like I needed to get away from all of it for a while. I went down to Intersection to continue working on the exhibition, and Victor was there, as was our director Deborah [Cullinan] and some other staff members. We were all sitting in the gallery talking about what had happened, and then turned on one of the television sets in the installation to see if there was any new information about the attacks. It was a surreal moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another project that was especially memorable was an international exchange project that we worked on with artists from San Francisco’s Clarion Alley Mural Project in 2002-2003. The exchange happened with four artists from Yogyakarta, Indonesia, who all were members of an artist collective called Apotik Komik, and seven artists from the Bay Area. Even though less than a dozen artists participated in the exchange project, the larger communities of San Francisco and Yogyakarta were exposed to the human side of each other, leaving a deeper understanding of our world today. After the 2006 earthquake in Yogyakarta that devastated the city, we called upon the larger arts community here in San Francisco to help us with a fundraiser to send some support to our friends and their community in Yogyakarta.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> What are your goals/dreams for the gallery as you head into your next decade of curatorial projects?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KC:\u003c/b> To have even more memorable moments, to have the opportunity to work with more artists, to have the chance to create dialogue about the issues in the work with even more people in the community, to continue to make the case of why art is absolutely necessary for a healthy and open community. And hopefully to work on projects that can continue the legacy of Intersection into its fifth decade.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>KF:\u003c/b> Lastly, tell us about your own artwork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>On September 11, 2001, we woke up early to look at winter rentals at Higgins Beach. We drove through the southern Maine morning, leaves turning, until we arrived at the small strip of houses along the ocean. Standing in gravel driveways, peeking into the windows of wooden houses, gray boards cracked and bowed, I remember the clear sky and the cold air from the sea. The morning is crystallized in my mind, like a scene inside a snow globe. These were the hours before everything changed, before we drove back into town and walked past a television store and saw the images of the World Trade Center on a screen facing the sidewalk. Sometimes I want to return to that morning by the ocean, to marvel at our innocence and inaccurate visions of the future, to search for clues of what was to come. Maybe I would be able to find the moment that “before” turned into “after.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We are constantly negotiating between the past and the future, stumbling through the moments that connect old versions of our world with emerging ones, revising our memories to reflect then-future events. We can’t see tomorrow. Julio Cesar Morales’ current exhibit at New Langton Arts takes this relationship — between history and what’s to come — as its subject. As in the rest of Morales’ practice, the artist grounds his explorations in the cross-border dynamics of the United States and Mexico. \u003cb>tomorrow is for those who can hear it coming\u003c/b> consists of three works that, as Morales says in an interview with curator Maria del Carmen Carrion, seek to “go to the future by going back to the past.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most provocative of the pieces is \u003cb>Interrupted Passage\u003c/b>, a meticulously detailed reenactment of General Vallejo’s 1846 meeting with members of the U.S. militia. As a result of the meeting, which took the form of a meal, the Treaty of Guadalupe was signed, and California joined the United States. The video, which plays at New Langton on a loop, was filmed at Casa Grande, Vallejo’s historic home in Sonoma. The reenactment does not profess to be literal or historically definitive, rejecting the nostalgia of typical historical reenactments. Bare of dialogue, its only accompaniment is an ambient electronic soundtrack. The characters are theatrical, their costumes obvious, their facial expressions unnatural. “It is not an accurate vision, it is not a reenactment in that sense,” Morales said in his conversation with Carrion. He continued: “It is something that I envisioned related to my reading of Vallejo’s autobiography — what he was thinking, how he was feeling, and what those last eight hours could have looked like.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Morales, as Vallejo, sits sideburned and uneasy in his home awaiting his guests. Other characters — two bearded and rough looking soldiers — approach. The meal begins. The camera focuses on hungry slurps and tense looks. We never see a piece of paper signed or witness a conversation among the men. The scene merely builds and builds, the music beats and pulses, approaching a future climax the viewer never sees. While one screen shows the meal being eaten, a second screen provides footage of its preparation. Onions are chopped with a cleaver and a steer is roasted above a fire. Sensual and visceral, the food appears as a sacrifice. Although Morales admits the filmed reenactment is not historically accurate, he went to great lengths to ensure the meal was, collaborating with chef Max La Riviere-Hedrick to create a meal out of ingredients available during Vallejo’s time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Morales’ vision of the past is one heavily influenced by and relevant to the issues of today. Vallejo had an open immigration policy, Morales points out. “He wanted people to come to Alta California…I thought it was an interesting connection to make in our current political climate, when as we speak, the wall between Mexico and the United States is being built.” Strangely, the food prepared and eaten in \u003cb>Interrupted Passage\u003c/b> serves as a link between those two time periods. Immediate and sensual, the food provokes an awareness of the present, of this moment, right now. The moment after a memory and before the next step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Julio Cesar Morales’ \u003cb>tomorrow is for those who can hear it coming\u003c/b> is on display at New Langton Arts through October 25, 2008. For \u003ca href=\"http://newlangtonarts.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">more information\u003c/a>, visit newlangtonarts.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On September 11, 2001, we woke up early to look at winter rentals at Higgins Beach. We drove through the southern Maine morning, leaves turning, until we arrived at the small strip of houses along the ocean. Standing in gravel driveways, peeking into the windows of wooden houses, gray boards cracked and bowed, I remember the clear sky and the cold air from the sea. The morning is crystallized in my mind, like a scene inside a snow globe. These were the hours before everything changed, before we drove back into town and walked past a television store and saw the images of the World Trade Center on a screen facing the sidewalk. Sometimes I want to return to that morning by the ocean, to marvel at our innocence and inaccurate visions of the future, to search for clues of what was to come. Maybe I would be able to find the moment that “before” turned into “after.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We are constantly negotiating between the past and the future, stumbling through the moments that connect old versions of our world with emerging ones, revising our memories to reflect then-future events. We can’t see tomorrow. Julio Cesar Morales’ current exhibit at New Langton Arts takes this relationship — between history and what’s to come — as its subject. As in the rest of Morales’ practice, the artist grounds his explorations in the cross-border dynamics of the United States and Mexico. \u003cb>tomorrow is for those who can hear it coming\u003c/b> consists of three works that, as Morales says in an interview with curator Maria del Carmen Carrion, seek to “go to the future by going back to the past.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most provocative of the pieces is \u003cb>Interrupted Passage\u003c/b>, a meticulously detailed reenactment of General Vallejo’s 1846 meeting with members of the U.S. militia. As a result of the meeting, which took the form of a meal, the Treaty of Guadalupe was signed, and California joined the United States. The video, which plays at New Langton on a loop, was filmed at Casa Grande, Vallejo’s historic home in Sonoma. The reenactment does not profess to be literal or historically definitive, rejecting the nostalgia of typical historical reenactments. Bare of dialogue, its only accompaniment is an ambient electronic soundtrack. The characters are theatrical, their costumes obvious, their facial expressions unnatural. “It is not an accurate vision, it is not a reenactment in that sense,” Morales said in his conversation with Carrion. He continued: “It is something that I envisioned related to my reading of Vallejo’s autobiography — what he was thinking, how he was feeling, and what those last eight hours could have looked like.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Morales, as Vallejo, sits sideburned and uneasy in his home awaiting his guests. Other characters — two bearded and rough looking soldiers — approach. The meal begins. The camera focuses on hungry slurps and tense looks. We never see a piece of paper signed or witness a conversation among the men. The scene merely builds and builds, the music beats and pulses, approaching a future climax the viewer never sees. While one screen shows the meal being eaten, a second screen provides footage of its preparation. Onions are chopped with a cleaver and a steer is roasted above a fire. Sensual and visceral, the food appears as a sacrifice. Although Morales admits the filmed reenactment is not historically accurate, he went to great lengths to ensure the meal was, collaborating with chef Max La Riviere-Hedrick to create a meal out of ingredients available during Vallejo’s time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Morales’ vision of the past is one heavily influenced by and relevant to the issues of today. Vallejo had an open immigration policy, Morales points out. “He wanted people to come to Alta California…I thought it was an interesting connection to make in our current political climate, when as we speak, the wall between Mexico and the United States is being built.” Strangely, the food prepared and eaten in \u003cb>Interrupted Passage\u003c/b> serves as a link between those two time periods. Immediate and sensual, the food provokes an awareness of the present, of this moment, right now. The moment after a memory and before the next step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Julio Cesar Morales’ \u003cb>tomorrow is for those who can hear it coming\u003c/b> is on display at New Langton Arts through October 25, 2008. For \u003ca href=\"http://newlangtonarts.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">more information\u003c/a>, visit newlangtonarts.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>What is the role of the artist in wartime? Answers to that question are many, but all are conditional. It is absurd to speak about “the artist” as monolithic. Artists’ strategies for interacting with the real are as varied as the artists themselves. It might be equally absurd to speak of war in a similar fashion. Throughout history, wars have been waged for a multitude of reasons, the specifics of which we leave to the province of historians who, with distance and hindsight, are better able to piece together the logics of victor and vanquished.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>War is eternal. It is constant, like a heartbeat, an ever-present part of the human condition. It is always with us, staining the whole of human history with the blood spilled. War is epic. It is drama on a grand scale, which is why it appears so often in works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Meridian Gallery’s current exhibition, \u003cb>Art of Democracy: War and Empire\u003c/b>, fills three floors with artworks that explore the subject of war in general, and grapple with the current Iraq war in particular. Forty artists contributed to the exhibition, deploying a number of strategies, only a few or which are, in my opinion, successful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many of the works in the show are loud and graphic, depicting battlefield scenes or instances of atrocity and abuse. They put the bloody reality front and center, confronting the viewer with the ugly barbarism of battle. Others employ a gallows humor, mocking the warmongers (mostly members of the Bush Administration), twisting the players into grotesque caricatures and scrawling their own nonsensical rhetoric across their mouths. It is as if the artists are attempting to shove the coarse words back down the throats that uttered them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is probably a cleansing function to this art. The anger and outrage must be exorcised in some way, but one wonders what this art is attempting. Is it educational? Informational? It is surely not being produced to change minds. Perhaps it is meant more as a rallying cry or, in some cases, an outcry. One cannot help but think that this work just feeds the thing it aims to combat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bush Administration shows up in various guises in the majority of works on display: Bush as vampire; Cheney as Pinoccio; Condi as dominatrix; the Bush Administration as hydra doing battle with the Statue of Liberty. Pointing fingers and calling names is what the Bush Administration does best. They have set the stage and are its major players. The only choice is to react. The artist who responds is trapped, becoming a prisoner of his or her own message, a message that itself imprisons. As long as the Bush Administration remains the subject, the real costs of war need not be examined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Juan Fuentes’s \u003cb>Children Die in Stupid Grownups War\u003c/b> is a black and white image of a man carrying a dead child with the title written across the bottom of the print. After all the clever agit-prop on display, this one image pretty much says it all. There are consequences to war. While most of the other artists in the show would like to argue about the absurdity of a phrase like “collateral damage,” Fuentes demonstrates its human form through the voice of a child, depicting how innocence is lost in a time of war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Favianna Rodriguez does similar work, with bold prints and simple slogans like \u003cb>War Targets Poor People of Color\u003c/b>. Rodriguez and Fuentes refuse to argue the specifics of this or that war, or to debate the potency of nationalist symbols, in favor of demonstrating how wars are fought over the heads and through the bodies of the disempowered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those with a little extra cash on hand, David Jones’s \u003cb>Lead Shirts\u003c/b> offer a practical — and stylish — approach to life during wartime. For only $999.99 you can be the proud owner of one beautifully-tailored button-down dress shirt fashioned out of lead. In classic style, with lots of detail work, these garments are designed to protect the wearer from harmful nuclear fallout in a time of increasing uncertainty. What’s great about the lead shirt, beside the fact that it will go with just about anything, is how it reveals the fragility of the post-911 world and lays bare the futility of our efforts to shield ourselves from harm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scott Anderson’s \u003cb>The Condi Bomb, Weapon of Missed Diplomacy and Messed Democracy\u003c/b> is a painting of a war machine called the “Bababa baba Iran,” which looks like an improvised Swiss army knife in tank form. Like something out of \u003cb>Mad Max\u003c/b>, the machine is hobbled together with thumbtacks and glue, its weapons are punchy fists, pointy sticks and a carrot. A Fox TV satellite dish, a piece of pie, a rubber chicken and a sad teddy bear are all taped to its surface, reminding us how much we “supported the troops” in Iraq, forcing them to improvise their own armor in the midst of battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson’s painting floats above an installation of \u003cb>War Toys\u003c/b> by Bella Feldman. These metal and glass sculptures come in many shapes and sizes. Each object seems to be constructed for a different purpose, which is purposefully obscured. Some look like testicles on wheels, others like long knives. The glass feels fragile, the metal tough. Some knives point inward, others out. These “toys” look both mean and vulnerable at the same time, making one wonder if war isn’t self-breaking. Even the title reminds us that, to a certain extent, war is a game.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What these toys are and what they are designed to do is open to interpretation. While contemplating them, we are free. This exhibition has turned the Meridian Gallery into a battlefield of ideas, a war of images about war. Feldman’s \u003cb>War Toys\u003c/b> invite dialogue and translation. That’s where art, especially art concerned with war, should take us — to an open place, one where we are free to do the work of understanding. This would be the place where conflicting ideas, cultures and nations could safely meet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Art of Democracy: War and Empire\u003c/b> is on display at the Meridian Gallery through November 4, 2008. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.meridiangallery.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">more information\u003c/a>, visit meridiangallery.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>What is the role of the artist in wartime? Answers to that question are many, but all are conditional. It is absurd to speak about “the artist” as monolithic. Artists’ strategies for interacting with the real are as varied as the artists themselves. It might be equally absurd to speak of war in a similar fashion. Throughout history, wars have been waged for a multitude of reasons, the specifics of which we leave to the province of historians who, with distance and hindsight, are better able to piece together the logics of victor and vanquished.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>War is eternal. It is constant, like a heartbeat, an ever-present part of the human condition. It is always with us, staining the whole of human history with the blood spilled. War is epic. It is drama on a grand scale, which is why it appears so often in works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Meridian Gallery’s current exhibition, \u003cb>Art of Democracy: War and Empire\u003c/b>, fills three floors with artworks that explore the subject of war in general, and grapple with the current Iraq war in particular. Forty artists contributed to the exhibition, deploying a number of strategies, only a few or which are, in my opinion, successful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many of the works in the show are loud and graphic, depicting battlefield scenes or instances of atrocity and abuse. They put the bloody reality front and center, confronting the viewer with the ugly barbarism of battle. Others employ a gallows humor, mocking the warmongers (mostly members of the Bush Administration), twisting the players into grotesque caricatures and scrawling their own nonsensical rhetoric across their mouths. It is as if the artists are attempting to shove the coarse words back down the throats that uttered them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is probably a cleansing function to this art. The anger and outrage must be exorcised in some way, but one wonders what this art is attempting. Is it educational? Informational? It is surely not being produced to change minds. Perhaps it is meant more as a rallying cry or, in some cases, an outcry. One cannot help but think that this work just feeds the thing it aims to combat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bush Administration shows up in various guises in the majority of works on display: Bush as vampire; Cheney as Pinoccio; Condi as dominatrix; the Bush Administration as hydra doing battle with the Statue of Liberty. Pointing fingers and calling names is what the Bush Administration does best. They have set the stage and are its major players. The only choice is to react. The artist who responds is trapped, becoming a prisoner of his or her own message, a message that itself imprisons. As long as the Bush Administration remains the subject, the real costs of war need not be examined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Juan Fuentes’s \u003cb>Children Die in Stupid Grownups War\u003c/b> is a black and white image of a man carrying a dead child with the title written across the bottom of the print. After all the clever agit-prop on display, this one image pretty much says it all. There are consequences to war. While most of the other artists in the show would like to argue about the absurdity of a phrase like “collateral damage,” Fuentes demonstrates its human form through the voice of a child, depicting how innocence is lost in a time of war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Favianna Rodriguez does similar work, with bold prints and simple slogans like \u003cb>War Targets Poor People of Color\u003c/b>. Rodriguez and Fuentes refuse to argue the specifics of this or that war, or to debate the potency of nationalist symbols, in favor of demonstrating how wars are fought over the heads and through the bodies of the disempowered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For those with a little extra cash on hand, David Jones’s \u003cb>Lead Shirts\u003c/b> offer a practical — and stylish — approach to life during wartime. For only $999.99 you can be the proud owner of one beautifully-tailored button-down dress shirt fashioned out of lead. In classic style, with lots of detail work, these garments are designed to protect the wearer from harmful nuclear fallout in a time of increasing uncertainty. What’s great about the lead shirt, beside the fact that it will go with just about anything, is how it reveals the fragility of the post-911 world and lays bare the futility of our efforts to shield ourselves from harm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scott Anderson’s \u003cb>The Condi Bomb, Weapon of Missed Diplomacy and Messed Democracy\u003c/b> is a painting of a war machine called the “Bababa baba Iran,” which looks like an improvised Swiss army knife in tank form. Like something out of \u003cb>Mad Max\u003c/b>, the machine is hobbled together with thumbtacks and glue, its weapons are punchy fists, pointy sticks and a carrot. A Fox TV satellite dish, a piece of pie, a rubber chicken and a sad teddy bear are all taped to its surface, reminding us how much we “supported the troops” in Iraq, forcing them to improvise their own armor in the midst of battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anderson’s painting floats above an installation of \u003cb>War Toys\u003c/b> by Bella Feldman. These metal and glass sculptures come in many shapes and sizes. Each object seems to be constructed for a different purpose, which is purposefully obscured. Some look like testicles on wheels, others like long knives. The glass feels fragile, the metal tough. Some knives point inward, others out. These “toys” look both mean and vulnerable at the same time, making one wonder if war isn’t self-breaking. Even the title reminds us that, to a certain extent, war is a game.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What these toys are and what they are designed to do is open to interpretation. While contemplating them, we are free. This exhibition has turned the Meridian Gallery into a battlefield of ideas, a war of images about war. Feldman’s \u003cb>War Toys\u003c/b> invite dialogue and translation. That’s where art, especially art concerned with war, should take us — to an open place, one where we are free to do the work of understanding. This would be the place where conflicting ideas, cultures and nations could safely meet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Mahjong: Contemporary Chinese Art from the Sigg Collection",
"headTitle": "Mahjong: Contemporary Chinese Art from the Sigg Collection | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>There’s so much. One piece after another after another. The Berkeley Art Museum’s nine packed galleries give a clear indication of the Swiss art collector Uli Sigg’s obsessive-compulsive drive towards collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mahjong: Contemporary Art from the Sigg Collection\u003c/b> offers over 140 works of Chinese contemporary art, all drawn from Sigg’s private collection. Together, the works in Mahjong tell the story of a dreamworld called “China,” but that dreamworld may, or may not, bear any resemblance to the real thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sigg began collecting Chinese contemporary art in the 1990s, trying, as he notes, “to cover the whole spectrum” of Chinese contemporary art production, and assemble a collection that embodies “Chineseness.” His encyclopedic impulse is admirable, but the results are less neutral, and less documentary, than he might lead us to believe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sigg, like so many others who work with Chinese contemporary art, treats Chinese as a veiled “Other.” The curatorial approach to Mahjong draws heavily upon Orientalist tropes. Due to the Cultural Revolution, the story goes, China was hidden from the Western gaze, and her artists were cut off from contact with the West. Chinese art, like Chinese history, was supposedly divorced from the world, and Chinese contemporary art developed in that secret space. Chinese contemporary art, then, cannot — and should not — be judged on par with Western art. The same standards cannot apply to Chinese contemporary art. Chinese contemporary art must be judged on separate terms. Often, the object’s ability to convey “Chineseness” becomes a key determinant of its value as a work of art. And because that narrative of Chinese art history continues to dominate the discourse, most criticism and scholarship — and consequently, most curatorial approaches — continue to embrace this double standard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most critics and curators of contemporary art would find it laughable to organize a show around the essential principles of “Frenchness” or “Americanness,” yet curators of contemporary Chinese art continue to incorporate essentialist notions of “Chineseness” into their shows. To put it bluntly, in every show about Chinese art, there must be a panda. (There is at least one panda in Mahjong. It appears in Zhao Bandi’s \u003cb>A Tale of Love Gone Wrong\u003c/b> for Pandaman (2003).) Can you imagine if every show about contemporary American art included an American flag, or worse, Mickey Mouse?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Mahjong, the objects hit all the familiar high notes — we observe cosmopolitan scenes from Beijing and Shanghai, we encounter elements drawn from China’s Classical past, we enjoy Chinese calligraphy, porcelain, and embroidery, we revel in exquisite glazes and sumptuous silks. In other words, the objects conform to our expectations of “something Chinese.” We need not possess knowledge of Chinese geography nor history to take pleasure in the spectacle before us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The China that we encounter at the Berkeley Art Museum is protean, changeable, but still deeply inflected with Orientalism. This China is less a geographic place than a free-floating construct. In the past decade, the concept of China has taken on an intense, almost totemic significance. In our century, China re-emerged as a major player on the world stage, a development that startles — and unsettles — many in the West. The overheated Chinese contemporary art market was largely driven by a Western desire to own and know the slippery, mysterious Oriental “other.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Witness the Western — European and American — fascination with the 2008 Beijing Olympics, a fascination exemplified by the press’s curious mixture of admiration and disgust, denigration and celebration, towards China and its people. In China, they eat scorpions on a stick. In China, they drink Coca-Cola. The Chinese are at once potentially human — and utterly alien. The tropes of Orientalism return, now broadcast in high definition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taken as a group, the works in Mahjong convey that same unsettling mixture of fear and fascination. In the exhibition, China often comes across as grotesque and somewhat sinister, a place where the human figure is continually under stress. For example, Yue MinJun’s paintings feature grotesque, mask-like figures, dressed in everyday garb, but performing unorthodox, and highly disturbing, actions. \u003cb>2000 A.D.\u003c/b>, Yue’s large-scale installation, features row upon row of the same grinning figure, his face contorted into something resembling a death mask. Dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, barefoot, with his eyes shut and his hands crossed behind his back, the man seems neither happy nor relaxed. Taken en masse, Yue’s figures remind me of the Chin dynasty terracotta warriors, who were buried with their master in lieu of the usual human sacrifice. Wang Jin’s \u003cb>Ice Wall\u003c/b> depicts frenzied villagers tackling a wall made of ice, tearing objects (described as “highly desirable consumer goods”) and bearing them away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is also the other China, the beautiful and desirable one. We encounter this particular dream China in Mahjong as well, in the form of Wang Jin’s haunting 1997 work, \u003cb>The Dream of China\u003c/b>, where a translucent plastic (or PVC?) copy of an embroidered silk court robe hangs suspended from a large metal hook, a gossamer mirage of exotic beauty. And we meet it again in Shi Guorui’s photo-panorama, \u003cb>Shanghai, China, 15-16 October 2004\u003c/b>, and in the pseudo-calligraphy practiced by Gu Wenda and Xu Bing. This is the Orient that is mysterious and fascinating, that beguiles us but remains veiled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite its scale, Mahjong is more a show about Western visions of China than a show about contemporary art practice in China. We come away from the show with very little new knowledge about contemporary China — we can leave, in fact, without ever figuring out the proper geographic relationship between Shanghai and Beijing — but with plenty of insight into the West’s projections of China and the Orient. Until Western curators figure out a different way to narrate Chinese art history, we will continue to rehearse our own Orientalist versions of that story, and our shows about Chinese art will continue to resemble a hall of mirrors, continually reflecting our own gaze back at us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mahjong: Contemporary Art from the Sigg Collection\u003c/b> is on display at the Berkeley Art Museum through January 4, 2009. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/exhibition/mahjong\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">more information\u003c/a>, visit bampfa.berkeley.edu.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>There’s so much. One piece after another after another. The Berkeley Art Museum’s nine packed galleries give a clear indication of the Swiss art collector Uli Sigg’s obsessive-compulsive drive towards collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Mahjong: Contemporary Art from the Sigg Collection\u003c/b> offers over 140 works of Chinese contemporary art, all drawn from Sigg’s private collection. Together, the works in Mahjong tell the story of a dreamworld called “China,” but that dreamworld may, or may not, bear any resemblance to the real thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sigg began collecting Chinese contemporary art in the 1990s, trying, as he notes, “to cover the whole spectrum” of Chinese contemporary art production, and assemble a collection that embodies “Chineseness.” His encyclopedic impulse is admirable, but the results are less neutral, and less documentary, than he might lead us to believe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sigg, like so many others who work with Chinese contemporary art, treats Chinese as a veiled “Other.” The curatorial approach to Mahjong draws heavily upon Orientalist tropes. Due to the Cultural Revolution, the story goes, China was hidden from the Western gaze, and her artists were cut off from contact with the West. Chinese art, like Chinese history, was supposedly divorced from the world, and Chinese contemporary art developed in that secret space. Chinese contemporary art, then, cannot — and should not — be judged on par with Western art. The same standards cannot apply to Chinese contemporary art. Chinese contemporary art must be judged on separate terms. Often, the object’s ability to convey “Chineseness” becomes a key determinant of its value as a work of art. And because that narrative of Chinese art history continues to dominate the discourse, most criticism and scholarship — and consequently, most curatorial approaches — continue to embrace this double standard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most critics and curators of contemporary art would find it laughable to organize a show around the essential principles of “Frenchness” or “Americanness,” yet curators of contemporary Chinese art continue to incorporate essentialist notions of “Chineseness” into their shows. To put it bluntly, in every show about Chinese art, there must be a panda. (There is at least one panda in Mahjong. It appears in Zhao Bandi’s \u003cb>A Tale of Love Gone Wrong\u003c/b> for Pandaman (2003).) Can you imagine if every show about contemporary American art included an American flag, or worse, Mickey Mouse?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Mahjong, the objects hit all the familiar high notes — we observe cosmopolitan scenes from Beijing and Shanghai, we encounter elements drawn from China’s Classical past, we enjoy Chinese calligraphy, porcelain, and embroidery, we revel in exquisite glazes and sumptuous silks. In other words, the objects conform to our expectations of “something Chinese.” We need not possess knowledge of Chinese geography nor history to take pleasure in the spectacle before us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The China that we encounter at the Berkeley Art Museum is protean, changeable, but still deeply inflected with Orientalism. This China is less a geographic place than a free-floating construct. In the past decade, the concept of China has taken on an intense, almost totemic significance. In our century, China re-emerged as a major player on the world stage, a development that startles — and unsettles — many in the West. The overheated Chinese contemporary art market was largely driven by a Western desire to own and know the slippery, mysterious Oriental “other.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Witness the Western — European and American — fascination with the 2008 Beijing Olympics, a fascination exemplified by the press’s curious mixture of admiration and disgust, denigration and celebration, towards China and its people. In China, they eat scorpions on a stick. In China, they drink Coca-Cola. The Chinese are at once potentially human — and utterly alien. The tropes of Orientalism return, now broadcast in high definition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taken as a group, the works in Mahjong convey that same unsettling mixture of fear and fascination. In the exhibition, China often comes across as grotesque and somewhat sinister, a place where the human figure is continually under stress. For example, Yue MinJun’s paintings feature grotesque, mask-like figures, dressed in everyday garb, but performing unorthodox, and highly disturbing, actions. \u003cb>2000 A.D.\u003c/b>, Yue’s large-scale installation, features row upon row of the same grinning figure, his face contorted into something resembling a death mask. Dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, barefoot, with his eyes shut and his hands crossed behind his back, the man seems neither happy nor relaxed. Taken en masse, Yue’s figures remind me of the Chin dynasty terracotta warriors, who were buried with their master in lieu of the usual human sacrifice. Wang Jin’s \u003cb>Ice Wall\u003c/b> depicts frenzied villagers tackling a wall made of ice, tearing objects (described as “highly desirable consumer goods”) and bearing them away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There is also the other China, the beautiful and desirable one. We encounter this particular dream China in Mahjong as well, in the form of Wang Jin’s haunting 1997 work, \u003cb>The Dream of China\u003c/b>, where a translucent plastic (or PVC?) copy of an embroidered silk court robe hangs suspended from a large metal hook, a gossamer mirage of exotic beauty. And we meet it again in Shi Guorui’s photo-panorama, \u003cb>Shanghai, China, 15-16 October 2004\u003c/b>, and in the pseudo-calligraphy practiced by Gu Wenda and Xu Bing. This is the Orient that is mysterious and fascinating, that beguiles us but remains veiled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite its scale, Mahjong is more a show about Western visions of China than a show about contemporary art practice in China. We come away from the show with very little new knowledge about contemporary China — we can leave, in fact, without ever figuring out the proper geographic relationship between Shanghai and Beijing — but with plenty of insight into the West’s projections of China and the Orient. Until Western curators figure out a different way to narrate Chinese art history, we will continue to rehearse our own Orientalist versions of that story, and our shows about Chinese art will continue to resemble a hall of mirrors, continually reflecting our own gaze back at us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>It was my first time at the remodeled de Young Museum and it was a circus. No, really. The Gregangelo and Velocity Circus was there as part of the Friday Nights at the de Young event series. As if that weren’t enough to attract every child within twenty miles of Golden Gate Park, a “hands-on art activity for the entire family” was also taking place. Brightly colored pipe cleaners and Styrofoam balls overflowed the tables, as parents admired their children’s oddly shaped creations. To get through the mobs and reach Timothy Horn’s \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b>, I adopted the same survival strategy I use when walking through dangerous neighborhoods. I put my head down and maintained a look of mild shock on my face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Horn, an Australian artist, created \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> as part of the museum’s Collection Connections series, in which artists reinterpret and riff on works in the permanent collection. He was inspired by the biography and artifacts of \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfhistoryencyclopedia.com/articles/biography/spreckelsAlma.html\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Alma le Normand de Bretteville Spreckels\u003c/a>, the widow of sugar baron and Legion of Honor founder Adolph Spreckels. Alma was famous for her pursuit and acquisition of high-society status symbols, and was rumored to use a gilded throne in her mansion’s telephone booth. Horn has created exaggerated versions of Alma’s objects out of sugar, emphasizing their symbolic function while revealing the source of the Spreckels’s wealth — the sugar industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exhibit’s three sculptures rise like a surreal mirage from the ground of the otherwise conservative gallery space. \u003cb>Sweet Thing\u003c/b> consists of blown glass and nickel-plated bronze and resembles a gargantuan pearl-drop earring. \u003cb>Mother-Load\u003c/b> is a large rust-colored carriage constructed from metal and rock candy. \u003cb>Diadem (light heavyweight)\u003c/b> is also partially made from crystallized sugar. More garish than ornate, the chandelier-shaped sculpture seems to drip from the ceiling. Both the carriage and chandelier look as though they are made of churros, those Spanish pastries I am always tempted to buy from sidewalk vendors in the Mission District. The neighboring New England nature photographs and African sculptures were boring in comparison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> is most notable for its size and unconventional materials. “How do you make a carriage out of rock candy?” I found myself thinking. Unfortunately, I thought much less about the work’s conceptual underpinnings. I don’t fault the artist as much as the evening. The mood from downstairs had infected me. Horn’s sculptures were like reflections in a fun-house mirror, and I wasn’t capable of much more than those parents downstairs, overwhelmed by the crowds, smiling at anything with a pretty color and a pleasing shape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Timothy Horn’s \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> is on display at the de Young Museum through October 12, 2008. For more \u003ca href=\"http://www.famsf.org/deyoung/exhibitions/exhibition.asp?exhibitionkey=910\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">information\u003c/a>, visit famsf.org/deyoung.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>It was my first time at the remodeled de Young Museum and it was a circus. No, really. The Gregangelo and Velocity Circus was there as part of the Friday Nights at the de Young event series. As if that weren’t enough to attract every child within twenty miles of Golden Gate Park, a “hands-on art activity for the entire family” was also taking place. Brightly colored pipe cleaners and Styrofoam balls overflowed the tables, as parents admired their children’s oddly shaped creations. To get through the mobs and reach Timothy Horn’s \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b>, I adopted the same survival strategy I use when walking through dangerous neighborhoods. I put my head down and maintained a look of mild shock on my face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Horn, an Australian artist, created \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> as part of the museum’s Collection Connections series, in which artists reinterpret and riff on works in the permanent collection. He was inspired by the biography and artifacts of \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfhistoryencyclopedia.com/articles/biography/spreckelsAlma.html\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Alma le Normand de Bretteville Spreckels\u003c/a>, the widow of sugar baron and Legion of Honor founder Adolph Spreckels. Alma was famous for her pursuit and acquisition of high-society status symbols, and was rumored to use a gilded throne in her mansion’s telephone booth. Horn has created exaggerated versions of Alma’s objects out of sugar, emphasizing their symbolic function while revealing the source of the Spreckels’s wealth — the sugar industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The exhibit’s three sculptures rise like a surreal mirage from the ground of the otherwise conservative gallery space. \u003cb>Sweet Thing\u003c/b> consists of blown glass and nickel-plated bronze and resembles a gargantuan pearl-drop earring. \u003cb>Mother-Load\u003c/b> is a large rust-colored carriage constructed from metal and rock candy. \u003cb>Diadem (light heavyweight)\u003c/b> is also partially made from crystallized sugar. More garish than ornate, the chandelier-shaped sculpture seems to drip from the ceiling. Both the carriage and chandelier look as though they are made of churros, those Spanish pastries I am always tempted to buy from sidewalk vendors in the Mission District. The neighboring New England nature photographs and African sculptures were boring in comparison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> is most notable for its size and unconventional materials. “How do you make a carriage out of rock candy?” I found myself thinking. Unfortunately, I thought much less about the work’s conceptual underpinnings. I don’t fault the artist as much as the evening. The mood from downstairs had infected me. Horn’s sculptures were like reflections in a fun-house mirror, and I wasn’t capable of much more than those parents downstairs, overwhelmed by the crowds, smiling at anything with a pretty color and a pleasing shape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Timothy Horn’s \u003cb>Bitter Suite\u003c/b> is on display at the de Young Museum through October 12, 2008. For more \u003ca href=\"http://www.famsf.org/deyoung/exhibitions/exhibition.asp?exhibitionkey=910\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">information\u003c/a>, visit famsf.org/deyoung.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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