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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gilbert Hernandez, after twenty-eight years of writing and drawing long, character-driven sagas that have been compared to the best of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, is now doing work that is experimental and almost narrative-less. It looks good enough. In fact, most of the individual panels look like they could easily be selling for thousands of dollars in a gallery in Chelsea. But the stories, as much as they can be called that, are atrophied to the point of nonsensicality, and weirdly alienated and bitter compared to the occasionally cruel but ultimately close-knit universe that was his earlier work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What could have brought about this change? Could the sheer experience of chronicling so many characters for so long have had something to do with it? Only one character recurs from story to story — first as a cheerful village kid, then as bitter, wizened old creature on a snow-covered mountain. “I was going off to see the world,” he says, “I did that for many years, and wound up here alone. After eighty years of meeting so many different people, I had enough. I wasted my life by not having one of my own.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Forget euphemisms. Brion Nuda Rosch calls his gallery what it is. The Hallway Bathroom Gallery is the hallway and bathroom of his modest Mission District apartment. Rosch, an artist and former curator at the Adobe Books Backroom Gallery, began curating exhibits in his home in 2005. In 2007, he rested. And in the second half of 2008 the Hallway Bathroom Gallery has re-emerged with three successive group shows, each exploring a particular genre. \u003cb>Landscape\u003c/b> showed from August 30 to October 5; \u003cb>Pattern\u003c/b> will show from December 13 to January 24. \u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is the current show. On display through November 30, it features work by twenty-four artists, most from places beyond San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Forget outside. The Hallway Bathroom Gallery is the opposite of exposure. It cultivates enclosure. Protected in a domestic space, curled up like a snail in a shell. To access it, you must either attend an opening, visit on Saturday afternoons, or e-mail Rosch to set up an appointment. The apartment is up a long curving staircase; you must ring the bell and stand on the front steps and wait for him to descend. It is like visiting a friend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Go inside. Rosch embraces and even emphasizes the gallery’s domestic, private qualities. He made tea for me; his cat nuzzled my foot. His embrace is a relief. It means you don’t have to spend your time trying to forget you’re in some guy’s apartment looking at art. Instead, you are reminded again and again, until the environment becomes another layer of the exhibit. Rather than the exposure of the street, Rosch’s gallery confronts visitors with a startling degree of seclusion and intimacy. This confrontation is as central to the exhibit as the art on the walls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Forget genre. The artists in this show approach portraiture not as a set of constraints, but as an orienting principle within a field of limitless experimentation. Their work extends down the long, narrow hallway like a story. It begins with \u003cb>Pamphile ‘Barb’ Beaudion\u003c/b> by Chicago artist Rachel Niffenegger. A gouache face colored in swirling magentas and greens melts into a white background, dissolving and forming at the same time. A woman drawn in pencil stares out with intent eyes from \u003cb>Space Spirit\u003c/b> by Bill Donovon of Brooklyn. An infinity sign, the word “Love” and two small animals are drawn above her head, a cryptic arrangement that alludes to meaning without letting viewers in on the code. Heidi Anderson’s \u003cb>From Fall\u003c/b> is next. A delicately drawn female face painted in self-aware innocence — streaks of color create a triangle, a bird sits on her head, a squirrel below her chin. Leaves rest in her hair. Like \u003cb>Space Spirit\u003c/b>, the painting has a quasi-mystical appearance. Both artists’ symbols are highly personal and thus opaque, letters from an inaccessible language that express unease rather than enlightenment. Barcelona artist Michael Swaney’s \u003cb>Papi Chilo Zulu\u003c/b> is an accretion of forms and patterns that result in an almost symmetrical head-like shape. Done in a ballpoint pen, \u003cb>Papi Chilo Zulu\u003c/b> reminds me of drawing as a child — when one shape effortlessly led to another, when you’re old enough to know what symmetry is but not old enough to achieve it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sit down. I’ll admit I didn’t want to go into the bathroom. A toilet and garbage can fill the small rectangular room and a row of faces wraps around the walls. The only way I could look at the art and write in my notebook was to sit down. But don’t worry, the lid was closed. I spent my time in the bathroom staring at just two pieces. In New York artist Jessica Williams’s \u003cb>Theo #2\u003c/b>, heavy white hair frames a narrow, sunken face against a black background. Artist Mishel Valenton uses color as form in \u003cb>Kate\u003c/b>, layering turquoise, yellow, and red paint to build a female face; the eyes are left as black sockets. “Kate” appears as though covered in face paint; I imagine her running around a campfire at a backwoods psychedelic party. But that could just be me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I left, I looked for a line that separated my experience of the gallery from my experience of the exhibit. None existed. \u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is a strong show on its own, I decided, but it is nested within a larger exhibit, one that includes Rosch’s apartment building, his hallway, his bathroom, even Rosch himself. It is the conversation between these two exhibits that is on display. It is an intimate dialogue, one about daily life and comings and goings. Still, we are invited to put our ears to the wall and listen in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is on display through Sunday, November 30, 2008 at the Hallway Bathroom Gallery, 391A South Van Ness Avenue, San Francisco. To arrange an appointment, e-mail info@hallwaybathroomgallery.com.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>[Editor’s Note:]\u003c/b> In a similar vein, check out Megan Wilson’s \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> (\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/visualarts/article.jsp?essid=23641\">see review\u003c/a>). \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> is another great, alternative way to view art in an intimate setting and another excellent Thanksgiving weekend activity that will keep you away from the increasingly depressing mall.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Forget euphemisms. Brion Nuda Rosch calls his gallery what it is. The Hallway Bathroom Gallery is the hallway and bathroom of his modest Mission District apartment. Rosch, an artist and former curator at the Adobe Books Backroom Gallery, began curating exhibits in his home in 2005. In 2007, he rested. And in the second half of 2008 the Hallway Bathroom Gallery has re-emerged with three successive group shows, each exploring a particular genre. \u003cb>Landscape\u003c/b> showed from August 30 to October 5; \u003cb>Pattern\u003c/b> will show from December 13 to January 24. \u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is the current show. On display through November 30, it features work by twenty-four artists, most from places beyond San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Forget outside. The Hallway Bathroom Gallery is the opposite of exposure. It cultivates enclosure. Protected in a domestic space, curled up like a snail in a shell. To access it, you must either attend an opening, visit on Saturday afternoons, or e-mail Rosch to set up an appointment. The apartment is up a long curving staircase; you must ring the bell and stand on the front steps and wait for him to descend. It is like visiting a friend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Go inside. Rosch embraces and even emphasizes the gallery’s domestic, private qualities. He made tea for me; his cat nuzzled my foot. His embrace is a relief. It means you don’t have to spend your time trying to forget you’re in some guy’s apartment looking at art. Instead, you are reminded again and again, until the environment becomes another layer of the exhibit. Rather than the exposure of the street, Rosch’s gallery confronts visitors with a startling degree of seclusion and intimacy. This confrontation is as central to the exhibit as the art on the walls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Forget genre. The artists in this show approach portraiture not as a set of constraints, but as an orienting principle within a field of limitless experimentation. Their work extends down the long, narrow hallway like a story. It begins with \u003cb>Pamphile ‘Barb’ Beaudion\u003c/b> by Chicago artist Rachel Niffenegger. A gouache face colored in swirling magentas and greens melts into a white background, dissolving and forming at the same time. A woman drawn in pencil stares out with intent eyes from \u003cb>Space Spirit\u003c/b> by Bill Donovon of Brooklyn. An infinity sign, the word “Love” and two small animals are drawn above her head, a cryptic arrangement that alludes to meaning without letting viewers in on the code. Heidi Anderson’s \u003cb>From Fall\u003c/b> is next. A delicately drawn female face painted in self-aware innocence — streaks of color create a triangle, a bird sits on her head, a squirrel below her chin. Leaves rest in her hair. Like \u003cb>Space Spirit\u003c/b>, the painting has a quasi-mystical appearance. Both artists’ symbols are highly personal and thus opaque, letters from an inaccessible language that express unease rather than enlightenment. Barcelona artist Michael Swaney’s \u003cb>Papi Chilo Zulu\u003c/b> is an accretion of forms and patterns that result in an almost symmetrical head-like shape. Done in a ballpoint pen, \u003cb>Papi Chilo Zulu\u003c/b> reminds me of drawing as a child — when one shape effortlessly led to another, when you’re old enough to know what symmetry is but not old enough to achieve it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sit down. I’ll admit I didn’t want to go into the bathroom. A toilet and garbage can fill the small rectangular room and a row of faces wraps around the walls. The only way I could look at the art and write in my notebook was to sit down. But don’t worry, the lid was closed. I spent my time in the bathroom staring at just two pieces. In New York artist Jessica Williams’s \u003cb>Theo #2\u003c/b>, heavy white hair frames a narrow, sunken face against a black background. Artist Mishel Valenton uses color as form in \u003cb>Kate\u003c/b>, layering turquoise, yellow, and red paint to build a female face; the eyes are left as black sockets. “Kate” appears as though covered in face paint; I imagine her running around a campfire at a backwoods psychedelic party. But that could just be me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I left, I looked for a line that separated my experience of the gallery from my experience of the exhibit. None existed. \u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is a strong show on its own, I decided, but it is nested within a larger exhibit, one that includes Rosch’s apartment building, his hallway, his bathroom, even Rosch himself. It is the conversation between these two exhibits that is on display. It is an intimate dialogue, one about daily life and comings and goings. Still, we are invited to put our ears to the wall and listen in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Portrait\u003c/b> is on display through Sunday, November 30, 2008 at the Hallway Bathroom Gallery, 391A South Van Ness Avenue, San Francisco. To arrange an appointment, e-mail info@hallwaybathroomgallery.com.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>[Editor’s Note:]\u003c/b> In a similar vein, check out Megan Wilson’s \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> (\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/visualarts/article.jsp?essid=23641\">see review\u003c/a>). \u003cb>Home\u003c/b> is another great, alternative way to view art in an intimate setting and another excellent Thanksgiving weekend activity that will keep you away from the increasingly depressing mall.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Attention San Francisco art thief:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stealing art is a lousy thing to do. You must enjoy breaking hearts and making people cry. If you think you’ve gotten over on some snobby fat cat, you’re wrong. Most galleries are started as a labor of love, funded by the owners’ credit cards. Do you think you’re cool because you’re holding a piece of artwork that you didn’t pay for? Is it all fun and games to spoil a neighborhood art gallery’s trust in the community and make them install security cameras so more jerks like you can’t rip them off? Save yourself some bad karma by wrapping up your undeserved prize and mailing it back to where it belongs, because San Francisco galleries have a posse and they’re looking for you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Signed,\u003cbr>Mad About You in SF\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following works were stolen from local galleries in 2008:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sylvia-ji.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since June 12, 2008 from White Walls Gallery in the Tenderloin:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two paintings by Sylvia Ji. The works had already been purchased by collectors, so Ji has to create two new pieces of equal size. White Walls’ current exhibition, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/visualarts/article.jsp?essid=23644\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Awful Mountain\u003c/a>, includes some pocket-sized works that the gallery has had to secure with creative solutions like wire ties and double-sided tape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/mcgee-rojas.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since July 9, 2008 from RVCA Gallery at Haight and Ashbury:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A mini messenger bag painted by Barry McGee and a small painting by Clare Rojas. The gallery had to install security cameras after this incident. McGee’s work is frequently stolen — even some of his large-scale public works have been swiped — but the piece stolen from RVCA was from the artist’s personal collection and considered priceless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/lamarche.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since September 20, 2008 from the W Hotel Gallery Downtown:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A painting by Greg LaMarche from an exhibit co-organized by curators at White Walls Gallery. Despite security hangers, this piece was taken right off the wall during business hours while people were around, just like all the others listed here. There are security cameras in the W Hotel but the piece happened to be hanging in a blind spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/kilgallen.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid; clear: right;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since October 15 2008 from Gallery 16, SOMA:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two paintings on wood by influential San Francsico artist Margaret Kilgallen (1967-2001). These pieces were from gallery owner Griff Williams’s private collection and were given to him as a gift by Kilgallen, who never felt entirely comfortable participating in the art market. Kilgallen often chose not to sell her work, prefering instead to reuse some pieces to create new installations. Gallery 16 is burglarized after hours about once a year, but the artwork has always been passed over in favor of computer equipment. Williams says he’s been tempted to take the complex, jerry-rigged structures used to sneak into the building and display them in the gallery. But the two young men who stole the Kilgallen pieces lifted them in the morning when the gallery had just opened and Williams was working on a book edition in the back room. He said the hardest part of the theft was breaking the news to his wife, who was especially fond of Kilgallen and the paintings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/nelson.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since November 9, 2008 from Triple Base Gallery, Mission District:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A small painting by Jay Nelson. The artist was featured on the \u003ci>New York Times\u003c/i> web site the weekend this piece was stolen. Triple Base was planning to take the small watercolor to the NADA Art Fair at the end of this month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you have seen these works of art or have any information about them, please leave a comment here or contact the galleries (listed below).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Attention San Francisco art thief:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stealing art is a lousy thing to do. You must enjoy breaking hearts and making people cry. If you think you’ve gotten over on some snobby fat cat, you’re wrong. Most galleries are started as a labor of love, funded by the owners’ credit cards. Do you think you’re cool because you’re holding a piece of artwork that you didn’t pay for? Is it all fun and games to spoil a neighborhood art gallery’s trust in the community and make them install security cameras so more jerks like you can’t rip them off? Save yourself some bad karma by wrapping up your undeserved prize and mailing it back to where it belongs, because San Francisco galleries have a posse and they’re looking for you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Signed,\u003cbr>Mad About You in SF\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following works were stolen from local galleries in 2008:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sylvia-ji.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since June 12, 2008 from White Walls Gallery in the Tenderloin:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two paintings by Sylvia Ji. The works had already been purchased by collectors, so Ji has to create two new pieces of equal size. White Walls’ current exhibition, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/visualarts/article.jsp?essid=23644\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Awful Mountain\u003c/a>, includes some pocket-sized works that the gallery has had to secure with creative solutions like wire ties and double-sided tape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/mcgee-rojas.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since July 9, 2008 from RVCA Gallery at Haight and Ashbury:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A mini messenger bag painted by Barry McGee and a small painting by Clare Rojas. The gallery had to install security cameras after this incident. McGee’s work is frequently stolen — even some of his large-scale public works have been swiped — but the piece stolen from RVCA was from the artist’s personal collection and considered priceless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/lamarche.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since September 20, 2008 from the W Hotel Gallery Downtown:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A painting by Greg LaMarche from an exhibit co-organized by curators at White Walls Gallery. Despite security hangers, this piece was taken right off the wall during business hours while people were around, just like all the others listed here. There are security cameras in the W Hotel but the piece happened to be hanging in a blind spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/kilgallen.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid; clear: right;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since October 15 2008 from Gallery 16, SOMA:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two paintings on wood by influential San Francsico artist Margaret Kilgallen (1967-2001). These pieces were from gallery owner Griff Williams’s private collection and were given to him as a gift by Kilgallen, who never felt entirely comfortable participating in the art market. Kilgallen often chose not to sell her work, prefering instead to reuse some pieces to create new installations. Gallery 16 is burglarized after hours about once a year, but the artwork has always been passed over in favor of computer equipment. Williams says he’s been tempted to take the complex, jerry-rigged structures used to sneak into the building and display them in the gallery. But the two young men who stole the Kilgallen pieces lifted them in the morning when the gallery had just opened and Williams was working on a book edition in the back room. He said the hardest part of the theft was breaking the news to his wife, who was especially fond of Kilgallen and the paintings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/nelson.jpg\" style=\"float: right; margin-left: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; border: black 1px solid;\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Missing since November 9, 2008 from Triple Base Gallery, Mission District:\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A small painting by Jay Nelson. The artist was featured on the \u003ci>New York Times\u003c/i> web site the weekend this piece was stolen. Triple Base was planning to take the small watercolor to the NADA Art Fair at the end of this month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you have seen these works of art or have any information about them, please leave a comment here or contact the galleries (listed below).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In November 2008, \u003ci>Gallery Crawl\u003c/i> checks out Lukas Felzmann’s \u003cem>GHOSTPILE\u003c/em> photography exhibition at the Thomas Welton Stanford Art Gallery and visits Aicon Gallery’s latest group exhibition, \u003cem>THE HUMAN DICHOTOMY\u003c/em>, a collection of Pakistani miniatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003caside class=\"alignright\">\n\u003ch3>Resources\u003c/h3>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/assets/pdf/arts/programs/gallerycrawl/paloalto-edguide.pdf\">Download educator guide\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003c/aside>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>On a bright winter day, when Golden Gate Park was filled with runners, rollerbladers, and other pleasure-seekers, we found ourselves in the de Young Museum’s basement, gazing upwards through a wire net.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We are standing under a wire sculpture by Maya Lin, part of the her \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> exhibition. The piece is quite simple — a large, uneven grid constructed out of thick wires, it outlines an underwater topography with gentle swells and drops. A collaboration with the Woods Hole Institute in Maine, the sculpture loosely transcribes a chunk of the North Atlantic seafloor into wire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> dovetails with Lin’s recent interest in organic forms. Her newest sculptures veer away from the Vietnam War Memorial’s strict geometry; they are messier, more elaborate, and less controlled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sculptures in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> retain Lin’s interest in phenomenology. The larger sculptures invite physical engagement — we move through, or around, the work. In the case of Lin’s underwater landscape, we become more than passive observers. We become part of the sculpture, or perhaps the sculpture intrudes into our space, and the sculpture transforms our physical experience. The net’s swells and curves define, and limit, our space, and we become fish, schooling beneath a gentle, undulating net.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maya Lin’s career has taken many twists and turns since she won the commission for the Vietnam War Memorial, but the Memorial continues to define her identity as an artist. By now, the story is all too familiar. At the time, Lin was an undergraduate at Yale University. Her design — a simple, black marble chevron, engraved with the names of the 57,000 U.S. soldiers who perished in the Vietnam War — is a work of great gravitas. Though the Vietnam War Memorial is an early work, almost all of Lin’s signatures are present. The Memorial is minimal and abstract. It invites participation. It defines the viewer’s space. The Memorial demands more than passive contemplation; it ignites emotion. Witness the constant queue of visitors, waiting to touch the names engraved in the Memorial’s reflective black marble. Witness the flowers and gifts, laid at the Memorial’s feet. The marble reflects our faces back at us, but now we see ourselves transformed — with the names of the dead laid out across our faces, we suddenly find ourselves drawn into the Memorial, into the War. It is a powerful, wrenching moment. It tears away your composure, and leaves you exhausted, changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, the Memorial does everything that a war memorial should do — it helps us remember, it ignites our emotions, it gives grief a public forum — and it engages with broader currents in art history. An artist needs just one work like the Vietnam War Memorial. And Lin hit her home run early. Like it or not, the Memorial defines her as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In recent years, Lin has expressed a desire to move away from her early success. These days, she says, she is less interested in creating memorials or solving architectural problems. Though she trained as an architect, she would like to step away from architecture, and redefine herself as an artist. Artists, she maintains, have more freedom. They answer to no outside imperatives. And at this stage in her career, what Lin wants, more than anything else, is the freedom to pursue an individual vision.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The works in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> reveal the artist’s desire for freedom and movement. The works here are more experimental. They reveal an interest in movement, in lines and shapes that are asymmetric and unstable. \u003cb>Systemic Landscapes\u003c/b> includes a smattering of her smaller works, such as small table-top sculptures, drawings, and plaster “wall drawings.” They continue her recent obsession with maps, topography, and models. Lin has expanded her repertoire beyond sculptures and architectural installations, to earthworks. Her interest in topography has taken a literal turn, taking the form of “Wave Fields,” sculpted landscapes that undulate and move, much like the wire sculpture we first encountered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taken as a body, these works reveal the constant push and pull in Lin’s work, between her penchant for systems, logic, control — and her desire for freedom, movement, and chaos. Her experiments are interesting, but not always successful. Lin is a phenomenal problem solver, and she works best against constraints.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pieces in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> are well-finished and carefully crafted, but they lacked a certain richness. I left the exhibition feeling dissatisfied, but I couldn’t quite articulate my dissatisfaction. I wanted, or expected, more, and did not find it. The pieces in the exhibition had a generic quality to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lin is savvy enough to understand that her best work engaged with grand themes and primal emotions. At this juncture in her career, she has chosen another grand theme: Nature. But there is something about Lin’s language, and her execution, that lacks emotional resonance. Could it be her choice of artistic vocabulary? Her choice of theme? Nature is a nebulous concept — it is broad, and deep, and certainly “grand.” But as a concept, it lacks a central fulcrum around which an artist might turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lin’s language, in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b>, is rational and technocratic. These pieces are based on computer models, algorithms, topographic models — and though the undulating lines describe Nature, they are not inherently natural. There is nothing “natural” about a curved line. A tree reads as “natural.” A bird is “natural.” A line is an abstraction, and abstractions are artificial. This descriptive language of science and technology is coolly beautiful, but in the sterile gallery setting, it fails to captivate and catch fire. 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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On a bright winter day, when Golden Gate Park was filled with runners, rollerbladers, and other pleasure-seekers, we found ourselves in the de Young Museum’s basement, gazing upwards through a wire net.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We are standing under a wire sculpture by Maya Lin, part of the her \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> exhibition. The piece is quite simple — a large, uneven grid constructed out of thick wires, it outlines an underwater topography with gentle swells and drops. A collaboration with the Woods Hole Institute in Maine, the sculpture loosely transcribes a chunk of the North Atlantic seafloor into wire.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> dovetails with Lin’s recent interest in organic forms. Her newest sculptures veer away from the Vietnam War Memorial’s strict geometry; they are messier, more elaborate, and less controlled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sculptures in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> retain Lin’s interest in phenomenology. The larger sculptures invite physical engagement — we move through, or around, the work. In the case of Lin’s underwater landscape, we become more than passive observers. We become part of the sculpture, or perhaps the sculpture intrudes into our space, and the sculpture transforms our physical experience. The net’s swells and curves define, and limit, our space, and we become fish, schooling beneath a gentle, undulating net.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maya Lin’s career has taken many twists and turns since she won the commission for the Vietnam War Memorial, but the Memorial continues to define her identity as an artist. By now, the story is all too familiar. At the time, Lin was an undergraduate at Yale University. Her design — a simple, black marble chevron, engraved with the names of the 57,000 U.S. soldiers who perished in the Vietnam War — is a work of great gravitas. Though the Vietnam War Memorial is an early work, almost all of Lin’s signatures are present. The Memorial is minimal and abstract. It invites participation. It defines the viewer’s space. The Memorial demands more than passive contemplation; it ignites emotion. Witness the constant queue of visitors, waiting to touch the names engraved in the Memorial’s reflective black marble. Witness the flowers and gifts, laid at the Memorial’s feet. The marble reflects our faces back at us, but now we see ourselves transformed — with the names of the dead laid out across our faces, we suddenly find ourselves drawn into the Memorial, into the War. It is a powerful, wrenching moment. It tears away your composure, and leaves you exhausted, changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, the Memorial does everything that a war memorial should do — it helps us remember, it ignites our emotions, it gives grief a public forum — and it engages with broader currents in art history. An artist needs just one work like the Vietnam War Memorial. And Lin hit her home run early. Like it or not, the Memorial defines her as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In recent years, Lin has expressed a desire to move away from her early success. These days, she says, she is less interested in creating memorials or solving architectural problems. Though she trained as an architect, she would like to step away from architecture, and redefine herself as an artist. Artists, she maintains, have more freedom. They answer to no outside imperatives. And at this stage in her career, what Lin wants, more than anything else, is the freedom to pursue an individual vision.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The works in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> reveal the artist’s desire for freedom and movement. The works here are more experimental. They reveal an interest in movement, in lines and shapes that are asymmetric and unstable. \u003cb>Systemic Landscapes\u003c/b> includes a smattering of her smaller works, such as small table-top sculptures, drawings, and plaster “wall drawings.” They continue her recent obsession with maps, topography, and models. Lin has expanded her repertoire beyond sculptures and architectural installations, to earthworks. Her interest in topography has taken a literal turn, taking the form of “Wave Fields,” sculpted landscapes that undulate and move, much like the wire sculpture we first encountered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Taken as a body, these works reveal the constant push and pull in Lin’s work, between her penchant for systems, logic, control — and her desire for freedom, movement, and chaos. Her experiments are interesting, but not always successful. Lin is a phenomenal problem solver, and she works best against constraints.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The pieces in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b> are well-finished and carefully crafted, but they lacked a certain richness. I left the exhibition feeling dissatisfied, but I couldn’t quite articulate my dissatisfaction. I wanted, or expected, more, and did not find it. The pieces in the exhibition had a generic quality to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lin is savvy enough to understand that her best work engaged with grand themes and primal emotions. At this juncture in her career, she has chosen another grand theme: Nature. But there is something about Lin’s language, and her execution, that lacks emotional resonance. Could it be her choice of artistic vocabulary? Her choice of theme? Nature is a nebulous concept — it is broad, and deep, and certainly “grand.” But as a concept, it lacks a central fulcrum around which an artist might turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lin’s language, in \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b>, is rational and technocratic. These pieces are based on computer models, algorithms, topographic models — and though the undulating lines describe Nature, they are not inherently natural. There is nothing “natural” about a curved line. A tree reads as “natural.” A bird is “natural.” A line is an abstraction, and abstractions are artificial. This descriptive language of science and technology is coolly beautiful, but in the sterile gallery setting, it fails to captivate and catch fire. We are left one level away from the “real thing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Might these pieces work better in a different setting? Would they be stronger if they were installations, if they were given a context richer, and more “natural,” than the museum’s white box? Given a different frame, perhaps Lin’s \u003cb>Systemic Landscapes\u003c/b> could come alive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maya Lin’s \u003cb>Systematic Landscapes\u003c/b>is at the de Young Museum through January 18, 2009.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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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>\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>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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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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"excerpt": "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.",
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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": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\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\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"soldout": {
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"info": "Tech Nation is a weekly public radio program, hosted by Dr. Moira Gunn. Founded in 1993, it has grown from a simple interview show to a multi-faceted production, featuring conversations with noted technology and science leaders, and a weekly science and technology-related commentary.",
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"info": "The TED Radio Hour is a journey through fascinating ideas, astonishing inventions, fresh approaches to old problems, and new ways to think and create.",
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"tagline": "Local news to keep you rooted",
"info": "Host Devin Katayama walks you through the biggest story of the day with reporters and newsmakers.",
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