Kurt Kuenne's Dear Zachary

Those of you who know me, know that I don't really spend much time on the question of "what is art?" I find the question boring or pedantic or completely irrelevant to most situations. I'm happy to suggest why a specific piece of so-called art is total crap, but I'm not going to sit around and suggest that it's not art outright.

I'm saying all this because I started this blog to talk about "art." The good and the bad and the economics of it and the reality of artists lives and to maybe give a glimpse into the oft not so glamourous side of the art world. But I never intended to write about movies. Not because they're not art, because they are, (and, as a side note, often a narrative structure helps people engage in a really relevant visual and philosophical discussion when they otherwise would not have,) but because I figured I'd probably be focusing on more "purely visual" experiences. Which, of course, would include tons of incredible films, from Gus Van Sant's amazing Gerry, which has a loose, quiet and close to non existent narrative structure, to something like PT Anderson's There Will Be Blood, among many many many more. Maybe I was thinking I'd write about something more like Nick and Shelia Pye's work. Or William Lamson's Monument Valley Flight Attempt or his series of balloon "Actions." Something that would be hard to call a movie outright. Something that would more likely to be called "video art." Which is an argument maybe we'll have at another time.

But, so, anyway. The other night I watched Dear Zachary: a letter to a son about his father, a documentary film by Kurt Kuenne. From Kurt, about the film: "When my close friend Dr. Andrew Bagby (1973-2001) was murdered by his ex-girlfriend, Dr. Shirley Turner, I decided to make a film to memorialize him for family and friends. When I learned that Shirley Turner was pregnant with Andrew's son, whom she later named Zachary, my project took on a whole new meaning. My mission became to make this film for Zachary, as a letter from all of Andrew's loved ones to him, which he could one day view and get to know his father."

The emotional impact of this film, I am pretty sure, will always haunt me. By the end of the film, I (as a self-proclaimed buddhist leaning atheist) found myself praying for spiritual peace for the entire Bagby family. The suffering that Andrew's parents have survived is incredible. I won't say unimaginable, because there it is. There they are. They continue. And the reality is that even though this is a story of barely bearable sadness, the film has, at its core, a giant heart. It is undeniable - the strength and love that the Bagby's have lived with and embody. They are models of what we can endure and why humanity is important.

Again, Kurt's words; "The most compelling argument I could make was to tell this story from the trenches. To tell it the way it happened to me, the way it happened to Andrew's hundreds of friends, his family and, most of all, to show the experience his parents went through during this travesty-laden miscarriage of justice. Murders are not news items. They are not statistics. They are gut wrenching experiences that rip apart the fabric of lives and destroy reasons for living, creating a ripple effect that damages thousands of lives and leaves a chilling absence where there once was warmth and love. It is my hope that this film puts people right inside that experience and that no one will be able to come away from it unchanged."

I honestly don't know how you could walk away from this experience the same. You will sob uncontrollably. It will hurt. This thing makes Dancer in the Dark and Requiem for a Dream look like Bambi. That being said, everyone should see this film. It is definitively R rated, if nothing else, simply because of subject material, but it is something that I think definitely hit me hard now that I'm of a particular age. Not that a person of 17 wouldn't get this or sob uncontrollably, it's just that life experience, I think, plays a role in terms of how deeply one can really grasp the consequences of this story. And it hit me hard. And it will hurt the soul of any parent.

I can't think of many movies, or any documentaries, that had my heart pounding like this movie did. I remember crying a lot at Fahrenheit 9/11. I still haven't tried watching Paul Greengrass' United 93. But Dear Zachary is really something else altogether. The narration by Kurt is pitch perfect in its almost-forced-to-be-read-off-the-page-quickly style. There is an expedience, a desire to tell you the story, to catch you up. And there is one devastating point (a point that as I recall now brings tears to my eyes with its poignancy and pain) that as Kurt reads, his voice cracks and you will feel his loss. It is powerful. And frankly, it's a brilliant editing choice. I know it sounds crass to suggest that Kurt's editing skills should be praised while talking about murder, but it is a critical reason that this story is so compelling.

I urge you to add this to your queue or find it at a local store and rent it. Or for that matter, just buy it, as "proceeds from this film will be split between Andrew's two key memorial funds: the Dr. Andrew Bagby Scholarship in Family Medicine at Latrobe Area Hospital in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, and the Dr. Andrew Bagby and son Zachary Bursary at Memorial University of Newfoundland. Both funds are intended to support and encourage physicians who are pursuing Andrew's calling of family medicine. [Kurt] will also provide copies of this movie to the funds' recipients in perpetuity, so that they can learn about the person who is paying for their education."

Check out the trailer here. You'll be blown away when, as you start the film, you will realize that much of the trailer is encapsulated in the first several minutes of the film, so that as you get deeper into the story, you become more involved with each person and their connections to this tragic series of events.

There is no doubt that this film is important and great art.

Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne and Dr. Andrew Bagby, April 1981

Insane Shocking Beauty

I did intend to write today. Really.

Much of the day was spent searching for a sketch book with a story that I started back in 2007 or 2008. I wanted to finally wrap that thing up. I felt like I had it in me.

Well, it was nearly thoroughly beat out of me after several hours of scouring sketchbooks all around my home. Not one of them revealed the mystery story. After giving up several times, it was found in an obscure pile of magazines and info from the last Whitney Biennial.

I'll avoid the nuances of the story here. As with much of this blog, if you want the whole story you might have to buy me a beer. I'm a cheap date.

It was all worth the effort, though. Case in point - about the sketch book, not me being cheap - when I turned to a random page searching for the story I stumbled on the fact that I scribbled the following words: "The world is full of insane shocking beauty. Typically all you have to do is be aware."

That's a good concept.

An example of that concept would be found in the work of Man Bartlett. He recently had a one day solo show at the now shuttered Flatfile Galleries here in Chicago. I've thought hard about the statement I'm about to make, but, after deliberation, have decided that it's true: Man's show was the single best usage of that gallery space ever. I say that with some humility considering the fact that I assisted, curated and directed that space over the course of nearly six years and I had nothing to do with Man's show. The really great thing, though, is that no one had anything to do with Man's show except Man. Well, I mean, once Man was done, you had everything to do with it, but concept wise, it was an exciting pure glimpse into a very creative soul.

I was lucky enough to see it just after installation was finished. Man, with his hat tipped just so, was shooting images (included in this post) and it was just us. Among the larger spaces in Chicago, Man's work occupied every square inch with it's breath. It was, of course, sharply minimal and nearly empty in terms of visual information, but trust me, it was full. That's part of what made the experience so valuable for me. As a curator, I'm not sure if I'd have the balls to allow that much room for work to sit. As I saw it finished, though, it was an unmitigated success.

Upon entrance, you were immediately stuck by the lightness in the air. Earth, a small mound of dirt with a white marble atop, drew your eyes down. From it, I would later learn, emanated the smell of white spruce oil, which filled the gallery with an unusually pleasant outdoor note.

From there your eyes would raise to transmission III, a work on canvas that held the entire long wall of the gallery. Sixty feet of wall this thing commanded. It was a brave and wise choice. One I'm nearly sure I never would have made, but hope to have learned from.

The project room contained the installation piece The Seven Transmissions. Again, I was confronted with a choice that would have kept me up at night second guessing. Seven bowls of water, each with a small orb of glass weighting down gold leaf - on the floor. The thing is - well - I used to hate those damn floors. Painted plywood. Dirty. That particular room torn to shreds by Wafaa's work years earlier. Oh, how I hated those things. Bouncy. Uneven. Yet. Here were these unassuming works. On the floor. Inviting you down. Not pushing you away. The treat, of course, came with the middle bowl. Shimmering on the surface and wafting up was the smell of rose oil. Honestly, and I can't tell you why, so satisfying as to nearly bring me to tears.

The photographer in me fell for his adorable, approchably-sized-but-placed-sort-of-off-limits Nile Relief. It was mounted on the brick behind the desk. With it's hot spot light, though, it cut quite the figure. It makes me love this world. Quite a statement considering some of the nihilistic existentialist stuff I've been ranting lately.

There is no doubt for me. Man is one of the greatest artists I know. I realize that people are going to look at some of this and say, "What art? Where is it? I don't see it." I get that. I think Man gets it. And he's ok with that. And I'm ok with that.

Man stands in no ones shadow. He creates his own light.

Installation of Man Bartlett's work at Flatfile Galleries

transmission III (coronation), oil stick and graphite on canvas, 2008 & Earth, dirt, two marbles, gold leaf, sage, white spruce oil, 2009

The Seven Transmissions, water, glass, gold leaf, rose oil, 2008-09

Nile Relief, photo mounted on panel, 2009

Convergence

There's a bunch of openings tomorrow in River North. Brave the cold and see openings at Bae, Edelman, Cooper, Glimer, Gruen, Habatat, KH, Perimeter, Roche and Zolla / Lieberman.

Cathy will be showing Achim Lippoth, a German photographer known for his striking pictures of children. When I stumbled upon his Together #12, I was struck with what Lawrence Weschler calls convergence. It totally reminded me of Jill Greenberg's photograph of adolescent boys play fighting. There's something wild to me about the fact that these two shots exist the way the do. They could be the same boys, just years apart. There must be something larger behind the composition, something revealing something innate about us.

I was possibly more struck by the fact that I couldn't find Jill's images of adolescents fighting anywhere. I mean, like, anywhere. I went over 50 pages deep in google images. They have been removed from her official site and are nowhere to be found. Very odd. I have a screen shot of one from a proposal I did for the Elmhurst Art Museum a while back. I'll really know if someone is reading this thing if I eventually get a removal or desist request from Jill or her representatives. So, Jill's image will remain untitled and unlabeled here because I have no place to verify that info.

I'm assuming they've been removed in anticipation of Clamp Art's show Kids Behaving Badly (which I remember being the title of Greenberg's series, but I could be wrong) which opens on the 19th in NY. Check if out if you're there. Should be an outstanding show with the likes of Nan Goldin, Larry Clark and David Armstrong among others.

Achim Lippoth, Together #12, 2004

Jill Greenberg, from (possibly) Kids Behaving Badly series

Chi Votla

The Armory and Volta were last week. There are still people arguing here in Chicago about the tone of Volta seeing as it has space in NY and Basel, but when (essentially) the same show comes to Chicago, it's called NEXT. There's arguments to be made for both sides (which if you want to get into you'll need to have a beer with me), but Volta NY currently has three Chicago galleries represented.

It is by no means a bad representation, quite the contrary, but it does raise it's suspicions. Kavi's the founder, and far be it for me to claim that he shouldn't be here considering that David does show in his own gallery, but, David leaves that decision to a Curator (yours truly), yes, one that he pays, but one which I think we could all argue does his best to stay unbiased and ethical. Then you've got Andrew Rafacz, whose gallery I've loved since it was BucketRider, and who I think is an amazing curator and who represents one of my favorite artists, Cody Hudson, but who also pays rent to Kavi. And then there's Walsh, who has great programming for a niche market, but who is within steps of Kavi's (and Andrew's) space. It just makes me wonder if Kavi visits outside the realm of where he parks his car in the morning, but I suppose I'd be making the same argument if Walsh was swapped with Meloche, who'd easily be just as deserving of a spot, and for all I know, was offered and declined. Meh. Should have been a really good representation anyway.

Volta's programming requires that there only be one artist in the booth, which is a refreshing change and a great idea. It tends to focus the viewer while at the same time wearing them out less. Walsh is focusing on one of my very favorite Chicago artists, Von Kommanivanh. Von's work is spoken in terms of Basquiat all the time. Now, I love Basquiat, really, and Von's work does owe some of its postmodern strokes to his work, even dropping in the tell-tale crown in Crooked Characters. There's even tiny little crowns in America in Gray, but which owes a larger debt to Klimt. Von's work is far too complicated to distill it to any similes though. It is completely unto itself and remains some of the most powerful work I've had the pleasure to stand for a very long time in front of. When Flatfile was above Walsh, I would go down and sit on the floor in Julie's space and just stare at Von's work. Its simultaneously aggressive, scrappy, thoughtful and delicate. It's this sense of effective dichotomy that lends great strength to Von's canvas'.

Von Kommanivanh, Crooked Characters, mixed media on canvas, 8' x 10', 2005

Von Kommanivanh, America in Gray, mixed media on canvas, 2005, 102.5" x 106.5"


Von Kommanivanh, Reform Nuisance, oil on canvas, 2003, 70.5" x 59"


Von Kommanivanh, This is Rhythm, mixed media on canvas, 2005, 119.5" x 146"


Von Kommanivanh, Untitled, mixed media on canvas, 2005, 81" x 83"

Rafacz is showing Jason Lazarus. One of Jason's prints, Self portrait as an artist burning down the Museum of Contemporary Art, has a dear place in my heart. I wish I had come up with it. But that's what Jason does. He shoots in a deceptively simple manner with striking results. We all should be able to take the shots that he's got, but we're never aware that way or never have a camera handy or, frankly, aren't that good of photographers. His shot of the lights at the Obama rally is something that is extremely hard to capture even though it looks like it's virtually nothing. Check out his website for that shot - it won't really look that good reproduced here. I hope that Andrew does well with Jason, if for nothing else, so that he can do a booth again with Cody Hudson. I'm sure I'll mention it again and again, but Cody made the very first piece of art that I offered to buy without knowing what the price was. Unfortunately it was already sold, and what later killed me is that it sold for, like, $200 or $400 or something ridiculous. Next time I'll get a preview.

Jason Lazarus, Self portrait as an artist burning down the Museum of Contemporary Art (Chicago, IL), 2004

Jason Lazarus, Self portrait as an artist making something contemporary, 2004

Jason Lazarus, Wall of Fire, Labor Day, 2006 (Cleveland, OH), 2006

Kavi, whose gallery is a mystery to me, will be showing Angelina Gualdoni. I'm not familiar with Gualdoni's work, but it looks really nice. Kavi's programming is, for me, very hit or miss, but I've heard it argued that my emotional response to the shows reveals the strength of the art. I'm not convinced that just because I hated Sterling Ruby's Inscribed Monolith (EPA-Alabaster) that it was any more effective because of my emotion. I'm pretty sure it just sucked. And, yes, Jeff Carter, Hans Hemmert and, yes, I'll say it, even Ciaran Murphy kind of bug me most of the time. But then he shows Melanie Schiff (last year's Volta booth) and my hatred melts away, because I pretty much love Melanie's work. If you couldn't check out Angelina's work at Volta, just show up at Kavi's sometime between March 27 and May 9 of this year to see her works installed.

Angelina Gualdoni, Given Ground, We Build it Everyday, acrylic and oil on canvas, 42 x 36, 2009


Angelina Gualdoni, Letter from the Generations, acrylic and oil on canvas, 48 x 72, 2006


Angelina Gualdoni, Blush, acrylic and oil on canvas, 60 x 48, 2008

So it's not like it is news to that many people anymore, but Flatfile is closing. It's strange to type that. Flatfile is closing.

I can't really pinpoint my emotions about it. It's like some sort of dull sadness. Like how you'd feel if you asked how someone's day was going and they said, like, their dog died last week, and you'd feel legitimately sad for that person, but you, like, don't know that person or their dog, so, within a minute or two, you just go back to what you were doing. Except in this equation I guess I know the person. And the dog. I don't know.

You know how you sometimes get your heart broken, but then you have to man up and be like, well, if I got my heart broken, then the other person probably go their heart broken, just maybe not the same way or at the same time or in the same place. Maybe. I don't know.

I guess whatever it's like, it is certainly like the largest square foot gallery closing in Chicago. Whatever my emotional ambivalence, it seems like a loss. Rhona was overheard saying, not about Flatfile, but about all the galleries that have been closing in general, that it's just the nature of the business. When we went down to talk to Ginny about the cover of Chicago Gallery News, she showed us brochures from 1990 and I didn't recognize, like, 2/3 of the galleries listed. Galleries come and go and the ones that stay, well, they are the ones that stay.

It will be interesting to see where all the artists shake out. When Fassbender closed, Flatfile and Alfedena took on a lot of the programing. Now that both those galleries are closed, along with countless others, it will be a while before a significant amount of legitimately great artists get substantial shows in Chicago. Here's to hoping some (or all) get some great shows in New York in the meantime.

Michiko Itatani, Visitors, 2005, Oil on Canvas, 72x84

LeBourgeois at Packer

A couple of weeks back I went gallery hopping and stopped by Aron Packer's opening. In the lower space of his gallery, or "The Lab," he has some great stuff, including works by Louise LeBourgeois. Louise has shown well in Chicago at galleries like Lyonswier, Gescheidle, Alfedena, Printworks, and now Packer.

Her work is simply installed and there's something like four paintings on the wall of what most would call, small size (12x12.) They were a highlight of the evening, but if I'm honest about it, one in particular left a deep impression on me. It is a piece titled Still Water. So I went about getting an image of it a few days ago and was thoroughly confused when I tracked it down on Louise's website and it was . . . well, it was upside down. And I thought, well that's a funny mistake. Except of course, it wasn't a mistake, because I also found it on her flickr account and there were several comments on it. I said to myself that there was no way the artist posted it in two different places, upside down, with comments.

So yesterday I went back to Packer and went straight down to the Lab and there was the piece, just like it was on Louise's website. Well, now I thought maybe I was loosing it, so I went up and asked Aron if it had always been like that. Long story short, it had been placed upside down at Aron's the night of the opening.

But this puts me in a weird spot as someone who should be part of the art intelligentsia (thought I'd never claim to be.) I'm sitting here, as a curator, thinking that the piece is actually significantly better upside down. It takes on a whole new abstract level. It becomes less straight forward and more dream like. I actually laughed when I first saw it because I thought it was witty and smart and showing me something I hadn't thought of. Essentially it's a simple landscape of three evergreen type trees in a field near the waters edge and the reflection of that scene in the water. The composition is set up in a sort of 1/3 or maybe even 1/4 manner with the physical reality in the upper 1/4 and the reflection in the bottom 3/4. The reflection is slightly blurred as if a hush of wind has disturbed the surface without making any waves or ripples.

But, if you flip the piece 180, the nature of the whole thing changes drastically, especially when you consider the title. You start with the visual of the upper 3/4 of the piece that, rather than looking hushed, looks disturbed. It's not quite like haze through heat. It's more like what you feel like you'd see seconds before a blackout. Like if you fainted in a field, this is what you'd see. Except that the reflection in the water is crystal clear. What was the land and sky is now the reflection in water, but the reality is blurred and the reflection is actually clearer. It was a little rabbit hole moment for me and I thought it was charming and funny and smart in terms of an artistic decision.

But of course, it was neither a decision nor an intention of the artist. And evidently she said, like, hey Aron, that's upside down. I hate to admit that I had such an emotional resonance to the work when that was not the intention. I know how hard artists work toward an idea and Louise's work exhibits an exceptional hand. But I also know that once you make it and show it and it's out there, then it's out there and people see what they think they see, not always what's there. If I bought it, it would definitely hang the way I first saw it - sorry, Louise.

Louise LeBourgeois, Still Water, oil on panel, 2009, 12x12

Louise LeBourgeois, Still Water, oil on panel, 2009, 12x12 (upside down)

A place to be from

So, obviously most of what I write here will relate to the goings-on in Chicago. But occasionally I'll travel around to NY or Miami or wherever and I'm sure I'll be finding artwork there too. So while I probably won't get around to seeing it, if you have the means then you must see the Tara Donovan exhibit at the CAC in Cincinnati.

From the CAC's website: "This exhibition is the first major museum survey of the American sculptor Tara Donovan. With sensitivity to texture, volume and the inherent physical properties of materials, Donovan transforms large quantities of mass-produced items [such as] toothpicks, adhesive tape, straws, buttons, pins, plastic cups and Mylar, into stunning sculptural objects and installations." And, "Her methodology of building sculpture through accumulation and meticulous assembly of quantities and amounts of identical items offers the viewer the experience of complexity and infinity."

Tara Donovan, Untitled, plastic cups

We are proud, at David Weinberg Gallery, to have been introduced to Tara through Ren Weschler and were overjoyed at the opportunity to show her work in our space. She is a humble and approachable young woman with talent like a halo. She walks around and sees things differently than you and I and makes sure we rethink the simple ideas of mass and structure. Often interested in objects with no inherent color, i.e.. clear or white, Donovan likes to explore the latent color of that object en masse. Where several million clear straws become a yellow beehive. Where millions of near-clear plastic cups become icebergs. Where reflective mylar tape becomes a kaleidoscope. She's great. Don't miss it if you have the chance to see it.

Tara Donovan, Untitled, toothpicks

Tara Donovan, Untitled, styrofoam cups

The CAC has an amazing history. When I was in Cincinnati, it was always a great space to see artwork. Thoughtfully curated and expertly managed, it was by far the best space to see contemporary works - even if it was above a Walgreens in an ugly box building in Downtown Cincy. It is now an incredible piece of architecture designed by Zaha Hadid as well as one of the premier houses of art in America.

Back in 1990, the curator Dennis Barrie was thrown in jail for obscenity charges for displaying the works of Robert Mapplethorpe. He was, thankfully, found not guilty of those charges and the acquittal of the Mapplethorpe defendants was a major reaffirmation of First Amendment freedom of speech. And Kudos to my mother for taking me (all of age 11) and my sister to see the show and talk to us in an open manner about what the artwork was and what it was supposed to do or say.

Probably the one show I wish I could have seen and didn't get to at the old CAC was Pat Renick's 2068 series. It was a series of fiberglass boat / coffin structures that were reflections on states of consciousness during an episode of her hospitalization in the 1950's. Pat had been given a prescription for what is essentially speed and because of the ingestion of that prescribed drug (which was intended for weight-loss) Pat began to exhibit symptoms that resembled schizophrenia. She was hospitalized unnecessarily and given shock treatment for her "disorder." Her case number was 2068. After more than a year of these painful and needless "treatments" she was finally properly diagnosed and released.

These haunting figures, which are exhibited in an arch, become less human as you progress across the curve of the installation and grow more and more mechanical and suffocating in nature. I have only ever seen photographs of the installation, but let me tell you, when Pat was around to tell her story, everyone listed with their hearts and minds as open as they could manage and you got a vivid sense of what she was trying to say. Remarkable stuff. She'll be loved forever by innumerable beautiful souls.

Pat Renick, from installation of 2068