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Visual Arts: Wine:
Figuratively
Speaking The human figure is the focus of two current exhibitions. The Figure at Alder Art Gallery features 30 local artists rendering the human form in a variety of two- and three-dimensional media. Meanwhile, at the Maude Kerns Art Center, Figuratively Speaking II showcases paintings and drawings by 12 artists who participate in the center's tradition of open studios where artists work from live models.
The two exhibits overlap, with some artists showing their works in both, and also complement each other. There are no three-dimensional works at MKAC but the center makes up for the scarcity of two-dimensional nudes at Alder Gallery. The sculptures at Alder Gallery exhibit a fair range of styles. Ellen Tykeson has lovely understanding of female anatomy, whether she depicts slender childhood (Journey), a young maiden's pastoral innocence (Reflection), a jolly romp of voluptuous bodies (Music of the Spheres) or a self-possessed woman (Fitzgerald Nude — the one piece not affected by a certain nostalgia or hankering after a mythic state of innocence). In contrast, Jerry Williams' Cain & Abel exhibits the raw energy of form emerging out of clay. In Challenger, Justin Poole goes for a classic rendering of the female form. The stance is dynamic but the composition conventional. No one can doubt Steve Reinmuth's craftsmanship and control over form. However, his stylizations of the human figure (Ascent, Icarus Christ), depicting streamlined, overmuscular male superheroes perched atop pedestals not unlike Soviet mausoleums, are alas not camp at all and send an unfortunate overtone of male totalitarianism. I much prefer the resonant simplicity of his gongs. Jud Turner's stylized life-size figures are great fun (Seated Figure, Cat, Dollar Man), although the smaller Standing Figure and Ledge Man are less successful and more derivative (think Giacometti). A little surprisingly, most paintings at Alder Gallery are of clad figures as opposed to nudes. Much of the portraiture is conventional, and in John Van Dreal's Dancing under the Moon, sentimentality mars considerable skill. In such a context, two artists stand out: Madeleine Liepe's gouache, Artist & His Friends, is refreshing for its display of individual fantasy, and Mike Van's four paintings for their delightful wit and humor. Far from being gratuitous, the playfulness in Van's pieces doubles as commentary upon formal elements inherent to painting: issues of form, value, contrast, composition, line vs. plane, and various spatial conventions are raised, illustrated, or flaunted so as to bring them to our attention. Prominent among the works painted from life are Sarkis Antikajian's oils, which appear in both shows. Antikajian paints with great facility — perhaps dangerously so — capturing in quick bold decisive strokes and equally bold colors his sitter's expressive likeness, body language and mood. Antikajian's dynamic way of applying paint creates an interesting tension with his subjects' immobility. In contrast, Mark Clarke's approach in the portraits further emphasizes the models' stillness: The paint is applied smoothly and the rich, splendid tones blend into one another. With their pensive expression, and against a background of abstract architectural planes that intensifies the impression of their solitariness, Clarke's figures appear locked in their own world. These portraits carry an emotional charge no less strong for being contained. Such contrasts in mood and interpretation of identical raw data are part of the appeal of the MKAC exhibit. Another — and concurrent — appeal is that many of the artists in the show do not shrink from the naked human form, an endlessly fascinating and challenging object of aesthetic scrutiny since the earliest beginnings of art.
For some of these artists, drawing from life is rooted in the discipline of observation, which, says Marsha Wells, requires discarding "memory, preconceptions, or assumptions about how the body should appear." Hence Wells' predilection for foreshortened poses, which oblige her to "really look." Line is alive in her conté crayon studies of the human body viewed from unusual angles. Her work appears at both exhibits. Don Gardner's watercolors, similarly based on observation, are particularly sensitive. With a light touch and subtle palette, Gardner created delicate renderings of massive bodies that are full of life and character. His portraits are similarly expressive, conveying individuality, mood and emotion through light suggestive lines and applications of color. For Benjamin Nursing, a graphite drawing, Helen Liu held her son in her right arm and drew with her non-dominant left hand to shut out her "analytical left brain." The result is a lovely portrayal of her child's legs that is alive from its multiple, tentative line tracings and moving because what it captures is so true. Other artists prefer to use models as a more casual reference. "It's not my intention to copy what I see," explained Howard Houseknecht. His ink-and-pastel nudes therefore take after each other rather than after a model. They also have an unmistakable Picasso look. "Picasso, as far as line goes, is a huge influence," Houseknecht said. "He's my teacher." Houseknecht's figures are typed – this is the danger when one reproduces a style rather than what one observes – but his sensuous, flowing lines are definitely appealing as is his sense of composition. Meanwhile, Thomas Rubick takes far more cues from observation than Houseknecht so that his nudes are more individualistic, but he takes liberties with reality and creates distortions that add an expressive quality to his watercolors and gouaches. This approach is particularly successful in Red Girl and Red Girl I. These two exhibits, both exclusively of local artists, are well worth a visit.
Blown
Mind Duke is down. Hunter S. Thompson, High Goof of Gonzo, ate the business end of his magnum and ended his life-long battle against a terminal case of cultural nausea. He was 67. Now family must wrestle with his last wishes, to have his ashes and bones blasted across the Colorado foothills from the business end of a cannon, which seems only appropriate, given the benchmarks of his long career. His mantle, his legacy — his bleeding-eyed, drug-inoculated, hard-edged willingness to stare into the rotten, corrupt heart of American corporate politics — will not drop whole onto the shoulders of some single NewGen paladin, but will more likely rain down as shards and fragments into the outstretched fingers of a thousand motley-garbed bloggers, mind-ripped intellectuals and ghetto poets. The Work, of course, can only go on.
I savor the memory of the night I attended a party with Hunter Thompson. It was about a million years ago, when I was still sorta crypto-faculty at UO. The Associated Students invited the author of Fear and Loathing ... to speak at the EMU. Their contract with him, out of some kind of attempt at self-protection, specified that he would be accompanied constantly, from the moment he de-planed to the time he winged back to Colorado. One provision called for a faculty member to attend the post-speech "reception." I don't know why the ASUO committee asked me to act as faculty rep, but I accepted the honor. Thompson's speech consisted mostly of half-mumbled maunderings peppered with semi-veiled threats; we loved it, cheered madly. At the reception, I sat next to The Gonz, watched him throw down a coupla Road Runner glasses filled with Wild Turkey, a little ice, no water. He also puffed heartily on many rounds of some dark, chewy-looking substance said to come from Lebanon. For the record, I spent those two hours holding one breath. I stared, though, in fascination when Thompson rummaged in his backpack and came out with some quarter-inch-square items — I might have heard a term like "windowpane" — and dispensed several of those little wafers, like sacraments, first to himself, then, notably, to a young woman broadcaster who worshipped cross-legged at his feet. Thompson then kicked back, cleaning his fingernails with a Bowie knife that had also materialized from his pack. Minutes later, official student hosts hustled Thompson into a van and drove him to (pre-metal detector) Mahlon Sweet. Bet Duke put fun in that flight. I wonder, now, what precipitated his decision to bite the barrel. Did he have one too many encounters with some Bible-wielding bigot? The hills of Colorado (and, yeah, Oregon) are crawling with these vermin; coulda happened. Maybe Captain Gonzo crossed paths with some CIA scumbag who jets prisoners around the world to countries where contract torturers will break their bodies and their spirits while ignoring "quaint" Geneva Conventions (or even more quaint U.S. Constitution). Maybe the event that pulled his trigger was grimly mundane: He popped into the liquor store for a jug of Wild Turkey, stood at the checkout; his blood-rimmed Argus eyes spotted one of those plastic yellow-ribbon car magnets, "Support our Troops," and he made the simple mistake of flipping to the back label: yep, "Made in China." Fact fell like the one extra feather needed to crack that fragile mind: Time to chew on 180-grain lead and depart this sweltering piss-pot. Coulda been all it took. So Duke is down. But Gonzo lives, and it's coming for wine. Let's crack a bottle of bubbly for the dearly departed Prince of Gonzo Darkness. When we think of fine, tasty sparklers, our minds turn naturally to — New Mexico. Huh? A'ight, not many but the most addle-pated conjure up images of the Land of Enchantment (Hah!) for bubblewines, but shore 'nuff, Gruet Blanc de Noirs ($17) is mighty tasty, and priced right. The "noirs" in the name is French (Security! He made a French word!) for black, meaning the grapes are pinot noir, meaning full flavors and sometimes a slightly salmon tint to the color profile. The Gruet name (also French, omigawd!) is one of the most respected in Champagne (the region in, uh-huh, France), and like many other Old World wine powers have invested in the New World, finding good grapelands in odd places. How they found a cool spot for pinot in and around Albuquerque probably involves suspicious anti-freedom plotting. Whatever, this is lipsmackin' sparkly, worthy of hearty toasting for blasting of Gonzo ashes. I'm rarely excited by rich-guy wines, but these Domaine Chandon folks (Frenchies!) keep surprising. Latest is their 2002 Pinot Meunier (mer-NYAY). This grape variety is usually blended into good sparkling wines (prominently Veuve Cliquot — French!) although Oregon's David Lett at Eyrie Vineyards has produced an unblended still-wine pinot meunier for years, and really good, too. Dom. Chandon's version is wonderfully delicate and complex (a little hot at 14.1 percent alcohol, aided by decanting), just charming, despite the tag ($29), for a special experience. For wine-buck bang, Italy is still champ. One of my favs is Vignamaggio 2001 Chianti Classico Terre di Prenzano ($15), medium-bodied but layered in flavors of black cherries, currants, and sun-baked earth. All Italian wines love food (a two-way affair), so put this with some spring lamb or funky cheese, be happy. Raise some glasses: Duke! Then we have to get back to tending the festering wounds of American politics. It's the least we can do. Watch for ash-fall.
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