It’s
hard to write about art that is just beautiful. Or perhaps I should say, mostly beautiful. The artists whose work
is on show at the Visual Studies Workshop are variously able to elaborate on
spiritual dimensions… philosophical connections… historical underpinnings. But
I find most of it unnecessary. For me, the value of their work lies primarily
in its visual impact. It’s like trying to talk about a painting by Rothko:
Neither my words nor the artist’s will ever bear comparison with a face-to-face
experience of the work itself.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Light Index, curated by
Scott Laird, presents the work of three quite different artists who focus their
energies on the same theme: light. Photography is the logical medium with which
to explore this phenomenon, but none of these artists are photographers in the
traditional sense. They all use light-sensitive materials, but not all of them
use a lens, camera, or, for that matter, film.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Erika Blumenfeld exposes Polaroids
and sheets of Ilfochrome paper directly to light in order to make an abstract
document of the quality or quantity of light at a particular time of day or
year. She once spent a day in a transparent plastic tent in the desert,
recording the winter solstice by taking a Polaroid every minute from dawn till
dusk. Such experiments result in hundreds of pictures, which she subsequently
arranges on the floor or pins to the gallery wall in large grids.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Her favorite method of introducing
light to photographic material is to allow it to seep across the picture plane
from one side, creating graduating arcs of white that glow with varying
intensities. Many of them are simply called Light
Leaks, but the bluntness of the title belies the sumptuous elegance of the
result.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย The strongest work for me, however,
is Light Recording: Midnight/Midday,
which takes her preoccupation to its extreme conclusion. She fully exposed nine
20″ x 24″ sheets of Ilfochrome paper to light at midday and then repeated the
process with nine more at midnight. Predictably, the first group came out
completely white and the second completely black. But their sophisticated
presentation in two perfectly aligned grids on the wall transforms them from 18
dumb sheets of paper into a refined meditation on the essence of her craft.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย My only quibble with Blumenfeld is
in the things she says about her work. It’s those pesky words again, getting in
the way. According to her artist’s statement, the pushpins that fix her grids
of Polaroids to the wall “denote the elusiveness of time, and the absence
of certainty;” the grid structure “speaks of sacred geometry and the
mathematics inherent in nature.”
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย How exactly do pushpins denote the
absence of certainty? Call me insensitive, but it seems to me that the pins are
just a very practical way of holding the photographs together. Perhaps, for
Blumenfeld, the grids really do contain intimations of the divine, but I find
her glib enunciation of it unconvincing.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Fear of the “decorative”
also seems to haunt Ellen Carey. She repeatedly allies herself with established
masters, citing Dan Flavin, Ellsworth Kelly, Agnes Martin, Sol LeWitt, and
Donald Judd as influences. And she peppers her artist’s statement with the
names of such noted theorists as Rudolf Arnheim, Roland Barthes, and Susan
Sontag. In one particularly bizarre sentence, she observes that Arnheim’s
“basic thesis that art has two structures (the circle and the square) can
be seen in connection with my use of the photographic apparatus with its
circular lens and rectangular camera body.”
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย But don’t let my snide tone confuse
you. I love her photographs. Their saturated hues and seductively plunging
forms literally make my jaw drop. Carey uses a 20″ x 24″ Polaroid
camera to photograph pure fields of color. Then, by manipulating the mechanism,
rolling the light sensitive paper to and fro, and making multiple exposures,
she conjures up long swooping expanses of sensory delight. Measuring up to
seven feet long, and hanging loosely down the wall, they resemble giant
tongues. A darker, but equally fleshy, note is struck by the more subdued
colors of the negatives, which are also on display.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย I linger on the sheer physical
beauty of her work in an effort to redress my cruel opening remarks, but I
cannot resist one last dig: Later in the same statement, she implies that her
work “has a sublime presence and a timeless eloquence that not only
challenges ideas about what is and is not art, but also carries with it
spiritual and perceptual overtones that are existentially self-defining.”
Unfortunately, the harder she tries to invest her work with meaning, the less I
believe it.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย In contrast with the others, Amanda
Means tends to eschew hypothesis and discusses her work in a rather more
straightforward manner. In fact, she is quite reticent, limiting herself to
brief explanations of her technique and the occasional autobiographical
anecdote. The subject of her photographs is the light bulb, in all its various
shapes and sizes. She uses a horizontal enlarger to project light through the
bulbs, both lit and unlit, onto large sheets of photographic paper. The results
are startling in their boldness and simplicity — who would imagine that such
everyday objects could generate such stunning shadows?
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย My favorite piece, Light Bulb Grid, combines six large
black and white photographs of different bulbs. With their tones reversed they
take on an otherworldly quality, and the twisting filaments within look like
brains fizzing with activity. Hung high on the wall, they stare menacingly down
at us like some nightmarish jury of the future. Means has also experimented
with large-format color Polaroids, but of these it is the darker, more mysterious
ones that are most successful. Light Bulb
00050C emits a vaguely brooding presence as its orange glow looms gently
through a deep blue fog.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย The art critic Dave Hickey once
remarked, “I have argued over the years for the case of dangerous beauty,
the disturbing nature of things that are exquisite, sexy, and colorful.”
It is a kind of beauty that words cannot easily define, and with that in mind
I’ll cut my ruminations short. Go see Light
Index. It’s not dangerous, nor is it particularly disturbing. It’s
colorful, sexy, and exquisite.
Light
Index continues through April 5 at the Visual Studies Workshop, 31 Prince Street.
Hours: Tuesday through Saturday, noon to 5 p.m. Admission: $2, $1 for students.
442-8676.
This article appears in Mar 12-18, 2003.
