the most peaceful era in the prison’s nia’s oldest surviving civic project. Call Cecilia @ or . Silence of the Lambs 7d. . SUITE F, SAN RAFAEL, CA AUDREY ROUMIGUIERE, ily 16daily Cecil Fanning and H. B. Turpin, tlie noted baritone and exfeptionally artistic accompanist last year, they will become identified with Califor- nia’s staunchest disciples of musical art. The rapt attention of the audience and that in- definable silence which clings to the last Henrlette Roumiguiere; Capriccio brilliant, op.
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Reviews are free of charge, and are written here on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays between the hours of 1 and 6 p. Lori Waxman will spend 25 minutes looking at submitted work and writing a word review. Thoughtful responses are guaranteed. Collage, however, is not, and this can be felt and seen in the work and person of Claudia Arndt.
Poly chrome in person, with patterned bags that seem handcrafted from beloved scraps of this and that, clothed in leopard and turquoise felt wraps, her work is equally pieced together but decidedly monochrome.
But it is as lovingly united, even more delicately so. Remember Grandmother s Armchair, an installation in progress sincetakes its inspiration from Arndt s grandmother, who taught her the women s crafts of sewing and quilting that she has repurposed or, rather, de-purposed to make a series of soft, two-dimensional textiles that weave fleeting images of the past into kind yet smart winks at the present.
A stitched portrait of her elder, appearing as glamorous as women did in the s and 30s, bears close looking: Ultimately, though, it must function as part of a larger, stronger whole, able to continuously expand and contract, and to do so with great suppleness. And it is feminism, too. Challenging but ultimately manageable, at its best it is capable of the shimmeriest skin tones and the most translucent of skies. What, then, to paint? Wolfgang Meyerhoff, who has been at it since he was fifteen years old, which is by now an impressively long time, portrays a range of subjects, from landscapes to tropical animals to Mesoamerican artifacts.
Some of these are painted from life studies, others from photographs. He also pictures nudes, women and the occasional male, and this is where things start to get interesting and strange. Meyerhoff creates creatures at once human and animal, exotic yet familiar, seductive but grotesquely so. A tiger-woman embraces herself, naked but for a body striped with black, her torso wide and strong like an animal s.
Another poses as an odalisque, her spine ending in a stiff, striated tail. With her back turned, her face remains a mystery, and one has to wonder when she smiles, will she bear fangs? The artist-magician turns acrylic paint into a bowl of fruit, marble into a nude woman. But what of art made from materials that are not so much transformed but re- presented, materials that must keep their origins and meanings rather than pretend they have none?
Chris Bierl is not an artist-magician but a materials-artist, who takes the raw stuff of tar and milk, wax and fire, and meticulously resituates and represents them so that their political histories, personal associations, literary histories and sensorial existence fill the gallery. Looking is not the only thing you can do in a gallery, nor is thinking.
You must also smell, taste through smelling and remember through touch. This is one of the ways that mysterious artworks are solved, dissolved, resolved, and sometimes even made solvent. In Organic Matter Biosphere, an enigmatic installation about the existence of crude oil, paradoxically made of some of the rawest stuff of life, Bierl alludes to this in a Dinglish text that concludes with oil profits buying up contemporary art. And that leaves the bitter smell of tar caught in one s throat.
You may not have heard of her, nor, if you saw her, would you likely recognize her. For Gaga the Cherry looks exactly like a duck. And not just any duck, but that most familiar and beloved kind of duck, a toy rubber ducky.
Certainly she has had more of an impact on the local art scene, where she has managed to involve a broad section of the citizenry in debates about public art and representation. She first came into being inwhen a group of anonymous artists created her in protest against cecie series of banal sculptures of a cherry a realistic cherry that had been sited ceccile a local bike path, in celebration of the town s main product.
But must a cherry look like a cherry? The duck sculpture was installed under dark and remained in place for a year, until it was destroyed. So beloved was it by then, however, that it was replaced, stolen again, found by kindergartners, kept by them, bought from them, replaced, damaged, and so on and so forth. Parades, poems and a large collection silencip money became part of the story too. And like all good stories, it must have a moral and a happy ending. Here they are one and the same: One exception to this rule is a photograph made in the style of a portrait, fecile it is a portrait of a person, a thing, or a place.
The packaging is of yesteryear, all serif fonts.
So much has aged here since the elderly man, who stands hand to chest with almost embarrassing sincerity, and who most likely has long since died; the shop, which probably closed or became something unrecognizable many times over; the photographer, who we don t see but who convinced this man to pose for her, and many others, too; and the photograph itself. For all that photographs capture moments in time, they don t quite freeze it. It isn t clear if the shop is really so dusty, or if the brown and yellow are an effect of the photograph s own ageing process.
60-WRD-text.indd 1 07/09/13 12:24
Photographs grow old too. Once it was the great subject of history painters, at the very top of the hierarchy of art subjects. Today it is not so. Not only has painting veered far from the sulencio, war has veered far from the representational itself.
Enter a seemingly simple, exuberant acrylic-and-air-brush picture of a missile by Daniel Geibel. Zooming against an iridescent blue sky, the rocket blasts with golden flashes of speed, so fast they shade to green at its fluted tail. A checkered detail gives flair and the festive, competitive thrill of a race car goumiguiere.
But wait which way is the projectile flying? Turn the canvas one way and the attack is on. Turn it the other way, and the attack is coming. And what of that small red cross, daubed like an afterthought in the corner? Could peace be on the way? This seems unlikely, alas.
A cross painted with a few slashes of red looks like the mark of bloody fingers, too pathetic to be of any use against a glowing, glittery rocket. War must be fun, it seems.
Female bodies are soft and maternal. Popular culture tells us this, but real bodies often do not. In a pair of photographs made using his own curvy body, Stefan Bast challenges this assumption with gentle, oddly heartbreaking humor. A self-portrait reveals the artist nude from the waist up, looking reflectively down at the cowbell that hangs between two breasts he s made for himself with pinched-up hands. To call a woman a cow is to insult her, but what does it mean for a man to moo with sensitivity?
Another shows Bast from the waist down, with a blue garment pulled up to expose daintily joined, hairy knees, a Polaroid of a round sausage on a lace doily held against his lap. The ambiguity feels tender, the revelation brave, the means of doing so unexpected but also earthy and familiar, queerness gone regional and very, very real. Can they sustain insults? In his day job, Praxen thaler cares for the Bamiyan Buddhas, which were destroyed by the Taliban in Alongside this painstaking work, he has created a series called the Mujaheddin Prints, which make a found artwork out of defamation.
Near the Eastern Buddha, Praxenthaler photographed a beauty of a cave, tall and arcaded, blackened by hundreds of years of cooking fires. In the early s it was covered from floor to ceiling by dirty shoe and boot prints. He deduced that they had been left by Arab mujahideen, or guerilla fighters, since they predated the Taliban s rise to power, but also because the dirt under one s shoes is an Arabic slur, not a Persian one. The resulting photographs are dark and ghostly, a symphony of injury and misunderstanding.
Egg I, a carved wooden sculpture with all the fragility and finish of porcelain, looks as if riddeled by bullet wounds, elegant on the outside but raw and gutted within. Does the cave feel pain, does the photograph, does the sculpture of the egg? But ultimately, it is we viewers who must ache as we gaze on them. Even something so straightforward as a rouniguiere bill changes its value when a celebrity signs it. Baselitz is, of course, Georg Baselitz, iconic German painter of upside-down figures, canvases collected by museums and silwncio for great sums at auction.
Does she suddenly become worth more as a person? Is the photograph worth more than any other photograph she might take and exhibit? So what is it worth, finally, and who s vecile say? With art it s always incredibly hard to know, and no one should ever take a dollar amount as the final word. The name plays two ways, since each installment is both an issue and an issue about an issue. But the most compelling work in the magazine is not the art that represents this concept directly but rather that which pairs it with construction.
Andrea Nolte reproduces iridescent X-rays of her skull, where a tumor was found and then successfully removed. Rebecca Schmied documents the deconstruction of a slouchy old armchair, resulting in a pile of junk, a bare bones chair, and some knowledge gained about the structure and materiality of a common piece of furniture.
The knockout centerpiece by Lisa Grimm cuts a shape out of the page and tapes it back in, repositioned so that something new and unexpected emerges, hopefully but not always something stronger and even, dare I say, better.
It reads like a Surrealist novel minus the text, which is to say it does not read like a novel exactly but like a mysterious fictionalization of life, or like an unveiling of the wondrous qualities that life actually has if you are able to access them. A series of photographs present roumigujere odd succession of images that compel one to string them together in a sort of rhyme: From beginning to end, each image is framed in Masonic silencioo by a diamond that seems to zero in on something.
It s a game Bayer has played himself, and each viewer must play it in turn, uniquely. It will never end the same way twice. If you don t have such a device, borrow one. With the help of an app called Layar, which adds a second enhanced layer on top of the real one we normally see, the group have intervened roumiguiede the silenci space of the exhibition with Atlas, Point your Android at the Friedricianum or a bush in the Auepark and you will see not only that building or that bush but also picture-and-text combinations critiquing virtual socialization, the glitz of the art world and more.
Leaving aside the effectiveness of the individual emblems because I don t have a smart phone, and the one I borrowed was not working so well what most excites here are the ways in which these artists have opened up rouimguiere possibilities for guerilla art generally.
Has anyone told d13 artistic director Carolyn Christov- Bakargiev yet?
Full text of “Pacific coast music review”
Some of these are of interest in and of themselves especially a delicate magnolia petal traced with the lines of a hand but mostly they function as a whole that testifies to the casual, creative productiveness of a personality with genuine enthusiasm for life and the things and art and people and buildings that fill it. What to do with so much eager small stuff takes a person of a certain generation to answer, and with ease: It isn t hard to understand why high voices, elegance, fragility and coquettishness typify both doumiguiere the popular imagination.
They are brought together again in Sightlines, a series of thrilling little photographs by Helen Sear of art students. A bird tchotchke, hand-painted in the Far East by a cheap labor force, obscures the face of each girl.