By Show and Tell
By Bree Davies
By Bree Davies
By Cory Casciato
By Emilie Johnson
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davis
By Josiah M. Hesse
Since 1992, son Mark has had his own private art club: the Denver Salon, a kind of exclusive clique made up of photographers Sink has personally invited to join. Sink established the salon a couple of years after returning from New York City, where he had lived for a decade and made a reputation with his Polaroid portraits of art-world habitues such as Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat. (Denverites got a chance to see Sink's New York photos when they were exhibited a couple of years ago at the Mackey Gallery.)
But to find the source of inspiration for the Denver Salon, one needs to go even further down Sink's family tree, back a century to his maternal great-grandfather, James L. Breese. Breese is essentially forgotten today, though Sink is working to correct that. But in the 1890s he was a fine-art photographer of considerable distinction, a partner in the renowned Carbon Studio, where he took portraits of New York's social and artistic elite; he was also one of the founders of the New York Camera Club, an organization important to the development of American fine-art photography. More relevant to his great-grandson's current activities, Breese also staged his own "1001 Nights" salons, holding them at midnight in his Fifth Avenue townhouse. At these gatherings, photographers and others met to discuss their work in a festive party atmosphere.
Sink became aware of his illustrious ancestor's life and work when a large archive of Breese's personal files and newspaper clippings, along with a cache of carbon prints, lantern slides and glass negatives, were entrusted to him after he returned to Denver from New York. This valuable material had languished in the safety of storage for a hundred years and finally wound up in the Santa Fe basement of a relative, where Sink discovered it.
Sink defines a salon as "an assemblage of persons, usually of social or intellectual distinction, who frequent the home of a particular person." In the case of the Denver Salon, that home is Sink's funky Victorian in the Highland neighborhood. To push the connection to Breese still further, the room in which the Denver group meets is decorated "salon style," with works of art clustered on the walls. The members sit at a long, draped table that's lit by candles, and at the end of each meeting, a photograph is taken of the members posed with a picture of Breese.
More than a dozen Salon members are now featured in the current exhibit Mark Sink, Inna Valin and Selections From the Denver Salon at the Rule Modern and Contemporary gallery. And the show serves as proof that Sink is following in Breese's footsteps in more ways than one. It not only holds together, but is as good a snapshot of Denver's contemporary photography scene as any survey in recent memory.
Some very unusual and striking photographs as well as edgy photo-based pieces have been included, and though a whiff of the past can be detected in some of the photos, the nostalgic spell is broken before the gallery-goer even enters Rule. In the windows, gallery director Robin Rule has placed four photo-dotted sculptures by young art star David Zimmer. One look at them makes it clear that this show is about photography in the 1990s, not the remote events of the 1890s.
Also in keeping with Sink's vision of the Salon as a cutting-edge crew, the Rule show provides viewers with a glimpse of the latest in gallery display techniques. This fall Rule reconfigured the interior of her gallery, dividing the space into a series of small, residential-sized rooms. This is the wave of the future as commercial rents skyrocket; plus, the market has turned away from the impossibly large, institutional-sized works that necessitated the big, empty white rooms that have long been an industry standard. After all, people are more likely to buy art for their living rooms than for the lobbies of their office buildings. And if the recent remodeling at the Denver Art Museum--where, as at Rule, large rooms were subdivided into smaller ones--is any indication, the traditional white walls, long the only choice for "serious" art display, are another industry standard that's on the way out. (Rule hasn't gone that far yet; the gallery is still painted white--for now.)
Zimmer's sculptures are painted wooden cubes set on stout, cylindrical legs; the cubes have been painted a rich charcoal gray and then adorned with silver-print portraits that are back-lit and partly obscured by strung wire. The wire suggests bondage, and there's a fetishistic quality to the subjects of the portraits as well. Zimmer, after all, is known both for his boxed sculptures and for his photos of Denver's pierced and tattooed demimonde. The four pieces in the Rule show merge those interests seamlessly.