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
At ILK's roughhewn main space on Santa Fe Drive, two painters and two sculptors have been brought together for a show simply titled Lauri Lynnxe Murphy, Matt O'Neill, Jess Larson, Rebecca Vaughan. At the far spiffier Robischon Gallery on Wazee Street are two eponymous solo shows: paintings by well-known Coloradan Wes Hempel and a signature installation from Gary Emrich.
The atmosphere at ILK is best described as informal. Artwork, supplies and even rubbish (found objects, perhaps, in this context) clutter the place, which serves not only as a site for ILK co-op members and others to display their work, but also as studio space for the group. Fortunately, two handsome exhibition rooms have been hacked out of the mess.
For the current exhibit, ILK member Murphy, a painter, has invited friend and non-member O'Neill to join her for a presentation of compatible but distinct works in the south room; ILK member Vaughan, a sculptor, is paired with friend and non-member Larson for a similar two-person show in the north room. Murphy and O'Neill are connected to each other by their shared interest in the incorporation of multiple imagery into single works. Vaughan and Larson also create closely associated work, using their feminist beliefs to inform their conceptual sculptures.
It's hard to call Murphy, an ILK founder and longtime member of Edge who's been exhibiting her work for nearly a decade, an emerging artist. But these days she sure seems like one. Just in the past few months, prominent dealers and collectors have begun looking at her work seriously for the first time. Oddly, the secret to her recent success are the quirky and engaging multi-part paintings she's been doing for years. Using small, rigid panels, Murphy creates grids of tiny mixed-media paintings. In "Polygenesis," for example, she has grouped together nine little square paintings using nearly as many styles and palettes.
With works such as "Polygenesis," Murphy links herself to national trends in contemporary art. And that's also true of the oddball paintings created by her guest, O'Neill.
Of the four artists included in this show, O'Neill is by far the most established. He has a long track record of local exhibitions, and his work has been included in the Denver Art Museum's permanent collection. The recent paintings on display at ILK reflect O'Neill's continuing attempt to reconcile the fine arts with the low ones. These homages to classic modernism--or are they lampoons?--self-consciously place fragments of 1930s abstracts alongside 1960s muscle cars and jazzy furniture.
In "Primer Grey," an oil on linen painted this year (but dated 1978, apparently as part of the joke), O'Neill lays in a surrealist landscape, the land in a muddy brown, the sky in shades of yellow and green. Floating on the picture plane are a Dali-esque cluster of organic forms made up of displaced facial features--two eyes and a mouth. They're carried out in black and white and sit on a cartoonish pedestal in the style of Philip Guston. In a final act of stylistic looting, O'Neill throws in the kitchen sink by incorporating magazine photos of '60s Chevy convertibles. O'Neill has outrageously called this technique "decoupage"--rather than collage--to underscore his low-brow intentions. A childlike signature completes the pointedly nonsensical approach, which O'Neill has increasingly embraced in his recent paintings.
The mood over at the other end of the gallery is worlds apart. Whereas the paintings by Murphy and O'Neill are dark and crowded, the sculptures by Vaughan and Larson are light and fairly spare. Both Vaughan and Larson create wall-hung soft sculptures whose feminist themes are suggested by the use of "women's materials" such as yarn and cloth and "women's techniques" such as crocheting and sewing.
Vaughan has installed five pegs from which she has hung small organic forms, typically in pairs. These sculptures, according to the artist, are meant to be "cozies" for the glands of the body. (A cozy, explains the artist, is "a crocheted cover made to protect and ornament an object at rest.")
Vaughan doesn't indicate which cozies are meant to cover which glands; in fact, they all vaguely suggest the sex organs of both men and women. "A major part of this work has to do with sexuality, about harnessing one's sex and putting it out of sight or mind," says Vaughan. The limp crocheted sacks, mostly in red, white and yellow, are hung from long threads of yarn; the languorous effect, combined with the subtle sexual imagery, is more than a little unnerving.
Another crocheted piece by Vaughan was too big for the ILK space and so has been displayed outside. This is "Cozy," a bit of high concept for which Vaughan has taken hand-crocheted afghans and used them to cloak a van owned by artist Joe Miller. (Miller calls the vehicle "Gallery Van Go," since it serves as a mobile gallery when it's not in use as his wheels.) Part of the pleasure of viewing this work is the mental exercise of figuring out just how it fits into Vaughan's feminist mindset. Is "Cozy" a sheet-metal phallic symbol encased in a sheath that grandma might have made?