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
In the past year, Parson has been as busy as a beaver. He exhibited a variety of large outdoor works in Illinois, Indiana, New York and Florida, and moved and installed them himself. He also displayed another recent group of sculptures at Artyard in January. And at the intersection of Quebec Street and Bayaud Avenue, there's a monumental temporary installation by Parson that's over sixty feet long. That piece, part of a show sponsored by the Museum of Outdoor Arts, will remain up through August, when it will be relocated to Hudson Gardens. (All of this, and Parson still teaches art during the day, moonlights as a commercial painter and, oh, yes, has self-published a book -- due out in a week or so and available at Artyard -- that chronicles his comeback from a devastating studio injury a few years ago.)
Only a driven workaholic like Parson would think he needed to renew himself by working more. Anyone else would realize that a well-earned rest was in order. For his part, Parson says, "I don't have a choice. I can't stop working. It's not compulsive; it's just the joy of making something."
This situation has changed little over the past thirty years. During that time, he has toiled endlessly, working in fields as far-flung as performance, installation, sculpture, painting and drawing. He developed his idiosyncratic style after receiving a classic modernist education in art -- first at the prestigious Kansas City Art Institute, where he received his BFA in 1970, and later at the renowned Cranbrook Academy, where he earned an MFA in 1972.
Viewers can verify Parson's continuing appeal -- and his inspiring work ethic -- immediately as they pull up to Artyard. Outside the gallery is a monumental sculpture, which, in spite of its heavy-metal appearance, is, like all of Parson's work, about the figure in the landscape, particularly the Western landscape. ("When I came out west in the '70s, I was pulled in by the sky and the horizon," says Parson. "I stayed just because of the horizon.") The dichotomy is interesting: Parson uses industrial materials, both found and ready-made, and creates relentlessly rectilinear compositions in a constructivist style that seems to have no relationship at all to the landscape.
And in a sense, that's the point, because Parson is a conceptualist, and he creates his pieces in relation to exterior reality. He also deals with the figure conceptually; references to it exist only in the form of the living viewer. So his work is both apart from and a part of nature and the landscape.
The outdoor sculpture at Artyard is reminiscent of a gate, even though it's impassable. Built on a rectilinear steel stand, it has two major components, a dark-colored arrangement of I-beams and a light-colored outline of a box. Short sections of I-beams form a base and cornice, with taller, paired I-beams forming the vertical shaft. The light-colored box -- originally painted a loud turquoise-green -- brings the piece down to a human scale, as does its near transparency.
Once inside the gallery, transparency becomes a big issue: The sculptures (all of which are untitled) feature lots of plate glass. Parson says the glass serves a narrative role and is meant to signify the fragility of life, but it clearly functions as a design element, too.
Even though the space is notoriously cramped, the room looks beautiful. Parson has filled it to the brim with nine sculptures -- some of them quite large -- and as many wall pieces.
Considering the show's title, Parson has used the color green only sparingly. But somehow, perhaps because a neutral gray is actually the predominant tone, the gallery seems to have a green glow to it. And all that glass, though technically transparent, is actually green, especially when seen from the side, as it most often is here.
In the middle of the gallery is the only other monumental sculpture in the show. It was too big to come through the door, so Parson assembled it on site. It's a companion to the one outside, but it contrasts with it, too. Instead of having an actual box, there's an imaginary one that viewers must fill in for themselves, suggested by the sculpture's footprint.
The main form in this piece was created with a pair of thick steel pipes standing on end and connected by heavy steel brackets held together with large chrome bolts. A sheet of glass is mounted vertically between the two brackets so that viewers can see through the center of the piece, something Parson invites them to do. The pipe-bracket-glass form is mounted on a base made from a found iron grate with what look like footpads -- also made from the found grates -- set on either side. Soaring above the piece are four thin pipes painted a luscious billiard green. The pipes rise from chrome mounts.