By Jef With One F
By Pete Vonder Haar
By Abby Koenig
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Jef With One F
By Christina Uticone
By Angelica Leicht
By Altamese Osborne
By titling his new show at Texas Gallery "Analog Paintings," Jeff Elrod presents the viewer a bit of a conundrum. After all, paintings are never digital. And thank god for that, because just as the Internet has so far failed to muster up its promised miracles, computers have far from revolutionized contemporary artmaking. People get excited over digitally produced imagery simply because it's digitally produced, as if that alone replaces the need for imagery that works. But Elrod has discovered that computers are better suited for the quick flow of impulses that "automatic" drawing sought to tap into than they are for minute and careful adjustments. And his computer-designed images not only work, they're a white-boy-at-the-keypad breakthrough for abstract painting.
One problem with computer art programs is an embarrassment of tools and funky special effects, which artists tend to use simply because they're there, and not because the integrity of their work demands it. By contrast, Elrod's "Analog Paintings" are analogs of images that he first created on a computer, using a graphics program's simplest tools: line, scissors, fill and, most important, speed. The results were then transferred onto huge canvases or directly onto the gallery wall using a masking technique whose exactitude you have to see to believe. The four paintings in the main gallery have an immediate graphic punch: You can walk in, make four 90-degree turns and walk out with a buzzing retinal imprint. With their flat areas of pure, modern color, these paintings are enigmatic, almost violent, versions of Matisse's paper cutouts.
Split Second, undeniably the exhibit's masterwork, is a gigantic two-panel painting done in light and medium gray, white and a hint of bright yellow that resembles the left-to-right repetition and soft palette of Robert Motherwell. The left panel has a white, boat-like form accompanied by giant, rhythmic scribbles. (Imagine what your signature looks like after you sign the UPS man's electronic tablet and you'll get an idea of the quality of the line.) The scribbles, which must have been pencil-thin on the computer screen, are now about one inch thick, every skip and false start ruthlessly reproduced. In the next panel, presumably created a split second later, the whole affair of the first panel has been obliterated by a clean, near-circular gray mass with a promising yellow nucleus. Bits of the first image peek out from behind it, squelched like the legs of the Wicked Witch of the West. It's a stunning painting, and one devoid of any expressionist whine for attention.
R.S.V.P., on the opposite wall, is somewhat less successful. White letters shuffled and laid out on an orange ground can be puzzled out to read "OVERDOSE" on one panel and, rather prudishly, "SMOKE P" on the other. Purposefully cryptic, this painting looks great, but it withholds information with no real payoff and doesn't rely on the show's real breakthrough -- the wildly fast-paced manipulation of images afforded by the computer.
Elrod's paintings don't look computery, though they do have a completely new feel. Still, they deal with the classic formal concerns of high abstraction: flatness, color, archetypal or suggestive forms. Delete, one of the paintings transferred directly to a wall, is a clunky brown fist of a form with a blue, irregularly "cut out" ball at the end, like the socket of a socket wrench. It feels a little silly to discuss a painting in terms of phallic symbolism, but with this one, it's inevitable: The word "Delete" is penned across the shape in irregular white letters, negating its halfhearted thrust.
If Matisse, as one teacher told him, was born to simplify painting, then Elrod was born to synthesize it. These paintings, with their energetic gestural scrawls and archetypal forms, are somewhere between de Kooning and Adolph Gottlieb. But since all the expressive outpouring was completed in the frenetic click-click-click of a computer session, the finished analog product is as cool and self-possessed as that of any hard-edged painter. Thus Elrod almost miraculously resolves one of Modernism's underlying tensions -- whether purity resides in the untrammeled gesture of the artist or in the absence of the artist's contaminating touch -- by incorporating both possibilities. In Elrod's paintings, precision intensifies, rather than negates, emotion.
In the gallery's foyer, Elrod presents not serigraphs or monoprints but four "unique laser prints," a group of futuristically generated images that are retro in sensibility. The Inner Me, so naively titled one feels it must be a joke, is like a '70s abstract poster lacking only the inspirational poem. Its symbolism is more direct than that of the paintings -- a tiny yellow circle, with a finger of white from the border almost touching it, is the inner Elrod. Viewed alongside the serious, refined beauty of its fellow laser prints, it quickly becomes clear that this is not a joke; sitting in front of a computer screen has stirred up simple, direct communication from an artist known for coolly appropriating imagery from video-game screens and corporate decor. And if computers can catalyze that kind of outpouring, then hey -- maybe they are good for something.