By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
The painted white path contains dozens upon dozens of objects, each leading us to the next, just as one thought will lead to another. Miller mixes the ingenious, the crude, the functional, the elegant; she crosses time periods, continents, class and caste, and thumbs her nose at artistic hierarchies with considerable glee, happily unsettling fine-arts purists by embracing the declasse, feminine world of craft. Clunky needlepoint hangs alongside hand-knitted clothing; a hankie embroidered "help" is placed near a frilly white apron stitched with images of clocks. But the labor, almost all by Miller's own hand, is of her own choosing. Her effort is visible in the work and essential to its meaning. It gives substance to such old saws as "waste not, want not" and "time is work and work, time."
Clocks images are everywhere. On one wall, Miller draws an androgynous cartoon figure who checks the time on a wristwatch; she then leads viewers past a dozen more clocks. Their connection to the craft items is obvious: At the show's heart is the notion of duration, the time it takes to collect the materials and produce the work, which is notable for its sheer labor-intensiveness. You can't help but wonder: How does Miller get time for all this making and finding?
The flotsam and jetsam she has deliberately chosen from junk heaps evoke a hermetic world of melancholy and whispered secrets, and an awareness of the riches of everyday visual life. Chunks of birch bark, dried leaves gathered with string, a stick capped by a sea anemone -- all have the presence of simple occurrences. A large wooden "club" has been glommed with a crusty material, and some of the wall-mounted objects look grubby, as if fished from a garbage pail, as close to non-art as they can possibly be without crossing the line.
Other things are piquantly beautiful: tufts of shiny red material stuffed, twisted and wrapped with string; bronze hat pins that coalesce to form a sporelike matrix; and, on the floor, rows of brightly colored, lumplike "specimens" fashioned from beeswax.
Acting as an urban archeologist of sorts, she combines the vitality and energy of both raw and formal materials as a way of questioning the value of life and nature in a throwaway culture. Each piece is a little world unto itself; each seems to have gleaned a spiritual gift from the activity of the work.
The creaky, homemade look belies an ordering and representation that's canny, even deliberately complex. If anything, "Time Not Wasted" demonstrates Miller's ability to define by contour and color what is fleeting and seemingly inexpressible. All of the works are lean and self-effacing, and most appear ready to come undone given a moment's notice. Yet all exude a formidable presence, as well as a directness and clarity of construction that vibrates with natural, Zen-like grace. Bound boxes, Chinese-like puzzles, tiny ladders of copper and wood, wire cages, long "tails" of knotted and braided twine or flax, rectangular grids of beeswax and bizarre floating forms evocative of scaly creatures -- all cling to and project from the gallery's walls with an awkward candor that lends them a human warmth.
You feel that these poetic, slightly zany statements are held within the painted path as if gravity had brought them to rest there. Each appears to be a meditation, on the nature of stroke and color, or on formal, perceptual and intuitive processes. The elusiveness of Miller's work is heightened by the fact that its playful combinations of wire, wood, found and fabricated objects remain difficult to classify, so obsessively has she been a creator of things graceful and lyrical, clumsy and unlovely. Some of the needlework pieces and "button" paintings, with their childlike ideograms (yes, that's a clock!), are formal attempts to marry form and color, but they are also places where the mind can relax. Miller reduces the intensity of adult life by breaking the world down into a friendlier place.
Like visual riddles, Cecilia Vicuna's small objects beckon the eye as a way of baiting the mind. Culling from discards, the Chilean poet and artist describes a world that contains a glut of things but offers little in the way of spiritual solace.
At DiverseWorks, Vicuna has filled a narrow table with precarios, tiny, fragile assemblages constructed of found objects or rubbish. They're like visual poems, the gentle juxtapositions of stone, wood, feathers, shells, cloth and pencils, often bound with brightly colored thread. The modest pieces -- a boat, a web, a scroll -- seem to have merely happened, rather than to have been constructed, and appear so flexible and loose that the parts might at any moment form another whole. They feel pregnant with meaning, ideas about the complexity of nature and life's little miracles. But it's not because Vicuna worked some sort of alchemy on her humble materials; it's because she left well enough alone.