By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
By Marco Torres
With art derived from crocheted afghans, skateboards and glucose levels, the "2000 Annual Core Exhibition" gives the city of Houston a look at what all those out-of-towners have been generating in their glass-block studios at the Glassell School of Art during the past year. The event is the local fine arts equivalent of spring training: The Glassell gets to show off its latest prospects, and the community gets to debate their potential -- or lack thereof.
The potential, of course, is always there: The Core Residency Program attracts young national and international artists and provides selected applicants with studios, a stipend and feedback about their work from a series of visiting artists and critics. The intent is to facilitate the developmental transition from art school to working professional artist.
The work of seven Core fellows is on view, accompanied by a catalog with essays by Susie Kalil and Keith Marshall, the program's critical studies residents. There is an interesting symbiosis between the critical studies residents and the artists. In addition to writing about their works, Kalil has interviewed the artists and edited their comments into individual statements. The essays explore how the work functions, and the interviews reveal the artists' own thoughts and motivations, exposing influences that may or may not register on the viewer's radar.
Much of the work in the exhibition is informed by personal experience -- regional, biological or vocational. Todd Hebert, for instance, grew up in North Dakota, a declining farm state with a Midwestern predilection for mayonnaise-based salads and holiday Jell-O molds. Subverting the "wholesome Americana" version of holidays, Hebert presents a big flaccid cornucopia obsessively woven from foam rods. Collapsed, ashen and empty, it looks like something made by a disillusioned and cynical Claes Oldenburg, and it pushes the absurdity of holiday symbolism. His Halloweenish drawings, little black silhouettes of wheat, picket fences, TV antennas and backyard grill racks, are strangely appealing.
Jessica Halonen creates sculptures, installations and drawings from personal physiology. A diabetic, she has designed a system of colors that directly corresponds to blood-sugar levels. Black, well, that's very bad; brown is a little better; blue means okay; yellow indicates caution; and pink signals danger. Confectionery Chart: February 26-March 1 (2000) is a wall piece that charts her glucose levels for the dates indicated. Combining sugar and acrylic paint she casts oversize sugar cubes in the colors of her system. Placed on small shelves above, below or on a horizontal blue line painted across the bottom part of a wall, the cubes indicate her levels on a particular day. For Confectionery Units (2000), various sizes of cubes are placed on the floor in haphazard stacks, grouped by colors.
Conceptually, it's interesting to make objects that are abstractions of the artist's physiological state, especially when they're created from the very substance that causes so much concern. The casting and stacking seem to have a lot of potential, but her glossy painted wooden columns, pictured in the catalog but not on view at the show, feel much more resolved. The ten columns of varying heights are painted with bands of color to represent blood-sugar levels over a two-day period. The bottoms are sliced at angles, and they tilt unsettlingly, their surfaces thick and hard-candy shiny.
Bradley Tucker's stint as a sign fabricator has obviously affected his work, as he makes, well, signs. With a child-of-the-'70s color scheme, he creates oddball constructions and paintings of words that conjure up myriad associations. Sandwich(2000) has the word "FINE" in block letters carved out of upholstery foam. The letters are squashed between two skateboards cast in Hydrocal. For Tucker, skateboards are emblematic of his California childhood, and they look like plaster casts made from a valuable archeological artifact. The "FINE" reminds me of '70s T-shirts of the "Foxy Lady" genre. Other letters and shapes are cut from wood and covered with stretchy fabric in shades of avocado-green, tan and chocolate-brown polyester. They look like mutant refugees from department store window displays. But instead of the phrase "New Spring Fashions '74," you have the word "CON" or a goofy stylized cloud.
Having spent an inordinate amount of time working in a movie theater, Duncan Ganley creates images heavy with cinematographic residue. Ganley presents his digital photos as possible stills from The Lost, a great unfinished film by fictional director Martin MacAnally, or as shots from the interior of the reclusive director's home. Magnum Opus (Duncan Ganley - Katy Freeway - A Martin MacAnally Picture - THE LOST - Rated R - Friday) is an 11-foot by 20-foot vinyl banner that functions as a slickly incomplete promotional poster for the "film," but the stills are more compelling.
Digitally constructed from photos taken in the Warwick Hotel and the Museum of Fine Arts archives, the images are eerie and otherworldly. In Millennium Party Scene (Uncast) (2000), the red and blue cheesy opulence of a Warwick Hotel ballroom invites the viewer to manufacture all sorts of narratives. A glowing chandelier hovers in the center of the room, and Christmas ornaments, sans tree, float in the corner. A grid of white crosses is placed on the surface of the image, similar to markings used by NASA in mapping photography. It's a great formal device; it places a barrier between the image and viewer and reinforces the subtle strangeness of the images as you peer through the marks.