Capsule Reviews

"Patrick Renner: Trepanned" In the past, Patrick Renner's work has been about visual appeal and craftsmanship. He's created massive wooden sculptures by patchworking together multicolored pieces of old painted wood. But in his latest show, Renner is trying, in fits and starts, to be more conceptual, with work about remembering and preserving. The point of departure for his series pangaea is a collection of salvaged pieces of old linoleum floor. The 1930s floral rug-patterned linoleum peeks through a worn coat of mint green paint. Renner has mounted the large torn pieces on thick hunks of foam, arranging them so they seem to be drifting apart like continents. They hang well on the wall, and the act of monumentalizing and fetishizing something as mundane as a kitchen floor is weirdly interesting. Meanwhile, forget-me-knot (2006), Renner's unfortunately titled meditation on lost socks, is pretty stupid. For this work, he welded a rebar frame into the shape of a knotted sock and then tied a cadre of socks-without-partners to it. But the show does include some sock-themed work that fares better -- his casts of actual socks in iron. Pathetic-looking old socks are immortalized in weighty metal and plopped on a display shelf. The results are funny and depressing at the same time. Through October 28 at Poissant Gallery, 5102 Center St., 713-868-9337.

"Run For Your Lives!" is not only the catchphrase of 21st-century America, it's also the title of a show at DiverseWorks, curated by new director Diane Barber, which explores disaster, both natural and man-made. Some of the artists take on 9/11 itself -- it's not just for Hollywood anymore. 9/11 (2001), Joseph Peragine's digital animation of the World Trade Center attacks, set to a snazzy jazz track, is eerily upbeat. The animation is stylized -- brightly and flatly colored, digitally sketchy and abstracted. Flames spew from the towers, emergency vehicles rush in, and the towers rain down. An anthropomorphic rabbit with bulging bloodshot eyes sits in a recliner and watches it all on TV. While Peragine works with digital technology, Lillian Tyrrell uses an ancient handicraft to create one of the exhibition's most graphically dramatic contributions. She weaves blankets based on images from actual disasters. In the strongest one, a tiny falling figure is set against the stark vertical lines of the World Trade Center. It's visually and emotionally striking; first you admire the image, then a beat later it hits you -- that's someone plummeting to his death. Dietrich Wegner is the only artist to offer us escape from the destruction -- sort of. He sculpted a giant fluffy blast cloud of polyester fiberfill that doubles as a tree house. A dangling rope ladder leads to a heavenly white interior with a rough wood floor. Sadly, it's only a marginally more hopeful take. We live in screwed-up times, but hey, at least artists are managing to get something out of it. Through October 21 at DiverseWorks, 1117 East Freeway, 713-223-8346.

"Sculpture Now -- in the Houston area" For this exhibition, Sally Sprout rounded up work from 49 Houston-area artists and corralled it all in the Williams Tower Gallery. There's a lot of interesting work from everybody who's anybody, but the lobby of Williams Tower isn't exactly the most hospitable place to present art. The space is granite, granite and more granite, and it looks like a mausoleum, requiring the necessary evil of moveable partitions to show wall-based work. Sprout manages to make the best of it; Howl (1986) by the recently departed Luis Jimenez, Jr. is the standout of the lobby environment. Jimenez created a fiberglass sculpture of a howling wolf and luridly painted it with luminous auto body paint in deep purples, blues and grays. Sprout has wittily positioned it right outside the entrance to the sleek Knoll showroom. Other works that show especially well in the corporate lobby are also incongruous. Bill Davenport's Cask (2006) is crafted from Styrofoam and painted with cartoonish wood grain. It looks like a pirate's treasure chest, but in this context, it might hold the loot from some grossly overpaid CEO. Meanwhile, Elaine Bradford's By the Fire (2004) presents a deer head that appears to be wearing a sweater; Bradford has covered antlers and all with crochet and hung the whole thing over a fake fireplace. It adds a weird domesticity to the lobby, but, unfortunately, had to be mounted on one of the gray partitions -- it would be especially perfect stuck directly on the granite wall. Through October 27 at Williams Tower Gallery, 2800 Post Oak, 713-526-6461.

"Word" This group exhibition is full of wordplay, from the self-referential Black is a word, a 1975 offering from superstar Ben Vautier, in which "black" is painted in black and the other words in white, to Wayne Gilbert's The Difference a Day Makes (2005), in which the local artist has done his trademark goth thing, using real human cremains (i.e., dead people) to construct "9/10" real small and "9/11" super big. Joseph Kosuth's Essays #7 (2000) is a reworking of his seminal 1965 work, One and Three Photographs, which originally was all about mise en abyme and now, in updated form, has even more framing. Philipe Macoutel's thing (1984) is a painted steel sculpture of the word "thing," giving us the signified and the signifier in one fell swoop. Christian Xatrec's This Sign (Not) For Sale [Autology] (1989-2006) has "this sign for sale" written on a board that, when it's sold, will be turned over to reveal "this sign not for sale." In a word, the show's a success, even if some of the older stuff on view has been imitated in art classes so many times it's tough to feel the bite. Through November 4 at Deborah Colton Gallery, 2500 Summer Street, 713-864-2364.

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Kelly Klaasmeyer
Contact: Kelly Klaasmeyer
Keith Plocek
Contact: Keith Plocek