RECOMMENDED

Rhona Hoffman Gallery is presenting the collaborative group Art & Language, with works ranging from 1965 to 2007. Michael Baldwin and Terry Atkinson founded Art & Language in the late sixties in England, and during the following decade the group grew to include other members (and a New York branch). The group is currently comprised of Michael Baldwin and Mel Ramsden.

Sometimes, we forget that Art & Language is a group of theoretical visual artists, not (plainly) writers or theoreticians. Unlike many of the calcified conceptual art experiments from the sixties, the works on view here are immediately fulfilling and effective visual art. The visual, of course, is still given a textual component. Be sure to consider the take-away writing component of the show provided by the gallery. The texts read as both preparatory sketch and conversational presentation. Through this writing the twenty works in the show—while arranged loosely by date—are given an even, contemporary, presentation. Read the rest of this entry »

Richard Rezac

There’s a trend practiced by some of Chicago’s established and regarded sculptors that, while not new, resurges every few years like a scheduled comet passing overhead, illuminating the heaps of unsorted recyclables that calls itself “contemporary sculpture,” for a brief flashing reminder that we can trust our eyes, not just our minds. In short, formalist tendencies persist. City of grime and grit and gut this is not. This city was built on beauty, so it’s no surprise that spirituality or mysticism or whatever unnamable eternal thing creeps in from time to time.

Christine Tarkowski (born 1967), Susan Giles (born 1967), and Richard Rezac (born 1952) all stoke a formalist eroticism, as their sculptures pierce right through to the core of perceptual understanding, without having to busy the mind. There’s an ease of access partly provided by familiar materials—cherry wood, polished and rustic cast metals, cardboard and tape—but each also favors architectonic forms: Giles plays with minarets and crenellations, Tarkowski breaks and re-circuits parking-garage ramps and the geodesic dome, and Rezac’s sculptures evoke knobs, nooks and floorboards. There’s a logic to each construction but the direct response is pleasure. Read the rest of this entry »

Upon attending the opening of Richard Rezac’s third solo show at Rhona Hoffman, I remembered how old I am.

Like many of my peers, I consider Rezac’s work inseparable from the mythology of Minimalism, a period of art history we simply did not experience, born too late. While our pilgrimages to Marfa may help us to feel more acquainted with this period, Minimalism is our ornery grandfather whose offspring founded IKEA and gave birth to a breed of infidels with limited concern for geometry. By the time we came to cognition, people weren’t arguing about rectangles anymore. Everyone seemed so worried about AIDS, crack and the Gulf War, that splitting hairs over formalism didn’t seem to make sense anymore. Recently, we found credence in a group of artists dubbed “Unmonumental,” or post-Minimalism part two, precisely because it contaminated the sensibilities of a generation of artists we never fully understood.

Richard Rezac, however, grew up during the height of most monumental of all Minimalism; Carl Andre and Walter De Maria surely became Apollonian idols of the artist as a young man, but his work over the last three decades is not a mere placeholder in this clearly living history. Between works newly installed in the Art Institute’s Modern Wing and the solo show at Rhona Hoffman, Rezac demonstrates an ongoing inquiry into the geometries of environments ranging from Baroque cathedrals to a child’s bedroom.   Read the rest of this entry »

RECOMMENDED

Mel Bochner, considered by many to be the godfather of text-induced conceptualism, insisted that he never wanted to be seen as a formalist. If taken too seriously, his pieces on language can seem like an impenetrable combination of word formulas, math charts, color-coded lists, groupings and color studies that read more like excruciating word puzzles than pieces fit for a commercial gallery. The new show at the Rhona Hoffman gallery, “Blah, Blah, Blah,” revisits themes that have occupied Bochner for decades in a more palpable, if not more visually appeasing way.

In a large, banner-like installation, a long row of velvet canvases stretches on the gallery wall painted with words that feel like a revenge on language. Recall that Bochner’s last showing from this series of oil-on-velvet at Rhona Hoffman Gallery included thesaurus lists, but here he’s stripped the phrasing to a sardonic “Blah, Blah, Blah,” filling the galleries with a silent, absurd chant. Multiples of smaller black-velvet canvases echo the words in various combinations of complementary colors with nearly identical word compositions. Luminous in color and battered in black they appear and disappear into the canvas—some look like they are dripping thick with paint others like they were smeared with a butter knife. From afar they resemble both, a child’s game and a revenge on Bochner’s earlier works on Wittgenstein’s language theory. Read the rest of this entry »

RECOMMENDED

An unlikely combination of experimentalist, aesthete and meta-photographer (anything is possible these days), Spencer Finch produces series of images infused with a moody sensibility that hide more than they reveal. In order to show us an “anti-image,” Finch offers “Thank You, Fog,” fifty-eight small color shots taken at one-minute intervals with a static camera as the mists moved across the northern California forest—we have to squint to see more than shadows and we barely glimpse traces of color, but if we are willing to peer intently, we will be rewarded with a plenitude born of subtle effacement and attenuation. The banner attraction of Finch’s show is “Periscope,” a device that lets us see the sky outside appear on the gallery wall, permitting the artist to create prints of his subject on a photo-sensitive surface. Attention-grabbing as that might be, the glints of hue in the miasma end up being the more compelling seductions. (Michael Weinstein)

Through May 2 at Rhona Hoffman Gallery, 118 N. Peoria.

By Jason Foumberg

“Creative nonfiction” is a polite way of saying that the truth has been embellished, the facts have been garnished, and many parts have been made up for the entertainment of the reader or the writer, or both. Despite this relatively new literary classification, James Frey’s memoir was dubbed a lie, whereas Hunter S. Thompson famously got away with it—even had a banner raised to trumpet his self-styled appropriation of fact, and dubbed “gonzo journalism” by his editor. Thompson’s first published account of his foray into the pits of his mind was, oddly, on the subject of the Kentucky Derby in 1970. Now, almost forty years later, we’re faced with gonzo graphic design and New Catalogue’s latest pirating of historical events.

The artist-team comprised of Luke Batten and Jonathan Sadler, called New Catalogue, have dabbled in the field of creative nonfiction before, notably by creating a quasi-real photographic record of the nature trail where Hitler mused on his writings. Their latest project stylizes several historical events: the death of United Nations diplomat Sérgio Vieira de Mello is conflated with the annual Paris-Dakar motorcycle rally, except the artists have relocated the destination to Darfur, the war-ravaged city on the other side of Africa. The rally’s finish line is always on the west coast of Africa, but New Catalogue’s map shows different.

There is no clear link in the art between the transcontinental race and de Mello, who died in an Iraq bombing. The idiosyncratic pairing is noted in a poster advertising the rally, which is also a poster advertising New Catalogue’s exhibition, so that the dates of the rally self-referentially mirror the dates of the exhibition in this month of this year.

This is internet-browsing stream of consciousness, where one Wikipedia page flows into another. Likely New Catalogue’s last graphic-design project, where former UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld’s life story was given the graphic treatment, sparked interest in other UN heroes such as de Mello, but viewers aren’t really privy to all the inward turns—the search history—that brought them to the motorcycle rally.

What we do have access to is the presentation of the connections. Graphic design, and its big sister, typography, are means of conveying information in a direct visual manner. New Catalogue have effectively designed a graphic identity for a fictional event using posters, simple and bold paintings, and brilliant vinyl decals that dress a motorbike—which advertise the rally’s pit stops (Geneva, Sorbonne), the Canal Hotel where de Mello was killed and, appropriately, one that reads “Oh Shit.”

Rodney Graham, in his latest exhibition, delights in plopping the viewer into his sidecar for a trip through his synaptic mind. The first clue comes as a large lightbox photograph of a Wild West tableau. Costumes, the saloon’s player piano and mounted deer head all point to historical reenactment. Likewise, a nearby bicycle (yes, you can ride it) activates the Rotary Psycho-Opticon©, a prop that creates psychedelic visuals, as in 1960s rock stage theatrics.

The meat of the exhibit, though, is what at first looks like a traditional painting show. Thirteen abstract oil paintings line a gallery, and these aren’t ordinary oil paintings—they’re made by Rodney Graham, the Renaissance Man and trickster, so you know something’s up. An adjacent gallery reveals his process. The story begins with a New Yorker-style cartoon—yet not so over-ambitiously highbrow—drawn by one Dan Kilgo (no information available; likely invented by Graham) who pokes fun at abstract art connoisseurs. Two paintings by “Picado,” one made in 1893 and the other 1942, hang side-by-side as a viewer remarks, “If you ask me, his earlier paintings were much better.” Meanwhile, the paintings are all but exactly the same except for a few squiggles, dots and whimsical shapes in different places on the canvas.

In a moment of Vonnegut-like absurdity, Graham gets carried away with Kilgo-the-illustrator’s original attempt to “make” an abstract painting. Graham produced seventy-seven variations on the illustrator’s faux-Modernist painting, but fails (as expected) at distilling any sense of mystery from the already watered-down fakes. Then, Graham actually made oil paintings inspired by the illustrator’s stereotype of Modernist painting. (There’s another step in-between the prints and the paintings, but you should go see the exhibit and be surprised).

It’s difficult to like Graham’s faux-Modernist geometric abstract paintings as paintings. Sometimes painting is bad because it’s derivative of good art, even if it contains moments of real discovery. But Graham’s paintings are props. Their “impasto” is created from some sort of chunky plaster under-painting. They are derivatives of phonies, which means they need a lot of words to be explained away. The paintings almost too easily wrap up somebody’s graduate thesis on abstract art as decoration, our comfort with simulacra and the failure of contemporary painting via its reception.

The paintings do succeed, though, as set pieces for the historical moment when taste was invented, recalling Francis Picabia’s first “bad paintings” at the dawn of irony. The line between lowbrow and high art, fact and fiction, has been drawn; Graham just dances on it.

New Catalogue, “Sérgio Vieira de Mello: Rally Paris-Darfur,” shows at Rhona Hoffman Gallery, 118 North Peoria, through November 14. Rodney Graham shows at Donald Young Gallery, 933 West Washington, through November 14.

RECOMMENDED

Upon walking in the familiar glass doors of Rhona Hoffman Gallery, one might have the first impression that this will be a show with the usual cast of characters—not that one minds the usual cast of characters, but, well, you know… Beautiful and mysterious Robert Overby rubbings and a cast concrete door leans to the right. “Tree Dance” (1971) by Gordon Matta-Clark plays on a monitor straight ahead. New and fascinating terrain is revealed in the work of Mary Heilman, who pairs photographs with their re-writing in the form of geometric landscape designs read like blueprints for a more regular and orderly social space. Elsewhere, a gigantic woven plaid cube by Jim Isermann sits near colorful—and functional—stacked ceramic dishes and cups by Steve Keister. Venturing beyond a black curtain to the back room of the gallery, one can sit on the floor and watch four video works, including “Ziggurat (Believer)” (2006) and “Disappearer” (2005) by Laura Riboli. Both playfully propose poetic, and technically skillful, uses of everyday materials, while Jennifer West’s digitized 16mm films strongly evoke the ghost of Stan Brakhage as she colorizes and texturizes road-trip footage and a film of Led Zeppelin with such materials as lemon juice, honey, tumbleweed, tire treads, pine needles and energy pills. Overall, this show opens up unexpected new vistas in the minimalist/post-minimalist territory we may have thought we knew, breathing a fresh, stirring wind across the gridded fields. The attention given by curator Terry Meyers to women creating contemporary work in response to this history was particularly appreciated by this reviewer. (Michelle Tupko)

Through October 11 at Rhona Hoffman Gallery, 118 North Peoria, (312)455-1990

Diana Guerrero-Macia

As we consider the fall lineup in the West Loop gallery district, it’s probably best to start with a roundup of a few changes that took place over the summer while the rest of us were off educating our palettes with Old Style, PBR and brats. First, the bad news: Lisa Boyle Gallery and Gescheidle closed. Both proprietors are continuing to work with their artists, but are abandoning their permanent spaces to become members of the aspirational class of wily independents. Gardenfresh is shuttering its doors at the end of the month after a final group exhibition, transforming itself into a vaguely defined “nomadic curatorial collective.” All of this is making me wonder if Chicago’s art market will ever be able to sustain a diverse gallery scene, or if it’s time to stop complaining and acknowledge that Chicago (at its best) is about short-term interventions whose benefits are innovation and a DIY ethic where anything goes. Some, however, are adapting. ThreeWalls downsized, eliminating its Solo gallery while maintaining its larger exhibition space and residency program. Not one to waste time, Scott Speh has moved his Western Exhibitions into the vacant spot, pleasing everyone who enjoys centralization. Finally, Bodybuilder & Sportsman and BucketRider have both changed their names to reflect the identities of their owners: Tony Wight Gallery and Andrew Rafacz Gallery, respectively.

The West Loop is busy this September and a few standouts deserve special attention. Two galleries, Kavi Gupta and Rhona Hoffman, are featuring independently curated exhibitions. At Hoffman, art critic and curator Terry Myers continues his theme of “ambient materialism” in “Angles in America.” Despite the precious title, the show is a broad and well-conceived treatment of geometry and angularity that spans forty years of American art. Myers’ focus on what Siegfried Kracauer called “surface-level expressions,” in contrast to grand historical statements, leads to a varied group of artists working in almost every medium. This is not your father’s modernism—Mary Heilmann’s 1980s bright abstractions interact with a Robert Overby post-Minimalist cast door and contemporary films by Jennifer West and Laura Riboli.

Curator, critic and ex-Chicagoan Marc Leblanc has put together a show of metaphysical, neo-Romantic Los Angeles artists at Kavi Gupta. Go for a crash course in form and formlessness. Rashid Johnson is also returning home for a double feature at Monique Meloche and Richard Gray. At Meloche, Johnson is creating “a creolized orgy between Sun Ra, Paul Gaugin, Kazmir Malevich, Debra Dickerson and Eldridge Cleaver (if his soul were no longer on ice).” Sound fun? Try the shea butter. Across the street, Diana Guerrero-Maciá has new work at Tony Wight; her combinations of text and image in large-scale collages underscore the arbitrariness and absurdity of symbolic representation, while experienced veterans Josiah McElheny and Cristina Iglesias present new work at Donald Young. Punk-rocker Patrick Berran’s abstract paintings at Thomas Robertello are at once more serene and dirty than expected. So fans, it’s a new season. Pull out the pompoms and grab your free beers, it’s game time. (Rachel Furnari)

RECOMMENDED

Julia Fish’s current exhibition is an investigation of space rendered visually and conceptually in reference to the east and west staircases of her home. Fish transposes the physical experience of her surroundings, the movement, sound and existence of space into gouache on paper, locking one architectural presence into a new one. No matter how long you stare at these works on paper, you will never experience the space as Fish does. You will never be directly connected to the observation and awareness of her place of residence. Two possibilities are being taken into account here. One consists of private first-hand interaction and insight into this concept of place. The other is a documentation of the place aforementioned that creates an interaction extending to the public, the viewer, filtered through the subjective perspective of the private. (Karissa Lang)

Through May 22 at Rhona Hoffman Gallery, 118 North Peoria.

RECOMMENDED

Chris Dorland has been painting utopian architecture for several years now, creating pictures that indulge in gorgeously threatening baroque colorations, and that have a strange Piranesi-like splendor. And like most commercial architects’ renderings, they have those tiny little token people often seen going about their business—but in Dorland’s work the little people evoke dread, fear, fleeing crowds. Rhona Hoffman is showing a variation on this body of work in a series of “Simulations.” Appropriated photos are collaged and then painted, painstakingly, in the manner of Gerhard Richter. Complex arrangements of rectangular panels are painted in corrosive colors and bleached images. To call this series of paintings “simulations” nods to Baudrillard’s book of the same name, but this is not a recycled, art-school postmodernism; something different is going on here. These pictures have the aura of a performance, of technical experiments or tests. It is as if the artist has achieved Warhol’s desire of becoming a machine, and we are in the presence of some parody of the occult technical processes that lie behind the everyday world. (David Mark Wise)

At Rhona Hoffman Gallery, 118 North Peoria, through May 30.