Bret Shirley's Waxy Break-Down

Robert Boyd

Cardoza Fine Art has a show up called Wax featuring Bret Shirley, Lauren Moya Ford and Erin Joyce, but of all the three artists, only Shirley dealt with wax as a substance in his work. He employs wax in his pieces in a variety of ways, but what interests him most are the mutable qualities of wax. Wax is solid, but just barely. Heat just above room temperature will gradually deform it. But its softness doesn't prevent it from being simultaneously brittle. Shirley plays around with both its melty and brittle qualities in his work for this show.


Bret Shirley, Study for Dromilly Ave. (detail), electronics, beeswax, wood, twine, audio

Study for Dromilly Ave. is designed to work with wax's brittle qualities. The piece has three parts. The wax part is a large rectangle of beeswax suspended in space by twine. The twine runs through the wax and is attached to the ceiling and the floor. Embedded into the back of the wax of a bunch of small audio speakers, making noises.


Bret Shirley, Study for Dromilly Ave. (detail), electronics, beeswax, wood, twine, audio

The second part is the electronic device that feeds the signal into the speakers. And the first part, the source of the signal, are two microphones hanging down into the gallery, picking up the ambient sounds of conversation.

The idea is that the speakers will eventually create enough sound to cause the wax to form fractures, tiny cracks that will grown into big cracks under the influence of continuous sonic assault (aided by gravity). Eventually the cracks will grow big enough that the wax rectangle will fall apart. Study for Dromilly Ave. is therefore an auto-destructing sculpture, like the grand-daddy of such works, Homage to New York by Jean Tinguely. Since the source of the vibrations that will destroy the sculpture are the two microphones in the gallery, it is the chattering of the viewers that will ultimately destroy Study for Dromilly Ave. If it works, that is. The name, Study for Dromilly Ave., suggests that this is something of an experiment. Maybe cracks will form, maybe they won't. It's a process piece with a goal which may or may not be reached.


Bret Shirley, (left to right) Translational Object (Water), Translational Object (Tobacco), Translational Object (Beer), Translational Remnant (Water), Translational Remnant (Tobacco), Translational Remnant (Beer), bottled mineral water, rolling tobacco, can of beer, beeswax, 9 volt batteries

The Translational Remnants (Water, Tobacco and Beer) take advantage of wax's tendency to melt. On the left are three common objects of consumption--water, tobacco and beer, each attached to a transistor battery. On the right are wax objects that have been formed in the empty space inside a bottle of water, a package of tobacco and a can of beer. They are the negative space, similar to the sculptures of Rachel Whiteread. Each of these pieces of yellowy beeswax has wires going into them, attached to batteries.

Here the idea is that the wire inside the wax will generate heat, gradually melting the piece. They started as negative images of a thing, and will end up possibly as puddles. Or will they? Again the question is whether the process will lead to the autodestructive endpoint. As I understand it, inside each wax object, the wire is simply stripped of insulation. If there had been a resistor added, the interior heat would have been higher. I wonder if the heat will be enough to actually melt the wax.

Bret Shirley, (clockwise from top) Translational Remnant (Water), Translational Remnant (Beer), Translational Remnant (Tobacco), beeswax, 9 volt batteries

But the question about whether the process will complete itself is one of the appealing aspects of the work. They come across as school experiments, the kind of thing a clever kid might do for a science fair. There is something kind of joyful about this kind of desktop science.

But by gradually transforming a representation of the inside of each container, Shirley is creating an analog to what happens to the actual contents of each of these vessels. The water is drunk and become part of is. The beer is drunk and the alcohol metabolized by the liver. The tobacco burns, the smoke is inhaled and some of it enters the bloodstream. Water, beer and tobacco are transformed by our use of them.

Bret Shirley, (left to right) Am 7 20 bpm, C 92 bpm, Bm 92 bpm, Em 120 bpm, beeswax, watercolor on paper


Bret Shirley, Em 120 bpm, beeswax, watercolor on paper

The other works in the show feel more traditional in the sense that they are pieces in the midst of an incomplete process. The beeswax and watercolor spatter paintings, however, sem to be the end of a process. Each one is named after a chord and a beat, and I wonder if those noises were used in making the pieces (perhaps vibrating the paper as the wax was poured?).


Bret Shirley, Untitled (Red Cluster), wax, watercolor

The two untitled wax pieces sit between painting and sculpture. The wax rectangle of Untitled (Red Cluster) has been broken (and unless handled very carefully, will break again) giving the top of the piece a jagged edge.

Shirley's experiments with sound, electricity and wax are quite fascinating, and with Study for Dromilly Ave. and the Translational Remnants, additional visits to the gallery are definitely called for to see the progress of the process.

Sometimes a car is just a car (Not!)

Dean Liscum

Debra Barrera's Kissing in Cars, Driving Alone at Moody Gallery is the sexiest show that I've seen so far this year.

Bar none.

Yet there are no full frontal nudes, no orgiastic tangle of limbs, no burnished cocks or plush pussies rendered in photo realist detail on a monumental scale. It's just automobiles: paraphernalia, drawings, parts.

Jeff Koons would be very, very disappointed.

Let me explain what I mean by "sexy" because it's both a powerful word and also a very personal one that tends toward ambiguity. In other words, your "sexy", my "sexy", and Mitt Romney's "sexy" might not match up. (Although magic underwear may be the garment that binds our "sexy" together.) For me, "Sexy" is mental. It's a state of mind. It's an approach and an attitude that focuses on the minutiae to the point of obsession. And I'm not just talking about the physical details. I'm also referring to the symbolic, the psychological, the political, the social, and the metaphysical details that compose and converge into an art work.

If the devil is in the details, my version of "sexy" is the devil's devil.

Barrera's approach to the automobile--how she handles it, how she represents it--makes me swoon. And partly because cars are the perfect metaphor for life in the U.S. As a symbol they represent freedom, sex, and death, making an emotional connection as well as serving as a signifier. For I suspect, regardless of where you misspent your youth, chances are that you either had your first sense of adult autonomy or had your first sexual experience or your first encounter with death in an automobile. Or all three.

Barrera leverages that symbolism in her sensual and reverential treatment of cars. It's most obvious in her photographs of the personal detritus that she salvaged from wrecks. She collected personal belongings left behind in wrecked cars and beautifully photographed them in a way in which each subject becomes an objects d'art and also a visual, narrative poem: a clutch of red balloons, a rusting tiara, a molding precious bible. The 8" x 10" frames each contain an entire life's story. They invite you to imagine them.


Debra Barrera, Balloons, 2012, archival inkjet print, 8" x 10 5/8"


Debra Barrera, Precious Moments Bible, 2012,  archival inkjet print, 8" x 10 5/8"

The sensuality comes through in her drawings of cars. The detailed graphite renderings of the cars reminds me of fellow Moody Gallery artist Michael Bise. The suspension of the subject and the drawings lack of mundane contextual details suspend the subject and elevate it to an ideal, similar to the drawings of Robert Pruitt. Where as his stark presentation of his subjects force you to confront his blend of ethnic and social and political symbols and stereotypes, Barrera's sports cars read as an erotic ideal. Each one is a petite mort, distilled from time and space, complete and unending within the confines of the frame as if within an evening of making love. The timelessness is evident in Circuit (Mont-Tremblant) in which the cars eternally race toward a non-existent finish line, accelerator to the floor, engines screaming.


Debra Barrera, Circuit (Mont-Tremblant), 2012, graphite on paper, 20" x 28"

Two other pieces draw on the automobile's sex-death symbolism. In Skoda Favorit over Toroweap, a car has driven over a cliff and we are witnessing it moments before impact, wincing with anticipation of the power and pain on impact, a moment before completion, before climax.


Debra Barrera, Skoda Favorit over Toroweap, 2012, graphite on paper, 28" x 18"
 
The other drawing features the Lamborgini that Grace Kelly drove at the 1967 Grand Prix in Monaco. The reference to the sex symbol Grace Kelly adds to the pieces sexual allure but it is Barrera's masterful rendering of the Lamborgini, the 20th century sex symbol equivalent of Michelanglo's David, that delivers it. The allusion to death is included in the reference to Grace Kelly, who suffered a stroke and drove her car over a cliff. Such a beautiful princess. Such a sexy car. Such a romantic death.


Debra Barrera, Princess Grace Drives in Monaco, 2012, graphite on paper, 28 1/2" x 16 1/4"

The third aspect of the show is the parts. Here too, Barrera consistently handles her chosen objects with the same sensuality, the same loving care that an automobile enthusiast would exhibit or a gear head would give.


Debra Barrera, El Camino on Earth (Texas), 2012, 1972 Custom El Camino with 1993 Corvette engine

She does that with automotive enamel. In I'd rather have a Lamborghini than memories, Barerra lovingly lacquers a suitcase with the automotive equivalent of Yves Klein Blue. The piece's title is an acknowledgement of the instant gratification ethos of the American culture. The treatment of the piece of luggage is an extension ad absurdum of the concept. If you can't have the beautiful blue Lamborghini, then you can at least have its shiny metallic coat.


Debra Barrera, I'd rather have a Lamborghini than memories, 2012, suitcase, automotive spray paint (Gallardo Blue), various travel momentos of the artist including movie and airline tickets, museum guides, diamond bracelent, one love letter, and restaurant mints, 24" x 19" x 6"

In her most playful piece, Someday Looks So Good Right Now, she sexes up death, automotive style. She tricks out a walker by painting it with sparkling automotive paint and chroming out the cross bars. Death may be inevitable but you can stagger with some swagger toward it in all your gear head glory.


Debra Barrera, Someday Looks So Good Right Now II, 2012, medical walker, automotive enamel, leatherette, stainless steel, 36" x 19" x 6" 

Of course these subjects: the automobile, sex, death, and freedom are openly available to her (and female artists the worldwide, except may be Saudi Arabia) because of the women that push the boundaries. Barrera pays homage to one of those women, Dorothy Leavitt, a pioneer in female motor racing and independence.


Debra Barrera, For Dorothy Leavitt, 2012, 1986 Pontiac Firebird rearview mirror, automotive enamel, spotlight

In an age of the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act and binders of women, I imagine Barrera is subtly, symbolically asserting two things: 1) women (and their equality) may be closer than they appear and 2) once women (at least women like herself and Dorothy) have passed men, they won't be needing rear view mirrors ever again.

I don't care what your sexual preference is, that kind of confidence is dead sexy.

Little Wooden Boxes by Clark Derbes

Robert Boyd 

When I walked into the Clark Derbes exhibit at Redbud Gallery, I liked what I saw--crude wooden boxes with geometric designs painted on them. They charmed me right away. I liked how the geometric painting wasn't taped-off and precise and how the corners of the boxes felt rough-hewn as opposed to carefully machined.

 
Clark Derbes, Charles II, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012

But wait--as you look more closely you realize that these aren't boxes at all, but shallow relief sculptures. The angles carved into the wood combined with the painting give them a boxy illusion when seen from head on, but as sculptures, they are far shallower than that appear.

 
Clark Derbes, Charles II, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012

I typically don't like art built around optical illusions. It's too gimmicky. Once the illusion starts to bore you, what's left? Usually nothing--the trickery was the whole point. But that isn't the case here. What attracted me wasn't the illusion but the beautiful colors and folkish approach. It's the imperfections of these hand-made objects that appeal to me.


Clark Derbes, Phillip, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012


Clark Derbes, Phillip, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012

While the illusion is quite strong, Derbes is in effect doing nothing more than what relief sculptors have been doing since ancient Greece--using a shallow space to depict a deep space. It's clever, sure, but it's not what these piece are about. 


Clark Derbes, Robin, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012

To me, they are a joining of American folk/outsider art traditions and modernism. This is modernism as if it were being created by a naive artist or a self-taught artist. One might be reminded of Marisol, but she always infused her work with figurative elements. Derbes is rigorously abstract. I am also reminded of the wooden toys made by Lyonel Feininger and Joaquin Torres-Garcia (as well as Torres-Garcia's wood assemblages).


Clark Derbes, Jefferson, carved and polychromed poplar maple wood, 2012

Charles Jencks, writing about post-modernism in architecture, said that post-modernism allowed an architect to draw from the entire history of architecture, up to and including modernism. Derbes, with his chainsawed worn boxes, is choosing a history for these pieces, whether intentionally or not. As Borges wrote in "Kafka and His Precursors," each work in the present creates its own past. In short, Derbes not only produces charming pieces of polychromed carved wood, but he suggest an art history that consists of Marisol, Feininger, Torres-Garcia, various self-taught woodcarvers, etc.

There is a very entertaining short film of Derbes at work by Matt Day which can be viewed here.

Note on J Hill

Robert Boyd

This is the last week you can see a small show by sculptor J. Hill at P.G. Contemporary. I recommend it. For this show, Hill seems to be combining personal memories of the 70s with the art history of the 70s. I don't know when Hill was born, but the first show on his bio is from 1993, which suggests a possible 70s childhood. So he would have probably been familiar with televisions with aerials and record players.


J. Hill, Dual (In three parts), 2012, MDF, 14.5" x 14.15", 15" x 18", 14.5" x 14.5"

And it's not just about being familiar--these things were part of our lives (I was 7 in 1970). Somehow, the texture of the MDF, a kind of wood product in which the wood fibers have been broken down and mixed with glue and resin, gives it a smooth, generic quality. Unlike traditional sculpture materials--marble, bronze, real wood--these sculptures seem to be in no way about the material from which they are made. Instead, they come across as pure shape--dreamlike representations of the objects they depict. They are platonic versions of turntables and TVs.



J. Hill, Tim's Retreat, 2012, MDF, 12" x 18"x 8"

It is this quality of being a somehow pure version of the object depicted that makes the centerpiece of the show, Untitled (For 1973, with Love and respect), so astonishing to me.


J. Hill, Untitled (For 1973, with love and respect), 2012, MDF, 50" x 50"

At first you see a tic-tac-toe board, placed in a corner. But as you examine it, you realize that the horizontal elements are sculptural representations of fluorescent lights fixtures and tubes. Suddenly you realize that Hill has created a sculpture of another sculpture by Dan Flavin. Specifically, his is a wooden recreation of untitled (for you Leo, in long respect and affection), a 1978 sculpture by Flavin dedicated to Leo Castelli.


Dan Flavin, untitled (for you Leo, in long respect and affection), 1978,pink, green, blue and yellow fluorescent light, 48" x 48" x 2"

Dan Flavin is lumped in with the minimalists, and one thing he shared with them is a concern for the space which his sculptures inhabited. By using light--particularly by using fluorescent light--his sculptures inherently "fill" any space they are in. A Flavin sculpture, with these uniform linear light sources, is not just a bunch of tubes and supports--it's the light itself hitting every corner of the room. The room itself becomes critically important. As with Donald Judd and Carl Andre, Flavin's pieces are indeterminate--they don't end where the sculpture ends. They are part of the architecture.

This is what makes Hill's Untitled (For 1973, with love and respect) so amusing and revelatory. It takes away the key thing about a Flavin sculpture--its light emitting quality--and forces you to consider it as an autonomous sculptural object. You rarely see a Flavin sculpture turned off. Hill allows you to see this and even more, he allows you to see the fluorescent tubes as tubes--i.e., as long cylindrical shapes.

Of course, there is a tension between the apparent technology of the Flavin work (representing the 20th century) and the seeming low-tech representation by J. Hill. But MDF is a technological product of the 20th century as much as fluorescent light is. We don't think of it that way because of its origin as wood.

The show, it seems, is a tribute to 1973. What happened in J. Hill's 1973, I don't know. Maybe that's when he was born. But for me, who spent my childhood and most of my teenage years in that dazed and confused decade, this show is quite moving. And Hill's homage to Dan Flavin is humorous and touching.

Mardi Gras and Flying Kites: Some Thoughts about Lynda Benglis (NSFW)

Virginia Billeaud Anderson

Among the numerous articles written about Lynda Benglis around the time of her 2011 New Museum retrospective was "Lynda Benglis: Still in Art’s Avant-Garde" published in the New York Times. In it Hilarie Sheets stated that Benglis continues to bring “a visceral quality to her experimentations with glass, video, metals, ceramics, gold leaf, paper and plastics.”

Now Sheets is a very important writer whose critical commentary I’ve admired for years, but if Benglis’ glass sculpture Tickfaw (2010) is one the experimentations upon which Sheets based her statement, I’m certain the critic did not understand the meaning of that work’s title. A New York writer can’t possibly know Tickfaw, Louisiana. Benglis’ titling of her glass piece after a secluded south Loos-iana swampy bayou constitutes mockery of art world grandiosity and a bit of fun in the face of collectors and critics.

Being ignorant of the fact that she could drive her boat to the Prop Stop’s wet T-shirt contest, and ride in Blood River Marina’s Mardi Gras boat parade would not have prevented Sheets from understanding that Tickfaw was saturated with allusions. The concentrated symbolism which defines Benglis’ art stretches back to Contraband (1969) in which acid trip colors irreverently affronted Serra and Ryman’s macho monochrome minimalist sculptures while alluding to oil-polluted bayous.


Lynda Benglis, Tickfaw, 2010, glass, pigment, mixed media, size unknown

Some of Benglis’ associations have been elusive. The bronze and polyurethane sculptures exhibited a couple of years back at Cheim & Read in New York were titled after Swinburne. The English writer Swinburne, critic Alfred MacAdam pointed out, had sadomasochistic tendencies, and these combined with his “astonishing delicacy,” MacAdam wrote, could be seen “as the intellectual and esthetic background of Benglis’s wall pieces, some of which vaguely suggest a female figure that had been burned and then preserved as a precious relic.” MacAdam found bronze surfaces reminiscent of rope, evoking bondage, another Swinburne connection, and breast-shaped polyurethane to constitute homage to fertility.

MacAdam would have been guided by Benglis’s explanation of the organic fluidity of her floor sculptures, which evoked "the depravity of the 'fallen' woman" or, from a feminist perspective, a "prone victim of phallic male desire".

Erotic preoccupations were more strait-forward in 2007 when the same gallery demonstrated affinities between Benglis’s globby wrinkled forms and the older Louise Bourgeois’ sexual sculptural forms. Both artists made penises in bronze.

As one would expect that 2007 exhibition displayed the famous 1974 Artforum ad image, which Benglis devised to address male domination of the early 70s art world. Benglis has said in interviews that much research and planning went into the ad’s construction. She probably could not have imagined the image would still be generating dialogue almost forty years later. "Sizing Up the Dildo: Lynda Benglis' Artforum Advertisement as a Feminist Icon" is one example of the sort of lofty exhortation it inspires.

Benglis also could not have anticipated New Museum retrospective curators writing that her “singular practice both intersected with and transcended the categories of post-Minimalism and feminist art.” Or that she would influence numerous younger artists such as Cindy Sherman and Matthew Barney.


Lynda Benglis, Artforum ad, 1974

Although I’ve seen the Artforum ad image many times, it still causes my mouth to fly open. The wrinkles and veins in that astounding prick are a primary stylistic element in Benglis’ art.


Lynda Benglis, The Graces, 2003-2005, Cast polyeurethane, lead, stainless steel, 103 x 26 x26

On September 7, Inman Gallery opened the exhibition Paper Space: Drawings by Sculptors (through October 29) which includes Benglis’ 1979 Untitled (#26). It’s easy to see how the drawing’s purple columnar form anticipates later sculptures such as the totemic biomorphic Graces, and looks ahead to the glass works. Wanting to know more about Benglis’ drawing I contacted Inman.


Lynda Benglis, Untitled (#26), 1979, collage on handmade paper, 26 x 33 inches

It turns out Inman Gallery took Benglis’ drawing on consignment from Texas Gallery for the drawing exhibition, so Texas Gallery kindly passed on a bit of insight. The pink “mask” form and the green and gold foil elements relate to the Mardi Gras Benglis saw in her Louisiana upbringing. Mardi Gras would have been inescapable when the artist studied at Newcomb. Benglis has spoken clearly about the impact of Mardi Gras on her aesthetic.

According to Texas Gallery the drawing also relates to Benglis’ Atlanta Airport commission titled Patang. And also to collages and works on paper in the 1979-1980 Patang series, which included thread, fabric and foil decorative objects.

Further, passages in the drawing relate to kites in India, which have faces and eyes as decorative elements. “Patang" is also the title of a recent movie about the largest kite festival in India, which takes place in Ahmedabad where Benglis lives part of the year with her husband Anand Serabai. Texas Gallery directed me to kite festival images.


Kite Festival - Ahmedabad India

Unmaking a Grotto with Kia Neill

by Dean Liscum

Kia Neill's geodes have gone through several permutations from their installation into Cave at DiverseWorks in 2008 to a grander, more elaborate setting in Grotto at Lawndale Art Center in 2009 and then to their most recent home at Box 13. But as with Whitney Riley's installation My Weltanschauung, which inaugurated the space, Neill's Grotto had its time and it was now time to go.

Neill decided to get creative and turned the de-installation into an event. On Saturday, September 22, friends, fellow artists, and collectors dropped by from 1 to 4 p.m. to help "Break the Big Geode." I dropped by to provide moral support (a.k.a. take pictures and try not to get in the way) and a sneak a peek at the substructure of this installation.


Kia Neill and Bill 

On average, Neill confessed that the geode piece took a week to install. It consisted of a wooden frame, hundreds of lights, and the canvas-foam-paper sections that made up the exterior of the cave walls. De-constructing the cave took her, Bill, Anton, and a few itinerant volunteers about half a day of cutting the cave sections from the scaffolding and then unscrewing the wooden frame.


In this game of rock-paper-scissors, the scissors won. 

Much like you'd expect to see at the Houston Museum of Natural Sciences, Neill set up a table of cave sections, smaller geodes, and pictures so that people of every price range could partake in the installation.


Geodes for sale, cooler not 


geodes and photos Most of the installation was re-purposed. 

The cave sections, which ranged from 1-3 ft. wide and 1-3 ft. high, were sold. The wood framing was designated as fuel for a ceramic kiln.


cave section for sale 


Sections of the cave, some glittery, some not 

Neill didn't officially name a "best volunteer" of the event, but my vote goes to Bill. Not only was he a workhorse with the power tools, he also brought homemade chocolate chip cookies. The cookies were crucial for my experience of the event because you can really build up an appetite watching people work construction.


crowbar finesse 

Anton gets honorable mention if only because he explained how to use a bike as a weapon of self-defense if someone tries to mug you while you're out cycling.


Bill and Anton breaking good. 


I thought the crystals were illuminated by magic. Turns out it was Christmas lights. 

A lot of attention in the art world focuses on the end product. The term "Object d'art" isn't an accident. This event was enlightening because it invited non-artists to view and experience (if they were up for it) the physical labor (a.k.a. grunt work) that artist do everyday. I've been to a lot of closing parties, but never one where I got to break stuff, acquire a small piece of a very large installation, and eat homemade chocolate chip cookies while being serenaded by a power drill.

For me, it was a sweet, sparkly success.

Conversations During the Opening Reception: Guus Kemp and b. moody

Virginia Billeaud Anderson

It was important to him I view the canvas from many angles. “You’ll observe variations in texture by changing viewpoints,” Guus Kemp said at the opening reception of PG Contemporary’s three person exhibition. Wanting me to appreciate his paintings’ sculptural qualities, the artist positioned me near the side of the canvas, and at various frontal angles. Admittedly by trotting around the painting, I saw unexpected patterns emerge from the clusters of meringues-shaped globs that seemed to defy gravity.

It requires more than revved-up impasto though for a painting to be interesting. Kemp established energy and motion with sweeping brushstrokes. He told me he aims for dynamism.

If exuberant swirls call to mind de Kooning, this is not unexpected for a Dutch artist. Kemp was trained in the Netherlands where it would be impossible not to be impacted by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh and de Kooning’s mastery of color and light.


Guus Kemp, Wild Dance, 2012, Oil on canvas, 24 x 48

“Do you use a brush,” I asked wanting to know his process. Kemp replied he only uses a palette knife. I asked if he mixes the paint with painting medium. He does not. His oil paint is unmodified, “straight from the tube,” he said.

Kemp’s colors are jewel like and glittery and are chosen for their up-lifting quality. He wants his art to sooth viewers’ emotions. Psychically comfortable art it turns out can be commercially viable. The artist was rightly puffed up as he described abundant gallery representation, with affiliations in New Orleans, San Antonio, and a solo exhibition at PG Contemporary scheduled for March 2013. “I sold 52 paintings last year,” he volunteered. One thing became certain during our chat - this guy is enamored with paint.


Guus Kemp, Moonlight Dance, 2012, Oil on canvas, 24 x 48

A big hug from b. moody (artist Bradford Moody) and I’m into my second conversation during PG Contemporary’s opening reception. Moody’s hair is still damp from his bath and he “dressed up” for the opening but there’s paint on his clothes and paint stains covered his hands. It took him about two seconds to remind me that his solo exhibition will be in December.

VBA - I’m thrilled to see Cotton Fairy here, he’s perfectly aberrant with that muscular physique and African mask-shaped head, panties and high heels, sashaying through a cotton field.

BM - Dang woman, you saw it too!

By this Moody means that I too witnessed south Loos-iana agricultural laborers, called field hands, perform back-bending work. He is also referencing youthful excursions into the New Orleans French Quarter, where along with hookers, strippers, druggies and other sorted types, we frequently encountered transvestites.


b. moody, Cotton Fairy, 2009, Acrylic on panel, approx. 70 x 20

Moody’s parody is scorching. Dark skin figures with African mask facial features and stylized braids allude to bigotry, a dominant theme. Just as black figures alliterate prejudice, hermaphrodites and cross-dressed or ambiguously gendered nudes allegorize homosexuality, another important underlying theme. Cotton Fairy cites both.

I got pulled by the elbow to the large diptych I Still Love You and asked, “Does the tape work?” Indeed it did. Bits of tape disarranged across agitated lines and shrill colors added disorder. He pointed out areas in which he left the cardboard ground exposed, extra messiness that offset arts’ grandeur. As is often the case when discussing his art, the topic turned to Basquiat whose graffiti aesthetic Moody absorbed when he lived in New York. Along with Basquiat, his work is directly influenced by Egon Schiele’s death-haunted figures. “I want my art to be raw and naked,” Moody told me.

VBA – Brad, she’s decidedly perverse. That harpy shows you at your most twisted.

BM – I know. I love her.

We’re talking about the diptych’s maternal figure, a frequently encountered motif, emblematic of fecundity, death and overbearing strength. Moody conceives the figure naked and in high heels with a ghoul face, corpse color skin, pregnant belly, and a stitched up vagina. Unlike previous versions, this one has no bloody crotch.

 
b. moody, I Still Love You (Diptich), 2012, House paint, cardboard, tape, 5 ft. x 10 ft.

The third artist in the group show, Ushio Shinohara, was unable to come from New York or somewhere for the opening reception, which was unfortunate because having seen his wicked little sculptures, which by the way were selling and which MOMA will soon be exhibiting, it is certain we would have had a charming conversation. Works by these three artists will be in PG Contemporary’s booth at the Houston Fine Art Fair.



Ushio Shinohara, Motorcycle Self Portrait, 2012, mixed media, about 1 ft.