Mark Greenwalt at Hooks-Epstein

by Robert Boyd

I first saw Mark Greenwalt's art a year ago at the O'Kane Gallery at the University of Houston-Downtown. Some of the pieces that were in that show are included in this larger exhibit at Hooks-Epstein. In writing about the previous show, I speculated that Greenwalt was influenced by Renaissance-era artists sketches, as well as by the medieval visions of Bosch and the neo-medieval visions of Odd Nerdrum. This time around, Greenwalt provides a few possible clues to the question of who his masters are.


Mark Greenwalt, Molting Ingres, graphite and acrylic on panel, 2010

Can Ingres really be one of Greenwalt's influences? The master of serene classicism, the bulwark against Romantic excess--I don't quite see it. Perhaps, though, what Greenwalt gets from Ingres is a classical foundation, from which he builds his not-very-classical grotesqueries.


Mark Greenwalt, Cellini With Synthetic Figure Drifting, graphite on paper, 2008

At least here the figure looks a bit Cellini-esque. Cellini is usually considered a Mannerist artist, and Mannerism itself, with its distortions of human anatomy for dramatic effect, does seem like a possible influence on Greenwalt. And while Cellini was an elegant artist, his subject matter (and his life) was often quite violent. Violence is implied in many of Greenwalt's pieces. But what's going on with the "synthetic figure"?


Mark Greenwalt, Synthetic Stubbs, 2008

I am deducing that the word "synthetic" in these titles refers to the building up of a figure from anatomical basics instead of drawing from life or from a photograph. In each of the two, we see examples of this kind of figure drawing (or horse drawing, in the latter). When you see the structure underneath, it implies a "synthetic" creation. But does that then imply that Greenwalt also draws from life? In any case, in these three pieces, he identifies three rather heterogeneous masters--Ingres, Cellini and famed 18th century master of horse paintings, George Stubbs. In addition to being a great painter, Stubbs studied the anatomy of horses by dissecting them, which lead to the publication of the book, The anatomy of the Horse.

Greenwalt's work is grotesque, in both the modern sense but also in the sense of strange decorative figures one sees, for example, on Gothic cathedrals (surely a source for Greenwalt) and in Mannerist art.


Mark Greenwalt, Bundles Feeding a Muse, graphite and acrylic on paper, 2010

The "bundles," which appear in more than one piece in the show, seem to be part of Greenwalt's private mythology, and could be classified as grotesques. The existence of a private mythology is also suggested by several of his other pieces, including Systems for Budding Universes.


Mark Greenwalt, Systems for Budding Universes, chalk, graphite and acrylic on panel, 2009

But he is also willing to engage the old mythologies, those that enthralled the old masters he seems to have learned so much from.


Mark Greenwalt, The Birth of Venus, graphite and acrylic on panel, 2010

His groteque Venus, however, bears only a slight similarity to Botticelli's elegant, beautiful Venus.

Two last pieces I want to mention are drawings of enormous monuments, set in forbidding landscapes (a desert and on a mountain respectively). I like the Ozymandian Monument to the Great Propagandist. The image, with one smaller head seemingly growing off a larger one, also recalls the story of Athena's birth from the head of Zeus.


Mark Greenwalt, Monument to the Great Propagandist, chalk, graphite and acrylic on panel, 2010

The monument appears to still be under construction, and the telephone poles leading away from it speak to the idea of communication, the prerequisite for propaganda.

The other monument appears to be a depiction of a mythological creature, a bird-headed figure, carved in stone. We see the head, the hand and the mountain from which it was carved. The fact that the mountain is still rough suggests that this, too, might be an unfinished monument. Ruins evoke feelings of nostalgia, sadness, and a sense of the impermanence of life--this is why so many painters of a certain romantic sensibility have been drawn to this subject. But what draws one to pictures of incomplete architectural/sculptural fantasies such as these?


Mark Greenwalt, Monument with Bird Head, acrylic on panel, 2010

I don't know, but I like them.

Greenwalt is apparently part of a group called Modern Plow Collective, which also does film. Here is a video of Greenwalt drawing a portrait. I don't know if this is indicative of his technique, but it certainly seems that many of the pieces in this show could be the result of a process like this.

Why Blogs and Newspapers Are Better Than Art Magazines

Reviews were supposed to be published when the exhibitions were still up  so readers could cross-check your descriptions.  (Only newspapers manage that now.) [John Perreault, Artopia,"Old News at the New Museum", November 2, 2010]

Lance Letscher at McMurtrey Gallery

It's weird that there are three big collage shows up in Houston right now. The biggie, of course, is the Kurt Schwitters exhibit at the Menil. Then the Al Souza show at Moody Gallery. And then this one, the most colorful of the three, Austin artist Lance Letscher on view at the McMurtrey Gallery.


Lance Letscher, Most of My Little Ones, collage on masonite, 2010

When I saw the Schwitters exhibit, one thing that struck me was how brown his collages were. How they were composed of varying shades of beige and tan. And one sees the opposite when one looks at the collages of Al Souza and Letscher. But looking at Schwitters is, perhaps, the future of looking at Souza and Letscher. All these printed sources that Letscher cuts up, they are going to fade. The paper they are printed on will get brown. The glue he used to attach them may acquire a visible color as it ages. So enjoy their brilliance today--it won't last. (All this may be untrue if the images he collages are actually printed with archival inks on acid-free paper--which would be nice but not expected.)


Lance Letscher, Space Station #2, collage on masonite, 2010

A bunch of the collages in this show feature these colorful rectangular boxes. Some of them are arranged in a kind of modular fashion to be "space stations." When you see photos of the International Space Station, you see something conceptually similar. It, too, is a modular structure, where each module was brought up separately and attached to the whole in space. But where the ISS is black (solar panels) and white (everything else), Letscher's station is a riot of colors. And it appears infinitely variable--the modules are all more or less the same, and as we can see in three variations, can be arranged in any old way.

There is something boyish happening here. Letscher is building models of space craft, not too different from a kid playing with Legos. This feeling of being a boy making things carries through in other pieces, too.


Lance Letscher, Minarelli Racer, collage on vintage motorcycle, 2010

I think connecting with those boyish interests is on Letscher's mind. He has just written and illustrated a children's book called The Perfect Machine. The very first line in the book is, "Once there was a boy whose head was filled with ideas. He loved to draw and think."


Lance Letscher, TKO, collage on masonite, 2010


Lance Letscher, FK, collage on masonite, 2010

Letscher makes a nod to his collage forebearers (including Schwitters)  with several collages composed mostly of letters and word fragments. I've long thought that this approach to collage was an attempt to take the flood of data that we get every day as a result of living in an industrial civilization, and turning that data into nature. Or at least neutralizing the data by robbing it of linguistic meaning, leaving only (at best) visual meaning. As jumbled and chaotic as these compositions are, they are also pleasing and relaxing once one forces oneself to stop reading them. That's actually a little tough for a habitual reader like me, but worth it here.