Rodrigo Cifuentes doesn't have to try that hard to freak us out.
If I were trying to sign on with a gallery, I might think about Skotia Gallery.
The high ceilings, dark interior, and happy chirps and hums of staff-selected techno music create a comfortable atmosphere. These details contrast nicely with the often-twisted imagery. The shows are consistently strong, especially in technique. Also, the gallery appears to have immunity from the recession. During my most recent visit, there were no fewer than five sales of at least $60,000. I was stunned by the number of little red dots that victoriously flanked the title cards, like the entire gallery had come down with chicken pox.
For the latest show, Crow Moon, billed as a grand reopening, the organizers showcased the stable of talented artists they represent. Skotia definitely has a brand. It favors realist painting, mostly of the figurative sort. It also tends toward large pieces. Fortunately the space is roomy enough to let the viewer step back, so it never feels crowded or overhung—the most common problem I see in Santa Fe.
Among the talented artists, Daniel Sprick stands out with his technical mastery. His academic paintings are old-fashioned in the best sense. Sprick's colors are varied and rich, and the shapes are solid and sturdy. This is quite an achievement on his highly textured surfaces—dozens of brushy layers that appear more like thick burlap than canvas. On such a large scale, the work approaches tedium, but this is relieved by the messier parts. Sprick has the good sense to employ both precision and gesture. Forms, such as a nude, are rendered with great acuity and knowledge, while others, like the oddly kinetic orchid, are only hinted at, as if to say "you get the idea." It's impressive to stand fast and admire his craft, the same way it's worthwhile to listen to classically trained musicians play their instruments.
Joshua Suda's flesh tones don't have the same warmth as Sprick's. Blue veins are visible just below the skin. His technique isn't as stylized as Sprick's either, but it's no less impressive. Two smallish works in the show are meticulous. So much so I began to suspect they'd been superimposed atop a photograph. His image of a woman donning thick X-ray glasses was so impeccably rendered, I stood nose to nose with it, inspecting the brushwork. The rounded patterns in the teeth convinced me the image wasn't traced.
It was also at this intimate proximity that I realized I'd fallen for Suda's trap.
I was engaging in a staring contest with the subject. She returned my gaze with equal intensity, not to mention the power to see below my skin, and I began to wonder if I was just one more representation, a figure in someone else's imagination.
Speaking of imagination, Rodrigo Cifuentes' precious drawings and oil paintings have just the right blend of playfulness and dread. They're macabre without coming across like the artist is trying to shock, rather they seem like things that just popped into his head. The events depicted are genuinely strange—The Far Side in a more realistic hand—and Cifuentes innately understands what will make a good image. One drawing, immediately to the right of the entryway, shows two halves of a broken eggshell. In the foreground, an eyeball lies in a runny puddle of albumin. Another image shows a caterpillar dangling from a tree branch. The innocuous scene is contrasted by the mask the caterpillar wears—a sinister smile of steak-knife teeth. The works could be single frames of a graphic novel, or perhaps I simply invented a larger narrative context for the characters. This may be wishful thinking, but it's never a bad thing if the artist leaves me wanting more.
In all, I'm not sure what Skotia is reopening from, since I had been regularly visiting the space throughout the period in which it was ostensibly not open. In this case, no news is good news, as the gallery seems hellbent on its mission to import the beautiful and the strange.
