When the sometimes cheerful, sometimes cantankerous, nearly always provocative collector Sandy Besser ended up curating an exhibition of drawings for the Turner Carroll Gallery (725 Canyon Road, 986-9800), it turned out to be a chaotic mess and, also, a pretty good idea. Wedging 26 artists into a single room of the modest Canyon Road digs couldn't be anything other than over-stuffed and unhinged from the get-go. The show closed last week, but during its run the packed nature robbed one of truly sinking into, say, each juicy mark of Gary Snyder's "Study : Intelligent Design : Kansas," a paradise of sexual-political polyps and Truffula trees, because it's rammed into a corner behind a desk. At 5' 10" I was hard pressed to examine Alexander Kvares' "Zombie Discotheque" in all its entrail-spattered glory because it was hung over my head and above another work.
The range of styles was so great-from careful pencil pecking of family-friendly subjects to wild ink-flinging kinkiness-that it felt as though, rather than fast-talking, knobby-kneed Besser, the show took form when June Cleaver ate Hunter Thompson's brain and went on a speed and cucumber sandwich-fuelled studio visit binge. The more June-and-cucumber-ish works, while technically dazzling, were boring enough to induce sudden narcolepsy, while the more Hunter/speed-type selections weren't far from offering up epileptic seizure to all comers. But a room full of unsettling art and conflicting messages can be preferable to peace and resolution and, in the midst of discordance, there was an even-keeled
buzz to be had by soaking up the deep, velvety goodness of graphite and the commanding beauty of a single ink line. If I'd had the guts to bludgeon the gallerist and steal just one work, it would have been Victoria Carlson's "Faith, Hope, Charity and the Tiny, Pissed-Off Orchestra." You think the title says it all, but it's really the extra limbs, delicately rendered watercolor udders and, of course, the wee people which sets it apart.
Tomorrow's Drawing Today
, while challenging-and not always in a desired manner-was a successful sampler platter that became, in a way, one big weird drawing of its own. If you missed the show, images from every artist are available in impressive detail at
.
The fact that drawing as a primary medium is big these days may be news to walk-by traffic on Canyon Road, but it's just another day at the office for Dwight Hackett Projects (2879
All Trades Road, 474-4043) where drawing has filled a soft-spot on the walls since day one. I'd be ethically compromised if I spent any time chatting up Peregrine Honig's small drawings spoofing the fashion world because I, ah, bought one. That alone is, I suppose, indicative of two things: my opinion of them and the fact that they are dirt cheap. A visit to the gallery is in order, however, if for no other reason but to stare in wonder at Linda Swanson's massive, disembodied pencil drawings of her mother's hair. Two drawings tackle this topic and they each are strangely warm, despite the fact that the hair is missing a head to be attached to. It's like staring down at a rich taffy of marine swish and sway, a fluid and deeply personal topography of heredity.
N Dash is the third artist in the current exhibition (through June 10) using her trademark obsessive rendering of circles to draft structure-sometimes physical, sometimes psychological-around figure elements. Dash's drawings are like a pair of magical glasses; put them on and you still see people, but instead of buildings, cars and the mundane trappings of a built world, there is an ebb and flow of particle energy emoting every which way.
April's outdoor exhibition CAMP didn't draw too many visitors-something about treacherous ice-covered roads and unexpectedly snowy mountains discouraging folks from stopping by the Hyde Park location-but those who did make it up for the later portion of the opening night got grooved straight into bliss by a short, but oh-so-sweet, set from Chocolate Helicopter. Quirky musical attitude with the rhythm to work alongside Rose Simpson's lush voice ain't all the upstart artists from Santa Clara Pueblo have going for them, however. There's a whole visual art thing happening as well, on display at Zele Café (201 Galisteo St., 982-7835) through June 12. Don't be surprised if it looks like a lot of, well, drawing, 'cause Simpson is never far from her Sharpie and cohorts Hoka Skenandore, Jake Fragua and Mike Schweigman are pretty much drawing even when using a spray can, a paint brush or a stencil. This is gritty, productive youthful angst art at its energetic apex-political, sexy, thoughtful and infused with the self-aware symbolism of clashing cultures. None of the artists here have hit the top of their game as individuals yet, but that's not nearly as important as the way they're inspiring each other for the moment, and the gift that we cultural voyeurs get because of it.
Back when Josh Schrei was banging out lead vocals for the Santa Fe band Mobius Trip, he was a fun guy to hang out with but he got so used to looking at himself in the mirror-pitfalls of minor rock stardom I suppose-that if you had suggested that I would one day praise him for an expert perception of modest beauty in unexpected places, I would have spat on your shoe. Schrei's exhibition,
Cerrillos Road
, at Cruz Gallery (616 Canyon Road, 986-0644) through June 1 is, despite my prejudices, pretty frickin' excellent. It's not that Schrei's technique with a camera or of plumbing urban sprawl for quirky and handsome material is so very innovative, but his crops and his colors are outstanding and the show is hung to perfection. Arranged in clusters, each framed image becomes part of a larger composition-somehow painterly despite the flat photo surface. It must just be the texture of life that most Cerrillos Road travelers ignore but in Schrei's hands has become alarming in it's beauty. Josh, listen carefully...that's the sound of me spitting on my own shoe.
