A journey from techno to mellow

Toddlers invest human qualities in their teddy bears. Seeing human characteristics in objects is a habit we refine as we grow up, but we never quite discard. "COLLISION: technomorph," now at Axiom Gallery, examines anthropomorphism and an inverse phenomenon, "technomorphism," or the tendency to describe humans in technological terms, according to curators jackbackrack (aka Jonathan Bachrach) and William Tremblay.

The show features work by members of the organizers' art and technology group, Collision Collective. The delightful whiz-bang elements of an interactive high-tech exhibit often overpower the theme, which is not delineated carefully enough.

Eric Gunther's sweet and powerful "Organ Organ," for instance, focuses more on interaction than it does on replicating human behavior. The viewer must don headphones and lie on a bed of pink, cylindrical cushions. The sonic texture matches that of the vibrations in the cushions. It's embodied music.

Tremblay and Rob Gonsalves offer "Wave Puppet," in which horizontal cards mounted on several mechanized rods replicate the undulation of a wave. Tremblay said it specifically refers to the Asian tsunami in late 2004, but this version is small and soothing. It's an enchanting robotic seascape, but it is not anthropomorphic.

In contrast, Andrew Neumann's "Quartet" invests a closed mechanical system with the human quality of self-reflection. Four little video monitors travel back and forth across a wooden plane, airing the scenes from tiny cameras that are part of the setup. The mundane and repetitive course of the monitors is like life, but the piece sparks up with the unusual perspectives on the screens, which cleverly play with focus, movement, and figure/ground issues.

"COLLISION: technomorph" bothers to define "technomorphism," but doesn't explore it enough. Chris Fitch's "Tantalus Mackerel," in which the viewer must crank a handle in order to get a fish to jump, might be an example of the phenomenon (although again, there's no human reference here) in that it exposes the gears beneath the surface of this magical leap.

Then there's John Slepian's cute, disturbing, and ultimately funny video of an imprisoned creature. For "Caged," Slepian scanned textures from the human body and used them to form an adorable, furry little critter. The monitor sits inside a box with a barred window. When the viewer approaches, setting off a motion detector, the fuzzy thing screams like a banshee and hurls itself at the bars; the monitor itself shakes and rattles inside the box. "Caged" takes wonderful advantage of our tendency to project our own feelings onto something inanimate.

More pieces like Slepian's and Neumann's would have made the show coherent. Artists like the ones in Collision Collective can still slide by on the sheer fun of their work, but that won't last forever.

The show takes the idea of stenciling, or leaving your stamp somewhere, literally and metaphorically. And to leave a stamp, it's important to be in the public sphere. So many of these artists are out in the street. Vela Phelan, for instance, is this month stenciling outlines of dark gods such as Shiva under the Massachusetts Avenue bridge and Hades in front of the Federal Reserve tower. Tomorrow night from 8 to 10 she'll be at work stenciling the Egyptian god Anubis at the gates of Forest Hill Cemetery. Since gods are intangible, Phelan is suggesting the images they cast -- their shadows -- are what give them shape.

Paul Roux, tweaking the entitled class, has stenciled a sign that reads, in part, "30-year-old white male seeks spiritual guidance and/or large handout," which is on view in the gallery; in his performance piece, he dons a suit and carries it to places such as Copley Square and Boston Common. Liz Nofziger puts paper stencils -- sheets with shapes cut out of them -- on television and computer screens in public places such as gyms. It makes for an intriguing visual experience, obscuring but not obliterating what's on the screen below.

Ten more artists have put together thought-provoking projects, which are well documented in the NESAD gallery, and even more fun to encounter in the real world.

With their focus on line, shape, and color rather than narrative content, all the works feel open-ended; they invite contemplation. Richard Aber's "Wall I" triptych is a stitched grid on a canvas that curls off the wall and back in rusty tones. The late Erma Wheeler's gorgeous watercolor "Night Music" looks like layers of fluttering silk scarves playing in the sunlight.

Youngsuk Suh's high-contrast photos of empty rooms lead the eye to seek the tones and textures of shadows. Juni Van Dyke's works on paper juxtapose panels of variegated, delicious blue with panels more layered with drawing, painting, and scratching, setting up a rhythmic interchange of being and doing. There's more, all making the gallery feel like a retreat.