The artist outlines, the viewer fills in
Andrew Millner uses a stylus on an electronic graphics tablet to draw trees and gardens. Using hundreds of digital photos taken from different angles as a reference, he incorporates details that would be difficult to see from one perspective.
Most of the pieces in his show at Miller Block Gallery feature white lines over lush color backgrounds, made into glossy light jet prints. Millner is wise to work only in outlines; texture or shadow would complicate things. The outlines of several layers of leaves become their own kind of texture, conveying the rustle and life of a tree’s canopy.
In “Wavehill Dogwood’’ the leaves are droopy, tipped ovals, but each is different from the next. Where they are densest, they coalesce into something larger, filled with energy. These tree works are wonderfully effective because they convey more about the tree than the human eye is equipped to see; we don’t attend to individual leaves the way Millner does.
The enticing, frustrating centerpiece of the exhibit depicts a garden. “Perennial II’’ covers an entire wall and has been printed in black and gray (like a pencil drawing) on sheets of white vinyl. The forest of delicate lines becomes a wild snarl of gestures in the center. You can discern stems and leaves and blossoms, but it’s like catching glimpses of familiar objects being swept up in a tornado.
The central thicket is so dense, it’s almost unreadable and could easily be mistaken for an abstract drawing. But it doesn’t have any of the sense of composition, balance, or tension you find in a good abstract work. From a distance, the middle is indecipherable, but in intimate snatches, it can pull you in like a puzzle. “Perennial II’’ works best as an exercise in perception; the artist challenges us to see differently. Does it work as art? His trees do, thanks to their limited forms. But the garden, in the end, is just too much information.
Reed’s best paintings throw a visceral punch. The terrific “Rooster and Turkey (after Hondecoeter),’’ in which she appropriates images from Dutch painter Melchior d’Hondecoeter, thrusts the viewer into a fowl fight. At 8 1/2 feet across, the painting presents the birds as almost life size, and we’re right on the ground with them. The rooster attacks; the turkey rears back. Ferocity and fear are palpable. A pair of chickens looks on with alarm, bystanders at a street fight. It’s a dark, violent, and funny scene. Its stark subject matter contrasts with the exquisite softness of the birds’ down feathers.
Color photographer Richard Ross has two bodies of work up at Clark Gallery, “Museology’’ and “Gathering Light.’’ The first, images of museum collections, makes a fine pairing with Reed’s paintings. The two share an interest in birds. “Booth’s Bird Museum, Brighton, England, 1982’’ depicts stuffed swans on dusty shelves. The comic, mildly unnerving “Musee Grevin, Wax Museum, Paris, France, 1995’’ depicts wax heads in storage.
The second group, in which Ross focuses on light, is comparatively romantic. The warm “Iglesia de Macarena, Seville, Spain, 1995’’ features a candelabra in a church; several candles have fallen around its base, but even bent and broken, their flames still glow. Ross’s photos are close to 2 feet square, but they are so packed with detail, they should be larger.
“Standing Man’’ and “Walking Woman’’ each have their shoulders thrown back and expressions of extraordinary satisfaction on their faces. There’s something heroic about them. If they look like comic book figures, with their clean lines and boisterous personalities, that’s because Maruyama bases his style on manga, the wildly popular Japanese comics. These light-hearted figures raise fascinating questions: Why would a Japanese sculptor fashion African-Americans? What does it say about his perception of African-American culture, and how it is different from Japanese culture?
Mizuko Yamada, another Japanese metalsmith, has jewelry, vessels, and a couple of sculptures at Mobilia. Her abstractions are glowing silver-plated hollow rounds, often featuring a large bump, such as in “Bump Vessel III.’’ The copper vessel is hammered thin as paper; covered in silver, it has a precious luminosity, but its form seems defiant, almost weapon-like. The delicacy of the works makes a pleasing contrast with its knobby form.
