Alexander Calder at SAM

Holy shit! the Alexander Calder show at Seattle Art Museum is amazing!

I was just making a quick stop by the museum to check out some photos, and thought, as long as I was in the building, might as well take a glance upstairs — wasn't until two and a half hours later that I managed to pry myself away from the fourth floor. If you haven't seen the show yet, go sooner rather than later because you'll want to come back again, and again, and again.

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Such was my initial, breathless reaction. (Really. I was giddily short of breath looking at the work.) Admittedly, it was colored by my very scant prior experience with Calder, but, having had more time to think about it, and a chance to go back, I maintain that this is a show to see.

First of all, whoever made the decision to paint the front room that sort of slate, gray-blue color deserves some high praise. Boy does that first mobile cut an impressive figure when you catch it at the right angle. That, plus the massive, mustard yellow "ALEXANDER CALDER" makes for quite the monumental introduction . . . so much so that the transition to the white cube, inner rooms is slightly jarring. But the jolt is soon forgotten as you become absorbed in Calder's whimsy. (Unless you totally can't get into Calder for some reason. You crazy person.) Moving ante-chronologically through the artist's career, there was scarcely a moment when I was not more astounded than the last. I wholly disagree with the museum's assertion regarding the larger fabrications that "his early work appears almost rudimentary in comparison." The delicacy of some of those standing mobiles, especially the small ones, is just exquisite — Grasshopper (ca. 1952), Black, White, Yellow and Brass on Red (1959), and Yellow Stalk with Stone (1953) stand out — as is the way he's able to pare down forms to almost nothing, yet still retain so much — Jonah and the Whale (ca. 1940), and do not miss (!) the little wire cow Vache (1930).

It may go without saying that SAM has a bit of a (deserved) reputation for mounting second rate shows. (Michelangelo certainly qualifies.) Alexander Calder: A Balancing Act, however, (despite its lame title) is top notch. The south wall, at times reserved for 'stuff we wish we could have had but didn't get so we put these pictures up instead', this time features some decent photographs of Calder at work, as well as a beautiful film by Herbert Matter. Those gray lines on the floor, typically just annoying barriers to those of us who care enough about a work to look closely, here serve to emphasize the scale of Calder's mobiles, making them appear even more grand. The show isn't packed with work, but it's not sparse-for-lack-of-resources either. Each piece has room to breathe, and the space is satisfyingly occupied. Plus, in the back room you can watch a projected performance of Cirque Calder!

All right, all right, it's not all roses. The show has been criticized, perhaps rightly, for lacking a point, but that's actually something I appreciated. Why do I want the museum telling me what to think? Now if your experience with a particular artist happens to be excessive, I could see how this might be unsatisfying, but for those who are new to the work, this neutral, retrospective type presentation is the best sort of introduction possible. It's true, the wall labels aren't especially illuminating, but those can suck at any venue. (It's also possible I should get out more.) And moving through the gallery there is at least one spot where trying to stay outside one of those floor circles basically forces you into a wall. Lame. All in all though, I stand by this show, and Alexander Calder. I don't care what Jen Graves says. (She is right about the Bougainvillier (1947) pedestal though. WAY too big.)

The Dot and the Line

Oscar winner 1965, directed by Chuck Jones, and based on the book by Norton Juster.

That Weird Gallery Shine

Have you ever been to one of those contemporary galleries in the nice part of town? You know, the ones right next to the gallery with the art you actually wanted to see? (Or maybe you didn't want to see it; really, someone just dragged you there. Either way.) You wander in against your better judgment, neck craning warily as you pass that horrible, kitschy sculpture tending the door. By now you're past the point of no return, the gallery attendant having spotted you, smiling invitingly. It's far too late to mime, 'Oh snap, I didn't mean to walk into this art gallery, I was looking for that new J. Crew that just opened up.' Nope, you're committed. So you do your duty, don an inquisitive look, and step inside.

There are myriad endings to this story, many of them involving seas of vibrantly colored flowers and/or some form of modern day impressionism, but the thing that struck me last week was shine. While visiting the oddly posh little town of Ketchum, Idaho, and playing out the scenario I've just described, I found myself surrounded by some very vaguely Rauschenbergian, maybe slightly Sean Scullyish, but not, assemblage sort of paintings by a man called Jeff Fontaine. The works were stale and golden-hued; pleasant, unexciting conglomerations of shapes and colors; and very, very shiny. As though they'd all been dipped in vats of resin. This coating was of no discernible benefit to the paintings — they'd have been bad with or without it — and it occurred to me that I'd seen the same sort of shine before, in all manner of similarly positioned art spaces. But if it didn't improve the work, then why?

Time was, of course, all paintings were covered in a layer of lacquer. This layer protected the paint underneath and could be removed and reapplied when it yellowed or was otherwise sullied, but it's well over a century now since that went out of vogue. If Fontaine were truly going for "the innate beauty created as man made objects break down and naturally age," as it says in his artist statement, you'd think he would want to highlight different textures and surfaces, in addition to patterns and colors. Yet every piece featured the same glossy shine.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to glossy as a rule. Heck, Henry Schoebel has his paintings coated at an auto body shop before they go to the gallery, and many of those painters of bygone centuries relied on their lacquer to provide an essential depth or luminosity. But Schoebel's work is about being absurd; and while lacquer may have been standard procedure in the nineteenth century — the first half — Fontaine and others like him don't have that to fall back on. Far from adding depth, this new shine tends to resemble the candy glaze you see on pastries more than anything else. Those you at least get to taste. This shine is merely an attractive wrapper, a pretty package over an otherwise rather dull product. But maybe that's just it. That glassy outer layer is the candy coating, playing on our experiences with foods and jewels and plastics. Just as Prometheus enticed Zeus with delicious, glistening fat, and toy makers grab kids with bright colors, these galleries trap rich people with that distinctly over-perfect finish. Consciously or unconsciously they attract artists with a similar sensibility, artists who have become enamored with their own product, who still believe themselves to be innovating but are in fact only producing; cogs on the wheel of consumerism that values, above all else, shininess.