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art reviews from around new york

Wrapping up from last time on the fall New York art fairs—call it my way of wrapping up the old year and the state of the art. And Art on Paper should be just the thing for buyers who cannot afford the Armory Show. So what if the work also looks cheap?

Starting well before Rembrandt, artists have always put their thoughts on paper for some of their most lasting and original work. Yet the stress here is on reproductions or close to it, and no one seems to have encountered, much less read, an artist’s book. The fair has its share of commerce as well, like a display of luxury cars at back and stands touting “the art of wine.” Neither is made of paper.

Nor are paintings by Elise Ferguson, in patterned curves that rather familiar themselves. Painting turns up as well in performance, by Fabien Dettori. Ching Ka Lin and Ching Ke Lin make sculpture from bamboo strips—a home on wheels and an orange helix. All four are among the fair’s special projects, once again a highlight. (Keep your eye out, because all but one fit neatly into booths rather than the aisles.) The pier off the Lower East Side could be worth the trip for its high ceilings and uncrowded display alone. Now what about works on paper?

Why, then, attend the fairs at all? The Independent comes to New York twice a year these days—once to a Cipriani restaurant and with not a trace of the passing scene. Is that classy or what? Fortunately, it also pays off with only twenty-eight exhibitors but nonstop rediscoveries of modern art. Sure, two booths fall back on Pablo Picasso and Gerhard Richter, the first with prints and the second with deservedly lesser-known series, but such is the price they pay for the expected. The fair does best, though, when it stretches the very meaning of Modernism and art’s history.

A young Stuart Davis (with Alexandre) does, immersed in the city’s dance halls, delis, protests, and burlesque, with all their uncanny darkness and light. He anticipates everything from Edward Hopper on his long walks to political art today. Janet Sobel does, too, as the very first drip painter, and critics, starting with Clement Greenberg himself, have rediscovered her so often that you might think there is nothing left to know. Hey, John Dewey, the philosopher, wrote her. Here, though, James Barron pairs her persistent realism with Sol LeWitt at his densest and loosest, and it works. I shall just have to take on faith that Hallwalls Contemporary Arts Center in Buffalo stretched the art scene as well, should anyone have seen it.

Naturally there are women, like Squeak Carnwath (with Jane Lombard) who makes cryptic but clearly feminist notations into large canvas or an entire wall. There are people of color like Simões de Assis (with Galatea) in Rio, who makes every family gathering a carnival. There are black women, too, like Lenore Tawney (with Alison Jacques), whose assemblage has its broken eggshells and other mysteries and whose cast unexpected color in their shadows. Ryan Lee pairs painting by Emma Amos with sculpture by Richmond Barthé, whom Isaac Julien has placed at the center of his video history of the Harlem Renaissance. His black nudes seem more artful and less quaint faced with her male mingling with an octopus. One need not know that Amos has traced her own history in art to Africa.

Will I regret skipping the Armory Show at the Javits Center? Of course, I would have enjoyed it and the outsize convention hall—more than any alternative. I brings out the best in countless exhibitors, old and new, by obliging them to think big, and it must itself have been thinking big itself on its thirtieth birthday. Still, hope that next year I really will do my job, by cutting back still further on the fairs. Now if only what has become a nonstop, year-round global event could cut back, too. Oh, and don’t trust anything over thirty.

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.

Entering the holiday season means leaving the busy fall season behind. That makes it a good time to look back, and what better way than with a belated report on the fall art fairs? Here goes.

For years I had promised myself to skip the New York art fairs. What can they add to an already busy gallery scene in New York?

What can they bring to the already enormous pressure of that first week after labor day, when openings run wild? If those same galleries find their sales dropping, and more and more experience dealers are calling it quits, the fairs bear their share of the blame here, too. So if I could cut back at last this past spring, could I pull it off again in September? Could a compulsive critic withstand the compulsion?

Maybe not, but I could look once again for the alternatives. That has its drawbacks, too. Who feels the costs more than the kind of galleries that exhibit at “alternative fairs”? If they are not on a budget, who is? Others may feel under pressure to splurge on booths at two fairs, the Armory Show and one more, closer to their buyers and their roots—and I work this together with a past report on the spring New York art fairs as a longer review and my latest upload. Still other exhibitors have no dealers or curators, only aspiring artists, and what ever too often is the pleasure for a critic in that?

I have no answer, but I still have my compulsions. And what could be more of an outsider than a fair with just one dealer, the gallery that hosts it, but calls itself an Armory Show affiliate anyway—Salon Zürcher for “11 Women of Spirit +” If “Spirit +” sounds more like a flavored vodka than a true shot in the arm, it allows Zürcher to reset its count of editions to Part One. It still leans to women in abstraction, a timely enough cause as well. It may be running thin, especially after a summer group show of a hundred women, but such is the pressure to exhibit art.

It does have charming enough local landscapes by Brigid Kennedy—and charming enough knitted portraits by Mary Tooley Parker. Marykate O’Neil groups her portraits of leisure, with a woman, perhaps the artist, sipping wine on a larger scale if passing judgment on them all. Abstraction, in turn, can be jazzy, as with Susan Cantrick, or brushier, as with Patricia Spergel, who adds an artist painting. Still, it does tend to run together. I remember more the work that lives between abstraction and figuration—flowers by Tracy Morgan and open skies by Sue Carlson with a yellow arc on top. I took it all in but was ready to move on.

Once Volta was a path-breaker, the fair with single-artist booths, the fair that makes you look and remember. Now even a room for Ukrainian artists packs them in, everything looks familiar, and wiser galleries exhibit elsewhere. A girl at night on a country road, in black-and-white photos by Sophie Zhai (with London’s Mandy Zhang) or portraits of blackness, in color photos by Joanne McFarland (with Accola Griefen)? Yeah, sure, although both stand out, and McFarland’s sitters could be role models, plastic dolls, or the baby girl next store. Maybe, though, the real problem lies with the perpetual art fairs, all of them? Can anything stand out any longer in all the madness?

You may not think so at Clio, borrowing the space of a Soho gallery, where artists choose themselves with predictable results. Look instead to what could be the true New York scene, its office buildings, and Spring/Break seems out to explore them all. The fair that sounds like a holiday at the beach has moved to Hudson Square north of Tribeca, and it fits right in. Small offices offers close-ups, but office culture shines best in common areas. The fair does have painting, from cheery abstraction to dark fantasies, and sculpture, like an eccentric chess set or large wood pieces in a forgotten game (and I do not name artists because Spring/Break often fails to identify them). Still, it seems only right that one office holds Post-It notes, and one artist leaves out his colored geometry as if taking over the bar—and I continue next time with Art on Paper and the Independent.

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.