Remember
for a while there in the late Nineties when it seemed that every review Jerry
Saltz would wrote worked in the ratio of women to men in exhibitions? Well, I
want to do the same for photography in Brooklyn. Wide Field was a pretty decent pop-up show of mostly abstract painting
and one free-standing sculpture, granted it’s in Ridgewood, Queens, but that’s
nine painter/sculptors to zero photographers. A ratio that puts photography on
a par with such arts as graphic design, ceramics, and graffiti. Oh, the lonely
world of secondary art forms. One day we will rise and take what is rightfully
ours.
It’s
hard to get too up in arms about a pop-up show in a ground floor studio. I am
just saying one of these days there is going to be one painting/sculpture to
every nine photographs/cartoons/new media pieces. The two standouts in the show
were Adam Parker Smith and my
favorite current Ridgewood painter, Matthew
Mahler. nowadays. The real fun in his paintings is that they are so potentially
terrible. Imagine Native American rugs with the palate of a Trapper-Keeper. Now
imagine Native American rugs combined with the palate of a Trapper-Keeper that
didn’t suck, and you have some surprisingly awesome painting. Mahler’s work in Wide Field is a little more muted than
his last showing at 950 Hart Gallery, but he seems to be working in these light
splashes of paint that almost looks like his paintings are molding, and molding
into some rather nice little day-glow colors. The slight splatters add an
organic feel that works well off the hard edge in the work while playing into
the hippie/hipster vibe of the Native American patterning in the work.
Adam
Parker Smith’s work has a similar vibe, an echo of early seventies hippies who
got out of college and either started to abduct rich teens and shoot people or
got jobs. It is that strain of failed utopian hippieness that has pervaded
Brooklyn, where everyone looks like they just gave up living on an upstate
commune after it ran out of food. I might have gotten off topic, but I feel
somewhere in what I just said is the visual aesthetic of Smith’s thousand or so
friendship bracelets that have been woven into a visually vibrant but a tad
shabby drug rug that reads “Will U Marry Me.” The piece is one giant desperate
grab at the idealized hopefulness of sixties utopianism and middle-school
friendships that in retrospect never really existed.
Already
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