MIRRORED DREAMS
Arminée Chahbazian and Minami Oya

TIM WILLIAMS: 21st Century Sucks
Heron Arts

In 1971, the Kinks released “Twentieth Century Man,” a rollicking indictment of the contemporaneous 

age of machinery
A mechanical nightmare
The wonderful world of technology
Napalm, hydrogen bombs, biological warfare
This is the twentieth century
…too much aggravation
It's the age of insanity

In 2026, many of us might find ourselves in rueful agreement with 21st Century Sucks, the bluntly humorous  title of Tim Williams’ painting exhibition at Heron Arts. A rejection of the present along with nostalgia for a real or imagined past and dreams of utopian future is nothing new in art. Classical painters depicted a bygone Golden [i.e, pre-industrial] Age, blending pagan and Christian myths; the Futurist painters of a century ago, conversely, loathed the industrial backwardness and conservative culture of Italy at the time, adapting the revolutionary style of Cubism to promulgate an aggressive future regime free of deadening museums, moonlight and pasta: (Unfortunately for them, and for Italy, they fell victim to the malignant spell of fascism).

Art, however, comforts and heals, as well as occasionally critiquing the nightmare of history, to paraphrase Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus. Tim Williams’ semi-abstract mixed-media paintings on wood panel, employing the fractured planes of Cubism and the borrowed mass-media imagery of Pop, are engaging collage-puzzles of colliding, contradictory elements culled from the chaos of our ‘sucky’ times, organize and transformed. Williams embraces “…images shaped by excess, speed, contradiction, and collapse. Using collaged imagery from my own photographs, planes, trains, automobiles, and the debris of modern life, I build dense compositions that reflect a world already coming apart. Within that chaos, there are still moments of beauty.” 

WIlliams’ image scavenging impulse is balanced by his compositional mastery, so that the cutout elements never seem random, but held in a gravitational dance, with centripetal and centrifugal forces perfectly balanced. Along with the artist’s ability to mix and match disparate and discordant elements is a compositional device that was discovered only a few years ago, the Einstein tile, a irregularly shaped polygon or polyhedron resembling a fractured hexagon that, rotated variously, covers a flat surface not only completely, interlocking, without gaps, but also without forming a predictable repeating pattern. Wikipedia defines it as “a single prototile that by itself forms an aperiodic set of prototiles; that is, a shape that can tessellate [cover with tiles] space but only in a nonperiodic way. Such a shape is called an einstein, a word play on ein Stein, German for "one stone”.

Devotees of M.C. Escher’s prints will remember his works employing tesselation patterns of ‘opposite elements, like, say birds and fish, and flat 2D shapes alternating with rounded 3D shapes, like the crocodlians in “Reptiles”  (1943) that crawl out of a book illustration into the ‘real’ space of the artist’s desktop, and back into surface flatness, an infinite cycle of metamorphosis— the ancient tetrapod invasion of the land.

Williams’ heady mixture of illusionism (in his commercial imagery, deconstructed and recontextualized) and pure abstraction (from his predilection for bright colors and strong; graphic patterns) may suggest Pop and proto-pop artists like Roy Lichtenstein and Stuart Davis, and even at times, Fernand Léger, who enjoyed the brash modernity of postwar American culture. Williams’ wryly humorous titles —e.g., “Chaos has a way of finding you,” Quietly yearning for what you don’t have while dreading losing what you do,” “Short con, long odds,”  “Objectively better, subjectively worse,”  and Bendzamine” (a jokey version of the name of an oral anesthetic)—poke fun at artistic pretentiousness while the extraordinary craftsmanship of the paintings proves that the artist takes the game and the work seriously. While the large works deftly interweave their representative and abstract elements, the smaller paintings are more abstract and intimate, and because of their smaller scale—think of Paul Klee— and more subdued palettes, seem addressed to the solo viewer, presenting surfaces that seem solidly packed, but threaten to disintegrate, like ice floes: “structure, but never symmetry. Order, but never resolution…. something that keeps shifting, something that doesn’t resolve.” Don’t miss these playful small treasures amid the other riches of this large show: “All work and no plagiarism,” The gates of perception,” “Thinking of you,” “Fate, and the “Einstein Tiles” series with their archaeological layers of tile floors or walls, partially exposing art and artifacts as bright as if freshly created.

HENNA VAINIO: OPPOSITE KNOTS
Casemore Gallery, San Francisco

WAYNE ARMSTRONG: BETWEEN HERE AND THERE
Manna Gallery

It is almost incomprehensible to us today, but landscape paintings a genre or subject idid not exist in European art until fairly recently—a few hundred years ago—until the Romantic era. Before then, the natural world was seen as a stage set for various holy or allegorical dramas, but gradually the backdrop came to the fore as scientific rationalism prevailed over religious mystery, and individualism superseded communitarianism, to the displeasure of the novelist Leo Tolstoy, who saw art’s role as fostering religious feeling, and the critic John Ruskin, who coined the term ‘pathetic fallacy’ to attack the ‘falseness’ of aesthetic subjectivity.

The title of Wayne Armstrong’s landscape painting show, Between Here and There, may remind viewers of Tolkien’s subtitle for The Hobbit, or Paul Klee’s definition of a kine as a dot that went for a walk. It also defines the traditional esthetic view of art as an adventurous journey through obstacles an trials. Armstrong’s dozen-plus oils on canvas, all made in 2025, take the viewer on a journey into the California landscape that inspired them—note the blue and gold palette—and, the artist’s mind, perceiving and organizing the overwhelming and contradictory sensory data of real life into maps of painterly emotion. The Oakland artist, now retired after a long career teaching art, and impressively prolific, expresses what many Bay Areans feel about our famously scenic region: “How lucky am I to always find something in these e environments to inspire me.” 

Armstrong’s commitment to inspiration and the painting process place him within the Abstract Expressionist tradition, but his interest in landscape allies him with the Bay Area Figuration artists who returned to examining and interpreting the external world; Richard Diebenkorn, for example, felt that pure attraction had become too easy: a trap for creative sterility. The medium-sized and large paintings presented here may have their roots in what some art viewers consider the “creed outworn”—to quote or misquote  Wordsworth—of modernist painting, but Armstrong’s landscapes/mindscapes, with their almost geological slipping planes and metamorphic structures echoing Cézanne, de Kooning, Guston, and Thiebaud, belie the dictates of art fashion and marketing. 

While some of the paintings are entitled to suggest specific locations (“Hidden Valley,” “White Bridges Road”), the majority of the titles. including “Between Here and There,” “That Lies Between,” “The Surrealist Picnic,” “Not San Andreas Fault,” “A Collection of Ethereal Thoughts,”  and “Proverbial Setting” playfully assert their independence from traditional realism with imaginatively extrapolated  images striking in their aesthetic reality and rightness. The artist who created “A Landscape Indifferent to the Rules” can only have done so by imbibing the rules so completely that violating them in order to pursue an internal vision without plunging into chaos became not only possible, but a kind of artistic mandate.

Armstrong’s ostensibly aerial views of the landscape, with the horizon lines and swaths of sky raised to the top of the paintings, render the ground planes composing most of the canvas a field—both literally and metaphorically—for improvisation; they suggest geologic cross-sections as well as quilts or magic lands of counterpane, or manuscripts and maps—or all of the above. There is the relative realism of the rocky cliffs in “A Collection of Ethereal Thoughts” and “What Lies Between” and the verdant foothills of “Not San Andreas Fault” loosens into the jumble of hillocks of “Hidden Valley.”  More abstracted, ambiguous landscapes emerge in the virtuosic works, “A Landscape Indifferent to the Rules,” “Between Here and There,” “The Surrealist Picnic,” and “White Bridges Road,” each one an aesthetic adventure. Wherever you go, there you are, as the folk wisdom of the 1970s intoned.







 

In Roger Corman’s 1963 sci-fi horror movie, “X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes,”  Ray Milland plays a scientist, Dr Xavier, who discovers a serum that gives him X-ray vision. At a cocktail party he is able to see through the clothing of gyrating dancers, but the vision intensifies alarmingly. His eyes go inky black and madness ensues. There are some things Man is meant not to see or know!

The Belgian artist David Deweerdt has happily evaded such punishment, exhibiting his penetrating figure paintings in Belgium and France for the past twenty-five years, and showing for the second time at Ryan Graff Contemporary. “Excessive Vision,” a collection of eighteen works executed on on Mylar, a plastic paper, presents solitary nudes partially fully denuded of flesh. While they recall the plaster flayed figures (écorchés) that academic painters used to learn anatomy, following the precedents of Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Andreas Vesalius, or the contemporary plastinated cadavers of Gunther Von Hagens or the morgue-sourced art-historical pastiches of Joel-Peter Witkin, sensitive, triggerable viewers should be advised that the artist’s subcutaneous “body envelopes” of muscles, tendons, bones and viscera are not literal, but stylistic. Dew
eerdt’s knowledge of anatomy merges with painterly improvisations to evoke the feeling of the thing, bypassing the bother of literal illustration, to paraphrase the expressionist painter, Francis Bacon. Dew
eerdt:

My characters are mediums, … only pretexts... I try to produce a sensation, based on on what the character exudes and… something awakening in the viewer.. For many years, I have painted physical differences and deformities by questioning the aesthetic norms of … current Western societies. Today, my work questions Man in his paradoxes … [through] a new aestheticism, a new approach to the pictorial representation of the body.

Deweerdt’s untitled “excessive bodies” are painted in acrylic and ink glazes onto sheets of vertical-format 100x70-mm white mylar, and mounted to the walls, unframed, a few inches apart. There is no apparent sequence or narrative; we interpret each portrait individually, and interpret them as we can. At the same time, the works are so closely spaced , each on its clinical white backdrop, that we cannot forget the array, which exceeds the sum of its parts to form a sobering yet beautiful procession.

Several paintings clearly derive from figure studies. “Unitlted (02)” and “Untitlled (14)” depict a large-bellied man of middle age standing in profile and seen from the rear, respectively, cropped at the neck and knees, and thus headless. Rendered in a warm palette of siennas, earthy reds and oranges that suggest both muscle and fat, complemented by patches of icy, brilliant blue, we may be reminded of the temperature differentials revealed by infrared thermal imaging (à la Predator, to cite a nonmusical example) “(04)” and “(16)” present, respectively, hunched and slumping figures of a younger male adopting studio poses that express despair or remorse, and will be familiar to devotees of Rodin. “05” and “(13)” depict young females, respectively, kneeling and standing, but again cropped and incomplete, with fiery emanations that suggest ectoplasmic eruptions. “(07)” further challenges our notions of bodily image with a figure seen from the back, kneeling, legs crossed, and hands positioned as if bound, so that the limbs resemble flippers, and, with the head submerged behind the hill of his upper back, suggesting some flattened, fleahy sea turtle minus its shell.

Hybrid figures that are partly skeletal or partly animal animal suggest the medical specimen bottle and the carnival sideshow. The disembodied skulls and vertebrae in “(01), “(12),” and ”36)” remain mysteriously alive with painterly color and energy, as do the eviscerated female torso in “(03)” and the scapula-batwing form creature or specimen in “(10),” and the hung-beef carcasses of “(09),” reminiscent of slaughterhouse-pathos works by Rembrandt, Soutine and Bacon (aptly named), a cheerful pessimist who was fond of reminding artistic London drinking pals like Lucian Freud, “You have only to consider the meat on your plate.”

Deweerdt’s gravitational dance of attraction-repulsion is perfectly calibrated to hold us in orbit around these strange bodies that are secular, unsentimental contemporary counterparts of Renaissance memento mori. paintings and medieval transi sculptures. They are bracing stuff—perhaps even medicine—to awaken us from our dogmatic slumber in these inhuman—and potentially post-human— times.

Alejandro Cartagena, “Ground Rules”
SFMOMA, San Francisco

“Ground Rules,” Alejandro Cartagena’s SFMOMA mid-career retrospective, covers twenty years’ work by the prolific Mexican photographer and book artist. Cartagena’s vast oeuvre of twenty-seven separate series belies his relative youth — he’s not yet fifty — and the variety of his work, exploring sociopolitical concerns and aesthetic impact. Not all of Cartagena’s projects are represented, even in this large selection; the well-illustrated catalogue is more comprehensive. 

The exhibition’s title derives from baseball, as SFMOMA Assistant Curator of Photography Shana Lopes notes in her catalogue essay. Cartagena’s boyhood baseball games in the Dominican Republic required agreements by the players on the irregular, ad-hoc playing fields available to them. Lopes sees Cartagena’s variegated practice as similar: choose a subject and an approach, and then obey the self-imposed rules and structure.

For “Identidad Nueva Léon” (2005-6), Cartagena and Rubén Marcos photographed hundreds of people whom they encountered at random in shopping malls, churches, and plazas. The subjects are casually posed, and presented life-sized and at three-quarters length, exuding the gravitas of formal portraits. The white backgrounds may borrow from the neutral backdrops of Richard Avedon’s portraits, especially those of the American West. The idea of using tents, with their gently diffused lighting, as portable photographic studios harks back to Irving Penn, although Cartagena and Marcos probably hit upon the tent idea on their own out of practical necessity. A frieze of ten nuevoleoneses of various types — eight singles flanked by two couples — greets viewers near the show’s entrance.

“Suburbia Mexicana” (2005-10) comprises several small series of twelve to sixteen photos each. “Fragmented Cities” depicts the construction of affordable suburban housing with rows of minimalist cubical dwellings laid out in rows, as if extruded, recalling the “ticky-tacky little boxes” of Malvina Reynolds’ folk song about postwar hillside housing developments south of San Francisco, contrasting with the scenic backdrop of the Monterrey’s Sierra Madre Oriental foothills. “Urban Holes” shows the vacant lots of downtown Monterrey, the neglected public spaces between private properties, contrasting with the bustling economy, seen with the eye of an abstract painter. “Lost Rivers” presents traditional nature-photography views of the Santa Catarina River. For “People of Suburbia,” Cartagena photographed his neighbors and their neighborhoods in unassuming slices of daily life.

In “Construcciones” (2014), the artist posed for what might be termed cosplay selfies exploring the idea of identity as social construct, an approach if not invented, then at least exemplified by the photographer Cindy Sherman. In these thirteen self-portraits, identically composed, the artist poses, variously costumed, between a blackboard inscribed with various sardonic titles — mentiroso (liar), papapitufo (Papa Smurf), pendejo (stupid), pinto (painted), pinche pelon (damned bald man), guero (blond) — and a construction helmet. If we interpret the series allegorically, the props symbolize the seemingly antithetical realms of mental and physical work.

The iconic“Carpoolers” series (201-12) catapulted Cartagena to the attention of the art world (with an assist from The New York Times). The forty-two identically-framed shots of pickup truck beds, laden with construction laborers sprawled or standing amid their equipment and materials, headed to the new suburbs of south Monterrey, were taken from a Highway 85 freeway pedestrian overpass on Mondays,. Wednesdays, and Fridays, over the course of a year. The term “Carpoolers” has no Spanish equivalent, and is probably meant ironically anyway; it merges a humanist view of economic reality with traffic engineering terminology. All they will call you will be ‘carpoolers, to paraphrase Woody Guthrie’s 1948 protest song, “Deportee (Plane Crash at Los Gatos).”

The empirical-evidence aspect of Cartagena’s early work has in recent years been superseded by abstraction, conceptualism, and the investigation of new technology. Initially self-taught, but later influenced by the photographer-publishers Gerardo Montiel Klint and Paul Graham, the artist used artifice (as previously discussed in his “Construcciones” self-portraits) to venture beyond the single-moment, decisive-image straight photography embraced by photo purists.

Abstraction becomes more prominent in the silhouette photos of two woman glimpsed through a checkpoint gate grid in the “Invisible Line” series (2010-17), one of several bodies of work examining the Mexican-American border both physically and psychologically: build/finish the pixelated wall! One image of the borderland landscape is even bisected by a wooden wall, seen perpendicularly, a thin line of demarcation which the artist clearly got around. In several collage works from his “Photographic Structures” series (2019), Cartagena cut his old photos into small squares and reassembled them into puzzle pieces held in place by small circular disks or magnets. In “Grupos Recortadas,” the artist, who discovered his lifelong interest in archives and found images at an early job scanning historical photographs, resurrects anonymous black and white photos, but carefully excises the people, leaving documents of long-ago events with the participants seemingly erased by time. One large circular photo collage towards the end of the exhibition may serve as the artist’s  minimalist valediction to representation: dozens of overlapping photos of the polluted black night sky are arranged into six concentric rings around a circular aperture, like the pupil of an eye or a camera lens, forming a shell or shield that evokes the hemispherical night sky bereft of constellations, mapped but featureless.

Following Cartagena’s realist early work as it evolved toward abstraction and conceptualism, I was reminded of Walker Evans’ 2017 retrospective at SFMOMA, tracing his early career in social documentary photos of 1930s Depression America (published in James Agee’s book “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men”), moving in later years into unexpected directions, into experimentation with color and Polaroid photography, both unorthodox art media at the time; covert candid photography of passengers in subway cars (with the camera peeping out from Evans’ buttoned-up overcoat, tripped by a cable release); and even painting. Cartagena’s evolution from realism to examining the nature of seeing and art making seems to echo Evans’ earlier journey.

The photography world has radically changed since Evans’ era, with the development of digital media and the online publication of millions of images every day; the internet is a true “museum without walls” far beyond what the French writer André Malraux imagined back in the late 1940s. Cartagena characterizes this continual rain of images as “trillions and trillions of photographs, an endless pit of visual garbage that no human will ever be able to see in their lifetime.” Despite his sardonic take on image glut, Cartagena sees the emergence of AI through a hopeful lens, as a powerful tool for excavating meaning from the media midden. Time and photographic archaeologists will tell.

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW:
Barbara Boissevain and Charlotta Hauksdóttir
Chung 24 Gallery, San Francisco

July 22-Sept 13, 2025

“With rolling black sand beaches, mist-wreathed mountainscapes, cerulean glacier tongues and bubbling hot springs, Mother Nature has candidly outdone herself decorating this small Atlantic island.” An English writer described the wild beauty of Iceland, “ a cornucopia of natural splendor” so different from green and pleasant England, in gloriously romantic terms appropriate to touristic travel guides. To be sure, Iceland does a and-office business, so to speak attracting pilgrims in search of the unspoiled scenery, including fine-art photographers, and leaving behind some of the unfortunate by-products of commercial development—not just trash but also the commercial-consumption mentality relegating the experience of wildness to a kind of lifestyle trophy: see it now before the others spoil it. While Ireland has its preservationists, the small population iff islanders is by no means deep Green when it comes to consumption, ranking among the big spenders of global capitalism. In his 1948 novel, The Atomic Station, the novelist Halldor Laxness dramatized the perils of Cold War modernization, with his young heroine, Ugla, purportedly based on an early environmentalist, expostulating on the objectification and commercialization of the—for her, a spiritual descendant of the Norse pantheists of the pre-Christian era—sacred wilderness:

Who thought up the theory that Nature is a matter of sight alone? … Nature is in front of us, and behind us; Nature is under and over us, yes and in us, but most particularly it exists in time, always changing and always passing, never the same, and never in a rectangular frame.

As Above So Below presents two eminent Bay Area photographers—their monographs are available at the gallery— who are undoubtedly  ethically in sync with Ugla (despite her dismissive opinion of rectangular art), if not aesthetically: the American-born Barbara Boissevain and the Icelander Charlotta Hauksdóttir. The phrase—in Latin, ut supra, ut infra—is used these days in legal documents to cite quotations elsewhere in the text, but it derives from earlier, pagan sources in medieval alchemical and mystical lore asserting that the earthly and heavenly worlds are united through sympathetic magic (esoterically prefiguringHegelian and Marxian dialectic). As it is in heaven, so it is on earth; the universal mirrors the personal; the external world reflects the internal world; the cosmos is reflected in the individual; and the macrocosm is reflected in the microcosm. The title could be also said to refer to the imagery and construction of the works: more on the double/Doppelganger aspect, ut infra.

In 2015, Boissevain photographed Iceland’s stunning mountains, glaciers and icebergs, and years later returned to her images in her Endangered Ice series, mindful of the growing effects of global warming, and interested in moving beyond visual beauty to express her environmental concerns while not excluding eye appeal from her conceptual, subtly sociopolitical approach. Boissevain’s six new mixed-media pieces combine her earlier digital prints with watercolor and monoprint revived from from her grad-school painting years. The five photo hybrids from the 2024 Endangered Ice series depict blue icebergs shown in elevation, removed from the landscape ,and mounted on unpainted backgrounds like biological specimens. with their large submerged masses tapering into triangular roots, like jellyfish, mushrooms, thunderclouds dripping precipitation, or extracted teeth. The suggestive ambiguity of the forms contrasts well with the visual power of Boissevan’s rhythmic brushwork, creating heavy sculptural-looking masses that hover mysteriously, mid-air. Clouds also some to mind. The fifth piece, “Endangered  Ice Shadow Installation,” from 2025, contains similar iceberg-clouds, but here, the painted shapes are mounted on plexiglass pieces cut to fit, and mounted on plexiglas dowels a few inches out from the wall upon which they cast shadows, suggesting islands or continents, seen from above, floating in a crystal clear sea.

Hauksdóttir takes a s different direction in her four 2D “photography collage” works, which depict rugged mountainscapes in a traditional pictorial slice-of-life manner but subvert (or enrich) that style (which Laxness’s Ugly might have disliked, as executed by postcard-scenic painters, by scissors-cut excavations into the earth, seams or sinkholes. Through these apertures in “Erosion XII” and “Erosion XIV” (both 2024) we perceive a surprising subterranean layer of text aligned with the surface geomorphology —an underworld of words describing the past and future of the geology that “exists in time,  always changing and always passing, never the same,” though presented here within the dreaded rectangular frame. In “resurgence IV” and “Resurgence XIV” (both 2024), Hauksdóttir imagines the land recovering, with new plant life emerging below the surface, even reaching beyond the current topography into the sky. A trio of “Reclamation” sculptures  made between 2023 and 2025 and “Into Deep” (2025)—in too deep?—show the artist taking a more conceptual approach, fabricating geometric shapes from branches on which her photos are rolled that are sewn together, simulating indigenous artifacts of some vanished tribe that possessed photographs and wished to commemorate or magically contain, protect or regenerate the natural world.

If culture has too often historically given nature short shrift, following the reductive rationalism of toxic capitalism (and all-too-human slash-and-burn human nature), there is no need to keep on fatally fouling our nests. No one is coming to rescue us; we're not off to some Martian billionaire bunker utopia to hatch a new race of moral derelicts. Art is not politics, but it can be part of the solution, one small epiphany after another.

Recent developments in digital photography have made possible (and absurdly easy) what was once impossible and unthinkable: dozens of shots per second, shooting in near-darkness, and even video, captured before the shutter is actually pressed. Such superpowers may speed up a professional’s “work flow” (as if cameras were an assembly line)), but what tech giveth, it also taketh away. Pressing the button and letting the machine do the rest (as early Kodak ads boasted) destroys the mystique of great photographs, reducing hard-won aesthetic achievement to choosing the best of hundreds of ‘spray-and-pray” random slices of the spatiotemporal pie. Artificial Intelligence, with its slick rendering of imaginary scenarios created with verbal prompts, completely ignores the dedication, skill, and experience required for capturing the decisive moment with light and film.

There is a reaction against the mechanization of vision, however. Younger photographers are choosing relatively low-tech older cameras that yield a recognizably ‘imperfect’ filmic look, less sharply focused, and otherwise violating digital dogma. It reflects as well a desire to escape the relentlessness of online life. Photography, slowed down to a walk, restores the experience of  observing reality, not glowing pixels.

The intimate, poetic photographs of Kayhan Jafar-Shaghaghi, an Iranian scholar with degrees in in history, business, and economics, now living in Edinburgh, epitomize this rejection of the move-fast-and-shoot-things FOMO (fear of missing out) photographic ethos. Kayhan’s large-format still life photos are made with an 8x10 view camera of the kind preferred by his idols Ansel Adams—whose work galvanized the young artist—and Irving Penn, recently shown at the de Young Museum. The exquisitely rendered tone and color, considered by photographers both painterly and cinematic, suggest Kayhan’s roots in modernist photography, but their resonances go even further back into art history to the symbolic, allegorical still-life painting of the 17th century. The Dutch Masters rendered their still-life subjects immaculately, celebrating the brief, glorious beauty of flowers, but also propagating the then-dominant Christian faith in memento mori: visual sermons.  We viewers are just passing through time, as the flowers and foodstuffs are. The inner life that we discern in Kayhan’s mysterious objects echoes our own subjective experience as sentient transients.

The gallery’s press release states, “Each image [in Poise] captures a state of suspended animation—a delicate tension before movement, transformation, or dissolution. Crafted through slow, intuitive methods, these photographs… bear witness to the uncertain equilibrium of our collective condition, speaking to the fragility and strength of that which endures.” Kayhan’s fascination with the intricacies of film and paper, including a decade of experimentation with the extremely difficult process of printing black and white Cibachrome on IMAGO paper, testifies to his interest in historyy; his fidelity to the medium, with its aesthetic and technical strengths and weaknesses (by today’s standards); and his commitment to his subjects, household objects of scant intrinsic interest that gain force and presence from the artist’s vivifying focus.

“Poise” (2022), for which the show takes its name, suggests liminality, or a threshold state combining both the opposites of balance and positional readiness. One of a series of works,  including “Yield,” “Suspend” “Displace,” “Release,” and “Rest,” this image, which has an archaic, early-photography look, assembles wooden blocks borrowed from a neighbor into various stacked configurations that suggest a human figure, simplified through Cubist eyes—an unmade work of art history interpolated into the present. Kayhan, by the way, favors the local, citing in a recent gallery interview (available on the gallery website) the assemblage sculptor Joseph Cornell, whose rambles around his Utopia Parkway home in Queens yielded all the materials to populate his dream universe. Speaking of dreams, Kayhan’s color print, “Vessel” (2023), leans toward surrealism, with its depiction of a blue ceramic pot into which a bird, perhaps a chicken, appears to be burrowing, fleeing predators, but perhaps ending up as chicken-in-every-pot human fodder: soup id good food, Another color print, “Balance (2024),” presents a floral arrangement in which the red, yellow, pink and white roses incline in all directions, suggesting both wilting and the daily heliotropic struggle for light and life. The most memorably strange work is “Adrift Also (Octopus on Plinth) (2022),” with its tentacled cephalopod protagonist, probably another neighborly borrowing (like the frozen snake in another photo not shown here), decorously draped over a sculpture pedestal as if posing for its portrait.

Years ago, the art historian Suzi Gablik, championed what she termed a “re-enchantment of art” from what she saw as meaningless formal experimentation— the aesthetic dogma of the day. Kayhan, whose cultural roots date from the ancient Persian art he saw in museums as a child, has a longer historical view than that prevalent in our algorithm-driven Anthropocene age. Kayhan: “I’m more of a scavenger….. I respond to what I find. I try to be not that selective about whether I reject something or not.”

TIME & TIDE: THE Art of John Wehrle
Richmond Art Center

This massive Richmond Art Center (RAC) retrospective of the Richmond, California, muralist John Wehrle has been a long time coming, but is certainly well deserved. In his long career, Wehrle has produced murals that have becoming iconic to the East Bay city, north of Berkeley, as well championed art in the region, sometimes surprisingly; as a onetime Board member, he volunteered to design and fabricate the reception desk still in use at RAC, (which has a long history as a civic arts nonprofit, punching way above its modest budget).

Time & Tide, guest-curated by RAC former Gallery Director and Executive Director Jeff Nathanson, features scores of artworks in various media:18 paintings,14 digital reproductions of murals, 19 preparatory drawings and maquettes, 14 painted wood sculptures, and a dozen or so works in photography, both analog and digital. There is a beautifully produced catalog as well.

Wehrle’s peripatetic art career began in rural Texas. A non-athlete by his own wry admission, the tall, affable Wehrle discovered his artistic superpower copying, with a friend, WW2 fighter planes from Flying magazine: Corsairs, Lightnings, Spitfires, Mustangs, and Marauders. At college at Texas Tech, in Lubbock, he majored in art and drew cartoons for the school newspaper while participating, at his father's insistence, in the Reserve Office Training Program. In 1966, during his military service, Lieutenant Wehrle  became the leader of the first of three combat artist teams documenting the war. Wehrle: “I was basically trying not to get the team in fire fights. The paintbrush doesn’t make a very good weapon.” The paintings that the artists made late from field sketches were exhibited in Art of the American Soldier at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia. They are represented here by digital reproductions.

After studying art at Pratt Institute, which regularly sent its grads to art teaching jobs in the Midwest, Wehrle moved to San Francisco, teaching at the de Young Museum’s Education program and at California College of Arts and Crafts (CCAC, now CCA). A few years later, in 1973, the restless artist left academia for a back-to-the-land experiment in cabin-building in Montana, overwintering there alone while living in a VW camper. The Thoreauvian adventure became the subject of a 12-photo book, Whiskey Gulch, and the prolonged solitude amid the frozen woods became a formative experience. Returned to the comparatively comfortable Bay, Wehrle worked as a baker and carpenter, eventually lured back to the art world by a de Young colleague who invaded the bakery and pointed him toward the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act, a kind of successor to the 1930s Works Progress Administration: artists were paid by the government to make public art. Sadly, such programs are vulnerable to the vagaries of political weather: the WPA ended with American entry into WWII; CETA, Wehrle notes, transitioned into training security guards.

But mural painting proved a perfect fit for Wehrle, who enjoyed the public performance aspect of working on a scaffold as well as researching the contexts and histories of public spaces. He found that he could express his curious, playful, and gently ironic temperament. Wehrle’s murals portray all the inhabitants of an area, past and present, as interacting characters in a transtemporal saga: a kind of James Michener chronicle of place condensed into a single moment. Ohlone people, in Berkeley, at the Amtrak station? Vaqueros and grizzlies at a gas station on San Pablo Avenue? Yes, of course. Wehrle, on painting the war rather than photographing it: “But a photograph is like a moment, whereas with a painting, you can put a lot of moments together.” Time & Tide, which proverbially wait for no man, is thus a fitting title for this show, with its lighthearted, colorful chronological revisionism, and low-key environmentalism that celebrate the regional, but elevate it, and into a larger, more expansive Our Town view of life.

Positively Fourth Street, the mural that Wehrle and John Rampley painted fifty years ago on the side of the de Young parking lot, in Golden Gate Park, introduces a theme recurrent in many of the later paintings, drawings, and sculptures, some commissioned and some made independently. The ambiguous relationship between the human and animal worlds, between culture and nature, is expressed here in a view of San Francisco’s eastbound freeway ramp approaching the Bay Bridge, with the Fourth Street signage dangling precariously, cars emptied of drivers and passengers, and the infrastructure reclaimed by bears, a turkey, a bison, a swan, deer, a wild dog, a wolf, a hawk, a pelican, and a pronghorn sheep. The skyline buildings (sparse by current standards after decades of Manhattanization) stand mute guard. Post-apocalyptic narratives have become a staple of mass entertainment in the decades since, and we have become inured to the idea of human extinction: it’s just a movie; someone will save us! It is presented here, matter-of-factly, in an understated manner, without overt polemics. Wehrle:

With the onset of melting ice caps, one begins to speculate on a future resembling the past…. Nature is a powerful force and wants to reclaim its own. Weeds push through the sidewalk cracks, ice crumbles walls, water rises. Time changes everything….

A pendant to the Fourth Street mural is the more recent mural-sized panoramic painting , “Rising Tide,” begun in 2011 for a one-month Artist Residency at the de Young; stored, not quite finished; then exhibited at the Richmond Art Center years later, and completed; and again rolled up and stored. It reprises the narrative of ecological collapse, but less apocalyptically. The junction of Columbus Avenue, Washington and Montgomery Streets  in San Francisco’s North Beach is the scene, with the Transamerica Pyramid and the Beaux-Arts Sentinel (aka Zoetrope) Building at stage rear. No mysterious extinction seems to have taken place here, however. People go about their business normally despite the obstacles of knee-deep waters and icebergs emerging from side streets, like glaciers flowing down crevasses. A couple, perhaps tourists, walks and talks on cell phones; a young man hooks a fish; a boatman rows a painting —we see only the black back of the canvas—to safety; a pelican, some penguins, and a flock of Canada geese search for new homes in the new landscape. A lamppost banner advertises “Noye’s Fludd,” the title of a 1958 opera by Benjamin Britten, based on an early fifteenth-century mystery or miracle play about biblical disaster, featuring in its cast, “the voice of God” and a “children’s chorus of animals and birds.” Perhaps some local museum could give this work, so ironic a reminder of possible things to come, and so wonderfully rendered, a permanent-ish prelapsarian place of honor.

Aside from the breadth of Wehrle’s historical research and his artistic virtuosity, arranging multiple source images with their varying viewpoints plausibly (see his perspective-gridded preparatory sketches), the wit and humor that inform his 2D work, but particularly his painted wooden sculptures, is completely contemporary, and could be described without undue parochial pride as northern Californian, both corny and clever; think of the comic philosophers or philosopher-comics of the Dude-Ranch Dada (in the words of one New York critic) École de Davis: William T. Wiley, Robert Arneson, Roy DeForest, and Bruce Nauman, et al. TroutInHand, Wehrle’s symbolic alter ego (for which his website is named), was inspired by the photo of a fish caught in Montana, held by a friend: “A trout in the hand is worth two in the brook.” For his 1968 photo book, The Laws of Scale, Wehrle fabricated a small school of stuffed trouts—silkscreened images sewn onto fabric soft sculptures—and photographed them in different locations, like the traveling garden gnome in Amélie: á la Magritte, raining; in clouds; lying on a desert floor..

The schism between nature and culture takes sculptural form in the juxtaposition of animal or human protagonists and confining geometric structures in the form of boxes, especially the old-fashioned cubic cabinets that housed cathode-ray tube sets during Baby-Boomer childhoods.  In “Fact/Fiction,” a claw-footed Chippendale coffee table painted grass green is carved with the two words, rendered in different colors and fonts. Bisecting the table into bipedal halves is a sawfish, decisively separating the irreconcilables. In “Clamped,” a trout struggles against a woodworker’s clamp. while in “Nesting Instinct,” a mother heron brings her chick, just breaking free of its TV shell, a succulent morsel of cable.The three-dimensional talking head in the ”Fox News” television set blathers on, interminably, his circular logic manifest in a coil of twanging bedspring, while an array of nine TV sets, stacked three on three like Hollywood Squares celebrities, or sets for sale in a big-box store, present multiple versions of two images, distorted by disjunctures—adjust those rabbit ears!—, cleverly rendered by the artist-carpenter: a housewife joyfully extolling her detergent, and the famous Eddie Adams Pulitzer-Prize photo of the pistol execution of a Viet Cong prisoner of war. Thus ever to our satanic enemies (and future cheap labor)! In “Kafka Dream,” the confining rectangle is a framed excerpt of Boschian hellscape from which a tree branch protrudes, bearing a crow or jackdaw (kavka, in Czech) holding in its beak, like nest-building bric-a-brac, cutout letters spelling the author’s name: a curious but apt literary monument.

For the sake of this short review, I have focused on only a fraction of Wehrle’s prodigious output. When you see the show, don’t miss the experiments with digital photography: microscopically detailed composite shots of street signage (“BUMP,” “STOP”); his motion studies of ballet dancer Muriel Maffre (“Muriel 2”), reminiscent of the nineteenth-century multiple-exposure images by Muybridge and Marey; and the composite photo of the underside of the Golden Gate Bridge, cut into the shape of a diving whale’s tail (“Li’l Egypt”). A modestly-sized realistic panorama painting of a golden brown California landscape with a lake flanked by a row of trees and a fence bears the title, “Et in Arcadia Ego,” or, I, Too, was in [the legendary paradise of] Arcadia, after Poussin’s famous elegiac 1638 painting, which has been interpreted as art or memory confronting and transcending mortality—time and tide, that is, for present company.

CARA BARER and PIERO SPADARO: Destination
Andrea Schwartz Gallery

The conceptual photographs of Cara Barer and the abstract paintings of Piero Spadaro in the two-person show at Andrea Schwarz Gallery, Destination, make for a study in apparent contrasts as well as a marriage of complementaries: opposites attract, after all. The old aesthetic concept of art as a finished, polished object of contemplation, a destination, so to speak, resurfaces in these authoritative paintings and photographs; but also operant is the contemporary concept of art as the by-product or end result of a process: as the residuum/evidence of an experiment, unplanned or planned only in general terms. Both artists have shown for years at the gallery; this is,the first time that have exhibited together.

Cara Barer sees her artistic repurposing of old books  as lending them a second life (as objects of art) that will survive the obsolescence of the information they contain (e.g., a Windows 95 manual), an which justify their existence in the world of useful objects. Much of this information, due to the artist’s dissections and reassemblies, including soakings in dye baths, is illegible anyway. Her photographic arrangements of rumpled pages suggest floral (or marine invertebrate) blooms. To some viewers, they might transcend  biological and botanical metaphors to suggest religious icons or mandalas, and, with their radiant colors set against black backgrounds, stained-glass rose windows in Gothic cathedrals: paradoxically weathered symbols of the eternal and ineffable. Barer’s new photographs, mounted to plexiglas, and available in various sizes, focus on maps and travel books, which embody “exploration and impermanence.” The geographic and historical associations of place names that remain still legible in “San Francisco,” “ Altiplano,” “Tierra del Fuego,” and the sardonically entitled “Carving Up the World,” referring to the Great Powers’ colonial adventures of past and present, lend these abstractions an elegiac note: the blue planet floating in blackness, an accordion-folded pressed flower.

If Barer finds poetry and a strange majesty in printed ephemera, Piero Spadaro constructs semi-abstract assemblages that conjure up Romantic landscapes that invoke the Age of Exploration, minus its contemporary sociopolitical black eye. Imagine if polar and tropical expeditions had enlisted abstract painters instead of water-colorists and glass-plate photographers. Spadaro is able to combine the most heterogeneous materials—acrylic, glitter, colored and textured art papers, powdered pigments, including ultraviolet-sensitive colors, and hard, clear resin—into, in his words, “topographical maps that flow over the panels’ surfaces.” His fascination with reflective materials—glitter and, to an extent the resin in which he seals his landscapes, like small animals in amber—is verbally reinforced by his marine-mystique titles. \ “Gleaming,” “Charting,” “Glint,” and “Green Flash,” named after an optical phenomenon occurring at sunrise and sunset during specific atmospheric conditions, connect scientific exploration and observation with—is it safe to revive this term?—the pursuit of the Absolute.

The double readings of these paintings—between painterly collage/abstraction and visionary landscape—make them infinite; we look both at them and into them, as we peruse Monet’s water lilies.

Destination continues through May 8 at Andrea Schwartz Gallery, 545 4th Street, San Francisco: as gallery.com.

Samantha Fields, "Portents" by DeWitt Cheng

Samantha Fields, “The Path of Totality,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 41 x 27”. All images courtesy of Traywick Gallery, Berkeley.

Samantha Fields’ exhibition of recent paintings, “Portents,” with their multiple layers of airbrushed pigment, focuses on the skies of Fields’ Los Angeles as their “chief organ of sentiment.” In the 21st century this organ is one brought about by natural forces subject to physical laws, not the judgments of celestial overseers. Even without God in his heaven, however, the skies retain their fascination and awe. Fields has returned to the skies — and their associated clouds, fog, celestial bodies, fires, and fireworks — after a transitional period of domestic interiors realized during the pandemic lockdown.  “Portents” includes eleven medium-sized to small paintings, all derived from “failed photographs,” i.e., flawed snapshots, replete with photographic ‘mistakes,’ like lens flares, but adapted and perfected during the artist’s lengthy painting process. All are beautiful and mysterious, all imply something that is not yet evident, the promise of a withheld or ambiguous revelation, as Jorge Luis Borges put it. In the aftermath of the recent wildfires, a subject that the artist has explored before, it is easy to interpret the paintings secularly as environmental warnings to Angelenos to get our minds right about rebuilding in the naturally fire-prone Southern California ecosystem, especially given our poisoned political culture.   The gallery notes that “Portents” evokes a fractured world that may be slipping away — a reality that is constantly in flux and just out of reach. “Fields,” they assert, “uses the metaphor of celestial phenomena, such as a total solar eclipse, to articulate this elusive feeling.” The transient phenomena of the natural world are thus caught and preserved in paintings that freeze and condense time for our leisurely contemplation. “Portent,” the show’s eponymous painting, depicts a dust storm or tornado as seen from afar, darkly foreboding swirling masses of muted color that evoke recent natural twister disasters in the American south.

Samantha Fields, “Whole Sky,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 24 x 24”.

Samantha Fields, “Portent,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 24 x 24”.

Samantha Fields, “The World is Not as You See It,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 34 x 28”.

Samantha Fields, “Cathedral,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 12 x 9”.

PATRICK HUGHES: The Newest Perspective
Scott Richards Contemporary Art

Students of art history may remember that the discovery of perspective was crucial  to the development of realist painting in the Renaissance, and was deemed almost miraculous. The Florentine painter, Paolo Uccello, lost himself in ecstasies over the geometry of space, exclaiming from his studio, late at night (according to his long-suffering wife) “Che bella cosa e la perspettiva!”

It is easy to imagine the English painter Patrick Hughes similarly obsessed and delighted over the constructed painting/sculpture hybrids that he has made for most of his six-decade career, eye-fooling depictions of buildings and objects—both Renaissance palazzi and contemporary art and art books—that use perspective devices and illusions to comment wittily on art and artists, representation and reality. The distorted anamorphic skull in Holbein’s “The Ambassadors,” visible only obliquely from a position to the left of and below the painting, from the stairway where it was originally hung, is a famous example. So are the theatrical forced-perspective cityscapes of columns and arcades by Palladio and Borromini in Vicenza and Rome, respectively.

Hughes was one of several young English artists in the 1960s who were attracted to Surrealism’s spirit of freedom, though not to its Romantic doom and gloom. The absurdist humor of Ionesco and Magritte—his favorite painter, according to the title of one painting—led Hughes from literature into art, at a teacher’s suggestion. An early Magrittean painting, “Brick and Sky” (1965) depicts a blue sky with a few wispy clouds, punctured by a jagged hole; just below the shattered sheetrock crater lies a brick wall, as if a house had capsized. A 1964 work, “Sticking-Out Room,” depicts a room, emptied of furnishings, that might have housed one of Magritte’s giant apples or roses; with its vanishing point located squarely at the center of the panel, it resembles a stage set, or a Flemish Madonna’s bedroom, but the receding side walls, ceiling and flow are all painted on planes that slope down toward the edges instead of upward like the sides of a box, as we optically interpret them. The depiction of receding planes on protruding ones—i.e., the contradiction between the conceptual and the perceptual—is the operant principle of Hughes’ ‘reverspective’ work since 1989, when he returned to space-bending illusionism. Hughes: I knew nothing about perspective… I was a fool who rushed in where angels fear to tread.”

Thirteen of Hughes’ 2023-4 trompe-l’oeil/trompe-l’esprit works, both eye-fooling and mind-bending, comprise The New Perspective, and represent the artist’s playfully Heraclitean philosophy that everything changes. As the viewer slightly changes his position the classic-architecture buildings and objects (mostly stacks of books and artworks) with their hints of di Chrico expand or contract in a fascinating but slightly unnerving manner; move to far to the left or right, and entire portions of the subjects vanish, and other shapes spring up, like Holbein’s symbolic skull.

Also on view are Hughes’ cutout paintings on shaped board (a format which the artist explored as an undergraduate) of stacks of books and sculptures and various artifacts that may suggest the realistic but humorous Funk sculptures of Bay Area ceramists. “Books” and “Illhughesion” present floating images of art books, including Hughes’s own Paradoxymoron, testifying to the artist’s researches in art, aesthetics and perception. “Brillo Pile” takes as its subject the famous Andy Warhol painted sculpture from the 1960s that raised so many questions about reality and representation, questions that remain definitively unanswered to this day—and will probably remain so.

Patrick Hughes has written, “Reverspectives give you air to breathe and a dance of life to pursue.” They absolutely must be seen in real, ‘breathing’ space, and brought to life by the viewer; reproductions alone, even the ‘animated’ videos that the gallery helpfully provides online, cannot capture their light-hearted and compelling magic.

Twenty-one mixed-media (acrylic and laser cutting on wood) paintings by San Francisco artist Richard Bolingbroke that combine scientific and visionary realms. SNAL (formerly SLAC) is not open to the public except during receptions (TBA). Through March 30, 2025.

Seventeen oil paintings by the San Francisco artist Anne Subercaseaux from her "Architectural," "Reflections," and "La Nature" series, frozen-moment meditations on the built and natural environment. Through March 27. The Stanford University Faculty Club, 439 Lagunita Drive, is open to the public on weekdays during business hours.