On her otherwise excellent catalogue essay, art critic Leah Ollman tries a little too hard to identify Victoria Gitman as a “feminist” and bona fide “postmodernist.” To qualify as both, you have to critique male hegemony and subvert modes of accepted thought, usually by the use of irony (a necessary obedience to art-world orthodoxy). A few quotes will give you the idea: “Gitman’s dense little paintings help reinstate the value-laden, gender-inflected significance of touch, process and craft.”
I counter that those attributes have been shared by artists of both genders and throughout history. When Ollman states “[Gitman] infuses masculine geometries with feminine references,” what is she talking about? What are “masculine geometries”? To satisfy the postmodernist requirement, Ollman states that “... beneath those gorgeous, pristine surfaces surges a forceful undertow, a critique from within.” But what is she critiquing? Where Ollman sees “reverence spiked with subversion,” I see a genuine reverence.
What cannot be disputed is that the work is marvelous. The exhibition at Las Vegas Art Museum is composed of drawings and paintings from Gitman’s A Beauty and On Display series. The former are postcard-size copies, some in graphite, others in oil, of old masterworks depicting comely young women. The works she appropriates include Renaissance profiles, Flemish and French neo-classic portraits and a Vermeer. It takes nerve to copy Vermeer; his ability to capture in paint the effects of light on flesh and fabric are unequaled till now. That Gitman pulls said copying off with aplomb gives you some idea of her skill. The density of observed detail in these minute works is astounding—elaborate Renaissance hair styles, intricate brocade patterns, folds, lace, feathers and a dimple in a rounded cheek. The shadows that define the contours of a lovely chin or slender nose are as soft and expertly done as the originals.
Gitman applies the same skill to her On Display series. Working in the trompe l’oeil tradition, she creates renderings of vintage beaded purses that are so detailed they are meant to deceive the viewer into thinking they are real. Gitman’s attention to the smallest detail borders on obsessive—the light reflected in each luminous seed pearl, the silk fabric ribbing, the occasional missing bead and the delineation of each thread in the embroidered flowers. Uncannily, they echo the patience and diligence used to fabricate the originals. Each purse is “displayed” alone on a neutral background, eschewing the trompe l’oeil device of arranging several objects to imply a narrative or anecdote. They are presented as gems or precious objects, thereby valorizing them.
Each specimen of feminine pulchritude or delicate needlework is examined like a specimen under a microscope. The mimetic magic is supernatural and surreal; you have entered a hushed and reverent world. If her work says anything to the image-bombarded, short-attention-span viewer, it is not subversive, trendy or political—it is to slow down and really look.
Paul Morrison creates his own idiosyncratic reality, one where disparate elements derived from cartoons, botanical drawings and Renaissance woodcuts are held together by the simple device of reducing them to black silhouettes on white backgrounds. It’s an audacious idea executed with panache. Beginning with the large site-specific wall painting “Photochrome” (a term used to describe the photoreceptors that detect light and allow plants to set their circadian rhythms), you have entered a strange yet familiar world. It’s an Alice in Wonderland type of experience—you’re suddenly two inches tall, looking up at an enormous dandelion with a moon-lit castle in the distance.
The six large paintings that complete Morrison’s world combine realistic filigrees of leaf and branch patterns with “cute” cartoon flowers and trees. In some works one mode dominates; in others they are balanced. Whether referencing woodcuts or cartoons, he maintains the linear character of each—fluid and gestural or choppy and deliberate, yet improbably meshed into a coherent whole. One of my favorites is “Horizon,” realistic and cartoonish in about equal measure. You don’t notice at first the daffy-looking trees on the horizon, because the intricate contours of the foregrounded ferns and flowers so engage your eye. I was delighted and amused by “Realm,” aptly titled because you are entering a different realm, one where cartoons and children’s book illustrations seem as real as the botanically correct ferns. Morrison has created a charming (in both senses of the word) world by casting a spell and exciting admiration.
Gitman deceives the viewer into believing two-dimensional images are real by her detailed and flawless renderings; Morrison charms the viewer into accepting his fairy-tale world as an alternate reality. If they can make us believe in their worlds, is the real world an illusion? If you’ve ever wanted to escape from humdrum reality—and who hasn’t?—I recommend you take an afternoon and stroll through the galleries. I guarantee you’ll want to make several visits.
Paul Morrison
*****
Looking Closely: Victoria Gitman Paintings and Drawings
*****
Through April 27
Las Vegas Art Museum, 360-8000
From Wow to Why: Some Thoughts on the Art of Victoria Gitman
A lecture by Leah Ollman
March 21, 6 p.m.
$7, $5 LVAM members