ARTISTS
Bay Area Now 5
Every three years, curators at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts comb through the region鈥檚 galleries, artist spaces, and studios to put together a
Tessa DeCarlo / The Brooklyn Rail
Every three years, curators at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts comb through the region鈥檚 galleries, artist spaces, and studios to put together a survey of emerging artists called Bay Area Now. The triennial has been a must-see since it first launched in 1997, full of work that鈥檚 either great to look at or interestingly awful, and a way-station on the path to national recognition for John Bankston, Todd Hido, Chris Johanson, Barry McGee, Catherine Wagner, and numerous other artists.
But the folks responsible for this year鈥檚 edition seem to have succumbed to an excess of curatorial modesty. In the introduction to the BAN 5 catalogue, Yerba Buena director Kenneth Foster frets that the whole idea of a biennial or triennial may be outmoded, now that every shire and hamlet is staging its own 鈥渁rt event.鈥� And what鈥檚 so special about the Bay Area, anyway? 鈥淚s edgier, more interesting work being done in other locales with more at stake?鈥� he asks. The title of his worried ruminations: 鈥淚s Bay Area Now still relevant?鈥�
Apparently he and his visual arts curators, Kate Eilertsen and Berin Golonu, lacked the courage to simply call the whole thing off. Instead they delegated much of the curatorial labor to others, stirred in lots of performance pieces and online links, and sought to goose the show鈥檚 relevance with dollops of traditional lefty politics.
As a result, the Yerba Buena galleries seem scanty and emptied out, like the site of a party that didn鈥檛 quite come off. An awful lot of the show is literally someplace else.
For example, Queens Nail Annex, an artist space in the Mission, was tasked with selecting a group of artists who also make music. But the Annex, where the visual work is shown, is several miles away and open by appointment only. All that鈥檚 on view at the Yerba Buena is a stand with two headphones plugged into an iPod.
Also frustrating are the show鈥檚 six 鈥済uided tours,鈥� guest-curated by ybca exhibitions manager Valerie Imus. None but the most dogged visitor will see them, since they occur infrequently, some just once during the show鈥檚 run.
Even much of what is there鈥sn鈥檛. Paul Scheik鈥檚 three black-and-white photos are vapid even by contemporary-art standards. Erik Scollon鈥檚 series of small blue-and-white ceramic pieces embellished with pictures of skulls, birds, and butt plugs鈥攆etish Delftware鈥攚ere offered to visitors, who were instructed to use them and send documentation to a Web site. By the time I got to the show Scollon鈥檚 shelves were empty, and I had to wait until I got to my home computer to see what had become of them. (Nothing very interesting, it turns out.)
Still, not everything is a blank. One of my favorite works is Jonn Herschend鈥檚 installation in the form of an infomercial-cum-training-session about ambiguity, shoes, and adultery with a tennis instructor. It鈥檚 pitch perfect, from the earnest but cheery tone of the video鈥檚 actors to the fake fern on the table next to the coffee carafe鈥攁nd I didn鈥檛 have to wait for Herschend鈥檚 September 13 bus tour of 鈥渓ocations of public and private emotional crisis鈥� to enjoy it.
Then there鈥檚 Elaine Buckholtz鈥檚 blue-lit room, a kind of new-age Rothko chapel that invites us to contemplate a lovely, constantly shifting grid of light on its floor. Joshua Churchill鈥檚 installation uses an amped-up soundtrack of the clanking, rumbling noises of the Yerba Buena鈥檚 own building, synced with flashing lights gleaming through rough floorboards, to create an ominous, exciting space that evokes natural catastrophe, social collapse, and the turbulent depths of the unconscious.
I also liked Donald Fortescue and Lawrence LaBianca鈥檚 Moby-Dick-inspired sculpture, reminiscent of a whale-sized Victrola, and Leslie Show鈥檚 small AbEx-style collages of icebergs. Ana Teresa Fern谩ndez鈥檚 paintings of a performance piece in which she mops the floor with her hair have a certain oil-on-velvet pizzazz, although I鈥檓 not convinced they鈥檙e an improvement over video.
On the other hand, too many artists have been encouraged to substitute political virtue for visual power. Works about toxic waste and coastline build-up look like they鈥檙e left over from a science fair. Brian Conley鈥檚 installation about Las Vegas war-gaming of real Iraq battles is a terrific idea but ends up being less than the sum of its many parts.
One of the walking tours highlights the role of unionized labor in the visual and performing arts with chalk stencils on neighborhood sidewalks. Back at the Yerba Buena, we鈥檙e treated to a video of two women in work clothes and orange bandanas stenciling a sidewalk and a pair of metal lockers holding their gear. It鈥檚 socialist realism, installation style.
Meanwhile, a piece by a 鈥渃uratorial collective鈥� about 1960s civil-rights struggles in Richmond, a historically black Bay Area community, features lackluster photos and flaccid sloganeering (for universal health care, against police brutality) that appear to have more to do with grant applications than the complexity and anguish of real struggles, past or present.
If the people who put Bay Area Now 5 together were genuinely passionate about these ideas, the show would at least have some retro-Stalinist energy. But the political rah-rah, like the outsourcing of so much of the selection process, seems to be mostly driven by a desire to evade curatorial responsibility. Humility is a virtue, but this year the Yerba Buena has taken it way too far.
But the folks responsible for this year鈥檚 edition seem to have succumbed to an excess of curatorial modesty. In the introduction to the BAN 5 catalogue, Yerba Buena director Kenneth Foster frets that the whole idea of a biennial or triennial may be outmoded, now that every shire and hamlet is staging its own 鈥渁rt event.鈥� And what鈥檚 so special about the Bay Area, anyway? 鈥淚s edgier, more interesting work being done in other locales with more at stake?鈥� he asks. The title of his worried ruminations: 鈥淚s Bay Area Now still relevant?鈥�
Apparently he and his visual arts curators, Kate Eilertsen and Berin Golonu, lacked the courage to simply call the whole thing off. Instead they delegated much of the curatorial labor to others, stirred in lots of performance pieces and online links, and sought to goose the show鈥檚 relevance with dollops of traditional lefty politics.
As a result, the Yerba Buena galleries seem scanty and emptied out, like the site of a party that didn鈥檛 quite come off. An awful lot of the show is literally someplace else.
For example, Queens Nail Annex, an artist space in the Mission, was tasked with selecting a group of artists who also make music. But the Annex, where the visual work is shown, is several miles away and open by appointment only. All that鈥檚 on view at the Yerba Buena is a stand with two headphones plugged into an iPod.
Also frustrating are the show鈥檚 six 鈥済uided tours,鈥� guest-curated by ybca exhibitions manager Valerie Imus. None but the most dogged visitor will see them, since they occur infrequently, some just once during the show鈥檚 run.
Even much of what is there鈥sn鈥檛. Paul Scheik鈥檚 three black-and-white photos are vapid even by contemporary-art standards. Erik Scollon鈥檚 series of small blue-and-white ceramic pieces embellished with pictures of skulls, birds, and butt plugs鈥攆etish Delftware鈥攚ere offered to visitors, who were instructed to use them and send documentation to a Web site. By the time I got to the show Scollon鈥檚 shelves were empty, and I had to wait until I got to my home computer to see what had become of them. (Nothing very interesting, it turns out.)
Still, not everything is a blank. One of my favorite works is Jonn Herschend鈥檚 installation in the form of an infomercial-cum-training-session about ambiguity, shoes, and adultery with a tennis instructor. It鈥檚 pitch perfect, from the earnest but cheery tone of the video鈥檚 actors to the fake fern on the table next to the coffee carafe鈥攁nd I didn鈥檛 have to wait for Herschend鈥檚 September 13 bus tour of 鈥渓ocations of public and private emotional crisis鈥� to enjoy it.
Then there鈥檚 Elaine Buckholtz鈥檚 blue-lit room, a kind of new-age Rothko chapel that invites us to contemplate a lovely, constantly shifting grid of light on its floor. Joshua Churchill鈥檚 installation uses an amped-up soundtrack of the clanking, rumbling noises of the Yerba Buena鈥檚 own building, synced with flashing lights gleaming through rough floorboards, to create an ominous, exciting space that evokes natural catastrophe, social collapse, and the turbulent depths of the unconscious.
I also liked Donald Fortescue and Lawrence LaBianca鈥檚 Moby-Dick-inspired sculpture, reminiscent of a whale-sized Victrola, and Leslie Show鈥檚 small AbEx-style collages of icebergs. Ana Teresa Fern谩ndez鈥檚 paintings of a performance piece in which she mops the floor with her hair have a certain oil-on-velvet pizzazz, although I鈥檓 not convinced they鈥檙e an improvement over video.
On the other hand, too many artists have been encouraged to substitute political virtue for visual power. Works about toxic waste and coastline build-up look like they鈥檙e left over from a science fair. Brian Conley鈥檚 installation about Las Vegas war-gaming of real Iraq battles is a terrific idea but ends up being less than the sum of its many parts.
One of the walking tours highlights the role of unionized labor in the visual and performing arts with chalk stencils on neighborhood sidewalks. Back at the Yerba Buena, we鈥檙e treated to a video of two women in work clothes and orange bandanas stenciling a sidewalk and a pair of metal lockers holding their gear. It鈥檚 socialist realism, installation style.
Meanwhile, a piece by a 鈥渃uratorial collective鈥� about 1960s civil-rights struggles in Richmond, a historically black Bay Area community, features lackluster photos and flaccid sloganeering (for universal health care, against police brutality) that appear to have more to do with grant applications than the complexity and anguish of real struggles, past or present.
If the people who put Bay Area Now 5 together were genuinely passionate about these ideas, the show would at least have some retro-Stalinist energy. But the political rah-rah, like the outsourcing of so much of the selection process, seems to be mostly driven by a desire to evade curatorial responsibility. Humility is a virtue, but this year the Yerba Buena has taken it way too far.
Donald Fortescue and Lawrence LaBianca, "Sounding," on exhibit at Bay Area Now 5
