First Things First

I’m fond of remembering the origins of artists’ careers. Their first shows often give a sense of who championed the work, and how it was defined by critics. In 1966, the Jewish Museum in New York presented the first show of Minimal art, titled Primary Structures. While citing most of the major figures in that new movement in modern sculpture (then called Minimal art or ABC art), curator Kynaston McShine included Larry Bell, one of the younger artists. Bell’s work was not unknown to the New York audience, as it had been shown by Sidney Janis Gallery in their 1964 exhibit Seven New Artists and a major one-man show at the prestigious Pace Gallery in 1965. In fact, Bell’s sculpture had already caught the attention of none other than minimalist Donald Judd, who cited Larry Bell in his 1965 essay Specific Objects for Arts Yearbook.

Indeed, Larry Bell’s early reductive, cool glass sculptures were exhibited and discussed in many major survey shows and publications. New York historian and critic Michael Benedikt contributed Sculpture as Architecture: New York Letter, 1966-7 to Art International, and that essay discusses the 1966 Whitney Annual. The author stated, “Box sculpture may well have reached a ne plus ultra with Joseph Cornell, represented by a Celestial Box of more than familiar star/goblet iconography. The recent work of Larry Bell (seen here in one of his icily elegant empty boxes, untitled) and perhaps that of Sol LeWitt (on view with one of his glassless, multi-compartmented boxes) are, I think, as close to Cornell as to the Primary Structure”.

By the next year, 1967, New York historian and critic Irving Sandler spoke directly about Bell’s work, writing “The rectilinear scaffolds of Sol LeWitt and Larry Bell section and contain space, turning it into masses of air—negative solids—unlike the constructions of the 1950’s, which pierce and cut into space vigorously.” The Sandler essay appeared in the catalogue for American Sculpture of the Sixties at LACMA, and was included in Minimal Art: A Critical Anthology.

I’ve been thinking about these original sources and the early exhibit history, since Larry Bell’s work is now included in Primary Atmospheres. “A splendid show, at the David Zwirner gallery, of California minimalism, mostly from the late nineteen-sixties, revisits an apotheosis of the continental divide”, according to the brilliant and esteemed New Yorker critic Peter Schjeldahl. The exhibit at Zwirner, notes Schjeldahl, contains works that “feel as fresh as this morning.”  The poetic wordsmith goes on to especially revisit Bell’s work:

“Take Larry Bell’s glass boxes: chrome-framed cubes, vacuum coated with vaporized minerals (usually grayish, but gold in one instance). The transparent objects admit your gaze. The space inside them is a continuation of the space you occupy, simply inflected with misty tones. The works are echt minimalist in that they are understood almost before they are seen. Mystery-free, they leave you nothing to be conscious of except yourself, affected by their presence. But unlike, say, Judd’s sternly confrontational metal and wooden geometries, they don’t mind seducing. They are as obvious as furniture and as dreamy as whatever mood you’re in. Not only elegant, they precipitate a feeling of elegance: ease, suavity, cool.”

Schjeldahl writes that he saw the art of Bell and others, as it emerged over 40 years ago. I take it from his comments that New York critics did not universally favor the work:  “In the sixties, puritanical New Yorkers (me included) liked to deplore the air of lotus-eating chic that Bell shared with other California minimalists.” Yet, now Schjeldahl comes to the conclusion that “the intellectual integrity of the cubes, merging Euclid with reverie, proves rock solid.”

Having helped the curator with the organization of the show, I’ll be very pleased to see Primary Atmospheres in early February.  I’m just wondering how many visitors will recognize the connection to the show titled Primary Structures. First things first.

Bacerra Retrospective News

Our show of Ralph Bacerra’s early work at the gallery comes with some very important news. In a conversation with Peter Held, curator of Ceramics at the Arizona State University Art Museum Ceramics Research Center, we decided to make an announcement.  The ASU Ceramics Research Center has committed to the organization of a Ralph Bacerra retrospective exhibition and the publication of a monograph.  It’s a very exciting development for the field, and we are pleased to break the news.  In a statement, Held wrote “The exhibition will survey Bacerra’s work from the 1960s to the present, offering a full view of his stylistic development… It is our hope that the show will travel to 4-5 venues to bring a higher awareness of Bacerra’s work to a national audience.”

Ralph’s supporters, collectors, and students will welcome a major traveling exhibit for Bacerra. There were many calls for this exhibit from institutions and curators.  However, this is the strongest proposal, from an internationally respected University Museum that has a reputation for scholarship and publications. Peter Held continued in his statement: “The exhibition will highlight his creative vision that spans over 40 years of artistic excellence.  The exhibition is proposed to include 65 ceramic objects drawn from the museum’s permanent collection of which we hold approximately 25 objects of the artist, the artist’s estate and private and public collections nationwide.  The exhibition will open at the ASU Art Museum in 2012.”

Many of the small, early works currently on exhibit at the gallery show the artist’s interest in Asian ceramics. He was particularly fond of Imari ware and Kutani ceramics. Rare among American ceramists, his works were collected by museums in Asia, including the Shigaraki Museum of Contemporary Ceramic Art in Japan, and the National Museum of Modern Art in Kyoto.

A Tribute to Ralph Bacerra

I’ve been remembering Ralph Bacerra as we prepare to present a show of early work tomorrow. I see some of his personal interests as we arrange the works. Ralph was an avid gardener who cultivated exotic orchids, a traveler, a man who loved his dogs, and he was a gourmet cook. Yet what is fascinating, as I look back, was his outlook on life.  He had a singular vision—to be a ceramist.  He told me about when he saw a stoneware vessel in high school, and learned about ceramics from Vivika Heino at Chouinard, and how he had an immediate affinity with ceramics. He was incredibly focused and directed from that time on.  He became a leader in the movement of American studio ceramics, not just because of his generous talents, but also because of his vision and hard work in the studio.

In his long career, Bacerra addressed everything from the small cup form to a huge 3,000-piece tile mural.  In an interview for the Archives of American Art, I asked Ralph to describe the difficulties or opportunities presented by his largest public work, a commission.

He said, “Well, there weren’t difficulties. I mean, if you know what you’re doing and you have your vision.  You have your idea, and it comes out. But all those things are sort of intuitive. You do research, you read books, you see the shows, and they’re sort of in the back of your head, and as you begin to work, it all begins to come out. I think that most of the creativity comes from the actual doing–using your hands, using the clay, using the materials. And you can’t sit there and think about it. My philosophy is you get in the studio and you get out the materials.”

You may think that I am an art dealer, but actually…I became a student of Ralph’s. His questioning voice and his challenges were always there.  When I stopped by his studio and brought his work to the gallery, he would tell me how it was made. When we traveled to San Francisco, he walked me through the collection of the DeYoung museum, and pointed out the prime examples of Asian Art. If my gallery showed new work, he came to test the ring of the pot, and pronounced it properly fired—or, not. I began to grasp the concepts of glaze “fit” and the order of firing.

It wasn’t easy, but I guess I passed the tests. Because when Ralph took you on as a student, there was tremendous loyalty. He didn’t let go. He was a true supporter of the gallery, and never missed an opening…even the one three days before he died.  I wish he could be here tomorrow.

Photo by Sid Felsen

A Road Trip with Larry

Back in January of 2006, I first agreed to accompany Larry Bell on a road trip to Taos.  It was shortly after we had decided to have an exhibition at my gallery.  The trip was Larry’s idea.  He thought that I should “check out his scene” at the Taos studio, and learn about the making of his iconic glass cubes.  Two nights before we headed out of town, we had been at dinner at Hal’s restaurant in Venice.  Ed Moses asked Larry, “Are you driving back to New Mexico alone?” Larry replied: “Not if I can convince this guy to go with me.”  I decided to go.

To make it out of Los Angeles before the worst of the traffic, Larry picked me up at my house at 5 a.m.  He was prompt.  He surprised me by picking up my bags, and carrying them to the truck.  I quickly realized: this is a very caring and open host, and we are going to have an adventure.

On that trip, we headed east on the 210 at dawn on Sunday morning.  Larry was driving his white Chevrolet Suburban, which he dubbed “The Mighty Time Machine”.  We were getting close to the intersection with interstate route 15 north.  Larry said, “I love the light in the morning.  Especially like this, or at the beach.”  I realized right then that this is what he’s all about—the perception of light and space—and that this will be the meaning of my road trip with Larry.  He talked again about the morning sky: “Look at those flying saucer clouds.  I’ve never seen clouds like that.”  The sky was full of subtle gradations of radiant color, from a rosy glow to a soft, infinite blue—just like a Larry Bell cube.  There was a vapor trail from a passing jet that ran from the upper right straight back toward the horizon, and just above that were the three flying saucer clouds, smaller in size as they grow more distant, glowing a deep and warm color of a plum.

Last week, almost three years later, Larry and I headed out of town again.  I was going to Taos to attend his 70^th birthday.  This time Larry chose his preferred route—up the 405 north to the 14 east, then through the Mojave Desert and into Arizona. I had already taken note of the numbers and capacities of our vehicle. The Mighty Time Machine, our ride through the freezing high desert, holds forty-three gallons of gasoline, has two batteries, and is capable of hauling a whole stack of 4 x 8 foot sheets of plywood. Larry’s rig is outfitted for the road, and everything is within arm’s reach. He’s got two cell phones strapped into the visor, and a CB radio turned on—with the volume down low. There are cigars and CDs close at hand, and drinks are to the right and behind the seat.

We had one passenger this time, Larry’s dog named Pinky. Like a well-traveled old friend, she slept quietly on the back seat. Traveling with a dog is something that I love, as silent companionship and a sense of adventure are perfect for exploring new territory. A well-traveled dog just seems to know when the rest stop is coming up, and can smell the new scents, as well mark some territory of her own.  Pinky and Larry found some great spots to take a short walk and admire the architecture of the Arizona rest stops.

I took my turn driving this time, from the California border to exit 185 in Arizona.  After realizing that I was too sleepy to continue, Larry took the wheel again, and I slept for a good 3 or 4 hours. When I woke up, Larry told me that we were going to stop for a little breakfast and some gas.  We were right at the Arizona—New Mexico border.  I heard him say, “I just want to stop here at this store, and there’s something I want to show you in there.”  I was definitely ready for breakfast, and ready for the next adventure, too. Except I could not imagine why Larry wanted to stop at the Southwest’s Largest Teepee, at the side of the road.

It turns out that the Southwest’s Largest Teepee also houses a huge cigar store. Have you ever seen a picture of Larry Bell without a cigar?  He is indeed a cigar aficionado. And the proof was apparent when we opened the door and walked into the shop. The owners, who were just opening up for the morning shift, quickly said, “Larry, your order just came in.”  I was treated to a little tour of the humid environs of a tax-free tobacco haven.  That was just our first day on the road.

The Woods

A friend sent a photograph of the Virginia woods a couple of weeks ago. Dark tree trunks dominate the foreground with dramatic verticals.  A center of light, clear, open space, like looking into stained glass, shows the richly cultivated landscape.  It reminded me of my September trip to rural central Virginia, where my family gathered to bury my oldest brother.  When I think about my loss, I am comforted by knowing that he was laid to rest in his favorite land.

I take landscape photos when I am on the road, and I wonder about my connection to the land of the west. Landscape is such a powerful bond for me. Northern California holds a place in my internal landscape, as I lived there for a decade or so.  A rugged coastline, with expansive views of rocks and water, or a stunning view of coastal mountains, has always been a source of strength for me.

Last week I traveled to Taos, New Mexico. From the interstate highway, there were constant views, and at times it seemed like one could see for a hundred miles. I traveled through some storms, and across sheets of ice. One evening’s storm left new snow, and I walked right through it. In the morning I took this photo of the Taos mountains, as I walked to my friend’s house.  Later I came across a quote from Dharma Bums, by Jack Keroac:

“I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream…”

Mimbres: An Artist’s View

I get a lot of good advice from artists. We discuss the galleries, and we talk about shows at museums.  I thoroughly enjoy the exchange. Recently, artist Tony Marsh reminded me of the ways that my gallery has expanded.  He wasn’t just speaking about the mix of paintings, sculpture and ceramics.  Instead, he cited the range of ceramics shows—-from a survey of ancient Mimbres ceramic bowls to works by Lynda Benglis.  He’s right, that’s quite a spread.

Back in January of 2003, we presented a select group of classic black-on-white Mimbres bowls, painted with geometric or representational imagery.  The astonishing pottery has been a passion of artists for decades.  I am lucky to know an expert in the field.  Well known artist Tony Berlant, a student of Native American Art, organized and assembled our show.  He gave it the title “Paintings from a Distant Hand”.  Like many contemporary artists, Berlant has found this timeless work from the 10^th to the 12^th century to be an inspiration:

“Bowl patterns often evoke a Cubist-like handling of form. The blank white interior of the bowl provides an ambiguous, dynamic field that is sliced and warped by drawing. Geometric images seems firmly anchored to the bowl edges, while representational images walk or fly into the field like dancers on a stage.”

The subject matter of the painted bowls ranges from images of birds and animals, to far more abstract patterns, referred to as geometric.  Many of these seem to be abstract pictures of clouds, lightning and rain—the lifeblood of a people who farmed the arid land of what is now southwestern New Mexico.

Peter Voulkos: Building Sculpture

Since I’ve been posting about architecture this week, I thought it might be time to include a review of Peter Voulkos’ monumental works. What’s the connection?  In 1999, the gallery presented a major show of sculpture by Voulkos.  L.A. Times critic Christopher Knight addressed the “seemingly effortless artistic mastery” of the work. Knight also made reference to the process of building:

“Artistically, Voulkos is a builder. Whether hand-held tea bowls, plates displayed on stands made from steel rebar or monumental vessels, his sculptural objects share a visceral sense of having been constructed, torn down, rebuilt, pulled apart and put together yet again. The elemental associations of the clay medium are acknowledged and exploited, not denied, while clay’s transformative capacity under the intense heat of fire becomes a leitmotif in the building process Voulkos employs.”

From “Peter Voulkos’ Vessels Stack Up as Monumental Gems,” by Christopher Knight. Los Angeles Times, Art Review, Friday, November 26, 1999.

Available Material Part 2

Recently, I wrote about an old idea: use the available material.  In that post, I noted that California is full of strong structures that use simple materials, and marry them to a natural setting. I also gave some examples from a fall road trip to Northern California.  Fortunately, trails and wooded areas are never too far away from me, and I often walk in the Arroyo Seco, near my home.  On the east and west banks of the Arroyo, there are homes built of rounded river rocks and long shaped beams. Some are legendary, part of the architectural setting for the Arts and Crafts movement in the early 20^th century.

The landscape of the Arroyo Seco was the setting for Ernst A. Batchelder’s house. Batchelder became, in the early part of the 20^th century, a well-known designer and producer of decorative ceramic tile. On Arroyo Drive, at a curve on the eastern bank, sits his unimposing home and studio. It nestles into the shady oaks nearby.  From the street, the front elevation shows a strong-beamed, shingled house with brick and stone at the foundation. According to architectural historian David Gebhard, a kiln still stands in the backyard, where the now-coveted Batchelder architectural tiles were first produced.

On the opposite side of the same street lies La Casita del Arroyo, a low-slung structure. I wandered around this public meetinghouse recently, and took some pictures.  The hall seems to step down into the steep bank of the Arroyo, and the imposing chimney stands broad and strong. The stone construction is rough. As I learned (from David Gebhard and Robert Winter’s Los Angeles: An Architectural Guide), architect Myron Hunt “donated his services and designed this structure using boulders and sand from the Arroyo, fallen trees from higher up the canyon, and even part of the bicycle track abandoned after its use in the 1932 Olympics.”

Gustavo Pérez and Architecture

Lately, I’ve been thinking of buildings. I tend to see architecture in the ways that artists structure their work.  In the hands of Gustavo Pérez, a sandy colored stoneware clay body has become the basic building material, as well as the canvas for his composition.  Whether he plans to engineer a series of lines, develops a pattern of slashes, or chooses to insert other clay elements into the surface of the clay, everything is integrated through this basic medium.  Like a painter emphasizing the depth of color, Pérez will also apply glaze into the incised areas on a work, carefully and meticulously drawing our eye to the design.

Part architecture, part mathematical pattern, and part lyrical movement, Gustavo’s sleek ceramic constructions are grounded in principles that relate to the built environment as well as sculpture.  Due to their reliance on geometric form, their symmetrical characteristics, and their construction process, Pérez’s forms seem architectural. Perhaps this is not an accident, for Gustavo builds his work as if logic and technology were indispensable to art.  He does have a background in mathematics and engineering, which balances his facility with the clay.  The progressive principles of cutting into modular units, assembling another form, and integrating the design with the structure are common to architecture and to the work of Gustavo Pérez.  He is proudly aware of the built environment of his country and especially aware of contemporary Mexican architects.  That’s something that I really hear in our conversations.

When Gustavo discusses his country, he talks about “the many extraordinary contributions that this oppressed, poor, conflictive and many times neglected part of the world has made to universal culture.  And I am not only thinking about the extraordinary ancient Pre-Columbian cultural heritage but also about our century with the contributions of writers…or the architecture of Luis Barragan.”   While an architect may have other compositional elements at his disposal—such as scale, light and space—there are some similarities.  It’s clear that there are affinities in architectural form, as Ignacio Diaz Morales states: “The shape of [Barragan’s] spaces is clear and simple, composed of spontaneous, constructive geometry, an essential condition for all architectural form. Space is manipulated with great agility and always aims to express the identity of the Mexican soul, without using inappropriate exoticisms.”

Without making specific reference to Mayan culture, the works of Gustavo Pérez are in some ways evocative of that Pre-Colombian culture. Perhaps this is an elusive and poetic quality that Gustavo Pérez shares with his fellow Latin American artists, writers and architects. “The ceramic art of the Maya, the Olmec, the Zapotec as well as the Korean, the Chinese, the Islamic or the Greek is our common heritage. We all profit from knowing it and the aesthetics, the sensibility and the techniques this huge legacy transmits,” Pérez has stated.  I agree, of course, and Gustavo’s sensibility echoes the respect for history that many artists posess.  Knowing the legacy gives them a foundation to build on.

Richard Neutra: The Perkins House

When I was a teenage student, I took a test called the Kuder Interest Inventory.  I’m sure it was part of the counseling program for college-bound kids in South Pasadena, where I grew up.  I scored in the 98^th percentile for architecture, which wasn’t a surprise—then, or now. So, what was the next step?  “Find opportunities to develop skills here and ask people what they like about their work,” the counselors told me.

I followed up right away.  Fortunately, the architectural offices of Whitney R. Smith were right next to the Junior High School. I boldly called and asked for an appointment. To his credit, Whitney Smith kindly scheduled a time for me (and two like-minded friends) to come to his design studio and office complex. We toured the drafting rooms, saw architectural models, and learned about new building materials—all from one of the most respected architects in the region.  The office still stands, a landmark of mid-century modern building design.

But an even greater opportunity awaited me.  At South Pasadena High School, I was enrolled in drawing, painting and art history classes with a mentor, Jack Dalton.  Once Mr. Dalton learned of my interest in architecture, he arranged for me to go to a small house designed for his colleague, the art historian and critic Constance Perkins.  We drove to the San Rafael Hills, and ascended mid-way up Poppy Peak Drive to the Perkins House, designed by Richard Neutra.

I had never seen such a home, and still remember climbing the stairs and entering the small but perfectly composed rooms.  Ms. Perkins explained that all of the cabinetry was built for her height and reach, and that Neutra had measured her library of books. These were new concepts for me.  For anyone wanting to learn about modern architecture, that day was inspiring—especially to look out from the living area to the San Gabriel mountains, through the famous glass corner, over the fish pond.

I still drive up Poppy Peak, and stop to admire the simplicity and perfection of a small jewel of modern residential architecture.  The impression of that day has never diminished, and I’ve toured other Neutra homes when they are open.  I often drive by the Research House in the Silverlake area, as well as the other houses on Neutra Place nearby. It’s a constant reminder of the extraordinary legacy of residential design in Los Angeles.