Frank Lloyd’s blog

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.

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.”

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.

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.

If you live in the forest, you make your house out of wood.  If you live by the river, you make your house out of stones.  It’s an old idea: use the available material.

So what if you live in California?  The history of California architecture is full of strong examples of structures that use simple materials, and marry those materials to a natural setting.  I’ve been around craftsman homes since I was 8, when I moved to a neighborhood full of modest bungalows in South Pasadena. I often visited the work of Greene and Greene, and I still do.  The Gamble House is just across the Arroyo Seco from my present home.  I still walk along the streets nearby, where the Greene brothers’ designs abound.  On the banks of the Arroyo, there are plenty of homes built of sticks and stones.  Rounded river rocks and long shaped beams, in combination with generous overhangs, are typical.  The walls surrounding the houses are built with masses of granite and brick.

Recently, I re-read some of the essays in an architectural classic, Five California Architects, by Esther McCoy.  Included, of course, are the formative architects Bernard Maybeck, Irving Gill, and R. M. Schindler—in addition to the Greene brothers.  Active at that time were many others.  One who designed major projects was Julia Morgan. I recently took a road trip through central California, and decided to stay overnight at Asilomar, a conference grounds and resort (though hardly luxurious) near Monterey.

Asilomar, now a state park, was designed by Julia Morgan as a conference and meeting place for women in the early 20^th century. Based on lodge designs, and built from the forest and the stream, the buildings are set in an ideal location: Pacific Grove, near the famed 17 mile drive in Monterey. The name “Asilomar” translates to “refuge by the sea.” Here, Morgan worked within the fragile ecosystem and serene landscape. Blending into the pines and sand dunes, leading to the sea…with buildings made of wood and stone.

My late summer vacation was a road trip to Northern California.  I was invited to stay in an old bunkhouse in a semi-rural area, on property owned by artist Bob Hudson and his wife, writer Mavis Jukes. I often think about the biggest privilege of my job: being so close to the artists. I am lucky to see the work first, at the studio, and to intimately understand the artists’ process.

I am sitting at a desk that Hudson lovingly set up for me in the pitch-roofed pump house. To my left are bookshelves. On the top shelf, one of his assembled ceramic sculptures sits with a book of landscape photography. The next shelf is stacked with 7 new art publications from Yale University Press. But just below lies a collection of hawk feathers.

The lifestyle and art of Robert Hudson are essentially rustic, but marvelously eclectic. Though Bob is notoriously quiet, his work speaks eloquently of the artist’s mind—a kind of melding of collage, surrealism, and poetic juxtapositions.  He works in a large metal building, one of several structures on an old farm near Cotati, north of San Francisco. His materials are found objects—the detritus of our mechanized and industrial world. His sculpture, rooted in the Assemblage movement on the West Coast, is most often a combination of welded steel and joined, cast-off objects.  He usually adds color by painting in bright primaries.  I walked into Bob’s spacious studio, and entered the world of the brilliant poet-welder.

Hudson’s earliest works were exhibited in legendary Bay Area galleries during the late 1950s.  There were shows at the Batman Gallery in S.F.—where Hudson showed his early drawings in 1961 alongside some of the Assemblage movement’s main practitioners Wallace Berman, Bruce Conner, and George Herms.  According to Hudson, the Batman Gallery’s walls were black, and the floor was covered with squares of green grass-like material. He also showed in 1961 and ‘62 at the Bolles Gallery.  Later, in the early 1960s, Hudson showed at the Lanyon Gallery in Palo Alto.  Nicholas Wilder did some of the exhibition programming.  It was Nick Wilder who spotted rising talents in the Bay Area (Bruce Nauman had been a graduate student at U.C. Davis, and Hudson was teaching at S.F. Art Institute), and brought their work to Los Angeles. Hudson’s show with Wilder in L.A. opened in 1966.

The then-fledgling magazine Artforum featured an article by Phil Leider on three Bay Area artists, and placed Hudson’s work on the cover of the September 1964 issue. Leider’s text noted, “Elements of neo-Dada, suggestions from Pop Art, assemblage, junk sculpture have all found their way into the work, which is dominated by the employment of humor as a major value.  It is a humor which is raucous, dirty, mimicking and subtle, and which is the life-line of the best sculpture being produced in San Francisco.”  Hudson’s work has continued to employ many of these elements, as he combines found objects with a poet’s sensibility.  The welded masses of metal bulge with allusions to art and spring out like an exploded painting.

The banks of the Mississippi were populated with cyclists, runners and dog walkers when Adrian Saxe and I cruised along in July.  As others rode and ambled, we navigated by rented automobile. I wanted to see the museums, and had the Frederick Weisman Museum on my list.  It’s located on the campus of the University of Minnesota, and I found the best view from across the river.

It’s phenomenal that Minneapolis has cultural buildings by so many world-class architects. In contrast to the sleek blue work of Jean Nouvel at the Guthrie, the Weisman is a curvaceous, complex and undulating grouping of forms. It is strikingly different when viewed from the river or from the street level.  One can enter the museum from the underground parking garage—and the pedestrian experience is complex as well.  Frank Gehry’s use of exposed structure is evident throughout.  I found an unusual and delightful feature: a room that contained the drawings, models and design process for the building.

So how is it that the citizens and philanthropists of Minneapolis have made possible such visible, prominent and striking architectural landmarks?  Whatever the many reasons, it’s an impressive group of buildings. Saxe and I had been informed upon arrival that “In Minnesota there are only two seasons: Winter and Construction.”  The short season for building only makes the architecture more of an impressive accomplishment for the city.

I had never been to the Twin Cities until this summer.  I traveled to Minneapolis in July with Adrian Saxe, and we attended the opening of “Dirt on Delight” at the Walker Art Center.  Adrian, a veteran traveler, did most of the preparation for our trip. I was pleased to have him take over—he’s naturally inquisitive, great at gathering information, and possesses what I call “built-in-GPS”.  He calls it his “pigeon-brain”.  Whatever one wants to name it, he is a marvelous navigator.

I expressed interest in going to see the great Mississippi River—something a tourist from a dry region would find a rare natural resource.  After we landed and checked into our hotel, Saxe drove our rented car right down to the locks in the heart of old Minneapolis. I saw the river, the bridges and some real river barges.  I was interested, intrigued and informed, realizing that we were in the shadows of Gold Medal Flour’s distribution point.  But then, I saw something that really caught my eye: the rising form and reflecting blue of a stunning architectural work. The design of the Guthrie Theatre is the work of architect Jean Nouvel, along with the Minneapolis architectural firm Architectural Alliance.

We drove up to the building, and made our own impromptu tour of the exterior and all the interior amenities. Anything I write would probably be redundant, since critics and architecture buffs have been giving this building glowing reviews—and Jean Nouvel  won the 2008  Pritzker Architecture Prize for the Guthrie Theater.  But I will note that I understood the central axis, the great pedestrian experience, and the “endless bridge”. It all made my day, to see how the architect had worked with the site and the concept.  I managed to take a couple of tourist photos: Adrian standing at the Guthrie, the interior hallways, and the exterior elevations.

An artist can transform our vision.  It’s something we’ve all experienced, following a great exhibit. We walk out of the show and into the street; our visual perception has been changed, or our normal mindset has been subverted.  That’s what I like about art.

Sometimes, the artist’s work is so elemental, so…essential and minimal, that we see it everywhere.  Such is the case with Larry Bell.  After all, Bell’s true medium is reflected light.  He’s also concerned with the right angle, and defies anyone to deny its importance in the built environment.

Soon after I selected and installed our first Larry Bell show in 2006, I was sitting at a small dining table, and gazing at the array of water and wine glasses.  The vessels were illuminated by a raking late afternoon light from a Venice window.  I saw how the light had penetrated the rich amber of the wine, and cast that pale color across the tablecloth.  I saw how the reflection of one glass was captured on the surface of another.  And, I saw my own reflection in the water glass. I had to thank Larry for that moment of presence and immediacy.

It never goes away.  There are always moments to pause and see the reflected light in our everyday environment.  If I am driving at night on a rainy street, the tail lights and streetlamps are a woozy reflection on the pavement.  If I happen to glance at the wall in the gallery, I might catch a reflection of light from a car windshield, through our front doors, and onto the entry wall.  Bell has often addressed these qualities of light in his work with glass—or his “Vapor Drawings”.

Or, I might be in Minneapolis, taking a tour of art museums.  I happened to glance at the intriguing surface of the Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron addition to the Walker Center.  I was scanning the raised surface of the perforated metal panels on the exterior.  There, amid the grid of the architects’ materials, was the outline of an early Larry Bell shape: the rectangle with corners sliced off—Bell’s precursor to the Cubes.

Sometimes the gallery seems to be an information kiosk.  Visitors ask all kinds of questions.  I’ve written about some behind-the-scenes topics on this blog in the past, including how our announcement photos are taken, and how I was introduced to ceramics.  But frequently I’ve also answered the question, “How did you become a dealer?”

I learned about the art business from lots of people, mostly dealers and artists in Los Angeles.  But, when pressed, I would have to say that the most influential was Jan Turner.  I had an entry-level job at her Janus Gallery, during the early 1980s.  I was the exhibition preparator.  It was during that time that I met Ed Moses, Peter Shire, and many other artists. It was at the Janus Gallery that I learned how to present an exhibition.

The Janus Gallery, in several locations over a fifteen-year period, exhibited paintings, sculpture, photography, and ceramics. The stylish and sophisticated Jan Turner showed paintings by Ed Moses and Carlos Armaraz, as well as the ceramic sculpture of Peter Shire, Elsa Rady, and Mineo Mizuno. This was in the context of the hippest architecture (Coy Howard designed the space), at openings that featured Hollywood’s “A” list, and to much critical acclaim. The risk taken was enormous. For one exhibit by Elsa Rady, architect Frederick Fisher designed the installation, special walls and fixtures were built, and the largest space in the gallery was dedicated to “Conjugations”—a series of works that grouped Rady’s vessels in oscillating, mutable forms.

From the beginning of the gallery, Turner promoted the work of Peter Shire. Shire’s playful architectonic works, rooted in constructivism but altered by bright color and a zany sense of humor, eventually became known internationally. His experiments with the teapot form bridged into the design world and their playful form adapted well in the postmodern world of architecture and design. So well, in fact, that they were featured in several magazines in the early 1980s, and one article caught the eye of Ettore Sottsass. Peter Shire was invited to join the Memphis Group, becoming the only American member of the European design team. Shire branched out into furniture design, worked in glass, and gained major sculptural commissions, but has since returned to ceramics on occasion.

The hallmarks of the Jan Turner years were exquisite presentation, and the paintings or sculpture were displayed in a perfect sequence, with just the right isolation. No expense was spared in lighting, pedestal design, or detail. As one might imagine, Jan presented herself with impeccable style as well—and still does. She was our guest at the opening of our Ed Moses show, with her daughter Aimee. I often think of how much I learned, over 25 years ago, from working in her gallery.