The Seminar: Introduction to Critical Looking: A Seminar for Thinking Photographers will be held at PCNW on Saturday, May 22nd from 11:00 am to 3:00 pm.

The Workshop: Critical Looking: The Art of Conscious Creativity will be held at PCNW on Sunday, May 23rd from 11:00 am to 4:30 pm. Enrollment is limited to 15.

Advanced Registration is available through PCNW or Crista. See you there!

I may as well get the title out of the way first by simply asking, “’Emerging’ from what?” This is a picky beginning, I know, but from a curatorial perspective it is important since the use of the term implies the curators are touting their ability to foretell the future. It is a sensibility born more from a marketing than an institutional perspective. The museum imprimatur and curatorial gravitas attached to this show advances the work of these eight artists as embodying the fully realized expressions of the direction(s) of photography in Southern California. Because of who they are, and where they work, the curatorial team cannot run away from the implication that their selections explicitly annoint these artists and the work they are creating as both important and worthy of watching as it matures. My most troubling question, therefore, is that as museum curators, at what point is the “team” blatantly contributing to the directions of artistic production instead of thoughtfully commenting upon them?

Next, I am troubled by the exhibition’s curatorial strategy that seems to stem from the “team’s” contention that the most intellectually challenging debates surrounding the making of art in Southern California are being held in the graduate art programs that ring the region. While their supposition may be true to the extent that this is where one might easily access such conversations, the LACMA curators make the fatal assumption that those between whom these discussions are being held (i.e. the recent graduate students who populate this show) have sufficient maturity, visual confidence, and intellectual prowess to make work that embodies and extends these ideas. Unfortunately, the curatorial selections for the exhibition prove this not to be the case. The exhibition is riddled with a student sensibility…even to the point of including thesis show work. Glimmers of insight seem too quickly doused by inclusions that at some turns are pedantic and at others merely petulant.

By putting this work forward in the context of an internationally attended festival showcasing contemporary U.S. photowork, the curators have rendered no service to their audience…or to their artists. As a baby museum curator I was rightly counseled that graduate work was not to be mined for collection or exhibition since there are just too many variables that enter into the creative mix. A graduate student’s creative process is one that is bolstered by artificial supports and shaped by the constant interjections of a resident creative community. I have learned that an artist’s true voice and work will only begin to coalesce after the scaffolding of a graduate program have been kicked away and a few projects have come and gone. It is then that the real work of being an artist begins. As “Team LACMA’s” efforts at Fotofest attest, a curator forgets this at his/her peril.

Natasha Egan from the Museum of Contemporary Photography in Chicago has mounted a wonderfully cohesive show at the Winter Street Studios: The Road to Nowhere? With a palpable sense of curatorial restraint, Natasha offers a show that challenges and rewards. She has chosen work that is pointed without being didactic, metaphoric without being obtuse, and accessible without being easy. If there were only one reason to see the show it would surely be the haunting and melancholy 3-channel video piece by Greg Stimac that features three white Ford Mustangs aggressively confronting the viewer with horns blaring until one by one, as batteries drain, the horns weaken and lapse into silence.

Medianation: Performing for the Screen has a lot to overcome: it is split between 3 venues, it is W-A-A-AY out there conceptually (by traditional Fotofest standards), and it is filled with artists whose last inclination is to be known as a photographer. In spite of these factors—or in some cases because of them—the show is smart, visually savvy, and a refreshing departure for this festival. Gilbert Vacario, curator at the Des Moines Art Center has pulled together a group of works that are elegant, gritty, thoughtful, whimsical, political and personal, and, somehow they coalesce into a show that is mostly rewarding, and always provocative. This is a show that needs to be experienced as if a single-day pilgrimage going from venue to venue. Somehow, driving, time, and distance become part of the fabric of the exhibition and contribute to the overall experience in a substantive way. Trust me…take the trek.

Whatever was Splendid: New American Photographs is housed at Fotofest’s Headquarters and curated by Aaron Schuman, founder of SeeSaw Magazine. While more uneven than the other two shows, it showcases well known work by Hank Willis Thomas and Todd Hido; Greg Stimac is again represented in this show with video and still work; but, the stand-out of this group effort is certainly the video piece Killcam (2008) by Richard Mosse which supports his still work. Mosse’s video features scenes of wounded vets from the current Iraqi/Afghan war playing Iraqi war-themed video games interspersed with actual targeted kill documentations from the same war. The effect is arresting, troubling, and incredibly effective.

Bravo, Wendy and Fred, for taking the risk of reinvigorating the festival with new voices, diverse sensibilities, and expanding parameters! Even when the results are not completely resolved, the conversations and ideas you have nurtured are mightily appreciated.

Over the next few days I will be driving throughout the city, seeing as many shows I can while still attempting to look at work at the Meeting Place. I am not an “official” reviewer this time around at the Meeting Place, but do a tremendous amount of “over the shoulder” work…that is to say I stand behind folks who are showing their portfolios to others, looking and listening, and if interested arrange to talk to the artist more after they are done with their presentation. This allows me the freedom of dipping in and out of only those sessions that interest me as well as giving me the opportunity to see so much more work than if I were on the official “20-minute treadmill.” (Thank you, Fred, Wendy, and Martha) Occasionally, I will catch up with an artist whose work I have reviewed in the past which lends a “homecoming” atmosphere to the process.

On a different track, and one that hold particular appeal to me as an EX-museum curator, are the opportunities to take in the exhibitions that have been mounted as the adhesive to bond the festival together. Like any set of festival exhibitions, the tend to address broad issues or open-ended themes…and like any set of festival exhibitions they purport to be very current. I saw three shows yesterday and will take in that many again today. I will be posting my thoughts about them here as the week goes on and after I have had a chance to think about what I have seen.

Stay tuned….

So, you may ask, what’s the connection between the hoarded essay and the three clumps of faux-foliage in by parents’ garage? The essay centered around a set of photographs by Meg Madison that traced the trajectories of the evergreen symbols of Yuletide AFTER the presents have been opened, AFTER they have been stripped of their finery, and AFTER they have morphed from the center of attention to an object of contention vis-à-vis their disposal–a project of Meg’s I always admired. It was the timing of the written piece that contributed to the huge emotional overlays that paralyzed its release: Meg was dealing with critical health issues and coincidentally, I was dealing with the recent loss of my mother from similar issues and the slow, though immanently fatal, decline of my father.

As a result of my chance encounter in the rafters, therefore, I have resurrected the essay from its archived-file tomb (it being almost Easter, after all) and am in the process of re-reading it. I may change a couple of things, though I doubt it. It is time to let it go. So with profound apologies to Meg for a tardiness that has taken on archeological dimensions, I will be posting it here in the near future: one more unforeseen dimension of the upcoming Estate Sale.

I diligently read the article which trotted out all the Journalism 101 tropes of setting up adversarial diatribes and sprinkling a few well-placed contextual and historical markers. I had hopes of ultimately encountering an objective point of view….and I am still hoping for that. Given the prominent space devoted to the article one might wonder why there was never any revelation, at the very least, of who had what to gain in all of the exchanges that were cited. Additionally, at what point does the writer and publisher of the article owe it to the reader to reveal whatever relationships they may have with the principals; in other words, how did they know there was a “story,” at all?

We may never know the answer to the latter. But, please, allow me to shed some light on the former:

What does the gallerist in Vancouver have to gain by Mr. Burdeny’s “show?” Sales come to mind…and this article in which she bulldoggedly stands up for her artist’s aesthetic integrity will do nothing if not bring a show that should have passed without notice more notoriety than it deserves, and thereby, perhaps, drive sales. Though it could certainly backfire: her clientele may catch on that she is pushing them to buy “art” that may be little more than technically proficient imagemaking. Did anyone check out the gallery website to see what her exhibition schedule looked like and who was being shown besides Mr. Burdeny? Enough said.

How about Mr. Burdeny? What did he have to gain? Well, he got the show, didn’t he? Again the backfire: Did anyone go on his website to see what else he has been making? YIKES! Mr. Burdeny may be a very competent technician making very nice images…but his work seems clearly about the view and not about IDEAS (from whomever they may come).

And Mr. Leong? Interestingly enough, as the aggrieved party he may come out of this looking the best and may also have the most to gain…if one were to quantify the punitive damages he may reap through the legal efforts of his Canadian attorney and the investigative research provided by Mr. Milo, or, more likely, an assistant.

So of the major players, this leaves only Mr. Milo. What could he possibly have to gain from the publication of an article on the front page of the Sunday Arts section in a major U.S. market that presents his artist as the supposed wronged party whose ideas have been usurped, his livelihood threatened…and his institutional affiliations and pedigree highlighted . Can you say advertising? Does anyone really think that the sale of pretty pictures in British Columbia will adversely impact Mr. Leong’s market as the writer teasingly suggests?  Sure, Mr. Milo may lose a “decorator” sale, but let’s be serious: those sales would never have been realized on the basis of a serious collecting decision, anyway. Mr. Milo has been successful in hawking Mr. Leong’s work to a few big collections and alot of little ones…how big are Mr. Leong’s editions, anyway? From the “evidence” cited by the writer, sounds like what really is at stake is a pissing contest between dealers with Mr. Milo (who is winning, by the way) more interested in protecting his income than his artist’s intellectual integrity.

All that said (and I feel so much better for having gotten it all off my chest), I guess the true reason this rant has kept my fingers moving is that the article, which is passing as Arts Coverage is more like a petulant first half of what may be a new television series: “Law & Order: SBA (selling bad art).” Shame on you, Ms. Arts Editor!

Stay tuned for my take on the real issues of this soap-opera, and what their implications may be.

To begin with, let me say that I learned the theoretical and practical ins and outs about mounting an exhibition from some amazing curators. From my graduate-school days at USC to the 14 years I spent at LACMA, my colleagues were never-ending sources of thought-provoking approaches to how—and in some cases, how NOT—to present objects so as to advance a thesis, clarify the understanding of an historical sweep, and contribute to the dialog of culture. Always true professionals, the examples they set made me a better curator and, more importantly, they made me a better AUDIENCE. So, you can imagine how hard it is for me to observe the poor use of exhibition space by curators whose “work” does a disservice both to the objects entrusted to their care and to the public.

It seems we are going through a time of extremes. Objects are either straight-jacketed into a one-dimensional programmed interaction with those in proximity, or they are place as if in some sort of vacuum. Don’t get me wrong, I am not asking for complete reverence to the objects and to the places in which they are exhibited….far from it. But, I am expecting a sense of restraint from intellectual hubris at one end of the spectrum and simplistic illustration at the other; in other words, I expect exhibition organizers to strike an appropriate balance between gilding and gelding the lily.

As curators, we are as duty-bound to present objects in the best manner possible in order to honor them for what they are on their own terms, as we are to maintain the utmost respect for the audiences we serve. The objects we are given to display and the places in which we display them must be approached on their own terms each time we approach a new idea and opportunity. It is our responsibility as collectors, organizers, and presenters of objects to never waiver in our respect for them. To tart them up and parade them around as if they were Astor’s pet goat does not do them justice. By the same token, to strand them in a dessicated wasteland of non-context strips them of their richness.

I must also note that I expect a refined skepticism from those who attend and critically view exhibitions—myself included. As audience, we also have a duty to the objects. On one hand it is our responsibility to approach them with an open mind and generosity of spirit coupled with our unique intellectual understanding and experience. We are charged with asking questions as well as learning from the objects and the environments in which they are placed

It is either a devious pandering or a dismissive priggishness on the part of exhibition organizers that has resulted in the current proclivity to impose trendy intellectual, conceptual, or educational models upon audiences. When trends tyrannize the richness of the objects we present and arrogance drives the use of exhibition spaces it is time to strike back. Perhaps it is time curators in ALL venues, large or small, were required to hold “office hours” in the spaces during the run of their shows in order to personally gauge the success of their endeavors. Moreover, perhaps they should be made to hold forth from the precarious seats of carnival dunking-tanks placed at the end of their exhibitions.

The life pictured between the brown leather covers of the family albums became the life I lived and remembered. And the images of my future that I would invent became predicated upon and formatted to be consistent with the carefully crafted and digested fictions of my mother’s photo albums. This process by which images become memories, memories become histories, and histories become the filter through which we ascribe meaning to the present is ever more complex the more images we absorb and the more people with whom we share them.

Suffice to say that my memories of my grandfather are purely visual memories. They are memories that I reinforced each time I sat as a child and pored over the thick and seemingly endless volumes of family photographs that my mother had accorded the greatest prestige by frequently admonishing: “If ANYTHING happens–fire, earthquake, or flood– the first things you grab are the photo albums and the movies.” I was never quite sure how bad the “anything” might have to be, but I do remember sleepless childhood nights running the drill in my mind in which I would suddenly awake (for the “anything” would invariably happen while I was asleep) and know exactly what to do: strip the cases off my pillows; stuff the precious items which were kept on the third shelf of the upper cupboard outside the room I shared with two older brothers into them; place them, making sure that they were all there, in the center of the bumpy orange bedspread that matched those of my brothers; then gather the corners of the spread and with a Herculean effort drag the precious bundle out of harm’s way. Because I was never terribly consistent in defining the “anything” situation, the outcome of the “rescue” was never completely clear either. The one constant was the cheering and applause I would imagine as I broke out of the confines of the house into the open air. What would shift night to night was the source of the accolades: some nights it would come from firemen, or policemen, sometimes soldiers, or even lifeguards; but always, the biggest of the uniformed chorus would lift me and my memories into his strong arms and crush me against his chest…not a picture that would have been found in my family albums.