Sunday, October 28, 2012

Todd Slaughter's "American Primitives:" Art and Argument

Tod Slaughter, Domestic Fortress, 2002. Silicone, polycarbonate,
polyurethane hybrid domestic duck and swan body/beak forms, motor.
11' x 5'6" x 6'6." Author photo.
The boldness of conception; the fecundity and aptness of imaged ideas; the variety of materials; the perfections of fabrication: All these make Todd Slaughter's "American Primitives" a show with unusual visual clarity and impact. The work of the Ohio State University professor will continue at the Canzani Center Gallery of the Columbus College of Art and Design through November 8. It is a show to see, even as a lesson in art installation. It's presented with discerning appreciation for the theatricality of Slaughter's sculptures and installations. The use of the gallery spaces, the wall colors, and lighting entirely support the intensity and strangeness of his work. The whole can be a satisfying, integrated experience of art.
Todd Slaughter, Domestic Fortress,
2002. Author photo.

The gallery-dominating "Domestic Fortress" is a jaw-dropper. It stands alone, a deep blood-red farm complex atop a monumental, slowly rotating cake stand with surface composed of silicone mixed raspberries and blueberries. The farm is guarded by three gargantuan ducks (or swans?) in aggressive poses, with wings unfurled. In spite of the silliness culturally associated with ducks and geese, these have the terrifying presence of mythological scourges—of the basilisk, or chimera. In the dark, spot-lit gallery, the oddness of the scene is secondary even to its creepiness. The slow rotation makes it impossible to elude the monstrous ducks on the unnervingly straight, regular architecture. The buildings are so harmonious that they seem like plastic toys—would they handle like Monopoly hotels if we could lift them? 
Todd Slaughter, Domestic Fortress, 2002.
Author photo.

Why is this rural enclave dished up like a scrumptious dessert in a pastry shop window? The tableau suggests the perfect Linzer torte or chocolate cake with berry sauce, tempting us to salivate and buy. Yet we are driven away from the very desire it is fashioned to create in us by the hostile, hissing farmyard birds.

"Domestic Fortress" measures 11 feet by 5.5 by 6.5 feet: It makes the viewer feel small, for the plate/platform is high and those menacing birds are uncomfortably in one's face as they pass slowly by: They do their job by forcing the viewer to retreat from getting a close look. You can't have this dream. But somebody does: Who inhabits a world on a pedestal? Who claims this American dream for their private property? (And what has it got to do with the title, American Primitives?)
Todd Slaughter, Red Ridinghood
Stand,
2002. Painted fiberglass and
reconfigured metal hunting stand.
11' x 9' x 9.' Author photo.
"Red Ridinghood Stand" also rises high above the viewer. I simply did not know how to react to this. Rather, I had to sort through an onslaught of competing reactions from amused to horrified—a situation I like to find myself in. 

The red cape is huge, bright, and fixed forever in such a perky drape, with its hem furled and hood jauntily peaked, its bow evenly and brightly tied. It suggests a dreamy, Disney gaiety. By the same token, though, it might suggest stupid, naive confidence, the kind that makes a girl vulnerable, a sitting duck for a predator.
Todd Slaughter, Red Ridinghood Cape, 2002.
Author photo.

But if the cheerful drapery signals simplicity, its situation over a hunting stand is certainly an ironic camouflage. What does it mean to hide the hunter under a girl's cape? To my mind, Slaughter gives us a sick irony, the hunter in the little girl's clothing, the predator assuming the guise of innocence. He reinforces this message with strong design: The flowing triangular shapes in the cape are mirrored by the rigid triangles in the construction of the stand. The stand pushes up into the "little girl" (whose shape would be lost without the structure) and possesses her. I found this work alarming and sinister and fascinating, the more so for having its impact dawn on me slowly: Good work!
Todd Slaughter, Safe Alone,  2002. Cast graphite,
polycarbonate sheet, felt, aluminum, DVD video,
modified wooden chair. 11' x 6' x 5.' Author photo.

"Safe Alone" occupies its own, midnight black gallery. To go in is to remember visits to scary houses of horror: I dare you! The blue-illuminated, translucent structure floats miasma-like about and away from the viewer: You have to walk what feels like a distance into the room to achieve it. The four-square construction is like the toy-house build of the "Domestic Fortress" structures—just a little too realistic.

Upon approach, one finds that there's an entrance to this house on the lower level. There's a chair in there, and I felt no hesitation about occupying it. Something was going on, for there were sounds, like people moving in the non-existent upstairs. Once I entered, I found that the space around me was hollow: I looked up only to the rafters and the translucent roof.
Todd Slaughter, Safe Alone, 2002.
Author photo.

Since Slaughter describes it perfectly in the show's catalogue (to which I'll return), I'll simply quote his description:

"Projected into the interior through the translucent roof is a video of an increasing number of silhouetted visitors pressing together to form a dense crowd on the roof, blotting out the light projected within, while the sounds of the crowd's restlessness become progressively louder. The gallery visitor sits alone within the felt-padded house sheathed with pairs of cast graphite fists until the video culminates in a total blackening out of both the projection and the entire gallery room."
Todd Slaughter, Safe Alone, 2002. Video projection of human forms
onto roof of house, seen from inside. Author photo.

I had a strong physical response to this piece, both as visual art and as theater. My breathing grew short, my muscles tensed in anxiety. The sense of claustrophobia was unnervingly genuine. Why was I so frightened? Who were these looming people? I had all the information to know where I was and the nature of the illusions. Yet Slaughter had created the circumstances in which fear overcame sense, even for a sophisticated viewer in a fine art setting. He certainly connected to the primitive in me.

But here I pause to explain about American Primitive's beautifully printed, full-color catalogue from which I quote, above; it is available for free at the door. The major works in the show are generously illustrated from several points of view; they are described; and for each, Slaughter makes a comment. Furthermore, there are two good essays: the introductory "Bad Blood," by Canzani's Director of Exhibitions and the show's curator, Michael Goodson; and "The Foul Reign of Emerson's 'Self-Reliance," by novelist and essayist, Benjamin Anastas.
Todd Slaughter, Safe Alone, 2002. Video projection of human forms
onto roof of house, seen from inside. Author photo.

It is inevitable that visitors will pick up the catalogue and refer to it (even I who like to "go it alone" couldn't resist the beautiful piece). Finding that it has remarks from Slaughter that "explain" the works makes it a guide that fills in the gap left by the general lack of labels in the show. The only signs are occasional quotations from the Ralph Waldo Emerson essay that Anastas inveighs against, "Self-Reliance." 

The material in this catalogue—either essay independently, Slaughter's comments alone, but certainly the whole package—leaves close to no room for independent viewer experience or assessment of these stunning works. For instance, of "Red Ridinghood Stand," Slaughter's remark is that it is, "a rejection of Red Riding Hood's passivity. It is a pre-emptive strike; she will not be ambushed."

What? Of course, this is what Slaughter means. But for an artist thus to interpret his work for the audience is to encourage passivity in the audience. I bothered to grapple with what I saw, only to reach the opposite conclusion. But with the artist's interpretation in hand, how many viewers will bother to think it through? Slaughter gives an interpretation for each work included, radically undermining the viewer's reason for being there. 

The anxiety to explain the show through the essays feels wrong too, even as stimulating as the essays are in themselves. Goodson explains Slaughter's real-life failure to find natural sanctuary in the Emersonian/Thoreauvian tradition we have all grown up with. Instead, he's found that the get-away to nature offers not comprehensive solitude, but threat from survivalists, paranoid isolationists, and others who have taken the idea of self-reliance to anti-social extremes.
Todd Slaughter, Romance with an American Loner, 2011.
Printed paper and chair. 48" x 60" x 30." Author photo.
Catalogue copy suggests link with story of Eric Rudolph,
 Atlanta Olympic Park bomber and survivalist

Slaughter and Anastas link this threatening contemporary experience of nature to our unthinking reverence for Emerson's famous essay, the specifics of which are belabored by  Anastas. The words in the catalogue fashion t this into a polemical show focused on debunking the pernicious influence of "Self-Reliance."

I wonder why the title of the show neglects the opportunity to signal the relationship that  the printed material insists on between the work and Emersonian thought. But even there, Slaughter doesn't seal the package, for the key word  "primitive" doesn't immediately suggest either self-reliance, individualism, or isolationism.

That the show is visually unified by themes of isolation, self-protection and paranoia is certainly borne out in the work. But that the show is an exposition of the deficiencies in one author's essay (or even in his philosophy as a whole) is forced unnaturally on the art works. The association between Emersonian folly and its consequences in today's survivalist-type movements is thought-provoking and tantalizing; it's a valid underpinning for Slaughter's work. But the artworks themselves have brilliant presence, which is reduced by insistence on a narrowly-described intellectual agenda. Even the expression, "self-reliance" never appears nor is made concrete anywhere in the show.

I like art's ability to be evocative, to complicate an issue, or to open things up. This disembodied focus on "Self-Reliance" is narrowing. Should art be argument about intellectual issues? Sure; why not? Art can be anything. 

What art should not be is unitary. It can't leave the viewer believing that it means This, especially because "the Artist said so." The artist is often the last to know what he or she has wrought and how far its implications extend. An artist concerned to explain work in case visitors "don't get it", may as well be a pamphleteer. Expository statements eliminate any illusion viewers may have that their presence,  attention, or interpretations have any but the most clinical, distant impact on the conversation and importance of art. We go to a gallery to interact with the work of artists, not of professors.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Kojo Kamau: "Artistic Impressions With Historical Significance Documenting Home And Far Away Places"

Kojo Kamau, Elijah Pierce. Courtesy of the artist.
Kojo Kamau was my subject once before, when I was writing artist profiles for Columbus Monthly magazine, and he was the 2007 recipient of the prestigious Ohioana Career Award for "outstanding professional accomplishment in arts and humanities." In receiving the prize, he joined a group that includes Suzanne Farrell, Arthur Schlesinger Jr., Aminah Robinson, Toni Morrison, Lillian Gish, and Burgess Meredith. Kojo, as he is known at home, studied photography at Columbus College of Art and Design, which prepared him for his professional career in the Air Force and, later, as chief medical photographer at the Ohio State University Hospital. He created and occupied the position of staff photographer for the Columbus Symphony.

But this month, in a career retrospective at the Shot Tower Gallery at Fort Hayes in Columbus, Kojo tells his own story visually in a way fuller, more elegant, and with more dignity than it's likely any writer can. Through the range and quality of his vision one gains not only memorable images, but a memorable look at a human being whose art gives the just measure of his character.


Kojo Kamau, Aminah Robinson. Courtesy of the artist.
Kojo was born into the Jones family and received the name of Bob Jr. He chose an African name in 1970: "Kojo" for "unconquerable," "Kamau" for "quiet one," thereby demonstrating what one sees in his work: confidence and self-knowledge. While he is a commercial photographer of great enterprise who supports himself by his work, among Columbus's artists, he is the legatee of Elijah Pierce. He seamlessly assumed the role of generous teacher, mentor, advocate, and organizer, particularly for a generation of African-American artists. Kojo founded the community-based Action for Community Expression (ACE), which encouraged African-American participation in the arts, a profoundly effective and influential group. Still, many credit him personally with helping them find arts careers they would otherwise never have dreamed. Kojo and Aminah Robinson both knew and learned from Pierce; both have in turn inspired the next generation of Columbus artists with respect like they received from the generation before them (see Starr Review, "Aminah Robinson's Oral History for the Hard of Hearing," May 2012.)


Kojo Kamau, Rusty Bryant. Courtesy of the artist.
Over his career, Kojo has documented hundreds of artists in all genres. He's memorialized Columbus's very rich legacy of mid- and late-twentieth century artists and performers (these include keyboardists Hank Marr, Bobby Floyd, and Aaron Diehl; and outsider artist William Hawkins) as well as anyone who came or comes to town (Count Basie, Lionel Hampton, Abbey Lincoln, Muhammed Ali, Spike Lee).

Kojo's portraits of artists certainly document a large part of his own heart— his own conviction that the arts are central and vital to everyday human experience; that economic and social status shouldn't affect access to participation in arts, either as creator or audience. 

Kojo's images never show artists as alien, or above the viewer, however they are costumed or wherever they stand. He conveys a familiar essence, enhanced by his own way of polishing the individual's particular personality. You realize that these people are special, but they are not glamorous as much as they command our respect for their vision and accomplishment. We recognize that they are cut from the same, human cloth that we are. That's why we admire them so much: It's seeing our similarities with them that makes their art so wonderful and valuable.
Kojo Kamau, Smoky Brown (outsider artist). Courtesy of the artist.
Kojo Kamau, Stormy Sunday (BW). Courtesy of the artist.

Portraits of Columbus artists form one aspect of Kojo's greater, comprehensive portrait of the city, and his self-portrait as a native and citizen of this place. Ever since his student days, city scenes have articulated his pride, pleasure, and hopes for this community. (see Starr Review, "Location, Location, Location! Cityscapes of Harvey Gilliam and Kojo Kamau," February 2012.) Many of his photographs of downtown take advantage of the classic urban elements of skyscrapers against a brilliant horizon, handsome spans across a broad, curving  river that mirrors and extends the height of the buildings on its banks: Columbus, seen from the west, provides those classic elements of urban beauty that should, I imagine, make the heart of any native photographer glow. He has often created distinctive works of elegance from Scioto River views.


Kojo Kamau, Progress 2: Fort Hayes Hotel, 1977.
Courtesy of the artist.
But Kojo has not only documented urban pin-ups with contrasting hard edges—like the Afro-American neighborhood dispossessed by the construction of freeway that guillotined it from Downtown—but he has also invoked through a series of wonderfully succinct images, the Progress series, the ironies of social and political forces competing to shape and define an ever-better city. These may be the images that most truly illustrate the photographer's intimacy with the city not simply as a subject, but as self. Striking as the contrast (visual and emotional) of Progress 2 may be, the close detail of the rubble, falling out from the old hotel virtually into our laps, is striking and poignant. 

The viewer cannot tell from the picture alone what the Fort Hayes Hotel looked like—whether it was a monstrosity whose time had long since come, or whether it was a landmark it was criminal to destroy. The detail itself is what matters, especially compared to the sleek, simple lines of the modern tower beyond. The accumulation of information from the old building speaks to experience, time, and history themselves, even without any evaluative overlay of aesthetics or sentiment. The Fort Hays Hotel endured. It was always there; a fact of the city. As such, it was part of the life of Kojo and all others who spent their lives in Columbus. The destruction of a familiar, old building goes beyond civic, temporal value into its value as embodied memory for those who have moved through and around it ; those who know the city's geography by its presence, and who will be made strangers by its absence.

Such images of upheaval in his Progress series, all of which portray the destruction of something in the manmade landscape, are among the most poignant in Kojo's work, which abounds in images of people of all levels of social standing all around the world, particularly the African diaspora. Wherever he shoots people, he shoots from the heart, and his camera, like his eye, finds only dignity in emotion common to people everywhere, in every culture.
Kojo Kamau, Moton Field. Courtesy of the artist.
Sorrow, despair, regret—nostalgia, even—never have human faces in his work. He has photographed the Lorraine Motel in Memphis where Martin Luther King was murdered, with no one in the frame—only the rooms, his balcony, and a commemorative marker. His image of Moton Field at Tuskegee Institute is similarly taciturn. He withholds pride and the intrinsic sorrows of war and segregation for his viewers to experience. His faith is in the symbols, and in the viewer's ability to identify and absorb them; then to experience the emotion the more powerfully for owning it. Note, however, that here he combines black and white with minimal color. It is a very calm, understated photograph, but the airplane's markings are in color; the plane steps up to deliver the soliloquy on a low-lit stage.


Kojo Kamau, Heads High. Group of photos from Ivory Coast, Brazil, etc. Courtesy of the artist.
Kojo's respect for every person he photographs is radiantly clear. He has traveled very extensively (not only in Africa and the Diaspora; the current show includes haunting photographs from travels in Switzerland, for example) . In Africa, he has photographed people in scenes that would be difficult for Westerners to obtain. But anyone who spends a few minutes in conversation with Kojo quickly learns how he gets the pictures he does: He is calm and quiet, gracious and smiling and has nothing at all pushy about him. So while it is the custom in West Africa that one not photograph strangers, he nevertheless has beautiful images of people at daily tasks. He reminds me that groups are easier to capture than individuals, but we agree that it requires a selfless invisibility to take such pictures. 
Kojo Kamau, Marketplace. Group of photos from Ivory Coast, Senegal, etc. Courtesy of the artist.

In Kojo's case, he does not have to take on this invisible quality; nor does he acquire it as a matter of his skin color, for the differences between African-Americans and Africans are obvious to both. It is simply a matter, if you will, of inherently fine human manners. The imagination that makes the artist and puts him in the subject's shoes is the same that makes the man and puts him in another man's shoes. Thus, in his pictures from non-industrialized countries, where Westerners are prone to think of people first through concerns about standards of living, wealth and poverty, health and disease, Kojo means to capture—and does capture—people obsessed with none of the above, but with the normal duties, dreams, and emotions of their real, daily lives.


Kojo Kamau, Run Jesse. Courtesy of the artist.
Through this lens Kojo has long documented American political figures and political campaigns. He has an impressive collection of Presidents both as candidates and as elected heads of state taken as they've come through Columbus, and also at party conventions. In this show, pictures of Jimmy Carter and Lyndon Johnson are particularly striking. 

Kojo's images of politicians are positive: He figures them as the hope of the people in a democracy; as those who should, will, and do represent the citizenry. This category of picture may have ironies in it—a drunk sprawled on the steps of Madison Square Garden while Democratic convention-goers walk, unseeing, over and around him—but he does not portray a black-hearted political system. He portrays politicians and/or citizens with heart. He shows presidential candidates surrounded by voters, by enthusiasm, by a sense of people excited by and committed to government by responsible leaders. His photographs of African-American political figures especially are of strong, polished people, always elevated and always smiling: Ready and able.
Kojo Kamau, On the Road #65 (Michelle Obama). Courtesy of the artist.

Kojo's retrospective closes on November 2. It offers many images beautiful, exciting, wry, or uplifting, any one of which is worth a visit on its own merits. But I love the portrait of the artist and his vision of the world that emerge from the show. He shows us a place where people are indeed endowed with equal rights by virtue of common needs, activities, and desires.

It's a world with important roles for leaders. He believes that people with singular gifts can inspire us; that we bear with these people special relationships of respect on the one side and responsibility on the other. Kojo's political portraits emphasize the intensity of the connection between people and their leaders. His portraits of artists, pictured in their singularity, show the strains of work and thought on their faces, the weight of the responsibility they bear for their humane efforts.


Kojo Kamau, On the Road #62. Courtesy of the artist.
While Kojo documents a wide selection of subjects and experiences, his body of work adds up to one man very clearly defined, not only by his talent and his eye, but by his caring, hopeful, and pragmatic intuitions about a decent world.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Robert Stivers: Veiled Images at the Akron Art Museum






Robert Stivers, "O"#74," 2000.
Toned gelatin silver print.
 20 x16 in.
Gift of George Stephanopoulos,
 Akron Art Museum.
Courtesy of the Akron Art Museum

There is everything to absorb, fascinate and engage the visitor to the single gallery to Robert StiversVeiled Image at the Akron Art Museum. This photography show remains in place until mid-January, 2013. For Ohioans or western Pennsylvanians, this is good news, for the show is a loitering, contemplative one that can only ripen with multiple viewings. It gets under your skin and makes you wonder about your memory: Did you really see what you thought you did? What is the line between the personal emotion and recollected imagery Stivers evokes in his viewer, and what actually hangs there, printed on paper behind glass, protected by guards? In this "black and white" work with its broad palette of neutrals and grays, Stivers arranges remarkably plastic imagery. It reaches the depths of the mind before the eye can even focus on the content of the framed picture. The act of focusing only describes the content as a dictionary defines a word for a translator of poetry in a foreign language.

Installation view, Robert Stivers: Veiled Image, Akron Art Museum, July 28, 2012 through January 20, 2013.
Courtesy, Akron Art Museum. 











Robert Stivers, FIC-Baby, 2000.
Toned gelatin silver print, 20 x 16 in.
Gift of Noemi and Daniel Mattis, Akron Art Museum.

Courtesy, Akron Art Museum

Veiled Image is an experience of forty individual photographs; of photographs the artist has purposefully clustered in groups; of photographs in a shadowed, story-telling room, where the story has a settled sequence, but no words. The story is what the viewer calls from personal recesses that Stivers' photographs stimulate by caress, innuendo, and fleeting pulses of electric current, all generated by his isolating composition. His subjects are human, natural, architectural, and interiors of rooms. But none of these is ever presented whole, nor is any presented entirely in focus. He distances the viewer from every shot, even (or especially) those that he brings us closest to by filling the frame. This technique is often used by photographers to make us feel that we can inspect the finest details of the pictured subject. Stivers strips away the illusion and reminds us that when we are very close, it can be impossible to focus. We respond to his work as consummate "art" photography, but in this, as in other techniques, he is in fact, realistic.

Each photograph is a highly composed tableau of great formal beauty. Each image is set like a jewel against a carefully toned background and, like the jewel, it is the only focal point within the frame. There is no competition for our attention; he gives us one event in each picture. Because of its singularity, the soft particularity of its arrangement, color, edge, and degrees of contrast each takes on great significance. When the picture is, as several are, grotesque, it can frighten us and send us scrambling for a context in which we can mute its impact. 

Robert Stivers, Head with Open Mouth, from Series 5, 1995.
Gelatin silver print, 20 x 16."
Gift of George Stephanopoulos, Akron Art Museum.

Courtesy, Akron Art Museum.

This search for context ultimately drives the whole show. It's Stivers' device for turning us in upon ourselves, because the only context that we'll find is the one we create as we follow the numbered sequence of surprising images that leads us around the room.

An image like Head with Open Mouth is a fine example of the several levels of disorientation into which Stivers can draw us. What is the context of this image coming as it does late in the series, after the many others we have seen—figurative, architectural; ambiguous in threat, sexual content, placement in time or period?

But we're disoriented within the frame as well. Who—or even, what?—is depicted? Is he or she a contortionist? Are the limbs from one person or two? Is the expression the result of torture? Of song? Only our own fears and imaginations can determine the answers, or we must find the fortitude to accept not knowing.

Stivers is a self-taught photographer, a darkroom perfectionist who prints his work on matte papers. His academic training through a master's degree was in dance, which he practiced as dancer and choreographer into the 1980's when his career was ended by injury. After a stint in the business world (he became a stockbroker and insurance agent), he found a new creative home in photography, which he has pursued since 1988. His figurative photographs often depict himself or friends from the world of dance.
Palm Trees #1, from Series 8, 2002. Gelatin silver print.

Gift of Mark Reichman, Akron Art Museum. 
Courtesy,
Akron Art Museum

Stivers' deep association with dance sensitizes me to another distinguishing aspect of all his work, with or without figures in it. While the show in general has the sense of being very still, in fact, every frame captures something in the middle of motion. At the simplest level, Stivers' love of soft-focus blurring can be interpreted as motion, as a transitional state on the way to precision. In the photo above, FIC-Baby, the cropped view isn't necessarily the end of a process: Since the image is unfocused, possibly the lens is still moving in, on the way to a visual goal we don't foresee it trying to reach.

In Palm Trees, #1, the movement of the trees is obvious: Not only the leaves, but the trunks have the stuttering appearance that time-exposure captures. We can not see the wind, but we can see its effects on the trees. Oddly, though, we don't see the effect of the wind on the clouds, which appear stationary by comparison with the twitching trees. In a brief time-exposure, this would be the case, but the effect is disconcerting. The subconscious accepts that we blend temporal units that awareness rigidly separates (e.g., duration, immediacy). In memory and in imagination, we barely make distinctions of time at all.
Wrapped Woman, One Eye, from Series 5, 1994.

Gelatin silver print. 20 x 16 in.

Gift of James Bogin, Akron Art Museum.
Courtesy, Akron Art Museum


I cannot pin down a particular cast of characters from among the faces we see in this show, but through the faces—some from sculpture or two-dimensional art, others from live models—we pass back and forth between historical periods; we are sometimes left between them, or in a zone freed of chronological placement all together. When we are left beyond clock time, we are given the power to locate the story somewhere other than Earth. Photos of women's faces illustrate this point, being figures we know and don't know, women we have seen, but whether in the flesh, in still art, cinema, or dreams it may be difficult to know. Whether we know them from Stivers' life or our own is, in itself, difficult to sort out.





Portrait of a Woman-R, from Series 5,
1997. Gelatin silver print. 20 x
16 in. Gift of James Bogin,
Akron Art Museum.

As dancers pirouette or leap across a stage, we long to be able to stop their motion, just for an instant at least, so we can linger in adoration over the powerful lines their bodies draw, and can rejoice over the exquisite blend of fantasy and sweat. If only we could hold them there, just for a moment.

Very often, good art tempts its audience with desires to come closer, to inhabit or to possess the art they see and admire. Sculpture galleries and galleries displaying material culture in museums—furnishings, pottery, glass, jewelry—are all accented with signs reminding visitors, "Do Not Touch!" because it is so tempting to do just that.


Stivers' photographs are enticing that way. We want to touch the photographs not as much as we want access to the deeply personal secrets they hold. The artist's composition and techniques create a veritable gingerbread house of temptations. We want to come so close that we can reach through his illusions, to possess the secrets, the meanings; to see through the haze, to focus through the blur, to apprehend what only by a little bit eludes us. "I am so close," he makes us feel. It's the feeling I have when I'm awakened by an alarm from an involved and desperate dream, one that I'm certain is loaded with portent; in the moment lost to the alarm, my hand would have moved through unfathomable time, into certainty, and would have illuminated what success it was that I ached for in my sleep.

Robert Stivers, Head in Mirror, 2002. Toned gelatin print,
20 x16 in. Gift of Noemi and Daniel Mattis, Akron Art Museum.
Courtesy, Akron Art Museum.



I want to put my hand through the mirror to affirm that the head is mine. Head in Mirror makes the distance clear and the foreground blurry, so it feels like reality is indeed beyond the mirror. That head is surely waiting for me; or it may very well be me.  My eyes tell me that it is a block head; that it's a mannequin, carved from wood. But something makes me want to identify the beautiful, ornamental frame as my own vision. It's the love with which I see my resting self, the care and concern I have for that beloved, bald blockhead. Does this mirror reflect my heart? Predict my desire? Or project my vision into another state of mortal life?




Grouped photographs in installation of Robert Stivers: Veiled Image at Akron Art Museum, July 28, 2012 - January 20, 2013