Guns and bombs. The bloody war in Iraq rages on, with no end in sight. Americans are concerned, outraged, fearful and bewildered. Do we send in more troops or bring our soldiers home?
If you need a break from blustering politicians and loudmouthed talk show hosts telling you what to think, march over to the Nott Memorial and spend some quiet time with “Armed.”
Selected by The Gazette as one of the best art shows in the Capital Region in 2006, “Armed” is an exhibit about how we think about weapons, with contemporary artworks by nine individual artists, an art duo called Type A and Associated Artists for Propaganda Research.
There are darkly humorous comic strips by cartoonist David Rees, whose controversial anti-Bush administration images have swept the Internet; Susan Graham's exquisitely delicate machine gun made of sugar; and Kristin Oppenheim's glass hand grenades, as stunning as the finest Waterford crystal. Troy artist Michael Oatman amuses us with witty collages in which birds are armed with machine guns, and Gregory Green gives us goosebumps with sculptures that are actual working models of bombs made by terrorists, minus the explosive material.
Six of the artists, including Rees, Green and Oatman, will be at the Nott for a panel discussion from 4:30 to 7:30 p.m. Thursday, Jan. 25. The artists will take turns talking about their work and then answer questions from the audience.
OPEN-ENDED SHOW
“Armed,” which opened Oct. 26, is perfectly timed for the current crisis in Iraq, but the exhibit is really more open-ended, says Rachel Seligman, the other curator and director of the Nott's Mandeville Gallery.
“It would have been timely five years ago, too,” says Seligman, referring to the 9/11 terrorist attack.
“Armed” could be about American attitudes toward guns or whether it's safe to walk in downtown Schenectady, she says. “Or you could look at it theoretically. Why are we attracted to weapons? What is the repulsion-attraction? Guns are symbols of power.” Seligman and Wasserman want viewers to draw their own conclusions. “We didn't want to be too political or preachy,” Seligman says. And the curators selected the works for more than their messages. “Aesthetically, they had to measure up,” Seligman says.
“Armed” definitely targets American attitudes. “All of the artists live in the United States, a country that not only manufactures the most weapons in the world, but also produces a popular culture saturated with violence,” an opening panel states.
But for those readers who may throw this page onto the floor, dismissing the show as anti-gun propaganda, consider that one of the artists, Michael Millspaugh, owns guns and grew up hunting.
“Retrofit Rifles” is a Millspaugh's collection of 12 small drawings, sculptures and dioramas in which missing parts from guns are replaced with twigs from trees and plants. Guns are just a part of American life, the artist seems to say, like granddad's dusty rifle over the fireplace. Then again, for this viewer, his work recalls the iconic 1960s image of the Vietnam War protester sticking a flower in the barrel of a soldier's gun.
And what about Robert Beck's work? In a rustic frame made from real deer hooves, Beck presents a 1968 family photo of his brother, little sister and himself, standing in front of a Christmas tree, each of them holding a brand-new rifl e.
Just past a sign warning visitors about the “f-word,” the exhibit opens with stinging, satirical cartoons by Rees, images that have been enlarged and screen printed in blood-red ink. In cartoon bubbles, generic men and women in an office setting nonchalantly converse about current affairs. In a chat about the war against terrorism, a character quips: “Remember when the U.S. had a drug problem and then we declared a war on drugs and now you can't buy drugs anymore? It will be just like that.”
Rees is the author of the comicstrip book “Get Your War On.” His cartoons (www.mnftiu.cc) have made him an international sensation, and the off-Broadway production “Get Your War On,” based on his cartoons, is currently playing through Jan. 28.
Graham's intricate snow-white creations are astounding in their craftsmanship, and we puzzle how sugar and porcelain can look as if it was woven or crocheted. But these are not wedding cakes or baby blankets. They are detailed models of guns. Triggering thoughts of purity and innocence, Graham devalues the objects' associations with destruction and death.
Conversely, Graham and Oppenheim's objects cannot escape their powerful symbolism.
Oppenheim's seven glass grenades, complete with pins to pull and “explode” them are fragile, clear, light-catching forms, but somehow they seem dangerous. Senseless as it is, we are relieved that these guns and grenades are safely enclosed in glass display cases.
Thousands of tiny plastic toy soldiers hang on the wall, tightly packed together, their feet stuck to the canvas, in Margaret Roleke's “Moving the Men.” From a distance, it's a mesmerizing tapestry in camouflage colors, while at close range, it's a deadly, ridiculous game in which anonymous soldiers, identical except for their yellow, beige, gray and green uniforms; probe and attack each other.
From Graham, Oppenheim and Roleke, we move to more aggressive artworks made by men, which may or may not be a coincidence.
An astute observer of violence and power, Green has been building bomb sculptures for 20 years, long before al-Qaida was a household word. Through glass cases, we stare and shudder at Green's book bomb, suitcase bomb and pipe bomb, made from instructions he found on the Internet, in the library and the corner store. Shockingly simple, crafted from common kitchen timers, wire and batteries, they are disturbing and fascinating in a voyeuristic way.
VIDEO WORK
It's difficult to figure which is more unnerving, the sound or the sight of “Point,” a video work by Type A, artists Andrew Bordwin and Adam Ames, who are known for works that explore male bonding and men's games.
The only video work in the show, “Point” is behind a closed door in the windowed cubicle at the far end of the gallery.
Like the Russian Roulette scene in the movie “The Deer Hunter,” we are drawn into a tense, maddening torture exercise in which a splayed hand rests unmoving on a flat surface as another hand quickly and rhythmically jabs an ice pick between the fingers. At any second, we expect to see the ice pick miss its mark, to see blood and hear pain. The video is an endless loop, a stab perhaps at the idea of the neverending human compulsion to hurt one another.
To be fair, Oatman is a guy, yet his collage works belong more in the deceptive beauty category.
As you enter the Nott, pause on its mosaic floors, and gaze up into the second-floor gallery, you are intrigued by what looks like an oriental rug, in rich warm colors, hanging on a panel. When you go stairs and stand within six feet of the artwork, the illusion is shattered as you see that the intricate pattern is made with paper cutout shapes of airplanes and tanks. Oatman's title is tricky, too. It's called “Flying Carpet – kilium,” which could mean “killing 'em” or “killim,” a patterned wool rug made in Turkey and the Middle East.