Wing Luke Museum , Seattle, Washington Continues through May 11, 2025   Takuichi Fujii, “Minidoka,” no date, montage with fence and landmarks, watercolor on paper. Courtesy collection of Sandy and Terry Kita, copyright the artist. After she served as curator at the Seattle and Tacoma Art Museums and executive director of Pilchuck Glass School, Dr. Barbara Johns turned to independent work on a forgotten chapter of Pacific Northwest art history: the Japanese American artists who were interned during World War II. The epitome of her research to date, after — resulting in several exhibitions and studies, is the exhibition and publication, “Side by Side: Nihonmachi Scenes.” Building on books she has already written on Paul Horiuchi (1906-1999), Takuichi Fujii (1891-1964) and Kamekichi Tokita (1897-1948), Johns has assembled a tightly focused but deeply interesting group of paintings done before the 1942-45 internment. We see street scenes and portraits from Seattle’s shrinking Japantown, or “Nihonmachi,” the area between Jackson and Weller Streets on one side, and Fifth and Twelfth Avenues on the other. Besides homes, the district featured community social centers, hotels, language schools, restaurants, grocery and clothing stores.   Besides two of her previous book subjects, Tokita and Fujii, Kenjiro Nomura (1896-1956) completes the trio of “Side by Side” artists. Tokita and Nomura were business partners in their No-To Sign Painting Company. Fujii would meet up with them on Sundays to paint street scenes before they all joined the New Deal predecessor to the WPA, the Public Works Administration (PWA). Fully integrated into Seattle’s Asian American communities (Chinese, Filipino, Pacific Islanders), the three artists were invited to become part of the Group of Twelve, a mixed-race circle of artists who formed the core of the city’s elite painters and which included University of Washington faculty members and one of the Big Four “mystics,” Kenneth Callahan.   Takuichi Fujii, title page of diary, ca. 1942-45, ink on paper, 8 x 5 1’2”. Courtesy of Sandy and Terry Kita Collection. All went well until 1942, with the issuance of Executive Order 9066 ordering the evacuation and internment of all Japanese-American citizens within 500 miles of the Pacific Coast. Johns includes Tokita’s and Fujii’s wartime diaries (both of which she edited) in a display case (both of which she edited) and displays photo-reproduced pages of their impressions of the camps. All three were confined for the duration of the war. Afterwards, Tokita and Nomura returned to Seattle while Fujii moved to Chicago.   The majority of the works on view are striking fin the apparent similarity among the three artists. They often painted the same street scene together. For example, two untitled works from the 1930s by Fujii and Nomura depict a stretch of Fifth Avenue north of Yesler Way, the original Skid Row. Tokita’s views of Fourth Avenue and Washington Street, Fourth Avenue and the Yesler Way overpass (with its Texaco sign), and the Seattle Art Museum collections of “Billboards” (1932) consistently evoke Edward Hopper and early Stuart Davis. Nomura’s “Street” (1937) is a Yesler Way view which won the Baker purchase award at the Seattle Art Museum’s Northwest Annual, and other works such as “Puget Sound” (1933) were acquired by Tacoma Art Museum. Nomura’s “Yesler Way” (1934) completes the trio’s encounters with the ascending street.   Kenjiro Nomura, “Street,” ca. 1932, oil on canvas, 23 3/4 x 28 3/4”. Courtesy of the Seattle Art Museum. Photo: Paul Macapia. Throughout the exhibit we are reminded time and again of the vitality and serenity of the urban mini-neighborhood populated mostly by Issei , or first-generation immigrants from imperial Japan. The “Side by Side” artists flourished in the bustling commercial environment of Nihonmachi, as reflected in their imagery of storefront laundries, bathhouses, and shoeshine parlors. One bathhouse remains until today in the basement of the Panama Hotel on Main Street, open by appointment for public tours. Visitors can see the hastily left-behind personal belongings of many of the bathers on the changing-room shelves. Like the bathhouse, the trio’s paintings have a haunting, elegiac quality to them, vistas of normal life before the catastrophe of incarceration.   Tokita’s documentary camera views of the Frye Hotel, Smith Tower, and Tashiro Hardware store (all still standing) are influenced by his interest in photography, another genre popular in Seattle’s Asian American community. His “Yesler Market” (n.d.) is a series of glances at alleyways, family houses, porches, and tugboats, but does not include people. All Tokita’s locations remain as objective sites for commemoration, like the memorial sites of evacuation on nearby Bainbridge Island, originally populated by numerous Japanese American truck farmers who supplied the Pike Place Market. All their land was confiscated.   Kamekichi Tokita, “Backyard,” 1934, oil on canvas. Courtesy of the Seattle Art Museum. Photo: Joe Mabel. One anomaly is a picnic scene from 1929, by Genzo Tomita. In it a large family gathering outdoors is rendered in a highly expressionistic style. It complements a portrait of Fujii’s daughter, “High School Girl” (c. 1934-35). Her studious pose and solemn expression remind us that, despite prosperity and advancement before World War II, prejudice and discrimination still confined the residents of Nihonmachi.   While Tokita’s premature death in 1948 at 51 was precipitated by his camp experiences, Nomura and Fujii survived, each shifting to modernist abstraction of considerable quality and originality. Not a part of “Side by Side,” their post-war development would make sense as a culminating project in Dr. Johns’s worthy historic recovery. Matthew Kangas writes regularly for Visual Art Source eNewsletter; Ceramics: Art & Perception (Australia); and Preview (Canada). Besides reviewing for many years at Art in America, American Craft, Art Ltd., Vanguard and Seattle Times, he is the author of numerous catalogs and monographs, the latest being the award-winning Italo Scanga 1932-2001. Four anthologies of his critical essays, reviews and interviews were issued by Midmarch Arts Press (New York) and available on  Amazon at Books by Matthew Kangas .

Craig Krull Gallery, Santa Monica, California Continuing through May 3, 2025   José Lozano, “Father Son Story,” 2022, mixed media on panel, 12 x 12”. All images courtesy of Craig Krull Gallery, Santa Monica. José Lozano commented in a recent gallery talk that, while he is a native Angeleno of Mexican descent, he still hasn’t figured out exactly what it means to be Mexican. Raised in both Los Angeles and the Mexican border town of Juarez, Lozano acknowledges there are acute differences between the two cultures. Southern Californians are considered more liberal and irreverent than the border inhabitants, who tend to be conservative, devoutly Catholic, and bound by the conventions of machismo. So, to better understand the various aspects of his heritage, drawing spontaneously, he creates narrative scenes populated with people inspired by family and friends. He calls them “generic Mexicans.” Stylistically, Lozano’s art owes a debt to Mexican comics and “fotonovelas,” as well as to the graphic works of Reginald Marsh, the Depression era New York artist who documented working class Americans, often seen in crowds gathered in everyday settings such as Coney Island beaches or city streets. José Lozano, “Some of the Guests Have Left,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 9 ½ x 12“. Like Marsh, Lozano is more interested in collective identity than in individual personalities. His depictions of crowds represent the gente , the larger community through which Mexicans feel interconnected. Lozano’s concept of togetherness, however, does not necessarily translate into happiness. In works such as “Tres Volcanes Pari” (2024), “Hiroshima Lounge” (2025), and “El Eden” (2025), men and women appear clustered together, most staring at the viewer with questioning or suspicious eyes, not really interacting. Their gritty expressions, teeth exposed, suggest they are frustrated or cynical, leaving us to ponder the sources of their discontent, which could include the burden of stereotype, which casts them as rapists and drug dealers when they are actually honest, hardworking people. José Lozano, “Tres Volcanes Pari,” 2024, acrylic and graphite on panel, 24 x 18”. In a number of charming smaller works, Lozano examines family relationships. “Beach Scene/Mother Son” (2024), depicts a proud demonstration of maternal instinct as a woman lies next to her son protectively while sunbathing. Macho fathers, however, are viewed less sympathetically. A man seated next to the mother in the beach scene, presumably her husband, looks disgruntled, as if he’d rather be somewhere other than with his family. A father’s failure to support his family is the subject of the otherwise charming “Father Son Story” (2022), due to its resemblance to yellow lined notebook paper with doodles that could have been drawn by a daydreaming highschooler. The composition features a variety of face studies, a mask, and various floral motifs. The story’s reveal is a handwritten phrase at the top, reading: “that man is a fraud, unmask him before he fades into thin air, mom rarely gets an alimony check.” Fading into thin air actually does occur in another work, one of several timely musings on the current threat to Mexicans and Mexican-Americans alike of deportation. Given such circumstances, the men and women spinning through the air in the background of “Some of the Guests Have Left” (2024) now take on ominous connotations, suggesting those who have been “disappeared” from their everyday environments with no warning and shipped off to a Salvadoran prison. The same can be said of the naked figures lying on the ground, camouflaged among plants in the lower panel of the diptych “Los Body Snatchers” (2024), where Lozano uses a classic science-fiction narrative — a tactic favored by many Latinx artists today — to communicate metaphorically about what it is like to be the “other.” José Lozano, “Gente Sunning as Gazpacho Police Enters,” 2024, ink on paper, 8 x 20”. Lest we not get the point, Lozano addresses the issue more directly in “Gente Sunning as Gazpacho Police Enters” (2024), where the approaching “gazpacho police” (note the pun on ‘Gestapo’) are shown in the background of a composition dominated by the artist’s characteristic beachgoers. Whereas his practice began as an investigation into common characteristics that constitute Mexican identity, Lozano has now shifted to exploring the topic within the context of surviving the cruel, xenophobic policies of Trump and his cronies, while still maintaining a deadpan sense of humor.

David Zwirner , Los Angeles, California Continues through April 12, 2025 March 22, 2025 Lisa Yuskavage, “Endless Studio,” 2024, oil on linen, triptych, 12 x 31”. All images courtesy of the artist and David Zwirner, Los Angeles. © Lisa Yuskavage. Naked women, the artist's studio, lurid colors, dynamic but thoughtful compositions are all elements closely associated with Lisa Yuskavage's paintings. Yuskavage packs each work, large or small, with quirky, personal narratives that engage the subject of artist and muse and, often, exaggerated representation of female sexuality. The artist is present in her most recent compositions, standing at an easel, sometimes wearing a white lab coat with a paintbrush in hand or seen near scantily clad models who taunt or tease the viewer. Lisa Yuskavage, “The Artist’s Studio,” 2022, oil and charcoal on linen 86 x 120”. In Yuskavage's paintings, the studio becomes a stage onto which scenarios are projected. In the monumental work “The Artist's Studio” (2022) — also reproduced on a giant billboard adjacent to the facade of the gallery — a cherub-faced half-nude girl stares out of the painting, dressed in a tight-fitting but also draped pink t-shirt that covers the upper portion of her body. She also wears colorful striped knee-high socks, exposing her bare thighs. She holds a bright green painter's palette that suggests, curiously, she is both artist and model. Behind her is a large painting of a landscape filled with green hills, a few orange clouds, and a single female figure — a peasant character from an earlier work, “Nel'zah’s” (2012) — offering a green plate. Toward the back of the studio, a woman sits at a table reading a book. Miscellaneous ladders, props and unfinished paintings are scattered in the space, all with gray, tan, or light brown hues, in contrast to the more finished and vivid depiction of the figure in the landscape. Lisa Yuskavage, “Painter Painting,” 2024, oil on linen, 94 x 77 1/4”. From the Renaissance to modern times, self-portraits of the artist at work in their studio have been a common subject, as the model is an ever-present option. In some ways, Yuskavage follows in this tradition, inserting herself and prior artworks into her recent paintings. But Yuskavage often poses an ironic challenge or provocation. “Painter Painting” (2024) is a large-scale oil with the artist at its center, her back to the viewer. She is in the midst of creating a grayish portrait of a doll-like woman with huge breasts. The painting within the painting dwarfs the artist, whose head is smack in the middle of her subject's cleavage. Two sketches/studies of nudes are adhered with blue tape to the painting in progress. A small sculptural maquette of the naked woman in the painting is placed on a stool nearby. Older works surround the artist, alerting us that Yuskavage is mining her past for inspiration.  Lisa Yuskavage, “in the Company of Models,” 2024, oil on linen, 77 x 70”. The artist at work is absent in “In the Company of Models” (2024). While the studio setting is similar to that of “Painter Painting ,”  Yuskavage here presents not as a painter, but rather a younger version of herself as a model who emerges from a bright green wall in a like-colored dress. Though legless, her body position suggests the beginning of a formal dance. The central figure — a seductive female nude wearing nothing but beaded panties — is surrounded by stacked depictions of Yuskavage's past paintings, such as the bright yellow “Rorschach Blot” (1995).  This exhibition, Yuskavage's first solo show in Los Angeles in 30 years, includes both large- and small-scale paintings. Seen in relation to each other, the works make informative overlaps that illustrate her process, passions and history — an audacious choice. Yuskavage recontextualizes old works by placing them in a studio setting — as if to say “this is where I began, this is where I am now, and I am happy to take you on a journey from then to now to show you what a magnificent painter I have turned out to be.” Yuskavage has a unique way of celebrating both the vulnerability and stoicism of the artist's model. She has a knack for portraying the complexities of the artist herself at work. Jody Zellen  is a LA based writer and artist who creates interactive installations, mobile apps, net art, animations, drawings, paintings, photographs, public art, and artist’s books. Zellen received a BA from Wesleyan University (1983), a MFA from CalArts (1989) and a MPS from NYU's Interactive Telecommunications Program (2009). She has exhibited nationally and internationally since 1989. For more information please visit  www.jodyzellen.com .

Themes+Projects , San Francisco, California Continues through March 29, 2025 March 22, 2025 Davey Whitcraft, “Altiplánico,” 2025, color photograph on Dibond panel, 60 x 60”. All images courtesy of Themes + Projects, San Francisco. The admiration for paintings so ultra-realistic that they simulate photographs is given a witty reversal in Davey Whitcraft’s conceptual abstractions comprising “To Those Who Create the Future.” Whitcraft’s striking images — to all appearances tours de force of immaculately blended oil paint — turn out to be unframed, Dibond-mounted, square-format photos the size of medium canvases (from 36 x 36” to 60 x 60”). In a kind of sociopolitical camouflage, they mimic the look of ‘flat’ 1960s abstraction. Could they mark a return to art for art’s sake, a time when representation and message art were considered irrelevant and retrograde? Dressed up in such aesthetic disguise, Whitcraft gives us subject matter of disquieting contemporary import: lithium mines in the Atacama Desert along the coast of Chile; the landlocked and toxic Salton Sea in the Coachella Valley; and the oil fields of the scorching Mojave Desert. Of particular interest to Whitcraft is the Atacama lithium deposit, nationalized by Chile in order to protect it from experienced Russian and American strip-mining companies.   Davey Whitcraft, “Valle de la Luna,” 2025, color photograph on Dibond panel, 48 x 48”. The geopolitical importance of petroleum energy and big data cannot be overstated, but the artist, who considers the geopolitical, economic, and environmental aspects of the coming lithium rush, prefers not to polemicize. Whitcraft wants viewers to find their way into these issues “at their own pace, in their own way,” rather than add to the overheated culture of complaint in which we all swim these days.   The paintings’ — oops, photographs’ titles denote their sources; these are, after all, landscapes, if of an unconventional nature. The colors of land and sky are combined and blended, eliminating all references to natural objects but for a hard demarcation line at the center to bottom center of the image, where dissimilar colors abut. Whitaker, who has folded his photos in the past, now employs more advanced processes and software, as well as drones. The illusion of topography results from the color mists that are grounded by faux origami pleats. Davey Whitcraft, “Mino de Litio I,” 2025, color photograph on Dibond panel, 13 x 13”. “Piedras Rojas” (Red Stones) is a rotary scan of desert oranges and purples. “Altiplánico” (High Plateau), its colors given a chiaroscuro shading, is as metallic as Fernand Léger’s early cubist works, with their polished cannons. “Valle de la Luna” (Valley of the Moon) employs a nocturnal palette of muted grays, browns and purples, possibly reflecting its dusk or sunrise shooting time. Also included are four 13 x 13” images entitled “Mino de Litio” (Lithium Mine), arranged on the wall in a grid. They are fine examples of industrial photography done artistically. Davey Whitcraft, “To Those Who Create the Future,” 2025, four-channel 4K video with stereo audio, loop time of 9 minutes and 19 seconds, musical score by Aaron Lepley and additional music by Bob Villain, 50 1/2 x 50 1/2”. A video, “To Those Who Create the Future,” is a montage of drone shots of the desert landscape. You can sense the metamorphic and metamorphosing minerals found there, all of that trapped lithium just begging to be separated out (with the help of music by Aaron Lepley and a performance by Bob Villain). The title of the video and the show as a whole argues that creating the future by dealing with the present would be wiser than trying to restore a gilded mythical past.   Whitcraft has a complicated relationship with painting. His degrees in Media Arts (he calls it “tinkering”), Philosophy, and Critical Theory — not painting — are complemented by his experience of working with Bay Area painter Raymond Saunders, “the master of color field and gradient.” From Saunders he learned a larger lesson than technique: “My mind was blown by how interesting it was to be an artist.” Whitcraft investigates his subjects using the latest technology (Linux, computer, cinema camera, drones) and presents the results of his media research as art exhibitions. Whitcraft also enjoys painting at times, albeit he confesses, imperfectly, to work out pictorial ideas in the form of studies. Those don’t make it into the show for obvious reasons, but I understand that they garner acclaim behind studio doors from artist friends. Will they ever catch up with those photographs? DeWitt Cheng  is an art writer/critic based in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has written for more than twenty years for regional and national publications, in print and online, He has written dozens of catalogue essays for artists, galleries and museums, and is the author of “Inside Out: The Paintings of William Harsh.” In addition, he served as the curator at Stanford Art Spaces from 2013 to 2016, and later Peninsula Museum of Art, from 2017 to 2020.

Getty Museum , Los Angeles, California Continues through May 25, 2025 March 22, 2025 Gustave Caillebotte, “Paris Street, Rainy Day,” 1877, oil on canvas 83 9/16 x 108 3/4”. All images courtesy of the Getty Museum, Los Angeles. The central work of “Gustave Caillebotte: Painting Men” is “Paris Street, Rainy Day” (1877). The immersive life-size painting features a well-dressed couple, walking confidently across a city plaza paved with shiny wet cobblestones while holding onto a large umbrella. They are surrounded by two-dozen other figures, mostly men, representing various social classes and professions. The painting is on loan from the Art Institute of Chicago, which organized this show with the Getty Museum and the Musée d’Orsay, Paris. Caillebotte, a scion of the 19th century French upper class, had an aspect similar in comportment and dress to the urbane man in “Paris Street.” He regularly depicted family members, close friends, sportsmen, soldiers, laborers, and even his butler in his narrative work. Gustave Caillebotte, “The Pont de l”Europe,” 1876, oil on canvas, 41 5/8 x 51 1/2”. Caillebotte’s plaza is situated near the Gare Saint-Lazare railway station, a crossroad for many important artists of that time. Claude Monet, Édouard Manet and other artists featured the station in several of their own works. Caillebotte also depicted the station in “The Pont de l’Europe” (1876) and “On the Pont de l’Europe” (1877). The former image highlights the expansive railings alongside the train station, a glamorously dressed couple strolling alongside it, with smoke from the trains billowing in the background. With its contrasting bright colors and dark shadows, it calls attention to the artist’s expertise with detail and composition. The latter painting focuses on the train station’s large iron superstructure, with two elegantly dressed men wearing frock coats and top hats commanding the scene. A third man, wearing the blue smock of the working class, leans over the railing. Caillebotte reportedly led what is described as a “homosocial” life. Much of his professional time, directing and mounting Impressionist art shows, and leisure time, socializing in cafés, was spent with men, many of them artists. He was preoccupied with masculinity and virility, and he never married. This led to speculation that he might have been gay, but there is no solid evidence of this. Gustave Caillebotte, “Floor Scrapers,” 1875, oil on canvas, 40 3/16 x 57 1/16”. Many of the approximately 100 paintings and drawings in this show highlight men in groups and alone, with several works portraying working class men. In another of Caillebotte’s signature works, “Floor Scrapers” (1875), we gaze upon three laborers from the artist’s point of view. All are on their knees, seen from an imperious vantage point in a room that is to become the artist’s studio. Expertly rendered to convey the intense physicality of their work, the men are kneeling on the floor with their faces down and arms extended, revealing the muscularity of their exposed torsos that befits their status as supplicants. “House Painters” (1877) reverses the angle. Two house painters, one barely visible while the other is up on a ladder pondering the job, are observed by a third man at street level. The diagonal going from the foreground figure moves up through the ladder-bound painter to the top right of the image. The more concrete diagonal of the street facing buildings has an opposite dynamic, moving from the top right just to the left of the observer, with the urban lines converging into a vanishing point. Gustave Caillebotte, “House Painters,” 1877, oil on canvas, 35 1/16 x 45 11/16”. Other paintings display looser, more Impressionistic brushwork. Consistent with the show’s title, many situate men, casually dressed, in settings on or near a river. Examples include “Skiffs” (1877), “Skiff on the Yerres River” (about 1877), “Angling” (1878) and “Bathers” (1878), the latter highlighting two men wearing bathing suits. Every figure’s face is mostly hidden, either obscured by a broad-brimmed hat or facing away from us. Are these men hiding something? By contrast, “Boating Party” (c. 1877-88) features a formally dressed man wearing a top hat and bow tie rowing a boat while fully facing onlookers. His handsome face, crimson lips, and hair curling beneath his hat, as described in the wall label, present subtle intimations about his sexuality. The most salacious painting here is “Man at His Bath” (1884), which emphasizes the buttocks, back and legs of a nearly naked man. The painting was sufficiently transgressive that it was banished to the back room of an 1888 exhibition. Nearby is “Nude on a Couch” (c. 1880) of a completely naked woman, lying face up on a couch. Caillebotte, who had a mistress until his untimely death at age 45, presumably from a stroke, never exhibited this work. Gustave Caillebotte, “The Bazique Game,” c. 1881, oil on canvas, 49 5/16 x 65 3/16”. “The Bezique Game” (c. 1881) places six dark-suited men in a dark room, all concentrating intensely on a card game known as bezique (a forerunner of pinochle). The figures are portrayals of the artist's friends, including his brother Martial. As one of the show’s catalog essays explains, “Bezique” clearly contrasts with Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party” (1881). That colorful, sunlight-infused painting of a party on the Seine River embodies the quintessential Impressionist style, and lifestyle, during the Belle Époque. (Caillebotte, wearing a boating hat, is seated in Renoir’s painting at the lower right.) The variance in the two paintings’ styles reveals how Caillebotte’s work differs in paint handling, subject matter, and formality from that of most Impressionists. Two self-portraits in this exhibition, “Self-Portrait at the Easel” (1879) and “Self-Portrait” (c. 1882), convey the intense, penetrating personality traits that Caillebotte was known for. With his tireless, high-minded work ethic, Caillebotte gifted us with an extraordinary body of work created during a too-short lifetime. Liz Goldner  is an award-winning art writer based in Laguna Beach. She has contributed to the LA Times, LA Weekly, KCET Artbound, Artillery, AICA-USA Magazine, Orange County Register, Art Ltd. and several other print and online publications. She has written reviews for ArtScene and Visual Art Source since 2009.  Liz Goldner’s Website .

ArtX Contemporary , Seattle, Washington Continuing through March 22, 2025 March 15, 2025 Jaclyn Holmes Nangala, “Collecting Bush Seeds, Bush Desert Flowers,” 2023, acrylic on canvas, 12 x 12”. All images courtesy of ArtX Contemporary, Seattle. A Seattle couple, an attorney and a law school professor, is responsible for introducing contemporary Australian aboriginal art not only to Pacific Northwest collectors and ethnic art enthusiasts, but also to significant institutions such as the Seattle Art Museum and the Metropolitan Museum, New York. “The Creation Circle: Aboriginal Art and Time” is a small, museum-quality survey of recent painters, mostly women, from Australia’s widespread Aboriginal communities. Far from an introduction, then, this exhibition pinpoints the growth of major figures, some of whom have already been documented in publications and international touring shows. For Aboriginal cultures, time is a concept that transcends Western concepts such as finite narratives, beginnings and endings, and retrospective outlooks or prognostications about the future. Instead, it posits an implicitly continuous span of culture, civilization and achievement expressed in art works that symbolically reflect family histories, agricultural customs, weather patterns, and geological formations. As a result, abstract painting of this kind — on canvas, linen, and wood — operates on two different levels: nonrepresentational imagery and deeply embedded cultural encodings that reference hermetic meaning systems. We are able to appreciate the artworks without having to be informed, or even aware, of the origins of deep patterns of marks and structural formations reflecting tribal customs and in-group references. Ancestral practices such as sand painting or genealogical legends about grandmothers’ gardening are alluded to in the titles. The “creation circle” of the exhibit title is a reference to groups of women and men making the pictures that commemorate such practices. Kurun Warun, “Pakup Yallandar (Fire Stick) Black Boy,” 2023, acrylic on linen, 72 1/4 x 48 1/4 x 1 1/2”. Size is highly variable in “The Creation Circle.” Some works are tiny, barely 12 inches square, like Jaclyn Holmes Nagala’s “Collecting Bud Seeds, Bush Desert Flowers” (2023) with its patterned background and simple curved and spiral lines overlaying it. Others, like the comparatively large “(Fire Stick) Black Boy” (2023) by Kurun Warun, is over five feet tall, with an interrupted grid of horizontal black lines and a pulsing central wedge. A highly schematized human figure advances the limits of abstraction, pushing Waran’s work closer to one extreme of modernist abstraction that privileges flatness and hearkens back to New York School painting of the 1940s. At that time, the abstract expressionists (before they became Abstract Expressionists) were collectively immersed in creating mythic symbols that they claimed to be universal. Adolph Gottlieb’s early “bursts” are a parallel to Nagala; Barnett Newman’s “zips” foretell Warun’s vertical slash, but decades earlier and half a world away. Gottlieb and Mark Rothko discussed Greek mythology; Newman invoked the Old Testament. Pelita Napurrula, “Catalogue No. PN2308010,” 2023, acrylic on linen, 11 x 34 1/4 x 1”. What the Papunya Tula (Western Desert) artists share with the New York School artists, including Jackson Pollock, Rothko and, later, Helen Frankenthaler is a resistance to deep-space perspective, instead favoring acceptance of the physical properties of two-dimensional space, i.e., what critic Clement Greenberg called the “flatness of the picture plane.” In both cases, profound allusions and timeless content were intended. In fact, Rothko’s mantra for his mythic-symbolic period was “tragic and timeless.” Clearly parallel to this, Serina Nangarrayi responds to Pollock’s all-over composition with “Catalogue No. SJ2309056” (2023), as has Gloria Petyarre (Northern Territory) in her “Leaves—Bush Medicine Dreaming” (2006), and also Abie Loy Kemarre in “Leaves 5766” (2008); and “Yam Seeds in My Grandmother’s Country” (2023) by Elizabeth Kunoth Kngwarreye. Gloria Petyarre, “Bush Medicine Leaves,” 2018, acrylic on linen, 12 x 12”. More familiar is the traditional employment of dot patterns and concentric circles of broken lines, which both Pollie Nangala and Pelita Napurrula extend from the kind of Aboriginal painting first introduced to American audiences in the 1980s. Although only three feet high and 11 inches wide, Napurulla’s “Catalogue No. PN2308010” (2023) uses verticality to stress a totemic reading of hierarchical symbols distantly echoing Tibetan meditation scrolls as well as Rothko’s vertical floating clouds. Abie Loy Kemarre, “Sandhills 1710,” 2007, acrylic on linen, 48 x 48 x 2”. On a more colorful level, tile-like acrylics on linen by Janice Stanley (APY Territory), Rosie Nampitjina and Kenarre pool paint into swaths of intermeshing colors, often in pastel tones and rainbow combinations. Kenarre’s “Sandhills 1710” (2007) connects broken hemispherical rainbow arcs while Stanley’s stacks of blended shades of yellow, blue, pink and gray extend beyond the canvas’ edge, as in “Pantu (Salt Lake 253-24, 2024) and “Pantu (Salt Lake 276-23, 2023).” Who would have thought that Frankenthaler’s examples of thinning and pooling paint would be retrieved and reinstigated — completely independently — 60 years after their North American inception? Consider Morris Louis, for that matter. His upward parallel swoops of contrasting, thinned acrylics are tamed by Stanley, but still attain a compressed power within their four-foot squares of canvas. We should also learn more about how these artists are regarded in Australia. This selection of Western Desert painters promulgates bold claims on pictorial vocabularies all their own. American echoes popping up so far away and decades later give new credence to the enduring examples of modernist painting’s equally profound philosophical aims combining innovations of color, space and form. Matthew Kangas  writes regularly for Visual Art Source eNewsletter; Ceramics: Art & Perception (Australia); and Preview (Canada). Besides reviewing for many years at Art in America, American Craft, Art Ltd., Vanguard and Seattle Times, he is the author of numerous catalogs and monographs, the latest being the award-winning Italo Scanga 1932-2001. Four anthologies of his critical essays, reviews and interviews were issued by Midmarch Arts Press (New York) and available on  Amazon at Books by Matthew Kangas .

March 15, 2025 r/aiArt, Norman Rockwell’s “Connected iKids,” generative AI art. Before sharing a range of more artists’ thoughts on their use of social media (you can read Part 1 here ), a few notes: 1) I do not mean to suggest that Instagram, or social media in general, offers no value. It can be and is a place for artists to not just connect but also to obtain cultural sustenance. Although thus far no respondents have described it that enthusiastically, I imagine that it is a shared sentiment among many, and welcome anyone to reach out if that’s your experience. 2) Instagram and Facebook continue to be go-to social media check-in spots for me. The former remains the most practical platform for any artist who’s on social media. I don’t spend more than a handful of minutes on either on a given day, unless I get into a DM on IG and/or respond to comments from a post there. These can be — finding the right word here is challenging — rewarding  moments, but in the way that social media exchanges with fellow artists are a pale substitute for studio visits (IRL or virtual), chats at an opening, or phone calls. But our IG use needn’t be framed that way; it can be a platform to research other artists, curators, venues of all sorts, and then subsequently used to make connections offline (to the extent that emailing in this context can be called ‘offline’). What if we used Instagram as a database of artists, dealers, curators and collectors instead of as a substitute or simulation for human connection … isn’t it up to me to re-frame my perception and expectations? Yes, but — that kind of dispassionate approach is, as with so many things, far easier said than done. 3) My leaving Meta was an objective which started this series. I finally set up a Bluesky account. What prompted me was a post about Flashes, an app connected through Bluesky that’s a direct alternative to Instagram. I am predicting a very slow migration. I’m in a large L.A. artist’s support Whatsapp group, which is maxed out at 1,024. In late January, one artist started a thread about leaving Meta, and someone proposed Signal (an encrypted messenger app I was already on) as an alternative. A Signal artist’s support chat was launched and, as of press time, about six weeks later, a grand total of 85 members had joined. Ianthe Jackson, “Velvet Fire,” embroidered velvet and paper maiché, 72 x 60 x 60”. Courtesy of the artist. Ianthe Jackson , Artist living and working in Brooklyn, NY and the Catskills: When I first joined Instagram years ago it was so great to have this new way to engage with the artworld. You could do it yourself from your own space. Over time it became so saturated with people and evolved into a marketing tool of the worst kind. It began to feel like this competition network in which you became bombarded with reels about how to market yourself. Looking back, I realize how much it skewed the direction and purpose of my work. I noticed people were moving over to Bluesky after Trump took office. I opened an account and saw a very noticeable difference. I was no longer bombarded with information from people telling me how to live. It was so much slower and quieter. I finally posted on Instagram and Facebook that I would be leaving. It felt like a leap and was a somewhat quick and impulsive move, but I am so much happier with this decision. At this point I am tired of Instagram, I no longer feel like I really need it. I had much more success when I spent more time out in the world building relationships and connecting with people, places, and organizations. Frank Ryan, “Audience (Max Max—Fury Road),”2018, oil on linen, 79 x 96”. Courtesy of the artist. Frank Ryan , an artist and educator based in Los Angeles: I nearly deleted all Meta platforms, Facebook, Threads, and Instagram. After a pause, I decided the most practical thing I can do is to reduce usage or to use the platforms more cautiously or productively. I believe maintaining a basic online presence is valuable, especially when you’re not represented by a gallery or being actively promoted. I enjoy connecting with peers and supporting my students on Instagram, and I’ve also secured some commissions and art sales through the platform. However, the shift in Instagram’s algorithm and strategy to compete with TikTok by prioritizing Reels and short-form content isn’t as effective for showcasing art as the previous image-based model. Most of my feed is now filled with Reels from non-followers, and I rarely see posts from the peers I want to support. I’m sure they’re not seeing mine either. Facebook profited from Russian disinformation campaigns leading up to the 2016 presidential election, and I suspect this trend continued in the 2020 and 2024 cycles. Zuckerberg’s willingness to compromise isn’t shocking this time around. The removal of fact-checking severely damages public discourse, and the platform’s tolerance and amplification of hate groups is indefensible. I switched to Bluesky in December after becoming increasingly frustrated with Musk’s acquisition of Twitter and how he’s run it into the ground. Bluesky is a great alternative and I believe it will only get better as it grows. Georgina Lewis, “Round the clock dream state,” 2023, installation at Monserrat College of Art. Courtesy of the artist. Georgina Lewis  (she/her), a Boston-based artist and librarian: I’m in several WhatsApp groups, all of them art related. One of them just moved to Signal, to get away from Meta, and I would be fine leaving WhatsApp altogether.  I’ve been on Bluesky for over a year. I’m there for words, not visuals. What I learn there has conceptual as opposed to formal implications for my work as an artist. At this point I follow a lot of academics, scientists, legal scholars, and people with interesting things to say. I think that in the last few months Bluesky has blossomed. There is now a critical mass of users ranging from publishers, thinkers, politicians, creatives, and of course friends. Instagram does feel essential. I live/work in Boston where the art scene is tiny and often conservative and rule-bound. Since Covid, Instagram has been a lifeline to the outer art world: a way of staying in touch with fellow artists, meeting/finding new ones, and honestly prompting myself to make new work, if only to post about. Instagram helps me keep going: art, friends, and bunny pics. I consider Instagram a centralized repository of images and information as well as a general collection of friends, makers, and art-world professionals. It's like a party in a library! I’m unaware of any other such online assemblage. I’m a visual thinker, and my memories and ideas are frequently based on and triggered by images. Instagram has allowed me the time and space to develop real-world friendships in a way that crowded receptions often don't. I’ve found community in disparate parts of the world, which has in turn strengthened both my practice and my commitment to it. The prospect of quitting Instagram feels like it would be a huge loss. Social media has, to an extent, democratized segments of the art world, enabling connections that rely less on who you know and where you live; going back to the old ways would be disappointing. I’m disappointed in Meta’s new LGBTQ and diversity stances, but I’m perhaps naively hoping that these changes will not be reflected in actual policy and are more to placate the MAGA crowd. Nonetheless I accept how hugely devastating they are. These are the sorts of things that make me feel a bit guilty as I open the IG app. Xiao Faria daCunha, “All Hail the Bunny God,” 2023, watercolor, paper cutouts, gold leaf and mulberry paper. Courtesy of the artist. Xiao Faria daCunha , a multi-disciplinary artist, curator, and arts writer based in Kansas City and Chicago: If I leave the Meta platforms it will be because they are no longer functional for my purposes. I dropped my Facebook page 5+ years ago, way before any of this had happened, simply because I realized my audience wasn't there. I'm not going to switch to Bluesky. I might set up a Bluesky account for the sake of being present there, especially since Substack now has a default Bluesky account connection, and I have a column there. Again, purely functional. I feel like most people don't realize a simple fact: this whole quit-Meta wave is mainly about the U.S. And as important as it is to take a stance against Musk, we gotta realize that the world is so much larger than just the U.S. I write about and follow a lot of foreign artists, especially Japanese and Chinese artists, and many of them are on Instagram. Twitter/X remains a whole subculture in Japan. What's going on in the U.S. about Meta is, plain and simple, irrelevant for them. So, when you jump off Meta to take a stance, you have to factor in the reality that you're also removing yourself from a global community: something that none of these newborn social media platforms will be able to match because they're new. They just don't have that audience base yet. Aren't we supposed to be using social media as a vehicle to make space, foster relationships, and initiate provocative and thoughtful conversations? Isn't that also what art and writing is supposed to be about? Think about the people who're joining Bluesky. The Guardian  ran an article saying Bluesky has gained 1 mil + users since the election. Let's put that into perspective: Facebook has over 3 BILLION users, and Instagram an estimated 2.4 BILLION users. Even Twitter/X still has 335 million active users. While all of us "like-minded" people are migrating platforms, we're technically leaving the people we need to continually have conversations with behind. From an advocacy point of view, that doesn't make sense with or without fact-checking, because I guarantee you most of these individuals aren't doing the work IRL to bridge the gaps with "the other side,” or those ambivalent or simply under-informed when it comes to LGBTQ, DEI, etc. I very regularly take social media breaks. Social media to me is far more functional than as a form of entertainment. It's a platform for me to gather information, find new topics to write about and discuss, and find inspiration for art. You always need to transition from studying and researching to creating if you actually want to make something. That's how I look at my social media breaks. Lee Wagstaff, “as a bird or an arrow,” 2024, oil on canvas, 60 x 80”. Courtesy of the artist. Lee Wagstaff , an artist based in Berlin: I haven’t completely left Instagram, more withdrawn. I stopped using it around the beginning of December 2024. I had been on it for around ten years. When I first started using it, it was a fun way to post pictures with very little or no text. It was a way to use the communication medium that I knew best — images — to have a dialogue with friends and associates.  When the Covid era hit, everything changed. As a jobbing artist I prepared for lean times. However, because of Matthew Burrows (founder of the Artist Support Pledge) this was the busiest and most productive time of my career. Instagram was the most important platform for thousands of artists. ASP was a phenomenon that has not been sufficiently or accurately documented, probably because it was outside of the market and critical sphere that dominates the art world.  In the post-Covid era Instagram has changed dramatically. It went from being a mostly personal pictorial medium to a highly aggressive and minimally regulated political and advertising medium. I found that many people in my network had become passive aggressive with virtue signaling. By this time I had gone from having a couple of hundred followers to over 40K. What I was being shown in my feed, particularly in the stories feed, were people resharing very graphic images of violence, much of which turned out to be fake or not recent. Instagram should not be a news channel, there are many more suitable platforms for that. It has become like that scene in “A Clockwork Orange” where Alex has his eyes pinned open and is reprogrammed by watching nasty bits of ultra violence on the screen. That is certainly not why I joined. I still have Whatsapp. My problem is not specifically with META — there are no ethical social media sites. New sites pop up all the time, but you only have to scratch the surface to see that investors in these kinds of models are not ethical people, it's all just Cloud-based Capitalism. It is coming up to 3 months since I withdrew from IG and I don't miss it. I don't really use the internet that much anymore either. I am living in quite a remote place at the moment so my internet connection is sporadic, which suits me fine.  It's a cliché to say that withdrawing from the internet has made me happier. I am certainly calmer. I feel less like a dog on a chain. I have been reading actual physical books. At the moment I am reading about Renaissance European art and how figures like Bosch and Dürer were traumatized by burning forests and meteors — their world was on fire and the apocalypse seemed nigh. They felt like there was no truth anymore and authorities could not be trusted. Everything they believed was being undermined and attacked. Sound familiar? I think most of us, artists included, have grown accustomed to being servile to those who offer us opportunities. But most of the time such offers are not concrete and usually cost us time and money.  I can't say that I will never return to Instagram, and I often think about peeking just to see if it's still there. Michael Shaw  is a Los Angeles-based artist and activist. His work was recently included in the exhibition “ Meshuganah ” at A Very Serious Gallery in Chicago, as well as the exhibitions “ Sociality ” at LA Tate gallery in 2023, and It’s My House!  at the Porch Gallery in Ojai, CA, in 2022, and has been exhibited throughout the U.S. He is the recipient of a Culver City Arts grant in 2023, a Puffin Foundation Grant and the Rauschenberg Emergency Grant in 2022, the Center for Cultural Innovation’s Quick Grant in 2021, and the New Student Award at Hunter College, where he received his MFA. Visit Michael Shaw’s website .

Tanya Bonakdar Gallery , Los Angeles, California Continuing through March 29, 2025 March 15, 2025 Shilpa Gupta, “100 Hand-drawn Maps of USA,” 2008/2023, table, fan, book, 48 x 42 x 24”. All images courtesy of the artist and Tanya Bonakdar Gallery, New York/Los Angeles. In this deeply thoughtful exhibition, Mumbai artist Shilpa Gupta explores a topic that has become even timelier since the election of Donald Trump to a second term: the fragility and instability of national borders. When Gupta invited 100 people to draw maps of the United States from memory in a small sketchbook, who could have imagined that a U.S. President would soon be advocating for expanding those geographical boundaries? In her installation “100 Hand-drawn Maps of USA” (2023), Gupta presents the sketchbook on a table and activates the pages with air blown from a nearby fan so that they flutter slightly. The glimpses we see reveal that not a single participant was able to create an accurate representation, many of them remarkably skewed. To elucidate further on the observation that memory edits out details, even for as ubiquitous an image as the shape of the United States, Gupta produced sculptural works like “Map Tracing #8,” which is made of copper pipe and slightly twisted. Although it looks pretty much like the U.S. silhouette when approached head on, the sculpture changes shape as we walk around it. Shilpa Gupta, “Untitled,” 2023, microphone, speaker, sound, bulb, print on paper, wood, 94 1/2” diameter. In another work, Gupta looks at border conflicts on a personal level. Displayed in a vitrine with a plaque, like the trophy from a sporting event or a 1980s Jeff Koons sculpture, the simple object in “1:7690” (2023) is actually constructed like a ball of string made from shredded strips of clothing that were smuggled from Bangladesh into the artist’s native India. This is where the demarcation line between the two countries is contested and sealed off. When the length of the fabric is multiplied by the ratio in the work’s title, the resultant dimension corresponds to the physical span of the border’s fencing. “Stars on Flags of the World, July 2011,” a large-scale wall tapestry, cleverly represents most of the world through the superimposition of star patterns lifted from the flags of several officially recognized, as well as unrecognized, nations in 2011. Gupta embroidered the stars such that they appear to overlap and obscure one another. By leaving the threads exposed and dangling, the artist calls attention to global insecurities, such as political turmoil or climate change. Conceptually, the work recalls Yukinori Yanagi’s early-1990’s “World Flag Ant Farm” installations, where the artist made ant farms replicating the flags of different countries and joined them together in a grid with actual ants living in them and making trails in the designs. Shilpa Gupta, ‘SOUND ON MY SKIN,” 2025, motion flapboard, 9 1/2 x 93 1/2 x 5”. Crossing borders often involves transportation systems such as trains, boats, and planes, so to raise questions about migration, Gupta turned to a communications format common to all of these modes of travel, a motion flapboard. “SOUND ON MY SKIN” (2025) is her latest such installation, where viewers may sit and watch as words flip before us. Only, rather than present information about arrival and departure times or destinations, the board displays a stream-of-consciousness poem about truth and power, fear, and hatred. Many of the words are deliberately misspelled, a tactic intended to make us think twice about our perceptions. Shilpa Gupta, “1:2138,” 2017, smuggled Dhakai Jamdani sari cloth garment, wood, glass, brass, 22 x 20 x 62”. The most poignant offerings in the exhibition are five drawings and an installation that center on the suffering of those who have been victimized in their efforts to flee their homeland for a better life, or simply to exercise free speech. The delicate drawings from “Untitled (From Nothing will go on Record Series)” (2016/2023) may be quiet in temperament but they really stick with you. In each, Gupta depicts protestors being arrested by police or military. Only the outlines of the victims’ bodies are rendered, with the absence of their features signifying the silencing of their voices. In an adjacent gallery, the global history of censorship, specifically the muzzling of some of the world’s most creative and inspired voices, is the subject of an untitled installation that pays tribute to 100 poets from various countries and time periods, who were detained, incarcerated, disappeared, or executed for their ideas. In a darkened space, viewers stand before a table with a sheet of paper listing the poets’ names and the years they were targeted. Overhead, we are encircled by the movement of a single illuminated light bulb and a reverse-wired microphone that plays a recording of a female voice reciting the poets’ respective names, dates, and countries. The atmosphere feels solemn, almost sacred, with the light bulb recalling the late Christian Boltanski’s Holocaust memorial works. Shilpa Gupta, “1:2138” (detail), 2017, smuggled Dhakai Jamdani sari cloth garment, wood, glass, brass, 22 x 20 x 62”. Although Gupta assumes a global perspective, the show is particularly relevant in terms of the present moment in the U.S.A. To her credit, the artist’s approach — which is at once clever and poetic — can seduce us away from our avoidance of tough subjects. Her exhibition is an important reminder that, in the most stressful of times, we can always turn to art to nurture our wounded souls. David S. Rubin   is a Los Angeles-based curator, writer, and artist. As a curator, he has held positions at MOCA Cleveland, Phoenix Art Museum, Contemporary Arts Center New Orleans, and San Antonio Museum of Art. As a writer he has contributed to Art and Cake, Art in America, Arts Magazine, Artweek, ArtScene, Artillery, Fabrik, Glasstire, Hyperallergic, and Visual Art Source. He has published numerous  exhibition catalogs , and his curatorial archives are housed in the   Smithsonian Archives of American Art . For more information: www.davidsrubin.com .

Shoshana Wayne Gallery , Los Angeles, California Continues through March 22, 2025 February 8, 2025 Visiting Jeanne Silverthorne's exhibition “They Will Be Like Shadows” as the recent Los Angeles wildfires burned influenced my response to and interpretation of the works. Silverthorne’s platinum silicone rubber and mixed media sculptures — some figurative, others referencing the body — alluded to the death and destruction of real time events. Seeing “Banshee (Self-Portrait at 73)” (2023), a life-like, off white sculpture of a woman (the artist) stretched out on the gallery floor sent shivers down my spine. Silverthorne recreates her aging body, devoid of color but full of detail: untied sneakers on crossed feet, gray synthetic hair and black rimmed glasses flanking her complacent face. Jeanne Silverthorne, “Banshee (Self-Portrait at 73),” 2023, platinum silicone rubber, synthetic hair, glasses, 16 x 30 x 70”. All images courtesy of Shoshana Wayne Gallery, Los Angeles. In “Too Dumbly in My Being Pent” (2023) she presents the same figure, now in fragments and stuffed into a cardboard box lined with bubble wrap, suggesting the sculpture will be shipped and/or stored somewhere hidden from sight. In keeping with Silverthorne's practice, the figure as well as the box and wrappings are all intricately fabricated casts. Silverthorne is a master of her chosen material (platinum silicone rubber) and can fabricate and transform just about anything of any size with acute veracity. Jeanne Silverthorne, “Too Dumbly in My Being Pent,” 2023, platinum silicone rubber, 36 x 36 x 24”. The exhibition unfolds as a narrative on life and loss, as well as on an artist's practice as it relates to the rest of the world. The pieces simultaneously feel fragile and sturdy. Because Silverthorne has such a command of her materials, the works are also minimal and maximal: they feel alive though they are fabricated. In the disconcerting “And the Unfathomable Night of Dreams Began” (2022), a tiny, sleeping baby wearing a knitted cap rests on a billowing white cloud that also resembles an enlarged wad of chewing gum or cake frosting.  Jeanne Silverthorne, “Double Sneakers (‘The Three Sillies’),” 2023, platinum silicone rubber, figure: 11 x 40 x 9”, crate: 14 1/2 x 51 x 26 1/2”. Silverthorne describes a trajectory of maturation as the infant grows and becomes a child. Children's sneakers appear in “Crate with Sneaker,” “In My Mother's House,” and “Double Sneakers ('The Three Sillies’)” (all 2023). In “Crate with Sneaker” Silverthorne fashions, completely from rubber, a four-foot-high wooden crate. The otherwise empty container holds one small black sneaker at its base. As the footwear is its only contents, the piece suggests the unsettling idea that there could be a disembodied foot inside. The narrative progresses: the child becomes an adult. Silverthorne depicts not only herself in the aforementioned “Banshee (Self-Portrait at 73),” but also her mother in two other richly impactful works, the evocative small-scale table top sculptures “Mom Under a Cloud II” (2024) and “Mom on Book” (2023). In “Mom Under a Cloud II,” Silverthorne's mother is seated on top of a pile of crates that are suggestive of coffins. This exacting figure leans forward, one arm across her lap, the other below her chin as if lost in thought. A floating cloud magically hovers above her head. Jeanne Silverthorne, “Quotes,” 2021, platinum silicone rubber, 1 1/2 x 2 x 1/2”. For “Mom on Book” Silverthorne's mother stands on a hardcover volume of a book of fairy tales. The closed book sits on a pedestal. It has white pages and a black cover. Its title (“365 Fairy Tales”) appears as raised letters on the book’s spine. The implication in this quasi-narrative could be a mother reading from the book to her growing child before the mother is consumed by the clouds (referencing “Mom Under a Cloud II”). Jeanne Silverthorne, “Mom Under a Cloud II,” 2024, platinum silicone rubber, 20 x 10 x 5”. “Hanging Question Mark” (2020) in many ways sums up the overall experience of the exhibition. Here, Silverthorne suspends a large, black, three-dimensional rubber question mark from the ceiling so that the circular punctuation point sits on top of a tall rubber crate. The excess rubber rope loops over pipes in the ceiling and rests on the floor behind the crate. As we try to decipher the various elements, the work appears ambiguous and absurd. When seen in relation to the empty quotation marks of “Quotes” (2021), which bracket empty space on the wall, it becomes evident that Silverthorne is playing with language, enticing us to think metaphorically as we weave our way through the various elements of the installation. Jody Zellen  is a LA based writer and artist who creates interactive installations, mobile apps, net art, animations, drawings, paintings, photographs, public art, and artist’s books. Zellen received a BA from Wesleyan University (1983), a MFA from CalArts (1989) and a MPS from NYU's Interactive Telecommunications Program (2009). She has exhibited nationally and internationally since 1989. For more information please visit  www.jodyzellen.com .

Lisa Sette Gallery , Phoenix, Arizona Continuing through February 22, 2025 February 8, 2025 I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before…. Mayme Kratz, “Everything That Rises After the Fire,” 2024, resin, globe chamomile, snake ribs on panel, 60 x 108". All images courtesy of Lisa Sette Gallery, Phoenix. So begins the Mary Oliver poem one sees when descending the stairs into this subterranean space surrounded by Palo Verde trees that beckon us towards Mayme Kratz’s bountiful body of work. Kratz creates tableaus of transformation that speak to change on both a cellular and cosmic level, nestling natural materials foraged in the desert landscape within resin forms that signal a poetic pause in time and space.   Titled after Oliver’s poem, the exhibition features over 30 works created during 2024, a year replete with revelations of climate change impact from wildfires to floods. Most striking is Kratz’s 60 by 108 inch “Everything That Rises After the Fire” diptych inspired by her memory of seeing fire burn across a landscape in her youth. Bright flames reach towards a dark sky, where she has placed a star-like form composed of delicate snake ribs. Three circles crafted with globe chamomile, an invasive species from South Africa that’s best weeded out before it takes hold, seem to rise within the fire. Resembling tumbleweeds, they suggest not only the miasma of materials and memories that circle within a fire, but also the arc of geological time bent towards the Anthropocene era. Kratz’s star recurs in other works, conveying connections between distant landscapes while serving as a beacon of hope. Mayme Kratz, “Long After the Echo 26,” 2024, resin, shells, wood, and star fish on panel, 52 x 40”. Small points of light appear to explode across a vibrant blue expanse in “Long After the Echo 26,” a 52 by 40 inch piece steeped in subtleties by virtue of its exquisite materiality and Kratz’s thoughtful choices. Shells, bone, wood, and starfish allude to ocean and sky, prompting reflection on the vast expanse of stars that light up the night, and microscopic creatures that inhabit the deep seas. Considered from a linear view of time, the painting alludes to origin stories centered on an explosive cosmic event and visions for a future that’s moved past anthropocentrism. The gallery is filled with circular forms echoing the spinning orb that anchors human existence, enabling us to easily embrace the idea of a common humanity. Four 12 by 12 inch panels, each filled with cross-sections of poppy pods and hesperaloe seeds, reinforce a concept typically associated with snowflakes: no two beings are alike.   There’s a meditative, reflective quality to Kratz’s work, especially evident in “Eclipse 4,” a large circle of resin-encased bones, crab claws, galls, seedpods, bobcat claw, shells, and shell dust on a 24 by 24 inch panel. The dark interior circle formed by these objects connotes rest and healing, even as the exhibition as a whole serves as a call to action amid climate catastrophe. The interior circles are much smaller in three 36 by 36 inch works, created with botanicals, from her “Vanishing Light” series. Given their likeness to the pupil of a human eye, they speak to the importance of carefully observing the natural world. “Vanishing Light 44” is distinguished in part by Kratz’s decision to build up easily visible layers of snake weed that give the piece compelling depth and dimensionality.   Mayme Kratz, “Vanishing Light 46,” 2024, resin and snake week on panel, 24 x 24”. This exhibition includes one particularly playful deviation from Kratz’s pristine circular perimeters. In the 55 by 55 inch “Hunter’s Moon,” the artist composes whimsical curved lines of bones, fur, and shell dust that loosely refer to similar forms in nature, from waves of water or wind-bent branches. “Within Without” provides an intriguing variation of form and materials. Made by encasing a wasp’s nest in resin, the image brings to mind the duality of values assigned to particular elements of the environment. In this case, one is reminded that a creature feared for its sting plays an essential role in keeping the ecosystem in balance.   The sculpture sits atop a plinth that takes on altar-like qualities within an intimate interior space, where Kratz also presents numerous small-scale works, including some of her 5 by 5 inch “Night Study” panels in which delicate objects that seem to float in space lend a feeling of freedom one imagines the artist might have experienced exploring the California forests of her youth. One “Night Study” grouping features cross-sections of artichokes, their remarkable variations speaking to the ways a multitude of worlds can exist in a single entity.   Mayme Kratz, “Hunter’s Moon,” 2024, resin, bones, fur and shell dust on panel, 55 x 55”. Echoes of the forest reach a crescendo with “Dark Garden 14,” a 40 by 80 inch piece made with Cassia, snake ribs, and butterfly wings. Botanicals line the bottom half of the work, but drips of resin form a ghostlike forest that seems to rise behind it. A vignette in one corner suggests a grouping of trees, but also ambiguity: Do they beckon us to escape into or away from their darkness? Mayme Kratz, “Knot 396,” 2024, resin and grass on panel, 12 x 12”. Kratz’s exhibition brings both the plight of forests and the delight of spending time in the woods to life, especially as she plays with language, materiality, and form. As a final example, consider “Sleeping in the Forest,” where a circle that’s made with bones, seeds, roots, lichen, and galls on a 55 by 55 inch panel allows the woodgrain to show clearly through the resin, unlike much of her work in which layers of resin lead to opacity.   Mayme Kratz, “Dark Garden 14,” 2024, resin, Cassia, snake ribs, and butterfly wings on panel, 40 x 80”. The images that comprise this exhibition couple with the language drawn from Oliver’s poem to pose a poignant query. Are we “sleeping in the forest” to find comfort, safety, and kinship within the natural sphere? Or are we slumbering our way through it, oblivious to the impacts of our actions — or our inaction? Lynn Trimble  is a Phoenix-based art writer whose work ranges from arts reporting to arts criticism. During a freelance writing career spanning more than two decades, over 1,000 of her articles exploring arts and culture have been published in magazine, newspaper and online formats. Follow her work on Twitter  @ArtMuser  or Instagram  @artmusingsaz .

Traywick Gallery , Berkeley, California Continuing through March 15, 2025 February 8, 2025 The British Romantic landscapist John Constable (1776-1837) once declared, “It will be difficult to name a class of landscape in which the sky is not the keynote, the standard of scale, and the chief organ of sentiment.” Samantha Fields, “The Path of Totality,”  2024, acrylic on canvas, 41 x 27”. All images courtesy of Traywick Gallery, Berkeley. Samantha Fields’ exhibition of recent paintings, “Portents,” with their multiple layers of airbrushed pigment, focuses on the skies of Fields’ Los Angeles as their “chief organ of sentiment.” In the 21st century this organ is one brought about by natural forces subject to physical laws, not the judgments of celestial overseers. Even without God in his heaven, however, the skies retain their fascination and awe. Fields has returned to the skies — and their associated clouds, fog, celestial bodies, fires, and fireworks — after a transitional period of domestic interiors realized during the pandemic lockdown. Samantha Fields, “Whole Sky,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 24 x 24”. “Portents” includes eleven medium-sized to small paintings, all derived from “failed photographs,” i.e., flawed snapshots, replete with photographic ‘mistakes,’ like lens flares, but adapted and perfected during the artist’s lengthy painting process. All are beautiful and mysterious, all imply something that is not yet evident, the promise of a withheld or ambiguous revelation, as Jorge Luis Borges put it. In the aftermath of the recent wildfires, a subject that the artist has explored before, it is easy to interpret the paintings secularly as environmental warnings to Angelenos to get our minds right about rebuilding in the naturally fire-prone Southern California ecosystem, especially given our poisoned political culture. Samantha Fields, “Portent,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 24 x 24”. The gallery notes that “Portents” evokes a fractured world that may be slipping away — a reality that is constantly in flux and just out of reach. “Fields,” they assert, “uses the metaphor of celestial phenomena, such as a total solar eclipse, to articulate this elusive feeling.” The transient phenomena of the natural world are thus caught and preserved in paintings that freeze and condense time for our leisurely contemplation. “Portent,” the show’s eponymous painting, depicts a dust storm or tornado as seen from afar, darkly foreboding swirling masses of muted color that evoke recent natural twister disasters in the American south. Looking at this ominous image I could easily imagine the desperation felt by pre-scientific people who anthropomorphized such brutal force in order to explain it. Samantha Fields, “The World is Not as You See It,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 34 x 28". “The Path of Totality” presents a wide-angle view of a total eclipse, with the blacked-out sun at the top encircled by an aureole of clouds, and echoed by a tiny sun at the bottom, just above the dark horizon — a scientific anomaly, given poetic license: the heavenly and earthly realms suggest the Latin ut supra ut infra , as above, so below, and the bipartite composition of Raphael’s “Transfiguration.” “Prominence” and “Cathedral” focus on the blackened solar disk in eclipse surrounded by clouds. In reality, the danger of eye damage prohibits us from staring at a solar eclipse without eye protection. Fields’ image allows us to stare fixedly, the black disk metamorphosing into our eyes’ pupils, as in Magritte’s 1928 painting, “The False Mirror.” Fields depicts doubled celestial bodies in “Twin Solo,” with its overlapping Venn diagram of partial eclipses, and “The World Is Not as You See It,” with its twin crescent moons, one seen from a clearing in the cloud cover, and the other seen through it. In “Whole Sky” and “A Light Hurt” the bokeh balls or lens flares beloved of photographers multiply, suggesting optical phenomena like auroras and glories, sun dogs and moon dogs, all of it spiritualized. Samantha Fields, “Cathedral,” 2024, acrylic on canvas, 12 x 9”. Fields’ paintings, with their mood of quiet absorption, are also reminiscent of the skyscapes of Caspar David Friedrich, with their rapt, enchanted viewers turning their backs on us. Fields reminds us that we are now those silent witnesses to the mystery of the universe, reminded once again that we and our culture are part of nature, not always its masters but its subjects. We are not inevitably — as the status-quo fatalists rationalize — victims of our own nature. As Shakespeare’s  Cassius says in “Julius Caesar:” “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” DeWitt Cheng  is an art writer/critic based in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has written for more than twenty years for regional and national publications, in print and online, He has written dozens of catalogue essays for artists, galleries and museums, and is the author of “Inside Out: The Paintings of William Harsh.” In addition, he served as the curator at Stanford Art Spaces from 2013 to 2016, and later Peninsula Museum of Art, from 2017 to 2020.

SF Camerawork , San Francisco, California Continuing through April 22, 2025 February 22, 2025 Elizabeth Sunflower, San Francisco topless dancer Lola Raquel getting ready to fly to LA in a Rudi Gernreich designed topless dress with pasties. She was arrested in the airport when she landed in Los Angeles, 1969/1970. Courtesy of the artist, © Retro Photo Archive. “A Strange Vibration,” including Lenn Keller, Darcy Padilla and Elizabeth Sunflower, is comprised of three black and white photographers who have documented three decades of San Francisco communities. Each were differently impacted by and adapted to the sexual revolution. Situated alongside one another, a linear narrative unfolds amongst these works, one that not only reflects shifting moirés nationwide but also the latent effects of sustaining oneself on the fringes of capitalist heteronormality.   Like a point of origin, the work of Sunflower (1943-2008) kicks things off. Known for capturing iconic moments like Altamont, the Human Be-In and the attempted assassination of Gerald Ford, Sunflower’s nine works depict the mutually inspired and cooperative agendas of San Francisco sex workers and the feminist liberation movement. In “Arousal” (1970) a thick crowd surrounds a woman with long dark hair reading a limp flyer. The print of the paper in her hand is out of focus, but she carries a handwritten sign upright and overhead in crisp, all caps clarity: “WOMEN: ARISE NOW, AROUSE LATER” with the Roman sign for Venus underneath. The figure’s concentration is notable. She is decidedly unaroused, turned inward, and may as well be anywhere but at a protest. Only one person in the shot looks directly at the camera: a clean-cut middle-aged man in a button up shirt, tie, and dark-rimmed spectacles. Elizabeth Sunflower, “El Cid Ladies,”, 1971, photograph. Courtesy of the artist, © Retro Photo Archive. This photograph helped to pave the way for dynamics present in subsequent images in which women use nudity theatrically to advocate for more agency in public. In “Free the Nipple,” (1970) a woman with a short bob hairstyle in a macrame hat wears a dress that runs down the middle of her chest. Her breasts — nipples covered with pasties — lay bare on either side of the fabric. Behind her stands a thick crowd of suited men. In “Classy” (1970), Sunflower documents a haberdashery, which allegedly remained open for all of one month, during which topless shop girls attended to male customers. In “El Cid Ladies” (1971), dancers from the aforementioned North Beach club are photographed prior to their arrest on the San Francisco Airport’s White Courtesy Telephone, drumming up customers prior to their arrest. While Sunflower’s camera accentuates the divisive and celebratory flirtation with which her female subjects challenge a background of male suits, she captures a concurrent secondary narrative in which those same suits become heteronormative beneficiaries, maintaining their unbroken gaze (and reputable incomes) upon the spectacle of women’s sexual liberation.   The show continues with three works by the Oakland-based photographer, filmmaker, and founder of the Bay Area Lesbian Archives, Lenn Keller (1951-2020). The first is a close-cropped, semi-profile portrait of a black child with dreadlocks falling in orderly rows that nevertheless obscure her gaze. It is as though the figure can see us, but not the other way around. Like a photograph taken of or for a family member, the image reads more intimately than any of the other works in the show and stands out as such, recalling Keller’s own role as an activist (and mother) determined to validate women living outside of conventional nuclear families. Lenn Keller, African American dykes at San Francisco Pride Parade, 1991. Courtesy of the artist. Above the framed portrait is a “Dykes for Peace” banner taken from Keller’s archive, which documents ephemeral traces of black lesbian activists in Oakland. Keller’s works are regrettably thin here. One feels compelled to fill in the gaps with her remarkable biography: that she helped found a crisis center for woman, La Casa de las Madres, for instance, and a rape crisis help line. Her five-minute film, “Ifé” (1993), screens on a loop, with the camera in the passenger side of a classic car as a black French woman cruises San Francisco. She smokes and pontificates on how she came to San Francisco because she’d heard it was more liberated than her hometown of Paris. She refuses the trap of love as a weakness, eager to experience as many women as possible. This deceptively simple film subverts the gaze so predominant in Sunflower’s work, though Keller’s own position as expressed in this selection of who exactly is liberated remains ambivalent at best. Lenn Keller, still from "Ifé," 1993, film. Courtesy of the artist. Continuing in chronological order, the final set of works of “The AIDS Hotel, San Francisco (1992-1997) by documentary photographer and photojournalist Darcy Padilla (b. 1965) features the inhabitants of the Ambassador Hotel, a six-story, 134-room single occupancy hotel in the San Francisco Tenderloin district. At the height of the AIDS epidemic, the hotel, managed by an LGBT Activist, became “an informal hospice” center for those who needed care and had nowhere else to go. Like Paul Fusco, Padilla documented its residents and shadowed social workers on their rounds. Twenty-seven photos titled, “Of Suffering and Time,” hang framed on the wall so as to mimic the windows of a building. An accompanying binder includes numbers and notes affiliated with each photo. Darcy Padilla, “The AIDS Hotel, San Francisco,” 1992, photograph. Courtesy of the artist. Flipping through, “26” jumps out at you: an emaciated face, close-cropped and smoking, with the Times Roman note: “After the health care worker changed Steven’s clothes and bathed him, she lit his cigarette. In his last months, Steven desired ice cream and vodka because of the open sores in his mouth. I would bring him a pint of Haagen-Dazs and a pint of Royal Gate Vodka in the plastic bottle — Steven’s favorites.” The portrait of another young man, seated upright, looking off to the side as he smokes is designated as “08”: “Chris shares a room with his partner Drummond; both are HIV-positive. They are drug-users and dumpster divers. Every week, the hotel staff has to clear out their room.” Or, “09”: “Dorian, a transgender woman who has AIDS and multiple sclerosis, is flirting in the hallway and says, ‘I’m still just happy and blind as ever.’” Another photo of a man on crutches receiving someone at his door, perhaps a social worker, situates the camera behind the visitor’s shoulder, like a gate crasher. Darcy Padilla, “Of Suffering and Time,” 1992, photograph. Courtesy of the artist. Others among Padilla’s photos capture men close to death, hands covering their faces in different arrangements of anguish. It’s impossible not to question the camera’s voyeuristic intrusion — an experience further complicated by Padilla’s diary. To consider what consent means under terminal conditions is complicated, particularly when documenting a population whose boundaries have already been irrevocably eroded and dismissed by society at large. What does it mean, in other words, for these now-posthumous subjects to be presented on the wall? What does it mean for Padilla’s unofficial notes to be presented, rather casually, in the plastic sleeves of a binder? We might bear in mind something the late Barbara DeGenevieve (1947-2014) pointed out with her “Panhandler Project” (2004-06) that representation is also important. Padilla’s work raises such concerns, though they regrettably serve as a subtext to the more gripping foreground tragedy of suffering. On this last count, perhaps, the work fails its subjects, making us — like those well-suited men in Sunflower’s photographs — no more than a spectator. Caroline Picard  is a writer, publisher and curator. Her writing has appeared in Artslant, ArtForum (critics picks), Flash Art International, and Paper Monument, among others. Fiction and comics appear under the name Coco Picard. Her first graphic novel, The Chronicles of Fortune, was published by Radiator Comics in 2017. She is the Executive Director of the Green Lantern Press—a nonprofit publishing house and art producer in operation since 2005. Curating exhibitions since 2005, Picard has worked with artists like Takahiro Iwasaki, Ellen Rothenberg, Edra Soto, Xaviera Simmons, and others, presenting exhibitions at La Box ENSA Bourges, Gallery 400, The Hyde Park Art Center, Vox Popuili and more. More at her website,  cocopicard.com .