Kris-mas in July

Back in 2007, after graduating from NSCAD University and moving back to my native Toronto, I would frequent 1082 Queen St. West. Kris Knight was my favourite! I saw his 'Farewell Log Cabin' back in the day, and recognized my religion in pink-frosted noses and Hudson Bay blankets.
These are filet mignon of paintings. Stylish, with mythological meatiness, and cooked only until rare... the primitive blood is alluringly visible, but the rawness a little amateurish when scrutinized too closely.

Kris Knight

The High and Mighty

2011

Oil on Canvas

30x40"

Kris Knight

Fête

2011

Oil on Canvas

36x48"

Night-worship is not just privy to the club scenesters. Those under the stronghold of forest mysticism enjoy the atmosphere of suspense that envelopes us when twilight descends upon the city. Knights colour palette employs deep indigos, and vibrant pastels that are reminiscent of the florescent glow of neon lights, but hint at other-worldly origins like the Aurora Borealis and forest sprites. It is not overly apparent whether the environments which these rituals take place are in a forest, or just pockets of wilderness/ravine-land in the suburbs, which is part of the endearing quality of his work. It can be any corner to escape to.

 You missed his show at Katharine Mulherin. But don't fret; the summer is at it's peak, and when the night comes there are surely strange things to be found in a corn field near you.

Feral Ponies and American Museums: Summer 2011

Instead of showing a bunch of pictures of art that I saw along my tour from Philadelphia to Washington, I thought how often do you get to see wild ponies, if you even knew they existed at all! There were seven of them that seemed to travel around in a gang, and according to local lore, they are the descendants of horses that escaped a Spanish ship when it wrecked off Maryland's coast hundreds of years ago.

They seemed resigned to their status as local celebrities, posing on the Assateague sea shore among throngs of beach bums, not moving a muscle sometimes for hours on end. Everyone around them went on furiously snapping shots of them, or lounged beside them, creating a Still Life with Wild Pony?

What you don't see in these pictures is me attempting to frolic with said ponies while avoiding getting bitten and kicked (they are wild, ya know). This was a carefully choreographed romp that merited many dips in the ocean to cool off. At dusk, camping in the same park, we found the ponies grazing nearby the evergreen bushes and prickly pears, steps away from our tent. By nightfall they had gone, but were  hidden somewhere nearby, and we sat by the beach watching tiny fireworks from Ocean City and a family clamming by flashlight. It all felt like the atmosphere of a Nancy Drew murder mystery, the perfect summer thriller without the sinister plot.

What grew out of a trip to Maryland and Virginia to see the ocean and the ponies, was an unexpected tour of some of America's greatest art collections. The highlights were mostly the unexpected: arriving in Philly really made a dramatic impression, especially its mammoth art museum on a giant hill. My absolut favourite was the entire room dedicated to Duchamps, and the macabre finale peering through the wooden slats of his "Étant donnés"and discovering a beautiful woman; violated. it was my first chance to see his urinal in person and the trends pioneered by Duchamps (along with Hans Hocke who also had work in the museum) persist to this day. I'm remembering the show at the Power Plant "Rearview Mirror", where several of the Eastern European artists were emulating Hocke's almost archeological collection of objects, creating little vignettes of material realism. These artists really infused a mysticism/witticism into the mundane, and they were the first! Discovering such origins of thought in art is invigorating... but for what it's worth, some of my faves support a slightly controversial and naive portrayal of exoticism that would now be considered insensitive. The two I adored most were, in Philadelphia, Renoir's Odalisque (1870) and in Washington, Mancini's Il Saltimbanco (1879). I have no qualms when expressing my love for such dreamy opulence, the fantasy wraps around the viewer like the clothes worn in the painting. I may have just been swept up by July fourth madness, but the sights I saw south of the border really rocked my world.

I'll leave you with this work by Chagall, who was the subject of a special exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art that I also got to see. It is called "Horse Woman on Red Horse" (1966) and yes, there we have a beloved horse (but unfortunately no pony).

Jenn Mann's Adventures of the Nouveau Naturalist

Oh Dear (or should I say deer?). Jenn Mann, in her oil painting from the series "subconscious vista" (2010-11), has managed to mash all the au courant eye candy into one medium-sized canvas. Crystals, Geese, some William Morris-esque florals, and of course the models who were painted as if they were standing for hours on end, struggling through their ennui until the moment when they could ride their three-speed bicycle off into the smog-diffused sunset. This is a depiction of one hell of a cooly choreographed subconscious. It looks like an editorial for Canadian Vogue! Wait, we don't have Vogue here?

but it sure is pretty, isn't it?

Shawn Skeir: Discipline meets Expression

A hop, skip and a jump from my own neighbourhood, I made it down to Shawn Skeirs' gallery opening a few Thursdays ago. He has his own gallery nestled in between a fast-dwindling cluster of antique shops near the end of Queen West. I have a mostly neutral attitude towards contemporary abstract paintings, as the meaning rarely goes beyond the context of interior design, and I was therefor not arriving with high expectations (or any for that matter). I have to say, standing in the room splashed with his dozen or so wood paneled acrylics was a huge turn on.

There was something so "Queen West" about the neons mixed with the Crayola colours, on canvases (or in his case wood panels) that are politely "big" but not audaciously so. I feel this form of abstract painting is not a "whoopsie" approach to layering paint in a way-too self-indulgent catharsis, but a necessary revolt against Toronto's grey-osity. I respect artists who are disciplined in exploring their materials, and not just prone to accidental paint slopping, so props to Skeir for that.

Skeir considers himself a "sculptor in two dimensions", he told me. His paintings, especially those from his "DNA" series, really reminded me of Karin Davie's work and her incredible insinuation of depth in two dimensional space. The energy of his paintings is infectious, and what impressed me the most was the thoughtful structure that underlayed these colour bombs. Sure there wasn't a mystery so much of how he created the layers, probably done simply with masking tape, but there were spaces of paint that were complex enough to warrant real awe and, even more important, a desire in me to revisit the imagery continuously throughout the evening.
Skeir's paintings are a frenzy of colour and energy that is tempered by experience and a conscientiousness towards the materials. Or, as my friend put it, she would love to wear the paintings as a dress, the ultimate complement from the uber style conscious Torontonian ilk perhaps?

Arnold Genthe's California

The town of Carmel, California has a name that sounds like you're saying 'caramel' with a caramel in your mouth. Little wonder that this idyllic ocean-side alcove attracted the day's intelligentsia like bees to...well, you get the idea. The artists that flocked in droves were after, not honey, but close to it; they were searching for their own version of the sweet life, and the ones who shacked-up there went on to form the Carmel Arts and Crafts Club in 1905. Residents of Caramel by the Sea included Mary Austin, Upton Sinclair & George Sterling to name a few. It makes me wonder that if Toronto was balmy all year round and had an ocean in place of a lake, if people would quit complaining and focus more on the arts. Canadian ex-pats get a lot of flack for seeking out southern climates while we all attempt  to make-do and carve our identity out of ice for half the year. But I really don't blame 'em on those extra cold nights...

Lucky for us, Arnold Genthe was around to capture Carmel's haunting seascapes back when they were virtually untouched by Modern America. I could just drink these photos; whether or not the style of such old photographic processes debases the reality of the landscapes' mood, this must've been a lovely place. Perpetual twilight with a twist of salty spray.

These photos both date from 1906 and can be found at the Library of Congress's website.

Many humid & moonlighted nights ahead of us now...