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C H A R L E S B R O W N I N G
REVIEWS FROM "DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT HISTORY" AT ARTSPACE:

New York Times masthead

from THE NEW YORK TIMES (31 December 2006)
ART REVIEW; Show Gives Art History New Meaning
By BEN GENOCCHIO

Once more, Artspace, a plucky alternative to traditional galleries and museums, presents us with what seems like a perversely irreverent exhibition. The show, ''Don't Know Much About History,'' pokes gentle fun at the American public's lack of general historical knowledge, aiming to set things right, sort of.

Apparently, the 16 mostly young, contemporary artists included in the exhibition do know about history. Their works invite us to look, think and learn about the past and the ways it can teach us to live responsibly in the present.

Those ignorant of history may be more than a touch mystified by the displays, so the thoughtful catalog written by the exhibition curator, Denise Markonish, is probably a good place for viewers to start. The artworks can be divided into categories, she explains: those that look at the relationship of art to history; that link historical events in various ways to the present; or that chart the way artworks reflect on time passing.

The artists examining the relationship of art to history include Charles Browning, Titus Kaphar, Mary Dwyer and Lalla A. Essaydi. Mr. Browning and Mr. Kaphar quote from and reconfigure historical paintings by European and American artists to comment on the marginalization of people of African descent. Similarly, Ms. Essaydi looks at the ways in which Orientalism in art has affected the portrayal of non-Western people. Her paintings concoct pastiches of imagery of the exotic, erotic Far East from art history, a common Orientalist trope.

More literally, Ms. Dwyer examines artwork as a means of documenting the lives of famous people, sharing details otherwise unknown or lost. Here she focuses on Paul Revere, with a series of delicate portrait paintings that trace his life from his early career as a silversmith to his fabled midnight ride of 1775, announcing the start of the Revolutionary War.

Those artists examining the connection between historical events and the present include Joe Zane, Colleen Coleman, Johnny Carrera, Andrea Robbins and Max Becher. Ms. Coleman has gathered books written by people affected by the African diaspora, a chair and a chalkboard; visitors can read through the books, then comment on them.

Questions of history, memory and power intermingle in Mr. Carrera's collage, ''United States of Amnesia'' (2005), in which the artist has replaced Andrew Jackson's head on a $20 bill with that of Saddam Hussein. He has also inserted little details, like the words: ''This note is a reminder that US mates deal with snakes''; ''Is hindsight 20/20?''; and ''The United States of Amnesia.''

More bizarrely, Ms. Robbins and Mr. Becher, artist collaborators, have used photographs to document an annual festival in Radebeul, a German town near Dresden, where people dress as American Indians and celebrate, with re-enactments, the birthday of Karl May, a 19th-century German writer of cowboy and Indian stories.

The transformation of history into pageantry is also the subject of Jonathan Santos's video ''The Alamo'' (2003), in which we see Japanese carp swimming in an artificial pond inside a tourist facility at the site of the bloody 1836 battle between Texan forces and Mexico.

Memory and the passage of time are common themes in this show, dominating pieces by Michael Krueger, Phil Whitman and Deborah Bright. Most effectively, Ms. Bright has taken a contemporary photograph of the site of the Battle of Little Bighorn in 1876, in which George Armstrong Custer and much of the Seventh Cavalry were wiped out by Indian tribes. The quietude of the rural landscape depicted in the photograph belies the haunting history of the place.

Then there are works that don't fit categories at all, trading in seemingly useless facts. Among them are Justin Richel's pornographic paintings of George Washington, either in the buff or attempting to inseminate a house. It is hard to get a read on any of this, though a wall caption boldly informs viewers that the father of our nation was sterile.

This bit of trivia -- many historians contend that Washington probably was sterile -- only serves to highlight the depth of research and thought underpinning these works, which together present an impressive amount of history in a relatively small space.





New Haven Advocate masthead

from THE NEW HAVEN ADVOCATE (21 December 2006)
Tragedy to Farce
More lies - some of them useful - about the past

By Stephen Vincent Kobasa

The last painting without a history was a hand silhouetted on a cave wall with a mouthful of paint and a straw.

And even that, no doubt, had some more fragile precendent‹a drawing in the dust.

But to have a history is not the same as depicting one, as is made clear in the various experiments of the Artspace exhibition Don't Know Much About History .

The theme of art revisiting, and revisioning, the past is dangerous in the expected way‹more interesting as an idea than in execution, but the successes here are provocative. And so are the failures.

Our history is in pieces, as literally rendered in Charles Browning's painting "Man of Science." Prefiguring the "Black Dahlia" murder, this is a puzzle assemblage of anatomy‹miscegenation by dismemberment. Its orange horizon and the detail of biological illustrations bordering a corpse make it into a Hudson River School meditation on scientific murder. The empiricist manipulates his calipers and a divining stick that could be a mandrake root pulled, screaming, from the ground.

Next to this unnerving, chill vision, the same artist's "Black Face" is a cheap trick, as obvious as Bing Crosby's minstrel performance in Holiday Inn . And it has none of the dark humor of "Good Chance," with its two Leatherstocking figures in the same canoe, each paddling in the opposite direction. Eternally disoriented, these adventurers will bring violence wherever they arrive‹if they ever do.

James Esber's drawings of Abraham Lincoln counter Daniel Chester French's seated monster of the Lincoln Memorial. Reduced to human scale, these deformed revisions appear realistic in contrast to our mythic distortions of the assassinated President.

In "The Alamo," a video projection loop by Jonathan Santos, the fish in a pool near the monument appear intent upon refusing evolution, given what awaits‹the inane chatter of tourists and a litter of coinage polluting the water. The same artist's ten small canvases of "Dealy Plaza, Dallas, TX, 1963" reveal useless satellite maps of the site of John F. Kennedy's murder. Like many histories, they tell us everything but let us discover nothing.

A panoramic photograph by Deborah Bright of "Crow Agency, Montana: Battle of the Little Big Horn" shows the scattering of death in the gravestones erected where the bodies of Custer's troops were buried. These are the boundary lines of slaughter, marked but nameless, since the dead were too mutilated to identify. The empty world in the background is a reminder of the victors, vanished to unknown graves.

There are shadow parodies of Fuseli's "The Nightmare" and Eakins' "The Gross Clinic" in a painting entitled "Malpractice #2." The work of Lalla Essaydi depicts murder or surgery or both, with witless bystanders in black and white. This is the craven Orient, turned into a necrophile's dream for imperialist clerks.

A heap of wooden rifles looks like the remains of a defunct carnival shooting gallery or like Buffalo Bill's theatrical armory. They make one wish that the artist, Allison Smith, could turn all the world's weapons to toys.

Justin Richel might well have stopped with his image "Father of a Nation," displaying George Washington in uniform, but with his trousers and undergarments around his ankles. This shares some of the shock that the suitor in Jonathan Swift's poem "A Lady's Bedchamber" suffers when he discovers, by prying in his lover's room, that "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!" An ordinary insight, but a useful one. But the artist goes on to depict a series of copulations in which the first president of the United States takes on various examples of Colonial architecture in a priapic frenzy. The punning titles of "Love of Country" and "Making of a Nation" are barely forgivable. We do not learn anything here, not even about scorn. Although we might consider this burning question: When inserting a penis into a covered bridge, which point of entry constitutes sodomy?

On the same scale, but significantly more compelling, John Krueger's colored pencil drawings portray believable anomalies: Thomas Jefferson pushing a shopping cart, dragging a slave's chain as if he were Marley's ghost, and another image taken, I believe, from a 19th century photograph of a criminal, hanged or gunned down, now pictured with a can of spray paint with which the figure's mouth has been shadowed, while a small puddle of darkness forms at its feet. These are allusive and unnerving takes on the past, and the ways in which it infects our present.

Paul Whitman's "Saratoga Redoubt Tap" in pencil and wax is a cartoon within a cartoon‹behind a local bar, behind a cannon with a midden of excavated crockery in one panel, while the metal beer keg waits to be discovered by future archaeologists, here where men tell their lies of war over the glasses and bottles. All this is laid atop a square of mock earth that might pass for a lead soldier's cemetery. This is history run riot, clattering echoes of memory collected for a brief pause in the stuck time of art.

And there is more worthy of notice: Johnny Carrera's miniature histories in monetary form; uncommon currency; Titus Kaphar's cut canvas of the revolution that might have been, with its ghosts of armed black students on the Cornell University steps; Phil Whitman again, with toy sculptures under torture, where an 18th-century atrocity anticipates the pyramid of bodies at Abu Ghraib.

The playwright John Guare has asserted that "we live in a world where amnesia is the most wished-for state." This exhibition contains a number of effective cures.





from CT ARTSCENE (21 November 2006)
HISTORY SHOW AT ARTSPACE
By Hank Hoffman

Speaking to reception guests, artist Charles Browning said, "One of the things that binds together all the artists in this show is a quote by William Faulkner: 'The past is never dead. It's not even past.'"

Browning noted that the images he is working from, in making his paintings, "are art historical in nature." He is looking at art from the past-and particularly this country's past-not so much as aesthetic masterpieces (though they may well be) but more as ideological statements.

"For me, the interest in history is in the way history is a narrative and how do we receive that narrative," he told me. "What is the function? Who writes it? Who reads it? Who is it for? And I'm examining all those questions."

One of Browning's paintings in the show, "A Good Chance," depicts two archetypal American backwoodsmen in a canoe on an idyllic river. But they are sitting at either end, backs to each other and paddling in opposite directions. The work was inspired by the prints of Currier & Ives, as well as the paintings of Albert Bierstadt and other artists associated with the Hudson River School.

It's not hard to imagine, say, historical paintings of the Civil War as ideological documents. But Browning also sees the agenda in a Bierstadt landscape.

"It is a propaganda piece that was creating an image of America of unspoiled wilderness it was our right to conquer," Browning said to me. "Part of what I'm trying to do with my paintings is to subvert that mythology of frontier propaganda."

* * *


Titus Kaphar looks at the art of the past through a similar perspective. His "New Revolution," he said, was the "result of a performance at Yale."

Specifically, Kaphar, based a large painting on a detail in John Trumbull's "Battle of Bunker Hill." Kaphar, who is African-American, blew up the section of the painting that features the only African-American. Then, in a performance in the Yale University Art Gallery before Trumbull's original, Kaphar cut out the figures in his own painting.

"The idea behind that was-when the figures are removed, this painting becomes a window through which to view the original," he told the assembled guests at Artspace.

Speaking with him afterwards, he told me that he had "always been enamored with historical painting." In fact, he had a minor in history at Yale to go along with his major in art.

"As I started making more paintings, I found myself separated from this history," he told me. How so? Part of it, he said, was realizing how far away in time we are from when the works were created.

"I started really going to museums and looking and really feeling how I felt about these paintings," he said. His "interventions," as he calls his manipulated canvases, are a comment on the historical works.

Kaphar noted that when Trumbull painted "Battle of Bunker Hill," it was important to him that it be a portrait of the participants. Trumbull, according to Kaphar, visited living veterans of the historic fight. (Trumbull contributed to the founding of the Yale University Art Gallery in 1832, when he donated over 100 paintings to the fledgling museum.) Kaphar used fellow Yale students to recreate the poses in the original.

"There was one figure-a black figure-in the lower corner. That revolution was not for him. It was reallynot for him," Kaphar said.

The black figure in Trumbull's "Battle of Bunker Hill" may be incidental. But the issue of racism is anything but incidental to American history.

* * *


Phil Whitman grew up in upstate New York near the Revolutionary War Saratoga battlefield. Visits to historic battlefields are coupled in his consciousness with memories of family. With a series of colored pencil drawings, displayed on landscaped shelves, Whitman sought to link his personal history "with this national history that [specific locations] are supposed to be commemorating."

Another work, "The Historic Berkshires: Prisoner Pile Along the Waloomsac," draws a correlation between an event that occurred during the Revolutionary War and more recent history. Made in 2004 for "an ironic show about out of the way tourist sites in the Berkshires," the piece features about a half dozen figures sculpted out of Super Sculpy and painted to look like Revolution-era Loyalists and Hessians. Whitman said that the battle was a rout by the American insurgents. They tied up the Tory and German prisoners.

"The Americans were robbing their watches and money. Not only stealing their stuff but actively trying to humiliate them. Dressing up in their clothes," he told me. Whitman posed his figures in a pile akin to that seen in the Abu Ghraib photos. "It seemed to really correlate with this stuff."

When he was taken to an historic battlefield as a child, he "liked that you could see a diorama and then go out to the actual place." He sees his works almost as interpretations of the dioramas that enchanted him as a child. With the colored pencil drawings, he chose to display them as though they were markers overlooking a historic site rather than just hang them on the wall.

For the drawing "Parental Guidance: Breymann Redoubt Diorama Case" he actually placed an image of his mother in the picture. She is seen, with a baby in a snuggly on her chest, amid milling soldiers loading their muskets.





from CT CENTRAL - ONLINE REVIEW (9 December 2006)
Artspace's provocative 'History' goes beyond any textbook
By Judy Birke

(NEW HAVEN) Once upon a time schoolchildren were taught that Christopher Columbus discovered America and Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. History was a simple story, seen only from one perspective and taken as solemn truth.

Fast forward to today. In fact, the truth is not so simple. Textbooks are being rewritten (or not) as we speak, based on new considerations and perspectives, and simple stories have become far more complicated.

One way to observe a culture's changing awareness of its history has been to look at the work of its artists, a population that has always been more inclined to ponder alternate possibilities. For many contemporary artists, history has become a recurring and important theme, leading them to ponder the past in order to better understand the present.

"Don't Know Much About History," the exhibit running through Jan. 20, 2007, at Artspace's untitled (space) gallery, offers such an opportunity to revisit history.

Denise Markonish, the show's curator, notes, "We are, as a culture so blind to history. We learn about it in school and then forget about it. "Why," asks Markonish, "despite the fact that history is such an integral part of our beings, are we so blind to the past? This show is, in a way, an occasion to relearn it. I really wanted to get people thinking."

And get them thinking she does.

This is an intriguing exhibition of varied moods and associations. An effective blend of form and content, it convincingly demonstrates the radical changes in the way history can be viewed and understood.

Nothing is simple here. It takes time and attention to decipher what one observes, but the rewards are well worth the effort.

Provocative narratives range from social and political issues to racism and sexism, the 16 participants offering all sorts of information not found in history books.

Cutting across all styles, media and technique, the inclusions, sometimes disturbing, sometimes downright shocking, leap way beyond the narrow boundaries of what is often defined as political art, proving for a change, that political statements do not inevitably make for bad art. These works, while not always giving pleasure, clearly succeed in asking relevant questions, each artist striving to communicate in a world whose meaning is often elusive, and, while each inclusion is not necessarily expressionistic in style, each is certainly expressive in content.

"I don't normally do political shows," explains Markonish. "This is the most political show we've done. It started with a few artists. One thing led to another, and more and more I became aware of what appeared to be a trend of artists looking at history, using it and twisting it to talk about the present."

According to Markonish, the exhibition takes a four-step trajectory, ranging from those artists who explore the genre of historic painting, to those interested in how history relates to art, to those who look at historic events to reflect the present, and finally to those who use history to comment upon its place in contemporary society.

Each artist has thoughtfully formulated a compelling personal meditation on what it means to be an artist at this moment in history that is reflected in their work.

Many find evocative new ways to re-address various pictorial traditions, contemporizing context to address modern issues.

In Titus Kaphar's "New Revolution," based upon John Trumbull's 1786 depiction of the Battle of Bunker Hill (which can be seen at the Yale University Art Gallery) Kaphar recontextualizes and reconfigures the original image and narrative. By taking the only African-American figure, seen originally in a subservient position, and moving him from the background to the foreground, and by cutting and reconfiguring the entire painting as a contemporary diptych, Kaphar revises history by redefining racial roles and relationships within America's hierarchy, reversing the marginalization of African-Americans in both history and the painting.

Charles Browning focuses on various other eras in art history. In "Black Face," a portrait of a Victorian society lady, painted after Ingres, Browning paints her in blackface, emphasizing the notion that no matter how absurd the imagery, the inherent bias has always been toward accepting the imposed historical narrative as truth. In Joe Zane's "Restitutions," a group of images of five of the 13 paintings that were stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990, including a Manet, a Vermeer and a Rembrandt, that have never been found, the artist substitutes mechanical reproductions made in China, pointing to the increased production and exportation of Chinese goods, while simultaneously questioning the "aura" of the original as compared to the reproductions.

In some of the works, political context receives great strength from its aesthetic elements.

In Jonathan Santos' "Dealy Plaza, TX 1963," a bold, aggressive painting of 10 squares, Santos takes the event of John F. Kennedy's assassination and turns it into an abstracted study of historic place. By reducing map images that diagrammatically retrace the motorcade in red, white and blue, Santos gives the piece a contemporary aesthetic, as he slowly zeros in on the mark that points to the exact spot of the tragedy.

Many of the inclusions possess a subtlety in the manner in which the artist weaves the intricate ideas that hover beneath the tangled surface of American history, connecting past to present in an ironic manner that generates a maximum of significance from a minimum of means. These works, like Colleen Coleman's "Re-Writing AmericKKKa's History II (Dearest Prudence)," and Johnny Carrera's "Monetary Collages," nevertheless, spark ideas like tinderboxes, Coleman's evocative interactive inatallation commenting on how history gets passed down, Carrera's powerful collages addressing what he sees as the real motivation of governmental policies, revealing money as the ultimate power.

Some artists, like Justin Richel and Andrea Robbins and Max Bechar, for example, make their points via the ironic absurd, Richel exposing George Washington, the "father of our country," actually attempting to inseminate its symbols, and Robbins and Becher pointing to the schism between actual history and its re-appropriation, via a group of quirky photo-portraits of Aryan-looking "German Indians" in Native American attire, at the annual commemoration of a 19th-century German writer who wrote "Cowboy and Indian" stories.

The exhibit also includes fine works by Deborah Bright, Mary Dwyer, James Esber, Michael Krueger, Lalla A. Essaydi, Allison Smith and Phil Whitman.

In its entirety, this ambitious presentation transforms the gallery space into a true museum-like venue, the depth of theme, the quality of content, the range of information and the solidity of installation, succeeding in evoking a real energy and dialogue that is hard to resist.

One hopes that it will be seen not only by visitors who welcome the extensive exploration of history, but also by those who would genuinely be upset by it.

Judy Birke of New Haven is a freelance writer and art consultant.