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hold its contents; you meet the eyes of loved ones, living and dead; you experience another side to the faces of the Soviet Union through photographs by Edik Gladkov; you catch a goat feeding minutely painted by Marbet Wolfson; you are challenged by Joel Moyer’s masks and emblems of profound ritual in connection with the Mother God; and you gaze into landscapes as drama, as abstraction, as pure imminence by Frank Merrera, Deborah Singleton, Steve Griffin, Margaret Novak and Laurie Marshall.
There are strong and serious things in this show, yet not without irony and even whimsey. (Check out the cop in your mirror, photographed by David Roehler.) Each work in its own way questions how and what we see.
In many of these works you find the sense of something just missed, someone just lost. The closed eyes of a mother bowed so close to the wan and lifeless visage of her young son. The line between them is both distinct and blurred. Where one ends the other begins. You feel as through you are intruding, peering into the most private, the most desperate of moments, painted by Alexei Afonin, brother of the young man in the portrait.
You turn away. It is very quiet. In a small, delicate watercolor by Dan Lewis, a broom is left leaning by an open door. There’s a calm, swept clean air about. It’s called “After The Fall.” It has that “it’s over” feeling of autumn. It lifts you.
And then just some faint tracks in the snow painted by Eva Wine. (The goat’s on the other wall?) Something living has passed. It has left its mark, a trace which, in some way, we all follow.
Perhaps to the superbly composed photograph, “Zabriskie Point,” by Cynthia Mahan — the lowest point in Death Valley. You are looking, as the photographer looked, at people looking out over the des-ert, people with their own cameras, waiting. Waiting to see something. Something coming. Or are they, and you, too late? What is it you need to see?
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