When I first reviewed Covivant Gallery, nearly three years ago, it was a raw exhibition space with rental studios and an essence of what you see is what you get. If there was anything metaphorical at work it was between its physical appearance and the innocence and aspirations of young people etching out a visual presence and voice. Founders Carrie Mackin and Chantel Foretich had big city notions, and it took ambition and tenacity to establish the gallery name recognition it now enjoys. Continuing under Mackin's guidance, it's still that same big storefront space with iconic concrete floors and chipped walls, but now exuding the sure-of-itself cachet of an established alternative venue. For the current exhibitions, a bit of unexpected urban sophistication creeps in with smart window decals listing artists and sponsors.
Forays into circus side shows (literally, circus veteran Johnny Meah's sword swallowing), political forums and fundraising, and a taste of abbreviated theatrical ventures haven't dampened what alternative spaces do best. And that is to present art that is new, experimental, unique, often peculiar, but also feisty and raw in the way it tests art's boundaries and definitions. And sometimes a bit too feisty and a bit too raw.
Missteps include last year's skateboard show, where professional commercial designers showed along with arty excursions into skate-board "art." Consensus, even among many of the participating artists, was that something was amiss. But it goes with the territory; alternative galleries can be led astray when guest curators lack the authority or will to mount a tight and cohesive show.
Two just-opened exhibitions illustrate the range of alternative gallery dynamics.
Toy W/ Us, featuring the work of 20 artists, is an invitational launched by Experimental Skeleton (E.S.), Tampa's media-savvy collective led by Tampa artist Joe Griffith. It's based on broad definitions and levels of the word play. Games are not new associations to the history of art; Caravaggio and Cezanne used playing cards as subject matter. Chessmaster Marcel Duchamp gave up artmaking for the game of chess after treating his art as something of a game. And let's not forget Jasper Johns' "Target."
And there the comparisons stop.
Toy W/ Us is more of a fun romp than an earth-shattering exhibition that leaves us bedazzled by process, entranced by aesthetic wonder or gripped by stunning novelty. It's a sprawling, occasionally thoughtful adult diversion well suited to the alternative ideal.
In the main gallery The Art Guys' sculptural floor-standing piece occupies center stage. Their well-deserved reputation is based on a habit of mocking conceptual art through pseudo seriousness and deadpan comic routine. That's why I'm a fan.
Their "Toy Tower," clearly one of the most professionally finished art objects, was created expressly for this show. Fabricated meticulously from measuring sticks, its small drawers (think Dali and Duchamp) open to a variety of baffling games, including tiny moving balls that never quite reach their destination. Other drawers hold hidden surprises bound to shock and test the limits between artmaking and pornography. Along these lines are the anatomically explicit works of E. S. members Joe Griffith, Brian Taylor and Bob Dorsey.
In a more theatrical vein are Kenney Echezabel's engaging mixed-media wall-hung marionettes or dolls sheathed in tight skins of shiny black tape. Some are loaded with cleverly assembled parts straddling titillation and humor. The wire versions sport arty industrial-wear like a small wire whisk and chastity-belt lock.
Politics plays a bit part here as well. Performance artist Jbot, famed for robotic musicians, submitted "Leslie the Lion," an enormous scrappy stuffed animal hanging near the center of the main gallery. Be forewarned: Leslie is no technological wonder; if you're lucky, his temperamental robotic system might be working. When it is, he spins out a spiel with names like Greco and Iorio. Jbot apparently did his homework.
Nearby is Tom Shirtz's visually biting critique of University of South Florida power and dominance in "The New World Ordered Globe" topped by a crowing rooster. This toy comes complete with its own glossy brochure.
One political/social object accepted at the last minute should have been purged, not because of its tasteless content (there are numerous candidates for that honor), but because its creator, Kelly Benjamin (former City Council candidate) is not an exhibiting artist. Accepting his work (an Easter basket filled with horrific anti-war symbols like dolls with painted blood) bodes poorly for artists who labor at their craft, as well as nationally noted art professionals like Miami's Robert Chambers and Zoob-creator/artist Michael Grey and Tampa's Ferdie Pacheco. Even under the alternative banner, curatorial restraint should have eliminated this work rather than grant it admission into a show of artists who have paid their dues.
Surprisingly there were few photos except Kym O'Donnell's color vintage shots of cutesy models interacting teasingly with toy props. Several can be seen with View-masters. Kym is a really interesting photographer, but this presentation doesn't show off her work to full advantage.
Standouts include Liz McGrath's "Selma & Suzie," the funky two-headed, two-bodied Hawaiian dancers, Carlos Amorales beautifully crafted figurative "Prototype Mobile," and Julie Raven Hernandez Dorsey's "Rocking Raven." I was particularly drawn to this pedestaled and simulated black bird on rockers because of allusions to Gothic origins, but mostly because of its paradoxical wackiness.
Contrasting with the themed and inevitable smorgasbord of the toy show, Brandt Elling Peters' first solo exhibition, Slap-Happy, all in black and white and shades of gray, and including a variety of mixed media, is surprisingly cohesive.
I'm enthusiastic on many levels, especially for his break away from the cookie-cutter pop art approach about which I've kvetched ad nauseam (mostly because of tiresome superficial content). Peters' switch from color is also a good move right now — sort of a tabula rasa approach on the surface, though there's more to it than that. This is also commentary on black-and-white cartoon animation from the 1930s as well as his critique of a decade that he believes resembles ours. As a young artist, he is concerned about rampant social and economic woes, a world in chaos, and the overriding loss of innocence for all young people. The artist describes his work as "vintage nostalgia" with a "very dark side," not an entirely new approach for him, but now promising a more personal and substantial sensibility.
Do we readily read this from his art? Not necessarily. His challenge is to make the explanations even more obvious from the art.
His implicit political/social commentary is, fortunately for us, not of the hit-you-over-the-head variety. He's using a cast of personalized cartoon characters, some painted, some sculptural, and a few mixed-media assemblages including "Beauty Queen." Many of the pieces are not new; putting them together permits analysis for both the viewer and the artist.
The fictional cast of characters includes Slap Happy, autobiographical and introspective by design and perhaps cathartic. When the cartoon character dons his bear suit, Peters likens it to his own armor.
"Miss Content" is a three-dimensional installation of a charming little girl with striped stockings. It's based on the artist's wife Kathie Olivas Peters, a prominent area artist whose stocking motif appears in much of her own work. (It must be mentioned that a fair number of Peters' works have collaborators, including the well-done video that is viewed through a peephole within the installation.) It features Peters' creation, the 6-inch-tall "Tin Soldier #432 1/2." He also grouped his limited edition cartoony soldiers in a floor installation. Having just seen a marvelous Juan Munoz figurative installation in Houston, I couldn't help envisioning Peters capitalizing further on his miniature sculptural character/social commentator.
Peters views Slap-Happy is a transitional show. For the pop artist with a number of national exhibitions, it meant taking the risk of standing alone for the first time. Breaking away from the themed group shows also meant the opportunity for self-critique. He's asking himself where he's coming from and where he's going.
I find Peters' hybrid creatures full of possibilities. Like Leslie Lerner's alter ego, "The Man with the Wooden Arm," Peters expresses personal visions rather than regurgitating pop art consumerism and appropriated props. It's also refreshing to sense a serious philosophical tone within an art form that is far too easy to adopt.
Is this a defining moment for a young artist? As they say, the ball is in his court.
Art Critic Adrienne M. Golub can be reached at randagolub@aol.com.
This article appears in Apr 16-22, 2003.