 Door, 2004 maple and graphite, 15" x 13" x 9" Aaron Spangler LFL Gallery is pleased to present a solo exhibition of Brooklyn-based artist Aaron Spangler. A Cessna crash lands on Main Street, pulling up short on a junk pile the size of a small barn. A troop transport truck peeking out of an orchard might be upended, possibly out of commission, spilling out a would-be invisible battalion - reserves, peace-keepers. Water towers and telephone poles and abandoned schoolhouses circle the abandoned wreckage, epic and ridiculous, instant tombstones. Mayhem in Mayberry? Militia uprising in a Dakota of the mind? Victimless white collar crimes on a weekend warrior spree? To the left, a mine shaft, entrance gaping. To the right, a brick Masonic temple, doors closed, conspiring. And above? A canopy of trees, a cathedral of trees, trees on a black-ops mission? No, just a clustered horizon of giant oaks, cut-away roots spreading like kudzu, branches poised for imminent beatdown, waiting. They're everywhere, these black-gessoed groves. Vapor. Aaron Spangler, chisel or gouge or simple rotary tool in hand, carves these baroque fantasias in the low-relief style typical of the Romanesque period. The crystalline clarity of an old Chevy's grillwork, or the incised windowpanes in a pitched roof house, bring to mind the exacting precision of Durer's "Knight Death and the Devil" (1513), but where the Leonardo of the North obsessively stippled his armored Lancelots and regal steeds with a razor point burin - delineating figures but also shading perspective - Spangler uses basic carpenter's tools on 3 inch blocks of maple, lending a rough-hewn feel in keeping with the rural Armageddon at hand. Spangler, you might say, is striking a pose somewhere between the Acme Novelty Co. freedom fighter - white-knuckled hands gripping the detonator, grinning with amphetamine cheer - and the sober documentary impulse of a Ken Burns, recording the populist unrest of our "true north" neighbors, whose motto might be: "No taxation, with or without representation". But since Larry in his safety orange hunting vest, or Moe with his camo face paint, or even Curly clutching his assault rifle, can't seem to find let alone read their copy of the Federalist Papers, we're left with Spangler's absurd burlesque of the disenfranchised, its Strangelovian inevitability: Major Mandrake: "I was just going to say, as long as the weapons exist, sooner or later, something's going to happen, and that will be it for both countries". General Ripper: "I've heard the arguments. Like Napolean's quote, "There's one thing you can't do with a bayonet, and that's sit on it". It's worth noting that in the pages of "Chip Chats", a heartland trade mag devoted to wood carving, proud members of the Northwest Carvers Association giddily swap modeling tips on classic duck decoys, mounted trout trophies, chainsaw grizzlies, and robed warlock figurines carved in the round. "Ol' Don Burgdorf", will fashion you a 7 inch tall, customized "Pig with a Proclamation", whittling your favorite bumper-sticker wisdom on a swine's sweatshirt, turning any executive desktop into Confucian hog heaven. Elsewhere, in red state basement workshops, our repressed Gothic sensibilities leak to the surface when the odd 3rd generation German American obsessively hacks at a Black Forest Cuckoo Clock, keeping the family tradition alive. Spangler's ominous panoramas, by contrast, evince none of this homespun charm, though both possess a truly authentic aura that only comes with countless hours of painstaking craft. The difference, I'd venture, is located in Spangler's expressive cinematic flows - never dreamlike, always rigorously clarified. No matter how arch a giant bazooka twinned with a barbecue grill is meant to seem, such lapidary precision leaves us slack-jawed, unblinking. A pitiless expression one reserves for pitiless scenes like Cheops and Dachau, rather than the diffusion smeared poignancy cued up for a lone drainage ditch, tumbleweeds blowing in the wind. Note the crossed swords heraldry over the garage of a clapboard house, ringed by trunks with mushroom cloud foliage, and it begins to dawn - slowly then instantly - that Spangler has no time for these desolation angels, rubbernecking gazes turned inward, getting jiggy with their own self-regard. David Hunt Exhibition: January 27 - February 26, 2005 Gallery hours: Tue-Sat 11am - 6pm Zach Feuer Gallery (LFL) 530 West 24th Street USA-New York, NY 10011 Telephone +1 212 989 7700 Fax +1 212 989 7720 Email info@zachfeuer.com www.zachfeuer.com |
 |