Yes, it is here and yes, it is in support of Kentucky artists.
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach
Great Meadows Foundation is a grant giving foundation, launched in 2016 by contemporary art collector and philanthropist Al Shands. Named for the home that Al and his late wife Mary created, the vision of Great Meadows Foundation is to strengthen and support the visual arts in Kentucky by empowering our community’s artists and other visual arts professionals to research, connect, and participate more actively in the broader contemporary art world.
The initial program, Artists Professional Development Grants, will provide visual artists in Kentucky with grants for travel outside the state, both nationally and internationally. This program encourages artists to engage critically with the international art world and thereby to enrich the art environment we live in. Awardees for the first summer cycle will be announced in August. While that deadline has passed, we hope you will stay tuned for an announcement of our next.
As the foundation develops, it will expand its scope with other types of grants and we look forward to keeping you abreast of these programs as they come on line. Future programs will be publicized through the GreatMeadowsFoundation website’s newsfeed, on Facebook and through Twitter.
We encourage you to forward information about Great Meadows Foundation, its website, and programs to colleagues and other visual arts professionals around Kentucky and help us raise awareness of this new support structure within the state.
Stephen Irwin spent most of his life making impressions—ask those who frequented Sparks, the now defunct Louisville nightclub that Irwin co-owned in the early 1990s. According to a September 2008 feature in Butt Magazine, Irwin was something of an enigma: “…modern artist, local celebrity, trash, heart-attack survivor, pacemaker carrier, bitch, and a confidante to Louisville’s ladies of good taste.” While Irwin’s personality seems to have left lasting imprints in the minds of others, his artistic practice was rooted in erasure. Irwin produced a large portion of his oeuvre through cutting-out, rubbing-off, or whiting-out body parts from vintage gay pornography magazines. Through obscuring parts of—or entire—ready-made erotic images, Irwin rendered them even more seductive, inviting viewers to question preconceived concepts of pleasure, desire, and pornography. Zephyr Gallery’s current exhibition, Project 11:this, this is for you, considers the conceptual and aesthetic legacies of the late Louisville-based artist and helps understand his reductive practice.
Project 11 uses Irwin’s process as axis; the selected works revolve around the nexus of erasure, sensuality, and playful seduction. His altered images often elude classification—one could even argue they fall somewhere on the Dada spectrum through their reliance on the readymade. Zephyr’s curatorial team selected works that date between 2003 and 2010, encompassing Irwin’s late career. While the exhibition is largely comprised of his two-dimensional images, the inclusion of the artist’s braille installations—in addition to the ethereal Vessel Series (2008)—provide additional layers of physical temptation.
Lurking on the back wall—and directly across from Zephyr’s front door—is Irwin’s The Unbearable Whiteness of Being (Wifebeater) (2006). Like the majority of Irwin’s altered pornography works, only select body parts survive the Wite-Out process. In Unbearable Whiteness, a green tank top was enlarged and printed on vinyl wallpaper. Although seamlessly adhered to the gallery’s flat wall, the image’s small folds and creases provide the illusion of bodily presence and movement. Irwin has erased the sex act, but teases viewers with its remnants—a phallic torso that both welcomes and resists an eroticized reading.
Unbearable Whiteness acts as mediator between two of Irwin’s magazine series; to the left—and exhibited for the first time—is Love Parade (2006-2007), a succession of book pages whose figures have been completely coated in Wite-Out. Love Parade was an electronic dance music festival in Berlin that hosted thousands of partiers from across the globe, and often provided a convergence point for those on society’s margins. Irwin took its catalog as muse, covering the photographs of Love Parade’s participants while leaving their corresponding quotes untouched. The right wall houses his Circle Game series (2009)—individual magazine sheets installed in constructed grids whose contents have been etched away by the steel wool’s coarse tentacles. All that remains are floating peepholes through which arms, faces, buttocks, testicles, and oiled nipples are barely recognizable. These seductive skin-toned bubbles magnify and tenderize their respective body parts, reducing the pornographic image to pure texture. Zephyr’s first floor also displays Irwin’s “melting” magazines and suspended Skrinky-Dink faces, in addition to a two unique works-on-paper in the back gallery reception area.
Project 11 provides rare access to some of Irwin’s ethereal installations, each carefully reconstituted for Zephyr’s second floor. Vessel Series invites viewers to mentally re-construct the magazines’ naked bodies, as their silhouettes have been abstracted to create wall drawings of inanimate objects. Irwin selected cutouts from vintage pornography magazines, and used steel wool to rub the magazine’s ink directly onto a wall. He would then flip the same cutout over and repeat his process, eroding the magazine cutout while completing the second-half of his wall vessel. Because of the vessels’ curvatures, it seems impossible to decipher who is doing what to whom, or to themselves. You Are Loved (2009) and You Already Know How This Will End (2010) contribute an additional layer of resonance to Project 11, as they are braille wall installations made from steel-wool shavings and embedded magnets. Temptation abounds: any attempt to physically read their messages would immediately result in their destruction.
One of Irwin’s works is only visible after-hours, and like Irwin’s erasures, it reduces a form to what he considered “essential.” this, this is for you (2008) appears at night—its soft, ghost-like silhouette begins to take shape on the gallery wall at dusk. The effect is created through clear vinyl lettering placed on Zephyr’s front window, and is relatively invisible during the daytime unless one makes a conscious effort to locate its faint outlines.
What renders Project 11 particularly meaningful and successful is its careful consideration of Irwin’s works. Pornography—as it stands in our current sociopolitical climate—is often wrongly associated with shame or crudeness. In a previous exhibition catalog of Irwin’s work, Gérard Goodrow misinterprets the artist’s reductive practice as an attempt to free “the depiction of nudity in art from the clutches of pornography.” This reading dismisses pornography as “less than,” conflating sex and pleasure with heteronormative, conservative, or religious standards. Through the lens of Jonathan Katz’s “Art and the Sexual Revolution,” we can consider Irwin’s works as not a separation of nudity from pornography, but a solvent for “physical and social differences.” The artist’s choice of material—1960s and 70s pornography—is a return to the 1960s climate of sexual freedom, when “…art offered simultaneously an intensification of, and suspension from, real life and the often-invisible social forces that govern our lives.”Project 11 presents Irwin’s works in the context of his process and material, allowing seduction and pleasure to traverse time and culture.
Project 11:this, this is for you runs through through March 19th.
 See Vince Aletti, “Foreword,” in Stephen Irwin, exh. cat. (New York: Invisible Exports and r/e projects, 2014), 5. Stephen’s feature appears in Butt Magazine, 24 (September 2008).
 Gérard A. Goodrow, “Replacing Obscenity with Obscurity: Stephen Irwin’s Vintage Pornography,” 27.
 Jonathan D. Katz, “Art and the Sexual Revolution,” in Sexuality, ed. Amelia Jones (Cambridge: MIT, 2014), 65
Kentucky Gov. Matt Bevin recently belittled liberal arts education, claiming that public schools are not turning out degrees of the “things people want.”
“There are thousands of examples of successful business executives, entrepreneurs and professionals who majored in languages, literature, arts or history,” rebutted a recent Courier-Journal editorial. “College studies can provide the technical foundation for very specific careers, but they also can inspire a broader view of one’s self and the world around us that can translate into a different kind of success, as well as leadership and civic responsibility.”
In fact, evidence abounds that the workforce of the 21st Century marketplace more than ever demands a well-rounded higher education.
“It’s not an ‘either/or’ scenario, it’s a ‘both/and’ way to undo the damage that separating (and thus putting into hierarchy) the sciences and humanities has done to inquiry and innovation. ‘Eureka’ moments rarely happen without some kind of cross-fertilization from other ways of thinking about a problem,” notes one poster commenting on this interesting article on the subject in the Chronicle of Higher Education.
Titled “Home and Field: Digital Explorations of Community,” the current exhibition at Transylvania’s Morlan Gallery, situates the work of two artists in the most mesmerizing way. Hollow and occasionally firm sounds from the show’s two clearly separate multi-media installations chase over and around a partition wall and successfully generate meditations on belonging and place.
The subtle movement in the work by budding artist and recent Transylvania University graduate Stevie Morrison challenge our relationship to familiar surroundings. A small house constructed of images from Google Maps taken at the 900th block in various neighborhoods around Lexington, Kentucky invites us to reexamine our relationship to place.
Morrison keenly sets up three vantage points – her two-by-two inch paper house hangs by a thin wire, it is also a large, off-kilter wall-projection, and a third image of the same house is present on the flickering screen of the recording projector. How do we know the place to which we belong? Can we be certain about any of it given subtle alterations in our vantage point? For sure these two audio-visual immersions allow us to contemplate a multitude of interweaving.
The occasional sound echoing from the static metal helmets in Michelle Jaffe’s “Wappen Field” move in the same way – in and out of our complete understanding of them. We catch this and that voice or phrase and try to hold onto it only to find something else around the corner. It is at the same time disparate and communal. Dissonant and familiar.
Brilliant in it’s pairing of these two artists – one nascent, the other established on the international stage – the curator of “Home and Field: Digital Explorations of Community” builds a small community of her own – one that deserves enough time to really experience.
NOTE: The Morlan Gallery will hold evening hours October 8 and 9. For more information, please visit their website.
Six years after their public introduction, Vivian Maier’s photographs still exude mystery and prompt intrigue. Working as a nanny in Chicago during the fifties and sixties, Maier documented her surroundings — and often herself — but ironically we know little about her life. Vivian Maier: On the Street at The Art Museum at the University of Kentucky presents a monographic exhibition of thirty black and white photographs, including abstract self portraits and intimate glimpses into the lives of both Chicago’s working class and elite aristocrats.The scope of the exhibition provides a perspective of Maier’s surroundings, while at the same time offering viewers a deeper connection with the photographer and her Rolleiflex camera.
However socially and aesthetically infatuating, the legal underpinnings of Maier’s photographs remain overarching. In 2007, two years before her death, her negatives were auctioned off along with the rest of the contents of her storage unit as the result of nonpayment. Since then, her work has been reproduced, edited, and resold to private galleries and collectors. An onslaught of intellectual property debates and ethical questions still permeate Chicago courtrooms. In sum, Maier’s oeuvre has been posthumously constructed and aggrandized by those with a market share in her life and work.
While this aspect of Maier’s entrance into the mainstream is a basis for contention (but not entirely unique — this happens all too frequently in the art world), I think there is more at play in our vehement attraction to her photographs than just market controversy. Perhaps this is why On The Street resists a dialogue about ethics and legalities. Although the entrance wall text states that the selected photographs are pulled from the John Maloof Collection (Maloof is just one of the original purchasers of Maier’s defunct storage unit), no details are provided about the legalities of his purchase. Instead, the viewer is presented with another concern: the entrance of unknown “artists of consequence” into the canon of art history.
The works chosen for display for On the Street provide viewers with a multi-faceted view of city life through the lens of Maier’s camera. Each image seems at once familiar and uncanny — we can recognize the ebb and flow of city life, but only though Maier’s abstract angles and intense shadows. While some of Maier’s subjects are aware of their subjectiveness, others are oblivious — they are presented as anonymous, fragmented bodies. Ubiquitous shadows seem to be subjects themselves: Maier frequently makes them the focus of her self portraits. Indeed, there is something dream-like about Maier’s use of light and line, shadow and shape — her Surrealist predecessors applied many of the same techniques to their own photography.
Although the exhibition of thirty photographs seems small in comparison to the number of negatives available from the Maloof Collection, the time required to absorb Maier’s work is proportionate. Each photograph is remarkably detailed — and one journey through On the Street is not enough to fully immerse oneself in Maier’s world. The exhibition is comprised of single images and groupings of two and four photographs: children, city streets, women, transportation, and leisure, to name a few. Contextualizing these selected photographs provides a comprehensive survey of her subject matter, allowing viewers to connect her daily activities with the people and places she chose to capture on film.
On the Street is located in the back corner of the museum, which seems an odd fit for Maier’s work — the exhibition almost suffocates in its compact space. The intensity of Maier’s photography needs a precise “breathability,” something the back gallery ultimately lacks. Perhaps in attempt to mediate the small space, each photograph is surrounded with a large white mat and delicate silver frame. While this gesture helps aerate the body of work, the lack of space remains a dominant issue.
An observer of the everyday, Maier was able to capture the humanism and humor of daily life. This is evident through On the Street, which treats her work as both a time capsule and an autobiography. It succeeds by presenting her photographs as documents of a time passed, but also through examining the photographer’s importance and artistic resonance. While viewers are asked to question Maier’s undoubtable skill in relation to formally trained photographers of her time, I wish to offer a thematic addendum: should we ignore the fact she may not have wanted her life and work displayed publicly? Who truly owns Maier’s work — and should we be content with others profiting from her anonymity?
When a book is truly exceptional, it can transport its readers elsewhere. For a moment, physical place and imagined location are unhinged — the reader is no longer bound to their sofa or chair, but can wander freely through another world. The mind is at once absent and present: taken from one location and placed in another. Great Meadows: The Making of Here acts as a portal not only to The Shands’ residence and collection, but a testament to the tenor within its walls. Indeed, it is more than a book — it is an extension of the Shands’ life and home.
Al Shands is an Episcopal Priest and author, as well as an award-winning filmmaker, with over thirty-five documentary films to his credit. His late wife, Mary Norton Shands, an activist in cultural affairs, co-founded and was first President of the Kentucky Art and Craft Foundation (now KMAC).
Photo Credit: Edward A. Winters – Page 28-29, Northward gallery view of large sculptures
Photo Credit: Ed Winters, Front Cover of Book
Photo Credit: Ross Gordon – Pages 22-23, View of Great Meadows with sculptures
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach – Page 78, Detail view of upstairs office, Sol LeWitt, Wall Drawing #1082 (2003) (third image from top left — view of doorway)
Photo Credit: Ross Gordon – Page 66, View of Anish Kapoor’s Untitled (1999)
Photo Credit: Verena Gerlach – Page 116, View of Al with George Rickey’s Five Open Squares Gyratory Gyratory (1981)
Great Meadows presents an intimate look in to the making of the Shands’ residence, and provides a comprehensive backstory to the architecture, collection, and collectors. The book avoids a pedantic introduction — readers are instead encouraged to “dive right in” through excerpts from A Career and Selected Projects by the architect, David Morton. Part of Morton’s allure is his simplicity: he comments that the Shands’ residence was graphed by pocket calculator, pencil, and paper — no computers or technical drafting aids. The completed project is prodigious yet modest: Great Meadows can accommodate up to one hundred and fifty guests for dinner, but at the same time, remain intimate enough for two people.
Small yet powerful gestures contained within the book’s pages hide in every nook and cranny — “easter eggs” for the reader to stumble upon. In between two pages of Morton’s excerpts is a copy of Reverend Shands’ penned speech from the opening reception of Great Meadows in September 1988, printed on the same delicate paper and typeface one might encounter in a bible. Before he began collecting with his late wife Mary, Shands founded an Episcopal church in Washington D.C., and these inserts, which continue throughout the book, stand as physical reminders of his history.
Spearheaded and edited by independent curator and contributing author Julien Robson (previously affiliated with the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and the Speed Art Museum), Great Meadows boasts essays from critics, curators, poets, and artists — all whom have connected, in some time and place, with the Shands. This includes but is not limited to such figures as Peter Morrin, former director of the Speed Museum, Glenn Adamson, author and critic, Alice Gray Stites, current director of 21c Museum Hotels, Maya Lin, sculpture and landscape artist (and designer of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C.), and sound artist Stephen Vitiello. Each essay is specific to the book — they are documents of their respective authors’ connection and relationship with Alfred and Mary Shands.
Perhaps the most poignant essay is authored by John Yau, renowned poet and writer. Although the book is lined with vibrant color photos, “In Time, With Al Shands” is even more vivid — Yau’s imagery is a transformative journey, allowing the reader to silently accompany. Indeed, I forgot where I was for a moment while reading his words; I was observing a conversation between friends, weaving through the beautiful architecture that makes one feel as though they are both inside and outside at the same time, and slowly coming to understand the relationship between the art, the home, and the collectors.
Blurring the lines between art object and book, Great Meadows features stunning high-resolution photographs in addition to architectural drawings and artist sketches. Capturing the essence of site-specific artwork is no easy feat, but the photographers convey both the texture and presence of each installation. The office, home to Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing #1082 (2003) is presented through fifteen images, varying in size and scale. The proceeding blank page is representative of the white space above the office door, only visible just before exiting the room. Truly, these small details are what render this project an “index of experience” rather than a book.
Entire pages of Great Meadows are devoted to a single color. The intensity of Anish Kapoor’s yellow concave disc, Untitled (1999), can be partially experienced on page sixty-five through a full-color experience – sans its warping of sound, which is only evident through encountering it in Rev. Shands’ first-floor walkway. It is as if every angle of the home is carefully documented, acting as a record of the artworks’ interaction with the architecture, and vice versa.
Each work, both inside and outside of the residence, is carefully selected and thoughtfully placed to engage with both the architecture and the viewer. Indeed, Rev. Shands is a mindful collector; you will find no large art storage area within the walls of Great Meadows. Although some works migrate throughout the house from time to time, they each have a space — and that space is documented throughout the book’s bright pages.
Perhaps this is why the making Great Meadows is so important: the book will serve as documentation of site — a physical reminder of what was — when the artwork is separated from the home upon the passing of its owner. Rev Shands has bequeathed his collection to Louisville, Kentucky’s Speed Art Museum, and one day it will make the journey to its new permanent home on South Third Street. “A vital part of the collection is the way that you share it with others,” he states in the book’s conversation with Alice Gray Stites. Indeed, the entirety of Great Meadows: The Making of Here fulfills that very statement.
Great Meadows: The Making of Here is available in limited edition through Hatje Cantz.
 David Morton, A Career and Selected Notes in Great Meadows: The Making of Here (Ostfildern, Germany: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 2014), 12.
 Al Shands, “Excerpts from a Conversation with Alice Gray Stites” in Great Meadows: The Making of Here (Ostfildern, Germany: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 2014), 121.
I am not a blogger by nature; I prefer to tell stories. I love a good metaphor and the occasional innuendo as a way of processing what I chose to write about: the world of art. It is a topic that I am now convinced could make you sick, if not mildly insane if it were not for stories and someone to share them with.
Arts Week in New York began in early March this year with events like the Armory Show, which is America’s largest fair for the most important art of the 20th and 21st centuries. Art lovers, or should I say carnivores like myself, gorged on everything from paint to profanity, installation to styrofoam sculptures, and enormous photographs of far away places with camel bone bicycles and beautiful bullets.
I arrived early in the morning to see the sixteenth iteration of The Armory Show, which was held on Piers 92 and 94 on the Hudson River. That is where I met Oliver, my guide for the day. We had a good deal in common: those impressions on your upper nose from wearing heavy glasses so that you don’t miss a thing and the odd mix of degrees in business and art history.
Together we decided to delve into the tales told by a countless number of artists represented by 200 galleries from 29 countries. The artworks that I share with you here were not chosen because they are the most successful, the top ten, the most notable by academic standards, or the hottest items on the market today. I am sharing these with you for the simple fact that they told us – Oliver and me that is – some kind of story or allowed us to listen in on a conversation that someone else was having in another part of the world. In them, we found plenty to make our day palatable and the entire experience a bit saner.
We began on Pier 94 chatting about what most in the art world know as the ‘blue chip’ artists, well-established artists with impressive resumes represented by world renown galleries. You have to joke in the midst of this crowd. So we decided that Tony Cragg’s Distant Cousin and Georg Baselitz’s Leyk dede var were having some fun together. Imagine Baselitz’s figures, while hanging upside down in a field of tangerine oil paint whispering to one another: “Hey, how do you suppose that hunk of steel sold for a million dollars this year?” Which it did.
Tony Cragg’s Distant Cousin, 2008 and Georg Baselitz’s Leyk dede var, 2013
In this same area, we turned to find our images reflected in Robert Longo’s enormous photo-realist drawing depicting a Burning Man. Our reflections were standing behind the man in a cowboy hat watching what must have been a gruesome event taking place. Burning Man sold for $380,000 and these are only two of the sales made by the Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac of Paris and Salzburg. It was enough to make us want to move on to a greener crowd.
Robert Longo, Burning Man
Hayal Pozanti, original print for larger work titled Sacred Canopy, 2014
Among the newer galleries in a section titled ‘Armory Presents,’ we found the Jessica Silverman Gallery from San Francisco. The works here by Hayal Pozanti, a native of Istanbul, who received her MFA from Yale University in 2011, were imbued with a sense of color, spacial relations, and humor that I found very attractive. I wanted to buy and Oliver and I had our first disagreement. Oliver snapped back at me, “The fact that the artist is so young and working with a young gallery too might end up thwarting a career.” Fact is: this young woman’s work was big talk at the show.
Serge Alain Nitegeka, Fragile Cargo X, 2013
Another biggie was from one of the curated booths in the Contemporary section, the Marianne Boesky Gallery brought us along the journey as told by Serge Alain Nitegeka, a South African-based artist of painting, sculpture, and installations. After hesitating just a bit due to the obvious effort involved in this installation, Oliver took my hand and we wondered into the booth climbing over and ducking under painted two by fours with heavy crates nailed all around, but mostly above our heads.
Once through the small space that felt unbelievably oppressive, we discovered Fragile Cargo X, Exterior, Silence, Tunnel VIII, enormous objects constructed of the same material through which we had to pass, only far more rewarding in their composition and presence. Oliver knew the artist’s story and shared it with me in this intimate space removed from the crowd. This was the first time Nitegeka had been shown in the United States and every work in this space sold to museums around the world. There is now a waiting list for his work at the Marianne Boesky Gallery. “This is a find!” he said. “New artist to the markets with solid representation from an established gallery.”
￼Robert Polidori’s Enfilade, Salle les princes royales, 2010
Standing in front of another visual wandering, fully set within a frame this time by Robert Polidori and inspired by the Palace of Versailles, I had a chance to share with Oliver a bit about my hometown in Kentucky. He was more interested in making sure I realized that Mr. Polidori is a staff photographer for The New Yorker Magazine.
Historical incident masked by beautiful color and form took us to Bullets Revisted. Moroccan artist Lala Essaydi stacked bullets in different ways to create the imagery in this chromogenic print. Oliver shared with me that the markings all over the woman’s body were Islamic calligraphy applied by hand with henna. This work in particular was part of an exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston titled She Who Tells A Story: Women Photographers from Iran and the Arab World curated to challenge stereotypes and refute the notion that all Arab and Iranian women are oppressed and powerless. Instead, they are telling their stories and, as with Lalla Essaydi, they are making some of the most significant work in the region today.
Lalla Essaydi, Bullets Revisited #3, 2012
Liang Shuo’s, Fit No. 8, 2014
On entering the Focus China section curated by Philip Tinari, Liang Shuo’s Fit No. 8 from 2014 represented by Gallery Yang is clearly not a sign or signifier of China – Shuo’s China is China. The sculpture is made from mass produced, found objects. The artist did not use any adhesives to assemble this contraption. He worked until he found one piece that fit perfectly into the next, numbering each intersection so that they were clearly mated. He also provides us with a diagram of how to assemble this work.
Liang Shuo’s, Fit No. 8, How to Assemble, 2014
Oliver and I had too much fun in the Focus China section, there was a good bit of humor there and we found it most refreshing. Deciding to wrap up our day, we happened on Miguel Angel Rogas’ David/Quiebramales. It was so powerful and honest that our conversations turned to a whisper and then nothing really, not knowing what to say about the young Army vet posed as Michelangelo’s David. His left leg was missing from the knee down, presumably lost to a land mine.
Miguel Angel Rogas, David/Quiebramales, 2008
In our silence, I just stood next to Oliver and realized how much I really liked the time we spent together. I could imagine that if I had been standing in front of the statue of David with him, we might discuss Michelangelo, the Italian Renaissance, a contrapposto pose, the Medici Family or the Florentine Republic. At that precise moment though, all of that seemed vapid, my mind went blank and I could not even find the right words to describe ‘hero’.
Folkert de Jong, Conference Art, 2013
We wandered off to end our day with a bit of levity and found Folkert de Jong’s Conference Art, which was carved from a single piece of styrofoam. All an illusion. It was just the metaphor I needed to end my visit to the Piers 92 and 94. Without the stories told by each of these artists and shared with Oliver, I might not have been able to balance Arts Week in New York with the grace and style that I felt as I left.