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Showing art results: From 1 to 10

Eksioglu & Gross: "Tension & Tenderness"
by Tris McCall
published 2025-06-11

All art is sequential. As long as we exist in time, we're condemned to see one picture after another and carry our associations from the first thing we see to the second, and third, and umpteenth. Though an artist can attempt to dictate the sequence, her authorial control is far from absolute. A cartoonist can guide us from frame to frame, but there's nothing to stop us from leaping to the punchline. A curator can ask us to navigate a conceptual mini-golf course, but we may putt right around the trickiest obstacles.

"Stick Around for Joy"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-06-04
C.S. Lewis suggests that angels tell us to "fear not" because they are so fearsome. As corroborating evidence, he quotes scripture: the seraphim are described as massive creatures with great occlusive wings and bodies covered with eyes. To stand in the presence of one would be a terrifying thing. And it is by this sign that we may know them. Being not of this earth, the divine is not likely to be beautiful by earthly standards, and hey, what do we mortals know about celestial glory anyway?

Rene Saheb: "Stories, Transformed"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-05-28
Rene Saheb keeps her garden well-watered. Her canvases and sculptures aren't wet to the touch, but they look like they could be. Drippings run down the surface of her acrylic paintings in bunches. Her sculptures, too, are plump and glistening, full of stacked sacks with pregnant curves and apertures that appear ready to pour something forth. Her colors, too, have the softness, transparency, and blurred quality of flower petals left to soak in a bowl overnight. She gives us undulations, folds, and rich thickness. A Rene Saheb scene always feels a bit like a glade right after a rainstorm: everything ripe and effulgent, with shadows in the mist, and growth happening so fast you could swear it's happening right before your eyes.

Nicholas D'Ornellas: "A Last Look"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-05-21
Do you remember how it felt to leave an apartment behind? Do you remember your kitchen, once a font of life and nourishment, barren and stripped of your familiar possessions, naked, staring back at you, suddenly alien? What about your bedroom once you’d dragged the mattress away? Was there a permanent imprint on the floor like a photonegative? Or had every sign of you vanished? Did you search for traces and marks that proved your time there wasn't an illusion? Or did you turn the key one final time without a parting glance at where you’d been?

"The Devil Show"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-05-14
The Devil is a thorny problem. Just by being around, he causes theological friction. If God is truly just, why does he allow the wicked Adversary to exist? If Satan is a free agent, capable of upsetting the divine plan, then God cannot be all-powerful. If the Devil is under God's control, but He is letting the tempter run around and corrupt souls, well, that’s not a very nice trick for the Big Guy to play on humanity, now, is it? Any way we look at it, the persistence of the Devil reflects poorly on God.

Seeking Balance in a Turbulent World with Nanette Carter

by Ilene Dube, JerseyArts.com
published 2025-05-08
Nanette Carter has come home. With a major career survey on view at the Montclair Art Museum through July 6, the artist, who has exhibited in Japan, Cuba, Syria, Italy, nationwide, and in this year's Venice Biennale, has returned to her old stomping grounds.

DISTORT: "Ending Up"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-05-07
Just before you reach the entrance to the Journal Square station, you'll see the train before the train. It's a mural on the south side of an old apartment building on Summit Avenue. Its creator has, through a trick of perspective, made it look like a PATH tunnel has been cut out of the brick. A rail car in aerosol rushes toward us. Behind it are representations of the rock from which the tunnel was hewn, laborers with pickaxes, and a godlike figure whose garment seems to contain the primordial Jersey forest. At the bottom of the image is a modest tag: DISTORT. The artist has worked around architectural features, several metal poles and fixtures, and the rather undramatic proximity of a Dunkin Donuts to bring us this vision — one that neither glorifies or minimizes public works, but instead reminds us of their utility, their place in local history, and the sweat of those workers who sutured together the town.

Lori Perbeck: "Edge of Light"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-04-30
Ours is a town receptive to strange photographs. Artists and viewers still operate under the twin signs of Edward Fausty and Shandor Hassan, former residents of 111 First Street and audacious image-makers, city-scapers, and saturators of our fields of vision. Dorie Dahlberg, Frank Hanavan, and Grant Hardeway have all demonstrated how much urban storytelling they can coax out of an odd picture. Then there's Susan Evans Grove, an experimentalist unabashed, who finds constellations in the pockmarked hulls of ships, and, through tricks of illumination and shadow, turns arrangements of cosmetics bottles into post-apocalyptic skylines. Grove's hallucinations teach us something important about light: under the direction of a skilled illusionist, it obscures as much as it shows.

"That's Not Right"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-04-23
Art fairs, I have learned, are a little bit like the senior prom. They might not be your idea of a good time. But you don't want to be stuck at home while everybody else is on the dancefloor. Even if you don't party, it's still nice to be asked.

Dorie Dahlberg: "People I Used to Know"

by Tris McCall
published 2025-04-16
Maybe you’ve got a friend who won't stop texting old photographs to you. I do. At any moment, I am one glance away from an uncomfortable saunter down Memory Lane. Gentle suggestions that he ought to reorient his attentions to the future haven't deterred him. The shots of me at younger, spryer, healthier ages can be tough to take. But for sheer destabilization, they've got nothing on the pictures of acquaintances I once had but forgot about entirely, or the pictures of people I'll never see again. Those can be a midday stomach punch: a reminder of the frailty of memory and the transience of all things.

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