Laura Russo Gallery

Samantha Wall: Painting portraits, freshly

Samantha Wall's drawings approach the human face in a personal way

In the 1997 obituary for Willem de Kooning, the New York Times noted an anecdote from the early 1950s: “An often repeated story has it that the critic Clement Greenberg, who championed pure abstraction, insisted that it had become ‘impossible today to paint a face,’ to which Mr. de Kooning replied, ‘’That’s right, and it’s impossible not to.’”

I thought about that as I looked at Samantha Wall’s series of drawings of women’s faces at Laura Russo Gallery. Some 60 years after de Kooning thought it both impossible to paint a face and impossible to avoid painting a face, Wall has found a way to depict faces that is somehow bold, restrained and, most impressively, fresh.

Samantha Wall,"Ann-Derrick", 2016, graphite on paper, 30 x 22 inches/Courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

Samantha Wall,”Ann-Derrick”, 2016, graphite on paper, 30 x 22 inches/Courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

Wall’s drawings, simply graphite on paper, focus almost exclusively on the expressive parts of the head: the eyes, nose and mouth. These parts are rendered with exacting detail—down to individual eyelashes—recalling both the neoclassical drawing of Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres and the early grayscale paintings of Chuck Close. The faces are carefully shaded, lightly with little dark shadow—usually just deep darks of the eyes that gaze at us, the viewers. Then there are a few very light linear elements describing the edge of a cheek, or wisps of hair, just enough to make the structure tangible. The marvel to me is that Wall keeps this vignetting of the face from descending into mannered gimmickry.

Continues…

Breaking through: Robert Colescott and JD Perkin

Laura Russo Gallery shows some post-breakthrough art by Robert Colescott and J.D. Perkins

There’s a tantalizing little glimpse of Robert Colescott’s work at Laura Russo Gallery right now. Colescott (1925-2009) was an important American painter, representing the United States in the Venice Biennale in 1997. He is probably best known for his satirical paintings of the 1970s in which he, as a black artist, lampooned racist caricature stereotypes in works such as George Washington Carver Crossing the Delaware: Page From an American History Textbook, 1975, a take off on Washington Crossing the Delaware, 1851, by Emanuel Leutze.

In a 1999 interview, Colescott said of these overt paintings, “it’s about white perceptions of black people. And they may not be pretty. And they may be stupid…it’s satire. It’s the satire that kills the serpent, you know.” These blatant works were very controversial, and 40 years later they are still powerful for their imagery. But we should not overlook the idea that they are also powerful because they are fine paintings.

Robert Colescott, "Call to the Valley", 1965, oil on canvas, 77.5 x 58.75 inches/Courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

Robert Colescott, “Call to the Valley”, 1965, oil on canvas, 77.5 x 58.75 inches/Courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

There are none of the 1970s works in the current small show. There is a big painting from 1965, a couple of big works from the 1990s, and a few works on paper. The 1965 painting, from a time when he taught at Portland State University, Call to the Valley, (about six and a half -by-five feet) is sort of a regular painting for its day. There are ambiguous figures in an ambiguous landscape. Call to the Valley was painted when Colescott was 40 years old. It speaks of a painter dealing with then current painting issues, but not yet finding a strong individual voice. It seems that the subject matter of the 1970s gave Colescott his individualism—so he could paint like he really meant it.

Continues…

Michael Brophy: The tree and the stump

Michael Brophy's newest set of forest paintings call into question "ugly" as a category

Michael Brophy’s new paintings at Laura Russo Gallery are immediately impressive. The big (six-and-a-half-by-eight foot range) paintings depict the forest, sometimes deep among giant trees, sometimes as the stump land of logging aftermath. For example, in The Orphans, 2015 a hiker is dwarfed by soaring tree trunks, rising well beyond the edge of the canvas. In The Machine in the Garden, 2016, we see a photographer off in the distance point a camera toward us through the truncated pillars of stumps.

Brophy shows us that both kinds of landscapes can be picturesque, if not in conventional ways. But in one kind of picture mankind is the insignificant visitor, and in the other humans have utilized their intellect to bring the forest down to their own size. With this visual confrontation of the primeval with modern decimation both painted with the same kind of objective care, one can be prodded to thinking about how we as city dwellers relate to a forest of trees that can become the stacks of lumber that make our homes.

Michael Brophy, "The Machine in the Garden", 2016, oil on canvas, 78 x 90 inches/Laura Russo Gallery

Michael Brophy, “The Machine in the Garden”, 2016, oil on canvas, 78 x 90 inches/Laura Russo Gallery

In an ART 21 video segment, the photographer Robert Adams talks about his response to seeing and photographing clear-cuts: “It’s not just a matter of exhaustion of resources—I do think there is involved an exhaustion of spirit.” Finding the spiritual connection in the land harkens back to 19th century American landscape attitudes—the unspoiled land of America was akin to the unspoiled Garden of Eden. In both cases, humans intervened.

Continues…

Painting in the long shadows of painting

Painters Sherrie Wolf and Jan Reaves take full advantage of the history of art and their painting skills

“It seems that the main focus of painting is to give pleasure,” the painter Robert Ryman said. “If someone can receive pleasure from looking at paintings, then that’s the best thing that can happen.” If you have interest in the pleasures of looking at paintings, this is a really good month.

Sherrie Wolf and Jan Reaves, showing at Laura Russo Gallery, work at opposite ends of the old false dichotomy between representational and abstract painting. Wolf paints still-lifes in a very tight realist way, and Reaves paints big bold painterly abstractions.

Sherrie Wolf, Sunflowers, 2016, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 inches

Sherrie Wolf, Sunflowers, 2016, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 inches

In a recent essay bemoaning the state of painting pedagogy that nowadays mistakes verbal critical thinking for the knowledge of painting acquired through the practice of actual painting skills, Laurie Fendrich says, “every painting exists in the long shadow of great paintings of the past.” Sherrie Wolf illustrates her shadows both by quoting the classic objects of still-life—glassware, crockery, fruits and vegetables, vases of tulips—and by incorporating images of “great paintings of the past” in her paintings of the present. The genre of still-life doesn’t have the meaning it had in its 17th century beginning. What was exotic, expensive or symbolic centuries ago in great still-life painting is now ordinary. We can buy fresh fruit at any time of the year. Glassware is cheap. Tulips used to be fantastically expensive, and the short life of flowers and insects could symbolize mortality. What once were possessions of the rich have become everyday stuff. Wolf’s paintings are about using mundane subjects richly.

Continues…

Three painters: Nooks and crannies

Painters Gregory Grenon, Paul Green and Morgan Walker renew and celebrate old themes

There was a time, long ago, when “art” was thought to “progress” and nobody wanted to be behind the times. There were art “movements” and if you weren’t riding the tide, you weren’t taken all that seriously. Nowadays, the fog of art progress has long parted and we can savor the idiosyncratic nooks and crannies of individual artists. Now, along with wondering why some artists do work that is so “far out,” we can calm down and wonder why some artists find satisfaction in doing work that celebrates and renews old themes.

Take Morgan Walker who has a small show at the Augen Gallery right now. His paintings and drawings look downright conservative. We see figures in landscapes. The paint has the scumbled feel and the muted color of the Barbizon School of 150 years ago. They just feel “traditional.” Then you look at what’s going on and feel unsettled. Something just isn’t quite right.

endless_summer1

Morgan Walker, “Endless Summer”, 2015, oil on canvas, 20 x 26 inches/Courtesy Augen Gallery

Endless Summer, 2015, is a small (20 x 26 inches) landscape that made me think of Corot—a flat grassy field in the foreground, a line of slender trees along a horizontal fence line, more field beyond and a small mountain in the distance. But then there are three more things in the mid-foreground: a small campfire-sized flame, a pig, and a woman dancing. The woman, pig and fire are small in relation to the overall scene, and they are hazily painted. We have an “impression” of them in this impressionistic landscape.

What is the story here? Is there a story here? They seem like an unlikely apparition. The fire seems dangerous in a grassy field and the woman seems to be dancing, though she could be waving “hello” to someone outside the scene. The pig seems to be slowly lumbering forward. Do we have beauty/beast/danger? Or maybe we have an artist thinking, “OK, a woman dancing by a fire—what if I threw a pig in there?”

visitor1

Morgan Walker, “Visitor”, 2016 oil on canvas, 18 x 26 inches/Courtesy Augen Gallery

In Visitor, 2016, there is a sweet landscape of fields, hills and a small tree—and a woman, a watermelon, a goat, and a fish lying on a patch of grass. In 19th century landscape painting usually some tiny figure (or figures) gives scale and a sense of the insignificance of humanity among the grand works of nature. For Walker the foil against nature is capricious—“Eh, let’s throw in a watermelon.” Or, to recall the idea of the Comte de Lautréamont (Isidore-Lucien Ducasse):Beautiful… as the fortuitous encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table.” In Walker’s works, these little oddities provide the jab of meaning that takes a “nice” landscape and prods us to really give attention.

Next door at the Froelick Gallery, we have a fortuitous exhibition of small paintings by Paul Green from the 1990s, from the estate of an astute collector. Evidently Green ceased painting a while ago, which is unfortunate for us. While Walker’s style recalls the 19th century, Green’s has the feeling of the 15th. The paintings are small, painted with early Renaissance clarity and flatness, with a tiny brush, and they have an air of mystery.
In Renaissance paintings, especially religious paintings, things are happening that nowadays we often don’t understand and depicted objects are symbols that are now obscure.

GRE028_Salve_web

Paul Green, “Salve”, 1996, acrylic on panel, 14 x 12 inches/Courtesy of Froelick Gallery

Similar obscurities occur in Green’s paintings (and he uses some symbols from painting history: white lily, say, or pink carnation). For example, in Home, a big shirtless man stands in a hole in the ground and releases a bird from a slit in his chest. In Porcelain, a man holds a female porcelain doll and delicately raises her arm to touch his cheek. In Salve, a large bare-breasted woman holds a small man and licks his forehead. These scenes are immediately strange. Something’s happening here and what it is is exactly clear—why it is happening is not clear.

GRE030_Lure_web-1

Paul Green, “Lure”,1994, acrylic on paper on panel, 16 x 15 inches/Courtesy of Froelick Gallery

In Lure, 1994, we see what looks like a sleeping man. He is shirtless, with relaxed hands on his abdomen. His head and torso are angled up from a dented pillow. Is he in the middle of rising or reclining? That’s important—because of the fishhook piercing his forehead and the slack line connecting it somewhere above, beyond the picture. Is he rising to slacken the line? Is he really asleep and about to fall back and then feel the jerk of the hook? His pillow seems to have been dented by his head, but there isn’t enough slack in the line to allow that. Maybe this is torture, but the man seems to sleep through it.

What does this painting mean? I’m reminded of Aaron Copland’s statement: “The whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking, ‘Is there a meaning to music?’ My answer would be, ‘Yes.’ And ‘Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?’ My answer to that would be, ‘No’.” (From What to Listen for in Music.)

While Walker and Green have made works that have traditional art historical style references, Gregory Grenon’s paintings at Laura Russo are another kind of familiar-yet-different. These are not quiet understated paintings. They are bold colorful people painted in reverse on glass. They seem like people you might know. They are portrait-like, but painted “expressionistically.” Eyes are big, lips are plump, ears tend to be simple thick C-shapes. Strong outlines tie everything together.

What I Shouted

Gregory Grenon, “What I Shouted”, 2016, reverse oil on glass, 47.25 x 39 inches/Courtesy of Laura Russo Gallery

The familiar format of the portrait painting allows Grenon to explore a kind of pictorial imagination different from the subject imagination of Walker and Green. The figures and their of clothing can provide a fundamental format so Grenon can explore color and shape. Edgar Degas said, “They call me the painter of dancers. They don’t understand that the dancer has been for me a pretext for painting pretty fabrics and for rendering movement.” The color is the key to making these paintings be more than caricature.  Look at the choices of blue-greens in the background a skirt in What I Shouted, 2016.

Grenon paints his frames. They become integral to the paintings. Many artists paint their frames, but usually that painting is just decorative. In Grenon’s works, the color of the frame is usually essential to making the rest of the color in the painting work. In I Won’t Be Wronged, 2015, the brilliant orange frame contains a thin blue line along its inner edge, the complementary color heightening the brilliance of the orange. The frame glows around the black background of this portrait.

I Won't Be Wronged

Gregory Grenon, “I Won’t Be Wronged”, 2015, reverse oil on glass, 47.5 x 38.5 inches/Courtesy of Laura Russo Gallery

Writing about Grenon’s work 30 years ago, I said, “But his main strength for me is color, whether it is brilliant or grayed. Traveling over a cheek or under an eyebrow in one of these faces you can find the most surprising juxtapositions of color. There are oceans of subtlety within the borders of these faces. The face is the constant and everything else changes.” He’s still at it. I don’t think he’s stuck in his motif, but utilizes it the way Morandi explored the simple still life or Rothko explored the possibilities of color and nuanced edges of floating rectangles for decades.

These shows are reminders that something slightly new can be embedded within what seems like the “same old stuff.”

NOTES

Morgan Walker shows at Augen, 716 NW Davis St., with new paintings by Matt Cosby, through April 30.

Paul Green shows at Froelick Gallery, 714 NW Davis St. through April 28. 

Gregory Grenon shows at Laura Russo Gallery, 805 NW 21st Ave., with selected works by Jay Backstrand, through April 30. 

We have had more news from the Oregon Arts Commission here the past couple weeks than in the entire history of the site, I think. That’s ArtsWatch’s fault, though, for not actually tracking what the commission and its sister organization (brother? cousin?), the Oregon Cultural Trust, have been doing. Since 19-year director Christine D’Arcy was let go a couple of weeks ago, ArtsWatch’s antennae have tuned into that channel with a little more regularity. All of which is just a preamble to the news that the Governor John Kitzhaber has named two new members to the commission,  Alyssa Dawamana Macy of Simnasho and Christopher Acebo of Ashland. He also reappointed the commission chair, Julie Vigeland from Portland, for another term.

Macy, according to the press release issued by the commission, is a member of the  of the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs. She currently resides in her tribal community and works for the Vancouver, Washington,- based Native Arts and Cultures Foundation as a development specialist. Acebo is a set and costume designer and associate artistic director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. He was a member of LA’s progressive Cornerstone Theater Company Cornerstone for several years. Vigeland will serve a second term at the commission, and she’s involved in a large number of other organizations, most prominently Portland Center Stage, where she’s been a board member for many years, chairing the capital campaign for the Gerding Theater at the Armory.

By my count, the 9-member commission has one more vacancy, after commissioners Henry Sayre and Royal Nebeker resigned in protest of D’Arcy’s firing. The commissioners do not hire and fire the executive director; D’Arcy reported to the director of Business Oregon, Tim McCabe, and he and the commissioners will presumably collaborate on finding her permanent replacement. Former assistant director Shannon Planchon is serving as executive director of both the arts commission and the Oregon Cultural Trust on an interim basis. We’re going to be talking about the strange and not-so-wonderful structure of the trust and the commission in the near future.

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The Oregon Bach Festival has announced its 2014 season/Caitlin Estes

The Oregon Bach Festival has announced its 2014 season/Caitlin Estes

The Oregon Bach Festival announced its 45th season schedule, the first developed by new artistic director Matthew Halls, who’ll direct the world premiere of his own reconstruction of Bach’s lost St. Mark Passion. The festival runs June 26 to July 13, headquartered in Eugene but with performances in Portland, Corvallis, Florence, and Newport.

Other highlights include: the first Baroque masterpiece, Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers (like the Passion, performed on period instruments), Bach’s Easter Oratorio, Rachmaninoff’s Vespers, and Verdi’s Requiem. Guest stars include pianist Gabriela Montero, organist Paul Jacobs, the Canadian Brass, His Majestys Sagbutts and Cornetts and more. Artistic director emeritus Helmuth Rilling conducts Mozart’s Requiem and Symphony No. 40, and jazz is on the menu, too. ArtsWatch will track the other highlights, including some new programs, as the June 26-July 13 festival approaches.

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Last winter, Portland cellist/chanteuse Ashia Grzesik told ArtsWatch readers about the first phase of her temporary return to her European roots. Now, back in Oregon to sing Polish immigrant songs at a CD release party tonight (Thursday, Nov. 14), she brings us the rest of the story.

I performed cello songs for a BBQ party gathering to the community under the summer German night, moths dancing in the light, and children dreaming on blankets. Even though I was excited to perform, as often I am, I also found it interesting that a Polish-born cellist, would sing songs of her grandma’s difficult times and life in World War II and working in an industrial factory — in an old Hitler Youth camp. And that this place made the perfect end for her Eastern European Industrial-inspired video. I hope that in some way it ended a story, or continued it through generations, evolving with a more positive light and life than the last couple of chapters. I am grateful to have had these incredible opportunities to create art and narrative with amazing artists, in strange, interesting places.

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Lucinda Parker, 'Aftermath,'  2012, acrylic on canvas, 15.25" x 24"/ Laura Russo Gallery

Lucinda Parker, ‘Aftermath,’ 2012, acrylic on canvas,
15.25″ x 24″/ Laura Russo Gallery

Both Lucinda Parker and Marlene Bauer have created impressive bodies of work during their careers here, evolving creatively, ever-defter technically. They are sharing a show at Laura Russo Gallery, where they’ll give an Artist Talk at 11 am, Saturday, November 16.

Eric Stotik enters the long stretch

The Portland painter's 45-foot-long reflection on fragmentation is like a WPA mural with a shot of Dali

Opening crowd at Stotik exhibit. Photo courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

Opening crowd at Stotik exhibit. Photo courtesy Laura Russo Gallery

It’s a Saturday morning at Laura Russo Gallery in Northwest Portland, and as Eric Stotik stands in front of his latest painting he seems both dwarfed and as tough as a stump: a slim wiry guy with close-cropped receding brown hair on a crisp football head. He’s dressed more for the studio or a day in the fields than a coffee-and-snack talk to a room of art enthusiasts and potential collectors: jeans, sneakers, plain brown tee beneath a faded short-sleeve plaid shirt with the tails hanging out. He rocks a little on his feet as he talks, and he makes it ruefully plain that as much as he enjoys making paintings, he’s less fond of articulating what they mean. “I just don’t like to question it all too hard,” he remarks at one point. “I just go for it.”

Stotik’s work has been speaking industriously for itself in Portland (mostly), Chicago, New York, and elsewhere for close to 30 years now. He’s what the business likes to call a “mid-career artist,” which means someone who’s been around long enough to have developed a personal style, a solid following, and a mastery of technique, and who has a reasonable expectation of another good 20 years or more of deepening and broadening and producing at a high level. Born in 1963, he’s been an established Portland painter since the 1980s: he graduated from the Pacific Northwest College of Art in 1985 and was picked up almost immediately by the influential Jamison/Thomas Gallery. He was raised in Papua New Guinea and Australia before coming to the U.S. for college, and now he seems very American, and specifically very Western American – hale, laconic, grounded, practical with his hands. A craftsman and an artist.

Floating and thinking: Detail.   Laura Russo Gallery

Floating and thinking: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

From the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to a Claes Oldenburg giant typewriter eraser or towering tube of lipstick, the art world likes big, and in his newest work, Stotik has given it big. The unnamed painting that sprawls across the gallery wall behind him stretches an audacious 45 feet in 11 connected sections, each 5 feet tall. It’s reminiscent of a 1930s WPA mural, one of those post-office-wall historical scenes that the Roosevelt administration financed to help jog the country out of the Great Depression. But it’s like a WPA mural shaken or stirred with a shot of Dali, or maybe a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. The painting’s expanse suggests a rootedness that is firmly physical yet also physically and psychologically unhinged, somehow out of whack. Things seem real, in isolation, but they don’t fit together in a realistic sense, and that’s the one thing that does seem to fit. “I thought about fragmenting a lot,” Stotik says. “The world is fragmented.” A friend, he adds, argues that, no, the world is crystalizing – “but I feel the fragmenting more.”

The two-year process of creating this vision, Stotik says, was a little like changing an ap on your iPhone and watching as your whole lineup of aps begins to wobble: “This is what this painting was like. At night it would all float in my mind.”

Drama and apprehension: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

Drama and apprehension: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

Here’s what was floating. On the far right, an austere Indian-looking woman stands in a green coat and a long red scarf wrapped around her head and neck, the scarf’s twin strands draping like a cape. She seems to be holding the wisp of a cigarette between two fingers. One end of the red scarf shoots out like an arm, gesturing rightward to a scatter of dried broken tree limbs, lengths of two-by-four, a discarded wooden window shutter, and other detritus. Crows hover and flock. Faces float, disembodied. Other things also float: Knives. Ropes. A hand, fingers splayed. A woman in bondage stretches out prone. A strange cat with a flesh-and-fur head and a skeletal body built from mechanical gears curls up and stares. A 1950s ranch house tips over the edge of a red cloud. Horses and riders pull up on the range. A reflective native woman in a striped blanket fingers a rope in front of an adobe hut. To the woman’s right, a rough wooden ladder rises to the roof, as in a Hopi village. Another cluster of figures gathers, intense. Mountains rise. A lake or river runs. At last, the rolling scene ends: blank wall.

This isn’t Thomas Hart Benton or Grant Wood. And if a mural implies by its nature that a cohesive visual story is being told, it’s not really a mural, either, even if it has the look and feel of one. “I don’t understand when people talk about narrative and art,” Stotik says, in answer to a question from the audience. “I don’t know what that means. This just happens in my head.”

Anchored on the left: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

Anchored on the left: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

A lot of Stotik’s work is highly detailed and somehow mechanical – which in this case absolutely does not mean soulless – and some of it’s on view at Laura Russo along with his non-mural: birds painted on a circular sawblade; a woman captured inside a densely packed prison-maze of medical equipment. (This latter one, though it’s a separate painting, relates to scenes in the big central work.)

Stotik’s 45-foot vision seems built from reflection, impulse and technique. “There are a lot of historical references here,” he remarks: he reads compulsively, and collects what he calls “worthless picture books,” which he devours in a sort of visual osmosis. But he pays very little attention to other contemporary art (“I find my inspiration elsewhere”), and although his work is informed by current events, he dislikes making pop-culture references. His view, if purposely fragmented, is considerably longer, and as detail-oriented as he can be, he doesn’t lay it out like an engineer; he lets it rise on its own from the loam. Some images explain themselves: “Everyone knows what a rope means.” Others are surprising. The woman on the horse who seems like a can-do frontierswoman turns out to be “some minor Norwegian royalty of some sort.”

Stotik talks freely about technique. He painted this work on watercolor paper, because he could roll it up and put it inside a tube, which made storage easy. Because his studio space wasn’t big enough to stretch the whole thing out, he worked in sections and didn’t see the whole thing at once until it was installed at the gallery. He doesn’t like the way acrylics look like plastic, so he puts on enough layers  so the paper will hold all of the paint, and then stops, thus achieving a softer, settled-in look.

Houses and horses: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

Houses and horses: Detail. Laura Russo Gallery

He’s much more reluctant to talk about specific meanings, maybe because he doesn’t think the painting should be read for information, but rather absorbed for its view of the world. “We read history as a line,” he eventually says. “We read time as a line. Time is not necessarily a line. We think of ideas OR beliefs. But maybe it’s ideas AND beliefs.”

An audience member prods. I understand about the fragmentation, he says, but within the fragmentation, is there a thematic consistency?

“I don’t understand your question,” Stotik says. The man repeats it. Stotik thinks, then nods. “Oh, sure. It’s the human condition.” He pauses; thinks some more. “It’s not about human nature, really,” he elaborates. “It’s the human condition.”

The whole 45 feet. Laura Russo Gallery

The whole 45 feet. Laura Russo Gallery

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 Eric Stotik’s exhibition “New Works” continues through September 28 at Laura Russo Gallery, 805 N.W. 21st Avenue, Portland. Viewing is free. Buying, obviously, isn’t. But feel free to look. That’s why the art’s there. And galleries know that sometimes, lookers become buyers.

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 Also at Laura Russo through September 28, in the back galleries, is “Ceremony,” the latest show from Anne Siems. Siems, who was born in Germany, lives in Seattle, and she’s developed a solid reputation for her diaphanous, almost ghostly images of child-women in dreamy, vaguely mythological settings. This show strengthens her latter-day connection with the flat-planed portraiture of colonial and early American itinerant folk painters such as the Beardsley Limner, and is well worth spending some time with.

Anne Siems, "Bells and Birds," 2013, acrylic on wood panel, 30 x 30 inches. Laura Russo Gallery

Anne Siems, “Bells and Birds,” 2013, acrylic on wood panel, 30 x 30 inches. Laura Russo Gallery

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