Taking a walk in circles

Excluding many exceptions and important circumstances, it was my grandfather who led me to the study of art history. The last class I took was about Christian icon paintings, and it was there that I learnt — through the guidance of my teacher, my grandfather, as well as my grandfather’s Orthodox priest — the impossible nature of icon painting. The experience was intense. But still today, the fascination for icons has lost nothing of its force. I have now since decided to approach this problem with caution and the smallest of steps. And what better topic to dwell upon than the radiance of the circular, luminous halo.

The definition of a circle: “A closed curve whose points are all on the same plane and at the same distance from a fixed point (the center).” And the point is called the center of the circle. It is indeed very satisfying with mathematical definitions and formulas that can describe the essence of concepts. It is satisfying, but it also marks and end. Which might be a good thing. But it’s equally important to be able to lose ones way. And without a distant focal point the lost traveler tends to walk in circles. That has happened to me countless of times. And I do believe artists have a special ability to disorient themselves in the art of language. It is that desire to seek unusual intersections, unexpected encounters, and unknown territories that are alluring.

It was curiosity that impelled me to visit 2nd Floor Project where the painter Alexis Knowlton is now showing one of her site-specific installations. The art piece, which is titled “9 Balls,” has most likely nothing to do with halos. Even so, that is where I landed after visiting the gallery space in the San Francisco Mission district. Her paintings take on sculptural forms as she uses stretcher bars to bring tension to the shapes and objects she paints—in this case a series of nine circles. The artwork becomes an all-encompassing installation that speaks about paining as being “a container for action and materials.”

The definition of a ball: “a spherical or almost spherical entity.“ So there are no balls in the installation at 2nd Floor Projects. But there are eight circles, shifting in colors between yellow and orange. This makes me think of Magritte’s “This is not a pipe.” In this canonical artwork the image of a carefully drawn pipe is followed by the text “Ceci n'est pas une pipe.” That statement is simple since it is quite apparent that the drawing representing a pipe is not a pipe in itself. A flat ball, or sphere, is nothing but the image of a ball. Or, it’s simply a circle. And then there’s the fact that the title says “9 Balls.” But there are only 8 circles. This is according to curator Margaret Tedesco, part of the conceptual illusion of the artwork. During the day, when the room is flooded with light, nine or more shadow balls appear to be bouncing off the walls. The impossibility of a flat ball, as well as the illusion of an artwork, brings me back to the Christian icon painting.

It is said that it’s only possible to truly see an icon trough the eyes of a believer. The icon has come to us as the silent witness of a feeling or an experience. And as I’m typing this sentence down I can finally see how this sphere of references is connected. And it isn’t that far off to connect the Christian belief—that an icon is a silent witness—to that of Alexis Knowlton’s view of paintings being a container for actions and materials. And making that comparison, the frustration sort of diminishes. I feel quite comfortable not knowing completely the content of Alexis Knowlton’s container. So why then, would I not be as comfortable not knowing the full meaning of an icon painting?

Alexis Knowlton's installation will be on view 11 March – 18 April, 2012

Playing chess with Death

Rays of sun piercing through a clouded sky. Filled with existential doubt there’s still some hopeful light struggling to break through. The struggle is between dark and light, doubt and hope. "And when the lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was a silence in heaven about the space of half an hour." The man in this scene is introduced as Antonius Block – a 14th century knight who has just arrived to his home in Sweden after a decade of fighting in the Crusades. He is broken. Disillusioned by war, plague, and superstition. A
black-robed, white-faced man appears before him.

KNIGHT: Who are you?
DEATH: I am Death.
KNIGHT: Have you come for me?
DEATH: I have been walking by your side for a long time.

Unwilling to give up the knight proposes a game of chess. If he wins, he lives. He looses, and Death will take him. The story I’m reciting is the opening scene from Ingmar Bergman's landmark film The Seventh Seal (1957). This melancholic film reflects the moment when a human being can no longer avoid facing the question of what his existence means.

Many who have been facing similar tragedies can most likely relate to the struggle the knight is facing. The Bay Area artist Daniel Dallabrida, a 28-year AIDS survivor, has created a group of work with the subtitle “Memento Mori.” This phrase, dating back to antiquity, translates to “Remember you will die.” That reminder might be needed for someone like me. But for Antonius Block, or Daniel Dallabrida, this is constantly and painfully present. In describing gay men living in San Francisco, Dallabrida writes: "In 1983, 137 men dissolved in ways that were quick, mean and indescribable. The scent of fear rode every bus. Dread flavored every meal. The number of deaths doubled the next year. Then doubled again. And then tripled. By 1986, there were 907 deaths in San Francisco. Each of the following years, until 1997, the mortality count hovered between 1,000 and 2,000."

DEATH: And yet you don't want to die.
KNIGHT: Yes, I do.
DEATH : What are you waiting for?
KNIGHT: I want knowledge, not faith, not suppositions, but knowledge.
The art by Daniel Dallabrida is not told with an angry voice. Like the struggle fought by the knight, it is more likely created as the result of a search for meaning and a dealing with extreme loss and sadness. 

Daniel Dallabrida has been facing death more than many of us. Although subtle, the rage he is feeling toward the circumstances forming his life is an important ingredient to his art. In his latest artwork it is seen through the torn layers of imagery. Partly covering pages from contemporary gay club and party poster are torn photographs from his private life. These are photographs taken years back when many of his friends were still alive. The images are broken.

DEATH: Now I see something interesting.
KNIGHT: What do you see?
DEATH: You are mated on the next move, Antonius Block.
KNIGHT: That's true.
DEATH: Did you enjoy your reprieve?
KNIGHT: Yes, I did.
DEATH: I'm happy to hear that. Now I'll be leaving you. When we meet again, you and your companions' time will be up.
KNIGHT: And you will divulge your secrets.
DEATH: I have no secrets.
KNIGHT: So you know nothing.
DEATH: I have nothing to tell.

 Daniel Dallabrida’s exhibition, “In Now’s waters burn the stars of Then,” will by up until March 28th. The exhibition is hosted at the Magnet, a gay men’s health center in San Francisco’s Castro district.