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There
is a deliberate dumbness, an inyou-face literalness, to Ken Beck's
paintings that masks deeper metaphoric concerns. The bollards-those mushroom-shaped
iron posts used to moor ships-that form the
subject of many of these works
are big, clunky, and decidedly anthropomorphic-thick-necked lugs all
brawn and no brains. They are painted in thick, crusty dabs that enhance
their dense materiality. But there is something ultimately pathetic about
these knobby-eared, iron‑bound forms, as if each possessed a soul
trapped inside inert matter These bulky forms that bulge adamantly from
the surface like a flexed biceps-a quality reminiscent of some of Ce´zanne's
card players or Picasso's pre‑Cubist nudesreach effortlessly for
metaphor as well, and it is this tension between palpable objecthood and
suggestive poetry that forms the real subject of this show. As the title
Trompes and Tropes implies, Beck
is concerned with the conceptual quiver between the real and the imaginary
present in all art whose subject is the world perceived by our senses. Ken
Loves Mike is a trompe
I'oeil close‑up of weathered boards clamped tightly by two rusting
iron bands: between these bands, someone‑presumably "Ken"-has
carved a graffito in which the title's phrase is set within a heart.
Something delicate on a gritty surface, like a lace doily on a tarmac;
obdurate matter gives rise to an expression of simple tenderness. One can
even equate this tension to age-old dualisms of body and soul, a reading
suggested by the menacing bleed of rust that descends like a mortal veil
on words
that themselves have been hewn to give permanence to fleeting emotions.
A
series of blackboard paintings form the flip side to the bollard
paintings. While even more illusionistic, these works are completely two-dimensional,
their smudged phrases evanescent vapors of thought. In Economics,
the words "Selling Out; Selling Painting; Selling You" are
smeared as if by the real eraser that sits on the painting's ]edge. The
words are loaded but their ghostly presence is ambiguous. They record an
artist's doubts, but these doubts are doubted in their turn, and the whole
process is set down with a literalness that gives lie to the inner
torment they suggest. Perhaps skill and legerdemain overtake content here,
but for the most part this show makes palpable the resonant paradoxes of
art.
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