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A Two-Artist Show At Bero Gallery Celebrates The Brainchildren Of Memory.
By Margaret Regan
WHAT WERE OUR parents like before we were born? It's almost
impossible to imagine them in those ridiculously distant days,
too hard to get our minds around them as young, flirtatious, proud
of their sexy bodies. But there's no denying the evidence of old
photographs. In Brownie black and whites or in garish early color
prints we see them restored exuberantly to youth, romping at the
beach, posing in their Sunday best, smiling pearly smiles with
all their teeth intact.
The photographer Alis Cummings has constructed a whole suite
of works around this disconcerting phenomenon. In a two-person
show at Bero Gallery, shared with Cynthia Laureen Vogt, Cummings
displays seven photographic diptychs that offer fragmented glimpses
of her mother in her youth. While these pictures are evidently
an intensely personal investigation, they also meditate on the
ways that the camera can mimic the faultiness of memory. There's
a pathos about them too. It's strange, and unbearably sad, that
the images of the dead, or of the once-young, live on in the chemicals
and paper of photographs.
My Mother's Dress: Recent Photographs is a series of toned
silver gelatin prints paired into sets. At the left of each pair
are tightly cropped pictures of her mother's face, apparently
recycled from old family photographs. (The artist doesn't tell
us whether her mother has died, or whether she's just grown older
from the young woman she is in these pictures.) Cummings has doctored
the originals in the same way that memory only records bits and
pieces of a scene: They're bigger or smaller or blurrier than
reality. The photographer never permits into her work a complete
image of the woman's face, or a completely realized memory. What
Cummings seems to remember best, and to show the most, is her
mother's megawatt smile. In every portrait, the mother's dazzling
mouth is front and center, sometimes all alone, magnified to gigantic,
almost monstrous size. Other times the smile is set in the chin
and neck, or shown with the nose and a lock of hair. Only in "Untitled
#23" do we see another part of the body along with that smile.
This one shows the lively young woman's torso, dolled up in a
two-piece bathing suit and radiantly sunlit.
Joined with these pale, grainy pictures are shots that are evidently
reconstructions of a memory. These darker, murky pictures show
a shiny dark dress in what seems to be a bedroom. Somebody is
under the silky fabric and that somebody seems to be lolling provocatively
on a bed. The dress is draped across knees, lies on the sheet,
hangs from a provocative shoulder. These photos are abstracted
compositions in dark and light, but they're sensual, tentatively
moving into the verboten terrain of a parent's sexuality. They
suggest the type of isolated sense memories that we keep from
childhood: the texture of a silky fabric, the dark and light in
a room, maybe even the scent of a dress--and a woman--long gone.
Vogt has created a series of finely crafted artists' books in
Aberrations and Other Photographic Artist's Books. Her
long, narrow "accordion" books fold at each page and
collapse into tiny volumes that can be tied up with string.
A lot of meticulous effort has gone into these productions. Not
only did Vogt take the photographs that illustrate them and write
their texts, she's assembled them with the utmost care, making
cutout collages, gluing and layering laser prints and photocopies
made on fine papers, and stitching them all together with thread.
The stories the books tell are not anywhere close to a conventional
narrative, though their dialogues hint at a debate about erotic
relationships. In most of the books, some ice-cream parlor chairs
stand in as the main characters, aided and abetted by the occasional
human nude, the chairs tilting this way and that, offering odd
glimpses of other pictures glued behind their cut-out legs, and
in one book ("Aberrations: If You Would Know") end up
nailed helplessly to the wall. "Aberrations: Lost Faith"
appears to have a happier ending, with a nice circle of four human
feet walking harmoniously in a circle.
Vogt has a gift for collage, and visually her compositions are
intricate, even ingenious affairs. Their main failing is that
she's made them so tiny that it's a chore to see the pictures,
and painful to read the texts. Sometimes she arranges her teensy
letters vertically, making them even more annoying. It's a mystery
why an artist would make the aesthetic choice to make her work
almost too hard to look at.
A show of photographs by Alis Cummings and handmade books
by Cynthia Laureen Vogt continues through Saturday, April
11, at Bero Gallery, 41 S. Sixth Ave. Gallery hours are
noon to 5 p.m. Tuesday and Wednesday, 2 to 7 p.m. Thursday, noon
to 5 p.m. Friday and Saturday, and 7 to 10 p.m. on Downtown Saturday
Nights. For more information call 792-0313.
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