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2000-2001
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Volume 3, Issue 12
June 7 - June 20, 2001

ART

MAKING A LIVING

Michael Gadlin makes a go of the artist's life

Michael Gadlin leaned forward in his seat. "I've sold out completely," he said, "and I love it. I love it all the way to the bank." "Are you serious?" I asked.

"Of course not. I'm joking. You didn't write that, did you?" Gadlin was nervous.

He hates interviews, and usually responds with humor. Bad humor. After warning him about the dangers of joking around someone in the media, he became more serious, answering questions like he paints, searching for the right word to color his response. "My painting is simply an illustration of the simplicity of experience," Gadlin said. "I want viewers to feel a relationship with my work where they are asking questions about their own life or about me. It just breaks down to evoking an emotional response. I found myself leaning more away from shock art because you can be a flash in the pan by being a gimmick. I didn't want that. I didn't want my work to pull the strings of the viewer. I want to evoke emotion but I want it to be truthful and honest. Force can create animosity, and people will jump to conclusions. They won't approach the work with the amount of depth that the artist intended. Then there's a level on tension that the work must have. It really comes down to finding a balance. For every individual, the pendulum is going to sway one way or another. I'm the kind of artist that I go against what's hip and create my own vision."

Gadlin, a 29-year-old Denver native, knew he wanted to be an artist since he attended East High School. "I was young and fantasized about making a statement and living the artist's life," he said. "Little did I realize what it was really like." To pursue his dream, Gadlin attended a semester at the Metropolitan State College of Denver, then moved to New York to study at Pratt. "I went to Metro because it was convenient, cheap and accessible," Gadlin said. "I went to Pratt because it was inconvenient, expensive and had a name for itself in the art world." During his sophomore year at Pratt, Gadlin's life dramatically changed. Gadlin moved back to Denver when he learned his mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer.

"My priority became my mother and not my next semester at school," he said. "When I came home to stay for a while, I was kind of expecting to go back [to Pratt], but it turned out my mom got sicker and I stayed to take care of her." While staying with his mother, Gadlin filled pages of his sketchbooks with pencil and charcoal drawings of his mother, both sick and well. For Gadlin, the drawings in his sketchbooks not only are figurative studies for his abstract work, but serve to document his life and his relationship with his friends and family.

"During that time a local artist, Darrell Anderson, took me in just to keep my mind fresh and to teach me about being a professional artist," Gadlin continued. "I felt like I was still challenged here. That was something an artist who wants to succeed has to find. If you come back and you find everything you left is still the same, you fall into a comfort zone."

Gadlin's mother died in 1994.

"That's when I became a man," Gadlin said. "I used that as a positive drive as a discipline in my art," he said. "You have to chase a dream. I wanted to act, being that life was so fragile around me at the time. I said, 'I'm going to jump out there with all I've got and see if I float or sink. '"

The following year, Gadlin rented a studio in Capitol Hill, and focused on his artwork, seeking advice and instruction from Anderson, Roland Bernier, and Richard Vincent. "There were no pressures for me, and my statements were really a direct interpretation of my experiences day to day," Gadlin said. "I turned around and made it a part of my own language. I began to soak in as much as I could not only artistically, but culturally. I had time to digest my statement."

Like with many beginning artists, however, his path was not an easy one. "I questioned what the hell am I doing," he said. "Every artist will have that time where they1re asking themselves what can I say, and what importance does it have. It causes us to thing about a deeper relationship with your work. I think it really challenges the artist's language. To be where I am now, of course it's necessary." His persistence paid off. In 1999, his second year at the Cherry Creek Arts Festival, Gadlin won Best of Show. Within the year, the William Havu Gallery in Denver and the MacLaren Markowitz Gallery in Boulder represented him.

During the last year, Gadlin has been exploring more changes in his work. "It's becoming less figurative," he said. "I feel it's beginning to represent a lot of my intuitive nature. It's no longer just building a structure, but becoming more analytical."

--Sean Weaver (Photos by Sean Weaver)



DOWN FOR THE COUNT
@
EDGE GALLERY

3658 Navajo, 303-477-7173
Friday 7-10 pm, Weekends 1-5 pm Through June 10

No matter what your political inclination, you probably found plenty to be annoyed, amazed and appalled by during last fall's presidential elections. The number 537Ñ the declared margin of George W. Bush's win in FloridaÑ is now freighted with associations of the beleaguered vote. Artist Susan Goldstein has made the number itself the subject of "537Ñ Election 2000Ñ Uncertified," an installation at Edge Gallery. The results are disquieting, just like the election.

The space is occupied by 537 small wrapped figures, about 5 inches in height, their arms held above their heads. Abstract concepts become more graspable when given form, and this is what 537 looks like. Goldstein's perched the small figures on stacked, totally plain corrugated boxes of varying sizes. Other than a few plants, the room's colors are neutral.

There's a feeling of child's play here, small figures and building blocks, but Goldstein intentionally was working with layers of meaning and plenty of visual puns. The figures are actually those toy parachute men, arms raised to hold the cords of their 'chutes. Hands up? Election up in the air? (Ironically, to get enough of the little dudes, Goldstein had to order them from a company in Florida.) They're wrapped with plaster-embedded gauze bandages, usually used to make casts (cast votes, another pun) and are totally muffled by the stuff, like miniature mummies. The figures are all white, too ... bound, contained, constrained, set in stone.

Boxes and figures ring the room's edges. At center is a table with election coverage reading material. Fragmented pictures of the key players (Bush, Gore, Nader, Buchanan, and Katherine Harris) grace the walls.

This foray into installation art is a first for Goldstein, a professional photographer who says she's currently drawn to doing more hands-on work, and to bringing

social-political comment into her art. Though considerably smaller in scope, Goldstein's "537" relates to Denver ceramic artist Barbara Donachy's huge installation replicating the entire mid-'80s U. S. nuclear arsenal in miniature, a massive and sobering installation. Both projects are political, both express their themes by showing us what numerical quantities actually look like, a pragmatic, graphic and effective approach.

Occupying the front portion of Edge's main room is the "Sister Snake Skin Series," glorious new sand paintings by Roger Beltrami. After working in wood for years, carving intricate and movable skeletal figures, Beltrami started playing with sand several years ago. The results are magical. Beltrami calls the gathering, sifting and creating process "a meditation," and that feeling infuses the space. The sands come from Colorado, Nebraska and Utah, all natural colors as found in the earth: black, white, sulphur yellow, muted green, shades of brown and rust red.

There's a strong analogy here to both quilting and weaving: the subtle color variations and standardized large-block patterns of Amish quilts, the jagged, intense lines and contrasting colors of Navajo "eye-dazzler" blankets. The zig-zagging patterns Beltrami's chosen, which look like very geometric snakeskin designs, are eye-popping as well.

While in previous shows he's created sand paintings on the gallery floors, transient pieces that took hours to make (and which usually got semi-trampled during opening receptions), this time around Beltrami's opted to work on wall-hung panels. The patterns are similar from piece to piece but vary in color, and in these works the dramatic use of color carries the day. The granular surfaces catch
the light, visually vibrating. These really
are breathtaking.

The Beltrami-Goldstein pairing is an effective one, completely different thematically but visually harmonious.

Edge's back room currently holds work by Scott Williams, who won the show-slot in a gallery-fundraising lottery and had a couple decades-worth of work to hang, a luck-of-the-draw retrospective, strange and serendipitous.

--Renna Shesso

All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go Go Media, LLC, Denver, Colorado


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