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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
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