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Art Review: Ibou Ndoye and Adebunmi Gbadebo at NJCU


Painting on glass is tricky. Glass is not as forgiving as canvas or paper, and it stubbornly resists attempts by artists to convey texture. Yet when glass painting is done right, it shimmers like the surface of a lake — or the probing front of a camera lens. In Senegal, painting on glass is a science as well as a tradition: Masters turn out portraits on the backs of clear sheets, swivel them around, expose them to light, and generate an unearthly gloss and inner radiance that paintings with opaque backgrounds can’t match.

“The Wrestler” by Ibou Ndoye

Ibou Ndoye has plenty of experience painting on glass. In some of his works, the glass is broken, and fitted into the openings in wooden frames, like a ladder or a film strip. “Neighbors Near and Far,” his show at the Lemmerman Gallery at New Jersey City University, doesn’t actually contain all that much glass painting. It mainly consists of huge, boisterous, enveloping canvases hung like tapestries; one of these is so long and broad that it spills down the wall and rolls, carpet-like, on to the floor. But all of these giant images possess the fiercely illuminated, sun-blasted quality of Senegalese glass painting. Glass is a major part of Ndoye’s artistic identity, and the translucent spirits of Dakar animate everything this artist does. Ndoye, who lives and works in Hudson County, doesn’t need to tell us that he was inspired to make these grand canvases after a trip to Africa. He doesn’t need to give us much background at all. The work speaks, eloquently, about his passions and his perspective.

Glass painting in West Africa has roots in a lower-tech era. Yet its modern resonances are undeniable. When done properly, a glass painting is seen through a thin, shiny transparent layer. It’s not unlike the way we modern viewers apprehend most of the images we encounter: through the backlit flat-panel screens of laptops and phones. The people on the seven glass plates in “Neighbors Near and Far” have the candid, shocked-awake, slightly distorted expressions that FaceTime imposes on those who use it. One man, depicted in sandals and a kufi, has his hands up and an entreaty on his worried face; another, a woman, carries an accusation in her eyes and a barbed threat in her hair, which leaps in black spikes from her head and scrapes the rim of the dish. Some of these glass vessels are circles, others are octagonal like a stop sign; all are, like iPhone screens, too small for the lively faces they trap and pin behind glass.

The characters in the wall-hangings play to the audience, too. A group of women sit around a mancala, and though they’re mid-game, they’re not looking at the pits and the pebbles. Instead, they’re staring outward, with smiles on the verge of grimaces, as if they’ve been posed there by an annoying photographer. The “Young Brothers” peer out between the skinny trunks of trees as if to challenge a voyeur treading on their turf. “The Wrestler,” the grey-faced star of a kinetic mixed-media canvas of paint and collage, performs his feats of strength and balance for two crowds — an arc of dispassionate dashiki-clad viewers who stand behind him and the real-life art appreciators on the gallery floor, who will be, I reckon, quite a bit more engaged.

In these scenes, there’s no place to hide: Sun and clear sightlines make every gesture apparent. Ndoye’s characters act like they know it. They’re all onstage or on camera, and their awareness of the viewer is inscribed in the pieces. And it’s this, more than the patterned backgrounds or brilliant colors or interplay of figures or even the facial features of the subjects, that marks this work as unmistakably West African in tone if not in origin. On glass and on canvas, Ndoye paints people who know you’re looking at them. They’re being watched, and they recognize it, and they pull you in to the performance.

“Uprooted” by Adebunmi Gbadebo

“Uprooted,” the other Black History Month exhibition currently on view at NJCU (this one is at the Visual Arts Gallery) addresses visitors in a thinner and sterner voice. The show features work by Newark-based sculptor and fiber artist Adebunmi Gbadebo, who works in a style that will be familiar to anybody who has seen recent avant-garde fiber art installations at area museums. Gbadebo makes large three-dimensional frames out of chicken wire and affixes massive amounts of fiber to the structure until it takes on the appearance of a huge fuzzy boulder or block. The boulder is suspended from a string and appears to float; the blocks are stacked into a great furry monolith of heft and subtle menace. Fingers of fiber climb a far wall as if they’re trying to escape the confines of the gallery. A long, thick rope snakes across the floor, daring visitors to pull it (don’t).

What’s really striking about these works, though, isn’t what they look like. It’s what they’re made of. All of Gbadebo’s artifacts are comprised of human hair — hair, specifically, from people of African ancestry. The artist does some amazing, gravity-defying things with the locks she’s collected: She masses it and hangs it in great bunches like animal pelts, she balls it up and stacks it, she pounds it flat until it has the consistency of paper and prints on it. So complete is her transformation of black hair that it often doesn’t look like hair at all. It’s possible to encounter, and even appreciate, Gbadebo’s work without ever realizing that the fibers she’s weaving, teasing, and flattening contain human DNA.

That is part of Gbadebo’s point, one that’s driven home further by her use of indigo dye, a substance associated with the slave trade. We don’t always notice the extent to which the manmade environment that surrounds us was built on the backs of black bodies. Yet to apprehend the full conceptual scope of “Uprooted,” the viewer needs to step back from the pieces and understand the backstory, the artist’s motivations and materials, and the conditions of the work’s creation. The show requires more than the basic transaction between the gallerygoer and the creator: It demands attention to something that can be missed if you aren’t in the know.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Museums in New York City have been mounting shows of that sort for years, and “Uprooted” does feel more like a Manhattan-style exhibition than anything I’ve yet seen in Jersey City. It’s hard not to contrast the Gbadebo exhibition with the tropical wave rippling at the Lemmerman. Ndoye’s figures establish an immediate relationship with the viewer. Gbadebo is quite a bit more parsimonious with her affections and with her energy, too. Instead of a rough neighborly handshake, she offers hard-won beauty. You’re welcome to observe it. Look at it long enough, and you might even get comfortable with it. But she’s certainly not going to do all the work for you.

Neighbors Near And Far: Ibou Ndoye
The Harold B. Lemmerman Gallery
Hepburn Hall
New Jersey City University
Showing Until March 3

Uprooted: Adebunmi Gbadebo
The Visual Arts Gallery
Visual Arts Building
New Jersey City University
Showing Until March 5
Artist Reception: February 19, 4:30 p.m. – 7:30 p.m.

Header: Ibou Ndoye

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Art Review: Cheryl Gross and Andrea McKenna at the Eonta Space


It’s difficult to be a human being on a planet in ecological distress. It’s far tougher to be anything else. Plants and animals have been hit hard by the Holocene—they’ve suffered from widespread habitat degradation and general disrespect from the dominant species (us). Some scientists argue that we humans have driven the biosphere into its sixth global extinction event. Others say we’re merely cutting a swath of unprecedented devastation. All agree: It’s bad out there.

Exterior conditions eventually seep into our interior worlds. Most thoughtful human beings are haunted by what we’re doing and how we’re living, and artists, for whom sensitivity is part of the calling, are particularly susceptible to guilt feelings. Yet expressing those reservations about our poor stewardship of the planet is a challenge. If an artist’s commentary is too subtle, she risks soft-pedaling something that demands immediate action. If her commentary is too blatant, she risks coming off as a scold.

An existential crisis requires an aesthetic response more forceful than the creeping unease present in many modern gallery shows. In a moment as fraught as the one we inhabit, we shouldn’t be put off by a firm guiding hand or even a wagging finger. “Commit to Memory: The Precipice of Extinction,” an arresting two-artist show that opens at Eonta Space (34 DeKalb Ave., eontaspacenj.com) at 6 p.m. tonight and runs through the end of March, makes a passionate case for the animals.  It can be blunt.  At times, it’s downright angry.  But it’s never less than articulate, and if it prompts viewers to chuck fewer bottles into the ocean, it’s wall space well used.

Not that all of it is on the walls. Some of the pieces in the show hang on a gauzy black curtain—a veil, really—that cuts Eonta Space in half. The rest of the gallery is inhabited by Cheryl Gross’s creatures drawn on paper in bright, lurid colors. Almost all of them are single images of animals that are either extinct or endangered.  A few of these tributes to the beasts in the crosshairs have been framed. Others feel like they were torn from the sketchbook and hung in the raw, which imparts some added urgency to a show that already rings like an alarm clock. Some of this work was indeed recently completed: A multi-panel image of an owl, its white wings fluttering across a hot yellow background, bears a 2020 date. Gross is feeling the press of time. She expects you to feel it, too.

Those familiar with the artist might remember prior work that possessed the fantastic quality of storybook illustrations. These drawings aren’t dissimilar: Her animals are patchworks of colors and textures, and the scenes they inhabit often contain splatters of ink, frantic crosshatches, waves and dots that reveal a world untethered and in motion. Yet the whimsy associated with Gross’s prior pictures isn’t always present. Instead, there’s peril, and unwelcome restraint—frogs hemmed in by black lines that bunch and scratch like barbed wire, red ink that drips suggestively over the determined face of a tortoise, a penguin with a bullseye in its belly. A flying squirrel, soaring from a blue sky into a nebulous field of gray, appears to be coming apart. Others blend in as best as they can, but camouflage isn’t easy to find. Many of the animals bump against the limits of the page, their  presence too large for the paper to contain—goldfish that have outgrown their tiny bowls to which they’ve been consigned by humans. The message is clear: There’s nowhere to hide.

To her credit, Gross resists the urge to anthropomorphize her beasts. She’s preserved their alterity and with it their dignity. The artist demands that the viewer confront these animals in all their animality and see them as creatures with the same right to inhabit the planet that humans have. The violence of habitat loss is not always left implicit. One fish is trapped in a bottle like a mariner’s model of a ship, while another confronts a row of plastic containers (and another blood-red splatter) with a look of extreme agitation. This sort of literalism would swamp an artist with lesser skills. But her experience handling fantasy material helps her out—she’s able to draw an allegory with a point so fine that you don’t mind cutting your fingers on it.

Gross supplements the drawings with a fifteen-minute animated film that features some of the same characters you’ll recognize from the walls. That penguin, for instance, has a starring role, although notably she’s given a near-human personality and a near-human set of concerns. This elicits sympathy for the character, but it doesn’t address the viewer with the same straightforward, impersonal honestly that the drawings do.

“Undercurrent” by Andrea McKenna. Photo courtesy Eonta Space

A better counterpoint to Gross’s images of animals is provided by a series of devastated paintings by Andrea McKenna, who is also the curator of the gallery at Art House Productions. These hang like scrolls from rough wooden rods affixed to both sides of the black curtain in the middle of the gallery.  Each image is of a single spectral human figure whose face and body is dissolving into the gloom that surrounds her. Some of the paintings are so distressed that they’re practically translucent—like a threadbare coat that’s no longer up to the task of stopping the wind. Gross’s color palette runs marvelously, unreasonably hot; McKenna works in steel gray, rust red, and institution blue. Gross’s work speaks of a fiery, vivid present where the animals are in peril. McKenna’s paintings whisper of a cold future after the animals are gone.

Both artists do have their antecedents in the canon. McKenna’s images, for instance, echo the modern dislocation and emotional fraying that Francis Bacon captures in his canvases. Nevertheless, their styles remind me more of pop-album art than museum art, and as a huge appreciator of record sleeves and covers, I don’t mean that as an insult. McKenna’s scraped and slathered paint and ghostly figures are evocative of industrial music and the art that surrounds it—images from the catalog of Nine Inch Nails and Ministry, and similar groups. Likewise, the furiously colored animals in Gross’s drawings bear more than a passing resemblance to the menagerie of Roger Dean, the imaginary-landscape artist who designed the covers to many of the classic Yes sets of the 1970s. Yes was one of the first rock groups to take environmental threats seriously, and Dean’s images, fragile and fantastic as they are, are visual analogues of lyrics about a world spiraling close to the edge. Yes’s message was timely then, just as Eonta Space’s message is timely now. But eventually, time runs out.

“Commit to Memory” series by Cheryl Gross. Photo courtesy Eonta Space

Commit to Memory: On the Precipice of Extinction
Eonta Space (www.eontaspacenj.com)
34 DeKalb Ave.
February 7 — March 31
Artist Reception Weekend Hours: Friday 6-10 p.m., Saturday 4-8 p.m., Sunday 2-6 p.m.
Header: “Commit to Memory” series by Cheryl Gross. Photo by Tris McCall

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Heart Echoes: Paintings by Marta Blair


What makes for of a great local art exhibition?  Worthwhile works of art, of course: That’s a given. But that’s not all that’s necessary. A really good local show ought to be a match between the pieces on display, the gallery space, and the neighborhood in which the gallery is located. When you exit the art space and return to the street, the show shouldn’t stop. It should keep right on speaking to you about everything you see. Although a good local show will probably have prices on the pieces, it should never feel like a market, and the artists represented should not be attempting to use the show as a springboard to the monoculture or the art world (whatever that is). They should be idiosyncratic, and self-possessed, and more than a little stubborn about that. The show should put the visitors in contact with the definite, specific, ungovernable personalities of the artists. Ideally, those artists should live in the neighborhood where the gallery is located—and they should have plenty to say about their region.

Marta Blair isn’t a Jersey City resident. She’s from Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood in Manhattan. Her studio is as far from the Colgate clock as it would be if she worked in Montclair. But Inwood would be instantly familiar to anybody who has spent time in Hudson County. Tower blocks and rows of medium-density housing, vast brick buildings, hulking public works facilities, bridges, and big black rivers on the periphery of the area: All of it feels like home. So, it’s no great coincidence that Blair works in a style similar to that of the post-industrial artists who’ve made some of the liveliest and most distinctive work to be shown in Jersey City in the past thirty years. Her show at the SMUSH Gallery (340 Summit Ave.), which opens at 6 p.m. tonight and runs until February 15, is honorary Jersey.

It’s also terrific, proof positive that small local shows can provide some of the biggest electric shocks. “Heart Echoes: Paintings by Marta Blair” is intimate, varied, and engrossing, and all of the pieces in the exhibition feel like expressions of the same personal vision. Blair’s work is rarely aggressive, but it can be forceful nonetheless. Some credit for the coherence of this show must go to SMUSH curator Katelyn Halpern, whose arrangement of the paintings takes advantage of the gallery’s coziness, and its rawness, too. She’s hung the imposing multi-panel “Red Painting 2” just below a large air duct in the ceiling as if to suggest that the large painting is also a kind of conduit. A long, thick ribbon of a painting is displayed in the front window much as a downtown clothier might show off a scarf.

But none of these clever gestures would work if Blair’s work didn’t sing in such clear, rough, sincere notes. Like many who work in this style, Blair incorporates urban detritus into her art—burlap, string, wooden slats, gauze, cotton mesh, rivets—but few bring out the beauty and dignity of these materials with such unerring grace. She has a knack for enhancing the expressive potential of the humble objects she uses and transforms. To see “Heart Echoes” is, for a few moments at least, to inhabit Blair’s sensibility:  The rhythms of the threads of industrial textiles, the subtle topography of paper, the mutable quality of cords, the joy of the small and functional all become palpable to the viewer. Her sense of awareness is contagious. The longer you look at these pieces, the wider your eyes will grow.

The materials that Blair uses aren’t hidden, but they aren’t oversold, either. They’re simply there to support the images, most of which are broadly abstract but hint at figuration. As you might expect from an artist whose work rests on keen observation, she takes her images to the very brink of the paper and sometimes beyond. At least one of her large wall hangings is fully illustrated on both sides; SMUSH will show you the back of it if you’re interested. There are few straight lines in Blair’s work. Instead, her pieces are filled with fields of bright acrylic color, large arcs, hooks, and intersecting crescents, occasional splashes, rivulets, and drippings and in one arresting piece a series of wormholes cut into the paper. Some of these designs threaten to coalesce into images of faces, or skulls, or human or celestial bodies, or hearts. But there’s so much motion in these paintings that nothing holds together for long.

Given the density of ideas, it’s a testament to Blair’s sense of balance and mastery of color that her work never feels busy. It can, however, be more than a little destabilizing, especially before your eyes have acclimated themselves to the artist’s vision. The big pieces in “Heart Echoes” are both beautiful and immersive, but the best and most approachable pieces in the exhibition are the artist’s six-inch-square wood panels. This is Marta Blair by the slice rather than by the whole pie, and they maintain the intensity of the wall hangings even as they’re possible to apprehend at a glance. SMUSH has arranged them in grids and strips reminiscent of the presentation of Lygia Pape’s “books” of forms: a tentative, hopeful imposition of geometric order on forces not easily tamed. The wood panels, which Blair simply calls “Small Works” (she clearly doesn’t like titling her paintings) crackle with energy. Some suggest alien landscapes while others seem to represent eyes or tilted heads. All are opportunities for Blair to show off her distinctive and pleasing palette: sea blues, grassy greens, Valentine pinks that thickens into rich reds. My favorite contains a furious gold squiggle in an upper corner. It’s an errant brain wave, a shock of lightning, a jump rope seized and jostled.

“Heart Echoes” is Marta Blair’s first solo exhibition. Talented and dedicated as she is, she’s no innate careerist. Her works are inscribed in a private visual language; because she’s fundamentally generous and communicative, that language is legible to viewers who are willing to meet her halfway. But she clearly doesn’t paint to please the crowd. She’s got her own heartbeat and her own singular aesthetic objectives. She’s exactly the sort of painter who local galleries should be championing. SMUSH recognized that, and in so doing Jersey City has been rewarded with its first can’t-miss art show of 2020.

Header: “Red Painting 2” by Marta Blair

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Art Review: Works by Nathan Sullivan, Diana Godfrey and Robert Glisson at the Novado Gallery


In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C. S. Lewis’s third Chronicle of Narnia, the characters step out of dull reality and enter a fantasy world through a portrait on the wall.  The seascape acts as a conduit between dimensions and a spur for adventure: It grows larger and larger until the characters fall through the frame and plunge into the water. Dawn Treader is a story for kids, but the magic that Lewis describes isn’t entirely imaginary. It’s a fair, albeit poetic, description of the transporting power of landscape painting. Paintings by a skilled landscape artist really do feel like portals into another time and place. A true master of the style—Hasegawa Tōhaku, say, or Breughel the Elder, or Jersey’s own George Inness—can pull the viewer into a parallel universe.

Hudson County is a place defined by spectacular views. Nothing impedes our apprehension of Midtown Manhattan—there it is, right across the river, monumental and breathtaking. Seen from the top of the Palisade, our own tall buildings and tidy downtown neighborhoods are pretty impressive, too. The broad carpet of the Meadowlands, the weird, crumbling post-industrial zones on the fringes of the city, the great iron bridges that arch over the Hackensack: These are all eyefuls. Because our scenery is so gorgeous, we’re inclined to appreciate vistas. The most engrossing art exhibitions mounted in Jersey City over the past few months have taken advantage of this taste. Candy LeSeuer’s seaside daydreams and Ricardo Roig’s urbane, detailed prints of Hudson County landmarks open windows in otherwise blank walls. The three artists who contributed to the latest show at Novado Gallery (110 Morgan St.) are up to something similar. You’d never mistake a painting by Diana Godfrey for one by Nathan Sullivan or Robert Glisson: Their moods, techniques, and approaches are distinctly different. Yet they’ve all got that knack for pulling you in to the picture.

“Eyeful” by Robert Glisson

Glisson’s work offers the most conventional ride. His country landscapes are blurred, bucolic, rich with representations of abundant daylight, and perhaps a bit too reminiscent of Edgar Degas. The strokes of oil paint on his canvases are so gooey-thick and hypnotic that it might take a second or two to catch precisely what he’s representing. Nevertheless, the heat comes off these pictures immediately. It’s summer in Glisson’s world, trees are overburdened with foliage, and the cows take refuge from the sun under the canopy of leaves. Summertime means life, life has weight and mass, and Glisson’s canvases convey that pleasant, comforting heaviness. The bodies of beachgoers in “Provincetown in June” bend with the day like the sail of the boat in the distance. They move with the elements—the wind, the sunshine, and the placid sea. There is no sense of menace. Everything is in its proper place.

Nathan Sullivan paints plant life, too, and he also uses oils to create his immersive landscapes. Similarities to Robert Glisson end there. Glisson’s paint is thick, swirled, rich as the icing atop a cookie; Sullivan’s oils approach the flatness of a photograph. The Novado Gallery presents five large panel paintings in his “Space Series,” each of which imagines an otherworldly scene in which the proportions of organic materials are altered. Fronds sprout to the size of trees, seed pods tower like monuments over a glassy marsh, pine-cone-like structures are tucked beneath a massive spray of grass under a yolk-yellow sky. All of these hallucinations are rendered with sci-fi precision. Lines are sharp, color contrast is striking, and the shadows correspond to the position of a strange and distant sun. These may indeed be vistas on planets where the flora, with no small amount of aggressiveness, has claimed control of the biosphere. But Sullivan is also playing with the notion of “space” itself: our collective understanding of the territories that familiar terrestrial objects like plants and leaves are meant to occupy. By changing the dimensions, he’s upended our expectations, and created provocative landscapes that work like dislocations.

For sheer transportive power, Sullivan and Glisson are outdone by Diana Godfrey, who contributes a pair of “Water’s Edge” panels to the show. These are the two simplest pieces in the gallery; they’re also the smallest. The “Water’s Edge” paintings, which were created with a combination of acrylics and oils, are pure landscapes: horizontal fields of color denoting grass, sky, and water. There isn’t much detail, there’s not much sign of activity, and there are no people present to trouble or complicate the view. Yet the texture of Godfrey’s paints is as soft as upturned earth, and her colors are deep and mysterious as those of a spring night. These small squares speak eloquently, and maybe even conspiratorially, but they don’t give away their secrets; instead, they beckon you close and solicit an immediate emotional response. Notably, Godfrey’s other pieces in the show aren’t landscapes: They’re a play of overlapping rectangles in near-pastel colors, some roughly striped, some distressed, some scribbled over, all fading a little. Their proximity to the “Water’s Edge” paintings bestows a sense of place on them. They’re redolent of country houses, old wallpaper, farmed fields from a crow’s perspective. Empty horizons always connote longing. Coupled with the rustic feel of the other pieces, Godfrey’s works in this exhibition suggest the deep country, land passed by and largely forgotten, but still possessing quiet dignity, still waiting to be appreciated.

Godfrey frames her work in rough wooden boxes, which gives them the feel of heirlooms tucked under a bed or locked in an attic. Glisson’s oil paintings radiate their heat from within classic gold frames (many of Degas’s also did), which reinforces their hot-weather quality, and their museum-ish conservatism, too. Sullivan doesn’t bother with borders at all. Instead, his panels are slices in space, images viewed through the flat windows of the arriving lander of a starship. But the will to lead the viewer into a netherworld of the artist’s creation is the same, regardless of the technique. The joint show, which opened on January 2 and closes February 8, offers seventeen fleeting trips into the yonder, some of which might even have an ameliorating effect on the harshness of the season. The Novado Gallery remains one of the most generous art spaces in town: It’s open five days a week, and it’s very pretty inside.

Header: “Space Series #12” by Nathan Sullivan

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Ricardo Roig: Local Color


On the Mall in the middle of Central Park, art is everywhere. Most of it is similar: pastel prints and paintings of New York City landmarks, world-famous skyscrapers, falling leaves on Fifth Avenue, moons over Manhattan, generalized Gotham romance. If you’ve wandered through the Park, you’ve seen these pieces, and maybe you’ve even admired their brutal effectiveness. These painters and printmakers mean to sweep the viewer up in the New York story, and this they do crudely and expediently. It’s fine art (of a sort), but it’s also propaganda: univocal, meant to instill in the viewer a sense of excitement about the tourist experience. There may be many layers of paint, but there are few layers of meaning. No matter how cheesy the pictures seem, they do provide a glimpse of the city’s mercantile soul.

Two decades ago, no artist would have depicted Jersey City like this. Hudson County was resistant to glamorization. Instead, artists who engaged with the town— photographers Ed Fausty and Shandor Hassan, for instance—favored a stark realist approach so keenly and meticulously observed that it attained the alien quality of dystopic science fiction. Other artists working in the post-industrial style were determined to show Jersey City as it was—and it wasn’t always pretty. Beautiful sometimes, but never quiescent; if you came to Hudson County, you were going to encounter a landscape that would charge out to meet you, roar in your face, and leave some marks. Their Jersey City had teeth. 

This is not the Jersey City that Ricardo Roig presents in “Local Color.” The show, which will be on view at the Hamilton Square Condominiums (232 Pavonia Ave. at Hamilton Square Park) through April 24, features colorful screen-printed images of a Jersey City that feels becalmed, tamed, and ready to be sold to outsiders. The exhibition lacks the explosiveness and emotional intensity of curator Kristin DeAngelis’s last show in the Hamilton Square atrium. But it does have many compensatory charms, including its user-friendliness and genuine eagerness to please. It’s hard to imagine anything more accessible than a show of beautiful prints of places and sights that residents see every day. “Local Color” presents Roig as both a balladeer and a booster, a genial Downtowner with a pleasant vision of Jersey City that dovetails neatly with the city’s recent commitment to destination marketing.

“Choc-O-Pain” by Ricardo Roig

Ricardo Roig’s singular technique—his sharp-cut angles, his striking sense of color, his balance, and his knack for visual storytelling—places him miles beyond the picture hawkers in Central Park. Yet in tone, mood, and subject matter, he’s up to a similar thing. The artist army on the Mall anchors its myth-making in the city’s immediately observable landscape—its buildings and street scenes, its businesses and its marks of enterprise—and the upbeat rhythms of its architecture. We’ve got nothing as recognizable as the Empire State Building, but we have our visual symbols, too, and Roig rounds them up and makes them sing: the Colgate Clock, the gazebo at Hamilton Park, the blocky blue G of the Grove Street PATH Station, the Newark Avenue pedestrian mall. He’s drawn to bars and restaurants, and he gives us idyllic looks at Choc-o-Pain, the interior of the White Star, the umbrella-covered plaza outside Rumba Cubana, the yellow insignia of the strangely uncrushable Golden Cicada. Jersey City, this show tells us, is a place of constant commerce, too—maybe not as inexhaustible as our neighbor across the Hudson but bustling along nevertheless, committed to enterprise, on the rise with its shoes shined. 

These prints give Roig an opportunity to demonstrate one of his talents: He’s an ace at representing electric light. The glow behind the windows of the Choc-o-Pain is croissant-warm; even better is the unearthly shimmer of the reflections of the tall buildings on the Hudson. The strongest print in a show with many good ones isn’t local color at all, it’s a nighttime still of the venerable and unglamorous Long Island Bar on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. The dive’s hot-pink neon signs dust the sidewalk with rouge. 

How does Roig achieve these high-contrast effects? Most likely, it’s residue of the unusual printmaking process he’s developed, one in which he applies paint to the canvases through stencils that are cut, poked, and pared into shape with a knife. Since each color requires its own screen, a Roig print is made up of a lattice of interlocking pigments: stenciled patterns that come together to form a familiar image. The tonal blurring that this technique produces can generate some hallucinatory effects. Human figures under the strings of lights on the Newark Avenue pedestrian plaza, for instance, really do seem to be slipping into the shadows. Other images, like an impossibly gentle rendering of the front of a commuter train pulling into Grove Street Station, possess the hushed, muted mystique of Nishiki-e woodblock prints. 

Unusually for a modern landscape artist, Ricardo Roig is also very good at capturing human bodies in action. The patrons he places at the White Star are all discernible individuals, some content, others a little impudent; they might even be people you recognize. In one striking print, a couple rides the Grove Street Path escalator to street level. The man stares straight ahead, but the woman looks backward, and ambivalence at her arrival is inscribed in her body language. This is a rare equivocal moment in Roig’s work, a passing minor chord in an otherwise concordant symphony, and it hints that his embrace of Jersey City might not be as total as it seems. 

Other pieces are so relentlessly positive that they could have been commissioned by a tourism council. The most awkward of these are ironically the two biggest and busiest in the show: a pair of works that combine Roig’s usual screen-printing techniques with elements of paper collage. These aren’t as assured or balanced as the smaller canvases; more problematically, they’re overstuffed with separate images meant to suggest an appealing whirlwind of urban activity. Despite Roig’s enthusiasm, they’re as impersonal as the murals that have turned areas of Jersey City into a garish open-air cartoon. Ironically, some of the most immersive pieces in the show are the tiniest: fragments and “fresh cuts” that are tight, focused, non-representational, and full of lively personality. They neither lionize nor criticize. They simply allow Roig’s considerable skills to speak for themselves. 

From George Inness to William Carlos Williams to the Boss, local pride has always been a powerful motivator for New Jersey artists. The Garden State isn’t always an easy place to love, but it does elicit protective feelings. Ricardo Roig clearly adores Hudson County, and his eagerness to share what he’s discovered here is apparent in every stencil he slices. He’s covered the obvious stuff—the landmarks everybody knows, the visitor attractions, and the well-trafficked streets that everybody treads. This talented and ambitious artist can afford to cut a little deeper. 

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Candy Le Sueur: Reflections at Panepinto Galleries


Dream pop is all over the year-end top ten lists: blurry, gauzy, beautiful and melancholy, feminine, slow-paced, maybe a little intoxicated. That’s been the sound of 2019, and although there aren’t all that many Hudson County musicians who play dream pop, there’s a remarkable visual analog hanging in Paulus Hook. 

Candy Le Sueur’s “Reflections” exhibition features abstract expressionist oil paintings that feel like hallucinations. Figuration is dispensed with, in favor of broad washes of color on (usually) large canvases. Everything looks like a beach, or an ocean, or a cloud blurring the horizon line between the beach and the ocean, or a sunrise gracing the surface of the sea. Or perhaps none of it is meant to resemble anything in particular: It’s just a play of pigments and curved strokes, committed to the work with wonder and vigor but with no evident malice. No people or animals are depicted or suggested. Life for Le Sueur is but a dream, and her show is a solitary daylight idyll. 

It would be inaccurate to call “Reflections” anxiety free. There’s turbulence in the gray scribbles of paint that lurk in the clouded corners of her otherwise luminous pieces. If Le Sueur’s work is a response to the natural world, these aren’t perfect June days she’s depicting. Yet the fear of the inhospitable wilderness that drives so much American nature painting is completely absent. This painter is not worried about natural forces. She’s floating through them as a placid observer, one animated by candor but willing to drift through scenes of her own invention, taken by the wind like a kite. “Reflections” is, above all, accommodating — a generous bestowal of light. There’s not much agitation here, and no discernible argument is getting made. Hers is art that is content to leave the viewer be. It’s hard to believe that Le Sueur is from cantankerous, confrontational old Jersey City.

But she is indeed a Hudson County artist and an active one.  She’s shown her work at Drawing Rooms, the Windows on Columbus, Novado Gallery, the Santorelli Gallery in Hoboken, and other area spaces. “Reflections” is about as far east in town as you can go without splashing into the river: The show occupies the broad white wall spaces of Panepinto Galleries at 70 Hudson St., one of those two squat and squarish buildings on the waterfront boardwalk from which the smell of big money wafts. The members of the Panepinto clan are major players in local real estate: They’re responsible for the Marriott by the Grove Street PATH Station, 3 Journal Square, and nearly all of the imposing new glass and concrete residential towers on Columbus Drive; Stefania Panepinto, the operator of the Gallery, is involved in the family business.

Spear Street Capital, the national real estate investment firm that owns 70 Hudson, is listed as one of the sponsors of “Reflections.” Some local exhibitions go out of their way to disguise the mercantile nature of the art world. This is not one of those shows.

Panepinto Galleries specializes in work that a visitor might encounter at a Panepinto-made hotel or a building like it: art designed to soothe the jangled nerves of business travelers as they prepares for a meeting. The analgesic quality of Candy Le Sueur’s work does put it into that category. These paintings might fit neatly behind the front desk of a skyscraper’s atrium — a slice of natural wildness, taken, tamed, and framed by professional buyers. The first floor of 70 Hudson St. is just that sort of corporate space, and the pieces in “Reflections” do assimilate themselves into the tickertape rhythms of their surroundings with unnerving ease. That’s not exactly Le Sueur’s fault. Because of its inherent ambiguity, abstract expressionism has become the preferred style for purchasers at hotels and financial services companies. 

70 Hudson is a glass house, and I don’t mean to throw stones at the operation or its aesthetic priorities. The building might be imposing, but the gallery keeps some of the most accommodating — and democratizing — hours in town. It’s open to the public every weekday from 9 a.m until 6 p.m.  

Like every artist who is good at this style — and this painter certainly is skilled — Le Sueur’s canvases have a hypnagogic effect. Some of the wavy lines of paint are short and blunt, others are broad and borderline chaotic, but all of them feel like visual traces left by elegant movements of human hands and wrists, a somatic charm drawing bathers from the shallows into deeper waters. Le Seuer’s pieces give the impression that they were each completed during a single lengthy reverie. She carries that sense of unity from piece to piece, and it’s particularly impressive when she executes that vision on a large scale. In “Day Dreaming 3,” a warm smear of egg-yolk yellow enlivens an otherwise stony gray field; it could be a sunrise over a rocky coast, and it feels as complete a portrait as any landscape photograph might be. Often any sense of horizontality is deliberately lost as strokes swirl every which way. Yet this is not disorienting art. There is something about Le Sueur’s work that anchors the viewer: Magnetic north is always discernible. All of these paintings look like places (albeit lonely ones). Sometimes, they’re even places in the sky.

The most impressive part of this lovely exhibition is a wall full of haunted watercolors, a departure for the artist, we’re told. Stare at these, too, and they’re likely take on the appearance of distant shores, glaciers, vast lakes and huge swirly heavens. Yet the flatness of the watercolor medium and the smallness of each paper makes these dream landscapes feel stark, shadowed, and emotionally pained in a way that Le Sueur’s oil paintings never suggest. Art that reflects dreams, whether dream pop or dream painting or hallucinatory cinema can evaporate once the audience disengages; dreams after all are usually consequence free. But a few linger well into daylight. These watercolors do. They suggest a way forward for an artist as sure-footed as any in town.

 

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Anne Novado: New Queen of the Art Scene


“Would you like some organic tequila?” Anne Novado asks me as we settle into her gallery’s sitting area a few nights before her current show. Novado Gallery itself is like an aesthetic shot of tequila. Opened in late 2016 and tucked into Jersey City’s Powerhouse Arts District, the gallery hit the ground like a stylish Cessna. The space is elegantly appointed with exposed wood beams, lofty ceilings, and a carefully designed layout. But what’s notable about Novado openings is a slightly older crowd of art patrons and New Yorkers.

Novado’s own artwork “Stranger than Friction”, graphite on vellum, 38″ x 31″

Anne Novado is no newcomer to the art world. As a practicing artist herself with an MFA from Syracuse University she knows a thing or two about art — and about how to make a gallery stand out. While teaching at Syracuse and at Onondaga Community College she sat on the board of the nonprofit arts group ThINC (The Institution of a Now Culture). The group put together exhibitions “that went beyond the average landscape and figurative work,” Novato explains. “They were adventurous, fun shows, shows that elevated the arts scene in Syracuse.”

The same could be said of  Novado Gallery’s local impact. Like other Jersey City gallerists, Novado (along with business partner Steve Pearlman) wanted to create a dedicated space for art shows as opposed to a café or hair salon that also happened to exhibit art. Business owners and real estate developers often persuade artists to hang works in their spaces for “exposure,” adding much-needed decor to their ventures for free, This bartering was exactly what Anne didn’t want to see. After all, “does a lawyer set up a booth for free advice just for exposure?” she asks.

At any group or solo exhibition you will find a diverse range of artists who have established some degree of recognition yet have likely not been given a solo show at a similar mid-level gallery in New York City. When asked what drives her curatorial process, Novado explains, “I have to be excited about the artists that I show. That may be based on their humor or materials or perhaps the social commentary in the work.”

Cue Dutch artist Lex Heilijgers, whose work currently on exhibit at Novado is a seduction of color, form, and emotion. Figures, landscapes, and architecture are reduced to their essence in a style reminiscent of Matisse or Picasso.

“I really wanted to show Lex’s work here in Jersey City,” says Anne. “He didn’t have the greatest experience at his New York gallery, and I felt that we could improve upon that plus give our community a chance to appreciate his work.”

She notes that since Jersey City is championed as one of the most diverse cities in the country, that diversity should carry over to the artists represented here.

“As a gallery we can celebrate diversity in the artists we show; through something as humble as the materials they use as well as the ethnic or political diversity they bring into focus through their work.”

What does Novado see for the gallery moving into 2020?

“We feel invigorated and are gathering momentum to bring more two-person and solo shows to the space so we can champion and focus more on the artist’s body of work. For my own growth — I live and breathe art, but I’m also a business person — I want to see how I can bring more people in and get them excited without overwhelming them, give them nuggets of information if they’re not used to accessing art on their own.”

Could offering an art appreciation program of some kind be next on Novado’s agenda?  This professor-of-art-turned gallerist wouldn’t rule it out (or simply “She wouldn’t rule it out.”)

Novado Gallery: 110 Morgan St., Jersey City, NJ. 07302, 201-744-6713, NovadoGallery.com, Facebook.com/NovadoGallery.

Header: Novado photo in gallery, by Jayne Freeman. Painting behind her is by Azarez.art.

 

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Art Review: Mindshapes


Just as realism is frequently touched by the fantastic, abstraction is rarely total. Even non-figurative art is made from materials, and those materials often have strong connotations. Art House Productions is calling its new abstract show Mindshapes, which suggests a private, insular experience, something quiet, untethered to the rhythms of the practical world. Yet this exhibition, which runs through December 1 at the Art House’s small but handsome gallery, is anything but.

The two artists in Mindshapes make work that gestures emphatically toward the audience—work that, while abstract, feels deeply engaged with external forces. This is art that takes the viewer by the arm; it has things to show you, and once it grabs you, it doesn’t let go easily. Should you feel the need for a dash of hot pink to liven up the cold November days, direct yourself to 262 17th Street between Jersey and Coles. (The opening reception for Mindshapes is on Saturday, November 2, from 7-9 p.m.)

Srebriansky

While their pieces would never be confused with each other’s, Méïr Srebriansky and Geraldine Neuwirth do share certain crowd-pleasing proclivities: bold use of color, impressive scale, swirling lines, layering of materials, and a driving determination to break the flat, two-dimensional plane. If these are mindshapes, the minds that birthed them are fevered indeed. The work constantly threatens to leave the frame behind—and sometimes does achieve that weightless quality of wall art that defies rectangularity and insists on its own boundaries.

Neuwirth achieves this effect by stacking layers of cut-out paper, some of it painted, some of it scribbled upon, and creates distance between the sheets with the help of tiny glued supports that you won’t notice until you’ve stared at her pieces for a minute or two. Srebriansky uses resin, that shiny, plasticky, Koons-y favorite of modern sculptors, as if it were paint, slathering it on in thick washes. Sometimes the blobs of resin seem to have been extruded from the pieces themselves, or perhaps from a resin-pumping machine hidden behind their flattish surfaces. Neuwirth’s art feels humble and home-spun, even when it’s huge; Srebriansky’s feels industrial, tailored, and precise, even when he’s trying to make a mess. These works want to leap from the walls and meet, and shake hands, or dance together, in the middle of the gallery.

Both artists identify as New Yorkers, but Neuwirth maintains studio space in the huge MANA Contemporary complex at the western end of Newark Avenue. Unlike Srebriansky, whose paintings often have the skyscraper-glass shimmer of the Big Apple, Neuwirth works in a style that I associate deeply with Jersey City: busy, bold-colored collages, artfully imbalanced, tactile, daring the mischievous viewer to paw the art. Neuwirth, in the crammed Jersey City tradition, leaves very little blank space—her collages push hard against the corners of their frames. The top layer of paper hovers above the others as if it’s suspended there by sheer belief, and if it’s not exactly accurate to call these works sculptures, it is right to say that they’re built rather than painted. Abstract they may be, but their assembly suggests many things: threaded underpasses and overpasses, the sun high above a chaotic landscape, an architect’s most provocative model. Like many other artists who have worked in Hudson County, Neuwirth seems to be responding to the never-ending network of roads, the adaptive reuse of buildings, the overwritten neighborhoods, the constant, hungry, on-the-fly reconstruction that dominates public life. These are mind-scapes for sure, but ones that resonate strongly with the post-industrial zone that the Art House, and MANA, are currently located in.

Neuwirth’s work doesn’t advertise its constructed quality; Srebriansky’s work leads with it. In one of his most arresting contributions to the show, a roughly-shaped six pointed star outlined in bright red resin crouches over a part of the rectangular artwork that appears to have been ripped away. The rest of the painting (and this is, indeed, painting) consists of bright, overlapping splashes of resin that cover each other and ripple over contours like melted wax. Like Neuwirth, he’s attracted to arresting, near-dayglo colors: the pinks, magentas, and chartreuses of finger-paints or Play-Doh cylinders. He drafts figures on the chilly skin of his pieces: cartoon characters, greenery, a benign-looking pink pattern that, upon closer examination, resembles bomb detonations. The handling of resin here borders on the virtuosic, but he’s made room in his works for ordinary spray paint and acrylic, too; combined with the metallic, near-reflective quality of the resin, this strongly suggests the fronts of buildings on Downtown streets, impassive, yet decorated enthusiastically by graffiti artists. This is art that could only have been created in an urban context—in particular, in a city experiencing the kinetic forces of upheaval and rapid redevelopment.

The big pieces in Mindshapes are the ones most likely to get attention, but some of this show’s deepest rewards come from their modest-sized cousins. On an overhanging wall next to Neuwirth’s biggest contributions, six interrelated images are stacked vertically, from the floor to the ceiling. In their lighter wooden frames, these breathe a little easier, and feel a little more survivable, than Neuwirth’s more explosive pieces. Srebriansky’s style, too, scales well to a smaller size. My favorite work in this entire show was a simple study in blue resin, with a wave of dripping white threatening to swamp it from beneath. Its immediate neighbor is a flattish rectangle sporting layer after layer of resin in different colors. We know this because Srebriansky has pockmarked the piece, revealing a rainbow of gobstopper colors beneath the white surface. It has some of the quality of a dented car door, and it has an emotional intensity that many of Srebriansky’s larger, more imposing paintings lack.

These smaller Srebriansky pieces hang near the large gallery windows that overlook 17th Street. Across the street is a vacant lot on which a new building is sure to sprout soon; across the lot, a banner welcomes prospective buyers to the Cast Iron Lofts. There’s no great discontinuity in feel between the work of Srebriansky and Neuwirth and the scene on the other side of the glass, and this can’t entirely be attributed to this show’s occasional resemblance to street art. It’s also because, abstract as these artists’ works are, they’re also responding to volcanic forces that are remaking urban space on both sides of the Hudson. Transformation on this scale is liable to seep into your dreams, mold your mindshapes, and find expression in big, anxious, lurid pieces that speak volumes.

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Art Review: Maps Everywhere


Maps tell lies.  Oh, they may get you where you want to go, but they’ll whisper distortions in your ear as you travel. The Mercator Projection of the earth — perhaps the most famous map in history — has misled millions by exaggerating the size of land masses at polar latitudes and diminishing the tropics. Many of us deal daily with Mercator’s local cousin: the New York City subway map on which an artificially fattened Manhattan lords over the shrunken outer boroughs. Artist Jacob Ford is a man attuned to the political implications of cartography, and his MTA Peutingeriana redraws one of the most ancient maps of the Roman Empire in the unmistakable colors and fonts of the Big Apple underground. The Romans, too, warped space in the name of clarity and put their capital at the center of the world.

Monkeying with maps, it seems, is an ancient pastime, and Ford’s pointed, persuasive piece is representative of a new pair of shows running concurrently at two galleries on the NJCU campus.  Maps Everywhere (curated by Donna David and on view at the Visual Arts Gallery until Nov. 26) and Mapping Life (curated by Midori Yoshimoto and on view at the Lemmerman Gallery on the third floor of Hepburn Hall until Nov. 26) ask and answer questions in slightly different tones, but they’re best understood as a single continuous exhibition. In order to catch both halves, you’ll have to navigate the campus — and yes, that trip across the quad and Culver Street does feel like part of the show.

It’s an exhibition with salience to Jersey City. Our town has been aggressively mapped over the last few decades. Much of this activity has been benign: Signage has improved, there’s been an increasing amount of crosstalk between neighborhoods, and public policymakers, some of whom are affiliated with NJCU, have sought insight into how our town functions. But maps have also been the faithful tools of developers and planners who have redrawn the lines and zones in an effort to squeeze every penny out of land that has rapidly appreciated in value. Walking the streets of Jersey City means engaging with the practical consequences of mapping. In 2019, maps are, as the show suggests, everywhere – and for those who require or prefer hiding places, this is downright problematic.

Under the Big Tree by Noriko Ambe

The omnipresence of cartography is a recurring theme of the show. It’s expressed in visual and tactile language that’s sometimes humble, like Vivian Rombaldi Seppey’s homey slippers made of maps, and sometimes striking and invasive, like David Nuttall’s Human Terrain photographs of naked bodies illustrated with roads and grids. Noriko Ambe’s Under the Big Tree crafts a great hollow stump from history books; Adrienne Ottenberg’s painting A Walk in Algiers is so warmly ornamented that its map of the African city could double as an image of a quilt. Her Algiers is a cloak — a repository of the elements of local culture, a long weave in the making and a comfort on a cold night.

Other contributions to the exhibition are stark, minutely observed, hyper-local, captured with the probing eye of the social scientist. Brooklyn artist Jennifer Maravillas, a specialist in creative cartography, gleans the contours of JERSEY CITY: 1841, 1976, 2013, 2019 from four historic maps and highlights their similarities with bright washes of color. The piece borders on an infographic: It’s as informative as any wordless work of art can be, and it suits a show held on a college campus. Dominique Paul traveled New York City in an electronic dress that doubled as a data visualizer: Wherever she went, her outfit would light up in a hue that corresponded to the street’s median income level (the dress and a video documentary of her trip are both on view at the Lemmerman).

A performance art piece like this wouldn’t be possible without thorough census records, and it shrewdly exposes the benefits and problems that accompany scrupulous mapping.  From one perspective, Paul is demonstrating the remarkable unevenness of wealth in our region, and, in so doing, she’s raising awareness of income inequality. Yet she’s also poking fun at the social-scientific tendency to color code and classify a place as complicated as New York City. What happens to a neighborhood when it’s stigmatized and consigned to the troubled regions of the map? Is it really helpful for the government to know what everybody is making, or is all of this cartography simply an extension of surveillance culture?

At least one of her documentary interview subjects has a strong opinion on the subject. He believes that it’s only the taxman who is interested in his low-rent neighborhood, and he stands to be counted only so he can be shaken down by the authorities for the little he’s got.  Whether he knows it or not, he’s echoing a popular argument against mapping and census taking that goes back at least as far as the Bible. It’s a perspective that Nyugen Smith would probably understand. His beautiful wall hanging of a reimagined Hispaniola echoes motifs common among the maps used by colonizers and juxtaposes them with more alarming images: a skull, dry bones, a snake warning away intruders. It’s an effective critique and a reminder that cartographers were indispensable to the Columbian exchange.

Ironically, it’s also a reminder that the tools of the oppressor could also be beautiful. Nyugen’s Bundlehouse Borderlines No 6 (emembe) really does communicate that sense of curiosity, play, and new discovery that is often visible in maps from the colonial era. Some of these explorers did actually believe in magic, but even those who didn’t had their imaginations fired by the encounter with the not-yet-known. Their maps were unions between the realized and the purely theoretical; they were documentaries, yes, but in another way they were speculative fiction.

It is hard for modern maps to cast the same spell although contemporary artists do like to recapture some of the mystery by blurring those state-sanctioned lines. Abby Goldstein’s Reimagining Brooklyn paintings begin with historic city grids, which she then smothers in her own colored ink — and the artist’s defiant glee as she smooths over artificial divides and mashes neighborhoods together is pleasantly palpable. The full wall of her work at the back of the Maps Everywhere gallery feels gently impudent: a kiss-off to the developers currently dominating her borough. Kingsley Parker’s Atlas takes this desire for a personal and alternative brand of city planning to its logical extreme. His maps look authentic, right down to the book he’s bound them in, but they’re entirely fictitious. This is escapism, pure and simple, and it’s wonderful.

So, it’s more than a little surprising that Maps Everywhere closes with an entreaty to viewers to participate in the collective manufacture of a large wall map of Jersey City. After viewing art that is unmistakably ambivalent about the implications of exhaustive mapping, you’re invited to plot your home and businesses you frequent on the grid. Surely most of the artists featured in these two concurrent exhibitions would agree that such a map would be a very cool thing aesthetically, and practically, too. They also might tell you about the real benefits of getting, and staying, lost.

 

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Art Review: Deep Space Gallery, 77 Cornelison Ave. 


Deep Space Gallery. Jenna Geiger and partner Keith Van Pelt

Photo by Jayne Freeman

“Creating a collector culture”

It’s Friday night, one week before the next opening at Deep Space Gallery. Jenna Geiger and partner Keith VanPelt are hunched over a macquete, or miniature model, of the gallery as they hang the show with tiny cut-outs of the paintings included. “Jenna is very particular about how the show is hung,” says Keith. “We redo this a dozen times before we settle on the flow.”

Deep Space Gallery remains off the beaten-track in Jersey City in an unfrequented section of Bergen-Lafayette used more as a short-cut for frantic morning traffic than as a route for strolling art purveyors. Still, each opening reception packs the house with an eclectic group of patrons who come for the social scene as much as the dynamic artwork. This is a common lament amongst gallerists exhibiting hip, young artists who attract an enthusiastic crowd: All that’s been emptied from the gallery at the end of the night are the hummus bowls.

Deep Space aspires to change all that by presenting top-notch artists with a wide range of prices for their work. “Everybody can be an art collector,” says Jenna. “I especially love when we’ve inspired someone to buy their first piece of art.”

Jenna and Keith started Deep Space in 2016 with a particular vision in mind: a place to showcase under-acknowledged artists in the best light possible. The gallery quickly established a reputation as a home for works by graffiti and public murals artists as well as for art by ascending painters and sculptors. Artists shown here have been about 50 percent local, residing in Jersey City, Newark, and New York, while the remaining half have traveled from other parts of the country or abroad. Jenna goes on to explain their mission, “We wanted this to be a place to properly curate monthly shows, not a real estate endeavor or a restaurant or an office. This is a gallery, something we felt Jersey City had scant too few of.” As such, Deep Space became not only a place to see a show and gobble a few hors d’oeuvres but to linger and actually talk about art, to invite discourse and celebrate the outsider world existing within the gallery’s walls.

One of the many noteworthy observations about Deep Space Gallery is that it is  successfully cultivating a collector culture with their young patrons. “The act of buying and owning original art is one we pride ourselves on. This is a meaningful, life-affirming, culturally relevant transaction,” says Jenna. “For people to be a part of the creative atmosphere by supporting local artists, not simply to hang something on their walls but to be a true participant in the creative culture, that can be life changing.”

This is why every show has a wide price range, so there are pieces within reach for everyone. The gallery is gradually changing the paradigm from an often exclusive, possibly intimidating world to something that feels inclusive and collaborative. Keith continues, “The collector becomes part of the artist’s evolution. It’s not a financial thing necessarily, it’s affirming to the artist to see that the audience spurs the artist’s creative world.”

Currently on exhibition at the venue, Ru8icon1 is an American who lives full time in Barcelona. He came to Keith and Jenna’s attention from the program Mural Arts Philadelphia and was uniquely able to translate what he did on walls to canvas. He’s been in several group shows at Deep Space, and this current installation is his second solo show. Ru8icon1 is an example of the genre of artists who are attracted to the Deep Space ethos: strong voice with cutting-edge aesthetic. The focus of a typical Deep Space artist is never predictable. He or she could work in stained glass, relief collage, abstract, figurative or street art and graffiti—sometimes with a hidden identity a la the artist Banksy. Yet the common thread is a young and talented creator whose voice is distinct and specific, like an oboe whose notes rises out of the symphony yet is still cohesive with the overall orchestration.

 “Fish Tank” by Ru8icon1, 2019

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