Metro Pulse/Artbeat/Showing, not Telling

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One woman considers the care, feeding, and presentation of an exhibit

by Heather Joyner

Numerous people like a department store's organized division of goods. Others prefer the chaos of a garage sale and the possibility of stumbling across something unexpected. But either way, when it comes to shopping—be it on someone's front lawn or amidst rows of shoes catering to this year's fashion whims—it's hard to be presented with too wide a range of items. Art, however, is another thing altogether. An exhibit that includes many works selected from a permanent collection can prove frustrating if it does not revolve around a theme or possess a curatorial "attitude" that ties pieces together and provides a foothold of sorts. Says Ewing Gallery Director Sam Yates, "We tried to pick [from more than 3,000 items] names that students would be familiar with, and a variety of historical styles—from different sources, different contributors—in different media." That approach, ambitious as it is, can result in a slippery visual slope.

At risk of offending the talented and hard-working Ewing Gallery staff, I'll say that individual works on view throughout the next two weeks or so at UT's Art and Architecture Building are at times delightful, but as part of a buffet-style presentation they tend to lose their oomph. That the art belongs to one collection is not enough to unify what some gallery-goers might consider a vaguely stodgy hodgepodge of a show. Perhaps I'm foolish to whine in the presence of an honest-to-gosh Motherwell, Warhol, or Lichtenstein. Perhaps I'm kicking much-needed gift horses (who've donated valuable pieces) in their collective mouth. In the spirit of a yard sale buff, I could decide that a single image makes my whole trip worth the while. Yet I long to see the aforementioned art function as more of a whole.

What, after all, is a university art department's collection supposed to be? Given that it's usually made up of art appealing to a school's benefactors alongside works by students, faculty, and visiting artists, it's bound to be patchy. Throw in the fact that such pieces are amassed over time by various groups of people, and you have the equivalent of a house full of relatives' castoff furniture—eclectic and often significant, but not necessarily coherent. The Ewing's collection, begun after UT's Art Department was established in 1948, is no exception. Maybe addressing that eclecticism could be the point of the current show, revealing what was acquired when and why. To question whether or not the art we're looking at reflects institutional phases and/or cultural changes might enhance our experience of a show within an educational environment. Instead, we're presented with nice art in a nice place. That's not so much bad as it is a missed opportunity. Speaking of education, I must commend the gallery for going beyond the usual basic titles and offering detailed descriptions of artists and their work.

A placard accompanying Walker Evans' 1935 photo of the interior of a coal miner's house in West Virginia informs us of Evans' connection with Knoxville writer James Agee. A paragraph about a Keith Haring silk-screened print connects the image with break dancing and that activity's "elaborate symbolic motives". Alice Neel's 1979 lithograph picturing a Wisconsin paper maker and titled Portrait of Joe Wilfer is hung beside an explanation of Neel's own career path. She is quoted as saying, "I did not want to go to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts because I did not want to be taught Impressionism. I was not happy like Renoir." Fleurs Et Masques, an oil painting by the avant-garde Belgian James S. Ensor, is described as representing the artist's desire to express "the sensuality and dangerous seductions of the world." Elsewhere we learn that a Mexican mask featuring a "jaguar man" and snakes (a gift of Dale Cleaver) relates to the Aztec feast of Atamalqualiztli in which serpents were swallowed to encourage rain.

There's a lot of stuff, and a lot that's said about it. There's even a Mies Van Der Rohe Barcelona chair and ottoman (circa 1924) that you shouldn't plop down on no matter how overwhelmed you might be. What's a shame is that an area initially devoted to some interesting work that effectively balanced more traditional pieces has by now been forked over to accommodate a previously scheduled show. Displaying drawings and photos of assorted architecture projects headed by the firm Brian MacKay-Lyons, the smaller exhibit serves to further confuse those seeking to grasp the essence of the Ewing's permanent stock.

Beyond imagining what this particular exhibit could have been, I've wondered what the University might do in the future to further its holdings. The Ewing Gallery lamentably appears to lack a substantial connection with the non-academic community. Although its identity as part of UT lends it a certain vitality, it seems to exist in a state of relative stasis. Periodic additions are presumably made to the gallery's collection, but if the Ewing hosts any fundraising events or sponsors outreach programs of any kind, I'm unaware of them. True, the collection and the space it occupies are impressive if one considers how things were before 1981 (when Professor Kermit Ewing, for whom the gallery is named, successfully lobbied to have a new art department building built). Prior to the '80s, the only place to exhibit art belonging to the university was a room in the McClung Museum. But an occasional glimpse at what UT generally has tucked away does not seem enough to inspire the healthy growth of the Ewing Gallery's collection. I may be wrong. In fact, I hope I am.