Mary Heilmann, to quote Christina Aguilera, just Keeps Getting Better.  The 2008 Whitney Biennial already noted her fruitful influence by pairing her with the indispensable Rachel Harrison.  And through Rachel Harrison, inevitably included in the New Museum’s “Unmonumental,” Mary Heilmann, an SVA faculty member, was invoked as a foremother to the “movement” of unmonumental, disheveled Specific Objects.  What would her paintings, sculptures, and ceramics be if they were people?  They’d live near the beach, wear sandals, and greet you, “Hey, man.”  They’d nod assuredly if you bring up Robbe-Grillet, because they get it, and maybe have read it, but why not talk about something else, like did you see that Mustang parked next door?

Consequently, it is difficult to describe her work without sounding pedantic.  It’s like explaining a joke after delivering the punch line; it kills it.

And it’s hard to describe her work without using terms more applicable to describe personality, especially virtues or at least desirable traits.  Exuberant.  Casual.  Honest.  Natural?  Yet, it would be easy to describe her work as a rigorous, feminist critique of geometric abstraction, of being hard-edged, unremitting, goal-oriented, impermeable.

Responding to that aesthetic, Mary Heilmann cultivates rich, variegated fields that invite examination through – and not just across – the layers of slathered, dripping color.  Orange glows from under acidic blue, lime green giggles beneath chilly white, phthalo green whispers behind syrupy black.   Nothing ever seems to vanish, and even textures survive the process: the masking tape used to rule polygon shapes often pulls up neighboring paint, leaving jagged scars.

The word I’d choose is “transparent.”  The process reveals itself, and the mechanisms are transparent.  This is unlike traditional geometric abstraction, in which the surface often looks – at least to me – opaque, solid, and unfettered; and in which the application seems determined, programmatic, and more applied than painted.   In that realm, a viewer might be unable to reconstruct the process of “making” the painting; the process is concealed by the seeming simultaneity of the choices involved.  With Mary Heilmann, most layers resist being smothered by those above them – or maybe those above them resist smothering those below them.  Thus, dashing one layer atop another seems to be an attempt to conceal the underlayer, but actually reveals a larger goal of her aesthetic.

With goals accomplished, and her New Museum show closing this weekend, Mary Heilmann has a show of mostly new work at 303 Gallery, and has curated a delightful group show, “Mary’s Choice,” at the other 303 space.  The latter has a sense of intimacy, like that of a tight-knit group, proven by collaboration and mentorship connections. I felt like I was joining a campfire conversation that had already lasted several days.

Caption

My favorite object was Jill Levine’s “Clap Trap,” which looked to me like Murakami meets Dia de los Muertos, or any one of Craig Hein’s small sculptures. SVA alum Paul Gabrielli is there, with a satellite from his solemn, inventive show at Invisible-Exports Gallery downtown. Paul Lee’s “Untitled (Black Bulb with blue washcloth)” could be an heir to Mary’s 1970s work, in their Richard Tuttle-tarian economy.

Paul Gabrielli, "Dark Movie," 2008

Mary Heilmann even wrote a book, “The All Night Movie.” In addition to the adjectives above, I forgot to suggest the word “energetic” above. Hopefully, that implies “inexhaustible,” as this great artist becomes even more prominent in the canon of abstract painting.

IMAGES: 303 Gallery

“I thought there’d by only 40 people here, like those intimate viewings,” said the man next to me.

“No,” I butted in, “They’re letting in everyone.  Even me!”

Artists Ghurron Briscoe and Katherine Bernhardt

We grabbed our drinks from the open bar and shuffled out from the crowd.  The lobby was crowded, but we were pleased to see so many artists.  In our first five minutes, we bumped into Jeff Davis, who just closed his brilliant show at KS Art in Tribeca, Katherine Bernhardt, an SVA alumna, and Ricky Sears, also an SVA alum, who is currently making the most of his prestigious LMCC Workspace residency.  But are they here for the open bar?  With the art market in peril, artists must adapt and soak in freebies – especially top-shelf drinks – whenever they can.  And food!  I snacked on some roasted almonds while awaiting my Ketel One and tonic.

We escaped from the cocktail gridlock and inched our way toward the stairs.  Polite chiding from MoMA curator Klaus Biesenbach gave us an extra boost: “Don’t spend all your time at the bar; go see the show.”

Artists TM Davy, Ellen Altfest, and Orly Genger

A people-watcher’s dream, the Atrium is filled with throngs of upwardly gazing viewers, alighting into the space and then quickly succumbing to the tug of the nucleus: a vast, welcoming circular sofa too plush and capacious to pass up.  It’s an endless front row for the towering two-story projections criss-crossing overhead of swirling, bubbling, churning, and oozing nebulas of dense color in the form of crystal water, lush grass, plump fruit, and velvety flesh.  The imagery drifts from wall to wall, often merging and fusing into Rorshach symmetries; a foot meets its reflection and explodes into a landscape of alien protrusions and mysterious crevices.

It is the complete opposite of Barnett Newman’s obelisk, which formerly anchored the atrium.  That macho monument, a towering and angular lingam that we walk around, has been dethroned by a yonic blanket that surrounds us, enveloping us in a blissful temple of sensuality.

[Joining us in our video ecstasy was the venerable Jack Pierson and his boyfriend, Brian A. Meola.  Together, we sank into the imagery and back out, ebbing and flowing.  We came up for air just often enough to swap stories about the magical Inauguration Day, and speculating that Justice Roberts and President Obama bungled the solemn oath because they were distracted by Michelle Obama’s shimmering dress.  Did you like it?  I confided my distaste for her selection – just not right for her – not that it matters – but we all agreed that Isabel Toledo is wonderful, and Jack used to have a studio right next door to hers.  And don’t you just love the drawings produced by her husband, Ruben?

Artists TM Davy, Jack Pierson, and Brian Meola

Jack and Brian drifted deeper into the sea of spectators, while my posse trudged back ashore.  The zig-zag of escalators shuttled us up to the 6th floor, housing part of the Marlene Dumas survey, “Measuring Your Own Grave.”  (Mine will be approximately 18″ square, as I plan to be compacted, much like a Chamberlain.)

Upstairs, we bumped into artist and SVA alum Lane Twitchell, who successfully dodged all three of my attempts to snap a photo of him.  (As if it isn’t already hard enough: having to sneak past the security guards.)  Lane conducted an impromptu survey of those in our temporary party.  “Marlene Dumas: thumbs up or thumbs down?”

Talk to the Hand: Artist Lane Twitchell

Three thumbs pointed up, and two down.  Mine was down.  The paintings are gripping, but the phantasmagoria of writhing babies, ghoulish faces, and centerfold corpses was all too funereal for my mood.  And I wasn’t ready to let go of the blissed-out fuzz of the Pipilotti Rist Experience.

“Who’s hungry?”  The roasted almonds hadn’t held us over, so all in the group stormed their brains about where to go hunting and gathering.  I voted for pizza. We zipped up our coats and ventured into the frigid night.

IMAGES: Michael Bilsborough