In this grim little gem,
Catherine Kehoe has given us
one of the best gallery shows of the year
The power relationship between sitter and painter collapses when they're one and the same � which is what confronts us in Catherine Kehoe's strangely gripping show "Herself," at the Barton-Ryan Gallery through January 13. Kehoe works in oil, on small wooden blocks; her palette is chilly, almost wintry, and her technique masterfully sparse � and she contemplates, along with "herself," a number of women in various stages of stress and defense. Kehoe keeps the focus tight: we usually see just her subjects' heads, in profile, though sometimes we're offered a vulnerable, naked back.
Kehoe's blocky brushstroke is both subtle and rough � not nearly as rough as her eye, though, which seeks out every flaw in her sitters. She's particularly tough on herself � about a third of the works are self-portraits. Like her subjects, Kehoe looks disappointed, bitter, even when her profile is composed � but that's at her best � at her worst she looks positively disoriented, as if she's just endured a physical blow.
We feel in "Herself" that we're looking at a series of aftermaths, of attitudes struck after assault � even if it's just the assault of being looked at, of being observed. These women frown, they look away, they stare at the floor. Only one stares back � only one knows we're there, watching her distress. This image is, of course, of Kehoe herself, and it's the most unsettling in the show.
Something in her gimlet, judging eye recalls the weird awareness of the viewer that makes Manet's "Olympia" so disturbing � only this time the gaze feels unbreakable, able to endure whatever the world might have in store. After all, it's already beaten her down to a solid block; what else can it do?
I have no idea how large a talent Kehoe has, but here she's found, at the smallest of scales, and uncanny match between metaphor and medium. These simple pictures form a portrait in the best sense of the word: they're not so much images of various sitters as a conscious, unapologetic vision of the artist: her mood, her situation, herself.
In this grim little gem, Catherine Kehoe has given us one of the best gallery shows of the year.
� Thomas Garvey
Catherine Kehoe has given us
one of the best gallery shows of the year
The power relationship between sitter and painter collapses when they're one and the same � which is what confronts us in Catherine Kehoe's strangely gripping show "Herself," at the Barton-Ryan Gallery through January 13. Kehoe works in oil, on small wooden blocks; her palette is chilly, almost wintry, and her technique masterfully sparse � and she contemplates, along with "herself," a number of women in various stages of stress and defense. Kehoe keeps the focus tight: we usually see just her subjects' heads, in profile, though sometimes we're offered a vulnerable, naked back.
Kehoe's blocky brushstroke is both subtle and rough � not nearly as rough as her eye, though, which seeks out every flaw in her sitters. She's particularly tough on herself � about a third of the works are self-portraits. Like her subjects, Kehoe looks disappointed, bitter, even when her profile is composed � but that's at her best � at her worst she looks positively disoriented, as if she's just endured a physical blow.
We feel in "Herself" that we're looking at a series of aftermaths, of attitudes struck after assault � even if it's just the assault of being looked at, of being observed. These women frown, they look away, they stare at the floor. Only one stares back � only one knows we're there, watching her distress. This image is, of course, of Kehoe herself, and it's the most unsettling in the show.
Something in her gimlet, judging eye recalls the weird awareness of the viewer that makes Manet's "Olympia" so disturbing � only this time the gaze feels unbreakable, able to endure whatever the world might have in store. After all, it's already beaten her down to a solid block; what else can it do?
I have no idea how large a talent Kehoe has, but here she's found, at the smallest of scales, and uncanny match between metaphor and medium. These simple pictures form a portrait in the best sense of the word: they're not so much images of various sitters as a conscious, unapologetic vision of the artist: her mood, her situation, herself.
In this grim little gem, Catherine Kehoe has given us one of the best gallery shows of the year.
� Thomas Garvey