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Lorna Mills and Sally McKay
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Curated by Ginny Kollak
David Diao, Dave Eppley, Lorna Mills, Tim Rollins and K.O.S., Rene Santos, Mika Tajima
At the Tang Museum, Saratoga Springs, New York.
(site of America's oldest racetrack, I'll have you know)
Bold yet shifty, stripes are a powerful pattern. Their marks are found everywhere— zipping through toothpaste and across running shoes, coating neckties, spinnakers, and zoot suits. Hovering somewhere between line and shape, stripes might signal a disturbance or coax order from disarray. They seem to move quickly but can command us to stop. They bring things into focus, making objects visible or prominent, but also camouflage what they cover, teasing the eye with their flickering forms.Official opening Sept. 8 and running to December 30, 2007
Stripes have long been a marker of transgression; people who operate outside the norms of society, like prisoners, clowns, or even artists, are often dressed in stripes. At the same time, stripes represent authority: generals mark their power in bars on a sleeve, while a thin striped beam at a railroad crossing stands for the impenetrability of a locked gate. Stripes of all sorts, from street barriers to beach umbrellas, are part of this potent iconographic legacy. As a visual language, they conjure a multitude of contradictory meanings and emotions.
It's almost as if Sally wrote the first sentence of the copy for this Rhizome blurb about Joe McKay's show at Brooklyn’s VertexList.
Excerpt from "Propane Flames & Brain Coral: The Chimerical World of Julie Voyce"
by R.M. Vaughan*
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
- Emily Dickinson
No Emily, there is no other way.
The same goes for art – it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, as you were so vividly paraphrased a generation later.
Art without sensuality is merely dissertation. Art without a pulse, a presence, something you can feel moving around you and, if you’re lucky, inside you, is merely advertising, a clever billboard for a set of otherwise dry ideas. Art must sing, howl, or at least yodel a little to get my attention. A giggle is better than a sermon, a pinch more meaningful than a knowing glance (and far more tangible).
So, let us thank the blazing solar flairs, puffy clouds and double rainbows for Julie Voyce, an artist who knows a thing or five about showbiz, belly laughs, prestidigitation, burlesque teases, snappy dressing and the call of the wild. Julie Voyce is David Lynch in a world overrun with pinched documentarians, Elsa Schiaparelli surrounded by Gap outlets, Divine at a Conservative policy convention, Frida Kahlo holding her eyes open with toothpicks (and the odd monkey’s paw) at Documenta.
Julie Voyce is a starred artist (as in pixelated, sparkling, diamond shiny), not an art star. Art stars come and go, like academic fads and couture theorists, but starry artists are born eternal.
Voyce's catalogue JULIE VOYCE: PASTE-UP is available at Art Metropole,
788 King Street West, Toronto, ON
Lee Goreas: Par For The Course until September 8th
at Birch Libralato, 129 Tecumseth St. Toronto
The Pinnacle 2007 C prints 20 x24 in.