Judith Klausner: (de)composed
Judith Klausner, Sweet on You, n.d., Clay, chalk, pastel pigment, acrylic paint, wire, cellophane, resin
Judith Klausner: (de)composed at Windmill Library Gallery, Las Vegas
By D.K. Sole
This is one of those times when I get the feeling the artist is achieving pretty much what they want, and then I try to figure out what that might be. I go to her artist’s statement, where she says she wants to reconcile us with the idea of things being ruined. “Often when something has ‘gone bad,’ it gives rise to something new, but it can be hard to appreciate new growth in the shadow of our disappointment,” she says. There is a reference to her disability and how hard it was for her to come to terms with it. “This work reflects my own journey to reframe my life as a disabled person.” I understand that this exhibition is a sign of her reconciliation. And she asks us to reconcile ourselves as well, explaining that this reconciliation is societal; we all need it in the face of the pandemic.
This is stated clearly and it gives (de)compose an atmosphere of reasonable common sense. The work wants to show me something that has been harmed, but it also wants to avoid distressing me, otherwise I would be repulsed, not reconciled. I shouldn’t want these sculptures to upset me like Berlinde De Bruyckere’s subcomplete horses; they are not supposed to be Paul Thek’s chopped-off wax legs.
So the small disasters Klausner had modelled with painstaking realism in polymer clay were pushed just far enough to be annoying, but they were not the end of the world. An ice cream was melting and wasps were standing on it, but the ice cream was a generic supermarket popsicle, nothing precious, and I knew the wasps weren’t a real threat because they were immobile, unnaturally still under their vitrine. I could take pleasure in their fake realness, the clever work they represented. The works were so attractive, and so whole. Each decomposing situation was a complete thing. The melting ice cream was an intact melting ice cream. The edges of the puddle were little curved walls, gleaming beautifully. The unmelted portion lay embalmed at the centre of the goo like a glowing pink treasure.
It helped that each thing was singular, not a mass. A room of rotting bread would have been something else, but two moldy slices I could have picked up in my hands were manageable. And the narratives too–almost every piece was the story of an encounter working itself out. The wasps met the ice cream, barnacles met a propeller, mold met bread, like Peter Rabbit coming across Mr. McGregor’s lettuces and eating them. A process closed itself. I didn’t need to be directly involved in the action. I could walk away without feeling that anything needed my help. (I’m thinking of De Bruyckere’s anguished horses again.) There was harm without enemies or victims. I couldn’t blame a potato for growing roots.
The scale and domestication of these ruins made them familiar; they were like memories of myself overcoming a disaster rather than the immediacy of the event itself. I was also responding to something that existed beyond good common sense, something that was open-ended and inexplicable in a way that the narratives were not. Everything here was handmade, even the parts that didn’t need to be, even the wooden popsicle stick and a ring of life-sized keys coated with rust. Both of those things could have been real and it would have made no difference to the message. “The work in (de)composed was made with a self-imposed rule that every element had to be created,” she explains. The word “rule” pulls it towards the world of sensible things, but “desire” or “want” would have applied there as well. I wanted to do that. Why? Because I needed to. She doesn’t just want to share a lesson, she wants the fun of fooling us lightly with her expertise; a joke that we can figure out fairly easily, bringing us into contact with her as we recognize her willingness to face up to the challenges of realism.
Judith Klausner: (de)composed
Windmill Library Gallery
7060 W. Windmill Ln, Las Vegas, NV 89113
April 25 - July 3, 2023
Published by Wendy Kveck on June 13, 2023