By Benjamin Leatherman
By Robrt L. Pela
By Katrina Montgomery
By Robrt L. Pela
By Kathleen Vanesian
By New Times
By Ray Stern
By Eric Tsetsi
Art Detour, the yearly open house of downtown Phoenix art studios and galleries, came and went this year without much fanfare. No trolleys to shuttle folks along the circuit of art spaces, no "mystery" galleries (empty downtown storefronts turned into art spaces for the event), no juried exhibition.
In other words, no money. It's a sad comedown.
"When I started the event in 1988, there were just a few of us, and I thought of it as a way for artists to get out into the community," says Beatrice Moore, local artist and founder of Art Detour. "We were in Madison Street Studios then, where the America West Arena is now. We organized an open house one year, and I thought it would be great to expand it to other art spaces in the area."
Moore received a $600 grant from the Phoenix Arts Commission to put on the event. Her fund-raising efforts brought in an additional couple of thousand dollars. And Art Detour was born. Since 1988, it has been put on each year by Artlink, Inc., a nonprofit corporation founded specifically for Art Detour.
"Everybody was really surprised at the turnout that first year, and we did have the trolleys to take people from space to space," Moore says. "We invited a lot of key people from the arts commission, and the mayor. There was a lot of foot traffic. During the past few years, we would have a couple of thousand people coming through our studio on Jackson Street."
This year's Art Detour obviously underwent a decline--a development Moore attributes to a lack of successful fund raising by Artlink after she left as director in 1993 and to a general "loss of steam" within the organization.
There was also the problem of getting help to stage an increasingly large event.
"As Art Detour started getting bigger, we began to have a really hard time getting even the artists who were on the events to help," she says. "We needed a lot of volunteers every year to pull it off right, people to drive shuttles, do office work, put up posters.
"Getting applications from art spaces was sometimes ridiculous," Moore says, shaking her head. "That first year, it was only $15. We would call and call and people would say, 'I misplaced my application,' or, 'I forgot.'"
So, anyway. Trolleys schmolleys. This year, I did it by foot.
After a brief stop at Metropophobobia to browse its always-interesting bookshelves, and after finally ditching the scary guy wearing margarine tubs taped to his head, I headed for CRASHarts at the Icehouse on Jackson Street.
The Icehouse is an extremely powerful architectural space with or without art, which makes it a favorite location for parties and locally filmed television commercials. "We can have installations here that no one else in town can have because of the space. Like the 25-foot-high ice-machine-tower installation we had," explains artist Helen Hestenes, who owns the Icehouse with her husband, sculptor David Therrien. "Artists see the space and want to show their art here. I think it is a place artists can be inspired by."
I was definitely inspired by Al Price's "Caruso's Motion Picture" in one of the second-floor ice chambers. Price graduated from Arizona State University two years ago, traveled around for a bit and currently teaches sculpture at his alma mater.
Looking into the room, the viewer confronts a rotating pale translucent scrim, which is suspended from the ceiling and rustles quietly along the floor.
The viewer moves through the opening of the scrim to experience the "motion picture"--moving images created by Price's vertical hollow metal sculpture, which incorporates a winged figure of opera singer Enrico Caruso and images from Gray's Anatomy. Price is not a dedicated opera fan, but explains that artistically, he responds to "the over-the-top" quality of opera. "It's like emotions on steroids," he says.
A light suspended inside the hollow sculpture moves up and down, sending shadowy images of skeletal fragments and of Caruso's visage crawling along the walls and along the scrim as it sails past. The environment created in the room is disorienting in a pleasant way--flickering, ephemeral, softly rustling. From CRASH, I headed to the new Flight Zone Studios located between Phoenix and Tempe, outside the typical Art Detour inclusion zone. The former Washington Street glass-manufacturing plant has been transformed into the studios of Neil Borowicz, Keith Gossiaux, Max Lanier, Lora McDonald, Kevin Pawlak and Martina Shenal. Visiting artists also exhibited during the weekend.
A lot of interesting work is going on at Flight Zone, but shortly after my arrival on Saturday night, I became fixated on the work of husband-and-wife team Max Lanier and Lora McDonald. Besides working in other media, the couple began collaborating on more traditional bookmaking in their art-school days at the University of Georgia. They use found objects, and have a great eye for "stuff" to transform old books into evocative and sculptural objets d'art.
One wing of the studio was lined with small shelves, each one holding some incarnation of a book. There was a book wrapped in some kind of institutional gauze and bound with copper wire; a slick, futuristic cyberbook covered in metal-vented sheeting; sexy, fetishistic books that look as though they could squish you like an insect between their pages. Folk-arty books decorated with old tools could be some rural family Bible. Some books have been transformed from books to sculpture, the case with one of my favorites. The volume has been carefully encased in scraps of rusted metal, its midsection removed and replaced by a large, gray river rock. It was a perfect surrealist icon.