By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Katrina Montgomery
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Monica Alonzo
By Benjamin Leatherman
By Robrt L. Pela
By Katrina Montgomery
When I first moved to the Valley two years ago, I did the expected thing--I made a visit to Sedona. I was interested in the town for many reasons: the allure of the name, which comes from Sedona Schnebly, who founded the town with husband Carl in 1902; the spot's reputation for New Age flakiness, which emerged during the 1980s; and the fact that one of my favorite painters, Max Ernst, who lived in the lee of the red rocks during the 1940s, once said that the only two places he wanted to live were Paris and Sedona.
That first visit to Sedona didn't disappoint me in the natural beauty department, but my visits to local galleries in the faux-18th century Spanish plaza of Tlaquepaque and the Hillside and Hozho Centers left me both disheartened and, for some reason, very sleepy. Primarily filled with gaudy Western paintings and a cloud of dream catchers, Sedona galleries gave me the impression that little or nothing was left of Ernst's modernist legacy.
So I didn't quite know what to think when I saw the invitation in my mailbox. It was gorgeous. I slipped off the pearly white wrapper blobbed with teal, yellow and crimson paint to reveal an archaic, boxy typeface telling me of an event that could be interesting, if somewhat unlikely: the opening of the Select Gallery in Sedona, a contemporary space owned by Dallas art dealer Paul Adelson, his wife, the artist Robyn Adelson, and Sedona realtor Bruce Tobias.
If the invitation for the August 24 event were an indication of the art to be found in the new Select Gallery, it could be worth the trip.
After all, the Gallery Forest, which shows contemporary work, albeit ultra-mainstream, opened in Sedona a year ago. Could the tiny hamlet of Sedona, the cradle of traditional cowboy painting, be going back to modernism?
To find out, I turned right onto Interstate 17 and headed north. Despite a perilously loose fan belt that began to emit an embarrassing, baby-like cry right around Oak Creek, I made record time and squealed off Highway 89A into the parking lot flanking the Select Gallery. I hopped into the back seat of my car, changed out of my cut-offs and halter top into something more befitting a hard-hitting art writer, exited my sleek but dirty brown Chrysler, and entered the Select.
Fearful that the mime standing outside the door would talk to me, I made my way quickly through the door. The place was packed, truly packed. There was a two-man guitar-and-stand-up-bass combo playing salsa-esque music. You had to scream to be heard over the din of voices.
The gallery walls, which form a flattering white background, were packed with art and various crafts. On the floor stood pieces of handmade furniture and one pedestal after another shouldering pots and sculpture. Glass cases stood by, filled with jewelry and metalwork.
The Select's debut selections were, to my mind, pretty evenly hit or miss. I was puzzled by the inclusion of a couple of mall-esque drawings depicting baseball players, as well as the garish mixed-media abstracts of David McCullogh, which recalled 1970's terrarium sand art. Colored-sand concoctions were awful then; they're still awful.
There were some really beautiful pieces by up-and-coming Sedona artist Karen Licher. I admired "Sedona Flood Story," Licher's emotionally moving show at the Sedona Arts Center earlier this year. It included pieces constructed with organic debris and remnants of peoples' lives found by the artist after the devastating Oak Creek flood of 1993.
Licher's paintings, prints and sculptures at the Select gallery use wood, sand, colored soil and metallic patinas which swirl around and have a really appealing worn smoothness to them. Her paintings "Earthen Window: Aspiration" and "Earthen Window: Definition" drew me in.
Chris Regas' lonely and evocative photographs, "The Long Walk Home" and "Windy Day at Santa Elena," were impressive, as were Santa Fe artist Stan Berning's wonderful constructivist-looking gouaches and watercolors, like "Window #28." Also interesting was Gregory Horndeski's obsessive "The Last Piece of Functional Art You'll Ever Need," which features a black wood and Masonite box covered with the artist's painstakingly lettered and hopefully ironic narrative explaining the value of artistic terrorism. Flip open the latch to reveal a shiny "pipe bomb."
One might think that any attempt to get a modern art gallery to fly in Sedona would necessarily flop, but the location is exactly what appealed to Paul Adelson. He was convinced by Wiley Ware, an abstract painter he handles both in Dallas and at the Sedona gallery, and who is currently the Select Gallery director.
Ware, as Adelson explains, made yearly trips to Sedona, always returning with the suggestion that Adelson open a gallery there because of the beautiful surroundings and "lack of modern art." Adelson took those words to heart, and, as he says, "came to Sedona, fell in love with it and that was that." After a 30-minute lunch meeting with his Sedona realtor, Bruce Tobias, Adelson and Tobias became partners in the Select Gallery project. Adelson is confident that his niche exists in the red rocks.
"Sedona is an art community pretty much known for Western and Southwestern art, but what people want is changing now," says Adelson. "People are hungry for more modern art. It's not like we are showing the out-on-the-edge art you'd see in New York, L.A., Chicago, but the gallery would die trying to sell art like that. But we are much more out on the edge than anything else here."
I chatted, or, rather, had high-decibel conversations, with many folks who giddily rattled off multiple variations of "I've never seen anything like this here." The crowd was seriously eating it up. In fact, it was the most well-attended and party-like opening I had been to in a while. The champagne flowed and was actually being consumed. People were not doing the eat-and-bolt thing, but were lingering instead. The hours went by and an opening that was to end at 7 p.m. was still going at ten. A petite and well-coifed brunette salsa-ed past me with a glass of champagne held high. In the words of the late Charles Bukowski, "Something was happening."