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unDO#4

Empty Pants

Story + Photographs by J R Compton

Adriana Carvalho - Love Series - sculpture 

Dragon Street was empty as I drove west past the major galleries to Howell Street. Usually bustling, Dragon Street has become the commercial fine arts center of North Texas, but the area was deserted. Few cars dotted the usually bustling streets, and at 5 p.m. when the show opened, only three cars parked at HCG Gallery, a newish space whose address is on Dragon while its door faces Howell, a less much desirable art address.

Two other cars slowed past but did not stop. I was still hoping for a crowd, so I could talk with more people about the art. What had sold me on Adriana Carvalho’s show was the phrase in her press release that she "inventively explores the preconceived roles of women in our culture and the fragile balance between nurturer and heroine."

A noble ambition whose sentiment was barely discernible in the Brazilian-born Miami artist’s exhibition of mostly metallic gray, life-size women’s night and evening gowns and other slightly more intimate clothing forms. More intriguing were displays of smaller-scale metal can pop-tops, silvery in the gallery's lights.

Most noticeable were her life-sized mosquito-net gowns with matching panties suspended three-dimensionally in place while they spun slowly in the breeze, and a series of silver, screen, sheer blouses with phrases like “Sugar Baby,” “heart breaker,” “love me tenderly,” and “Kiss my ass” sewn into their nearly monochromatic fronts.

Though we could see it was art, the forms themselves weren’t much more expressive than the clothing they resembled. They don’t even look particularly feminine, and the slogans are tame in today’s direct art parlance. Like the artist, they were timid and quiet-spoken, bespeaking a gentle elegance, too shy to comment on or commit to much more.

One of what supposedly distinguishes Carvalho’s work from everybody else’s is that it’s made of common, everyday objects — the mosquito net clothing and the pop-top tops that she said, “resembled little garments” when she first saw them, “on the street [in Miami].
 

Tin Tutus: Adriana Carvalho - Faith installation of aluminum
pieces measuring 1.5 x 2 inches each to a total of 270
 

“My first ones were found ones, and they were crushed.” More recent examples are, she said, “manipulates, not found.” But many artists employ cheap and recycled materials, briefly a startling new concept that itself has been recycled so many times it hardly matters. Most art, after all, is made from whatever materials the artist has on hand and is comfortable with.

According to the artist, “When I first moved to Miami Beach, I was eating out of a lot of those cans. They were good. They were reasonable. I ate a lot of those, and I saved the tops. I wanted to continue the series, but they discontinued the cans. Instead of one finger, they had a place for two fingers, and they didn’t resemble garments anymore.”

Easily my favorite piece is a loose, aluminum silver mosaic of can pop-top figures that looks like 270 tiny, invisible dancers in gleaming tin tutus. Up close, they show a simple variety with a strong sense of space and depth without resorting to labels or explanations.

It might be called “Life,” and to see the real beauty — and charm — in this delicate display, you have to see it up close and personal. The gallery has posted images of some pieces, but they are small and often do not resemble the actual work installed.
Other pieces use elaborate quotations to guide viewer’s understandings. But the better ones were immediately enjoyable.

I liked her insomnia pillow — labeled in Portuguese script on a “soft” metal rectangular mesh filled with dark puffs of steel wool and reflective wires of bright metal that stuck through the cover like escaping feathers, though it was a stretch to understand her Portuguese labels. Nearby graphics on the same topic left little to the imagination.
 

Adriana Carvalho - Insomnia  (in Portuguese)
 

More Portuguese sewn around the bottoms of sleeveless gowns with matching tops and panties were indecipherable to this English-speaking writer.

HCG — named for partners Hopper, Campagna and Garcia — had a sparkling, well-lighted space, plenty of wine and loud music. A full audience would have felt good in there, but it didn’t happen while I waited.

In a crowd, I’d have found artist friends who'd make intelligent comments on the art, so we could see it through differing minds, but the only recognizable face besides the gallery owner, bar tender and owner was whom I like to call Mr. N. Sequitur. Gray hair with a short mustache, gallery black T-shirt and jeans, I see him often at openings, stopping the flow by asking leading questions that go nowhere. He was the first to arrive.

I paused when he looked like he wanted to ask something while Carvalho and I were talking about her work. He pointed to a top and panties piece on the far wall and asked, "Did Bush ever wear that?" Carvalho spluttered, not knowing how to answer. I wandered off to explore the art, again.

The artist and I had spoken extensively the afternoon before, while they installed the exhibition. We communicated as well as her quiet voice and thick Portuguese accent allowed. I also talked with HCG and Kettle Art co-owner Frank Campagna, whom I asked why the gallery had such a forgettable name. He said he wanted to call it Pot Black, but his partners wouldn’t go for it.