Schneider Museum of Art

Sherry Markovitz, Bow Wow Queen

Sherry Markovitz: Shimmer Paintings and Sculptures, 1979-2006

Sherry Markovitz shimmer

Excerpt from the catalog produced by Museum of Art/Washington State University

SHERRY MARKOVITZ

Josine Ianco Starrels

Schneider Museum of Art Curator

My earliest encounters with Sherry Markovitz's work revolve around her splendid animal trophy-head sculptures of the 1980s. I was, at that time, living and working in Southern California, and the distance between Los Angeles and Seattle precluded as close a relationship with the artist as I would have liked; sporadic contact was the best I could manage.

My interest in her work has persisted through the years, and as I look inward to find the source of the attraction, one answer is that I have always gravitated toward artists who make art that lies outside the boundaries of what, for lack of a better word, we call the "mainstream"-a rather elastic term whose focus changes as often as the wind blows.

The Pacific Northwest seems to be particularly hospitable to those who are fed by a singular root system connected solely to their own ideas and subconscious, those whose independent spirit and idiosyncratic vision lead to the formation of a personal visual vocabulary.

Such artists are remarkably immune to the dictates of art magazines and eminently well suited to ignore the "hottest and the latest" trends in New York; perhaps it's all that rain that washes away the need to "get with the program." Every time I lay eyes on such work, the effect is like that of a magnetic force on metal shavings.

I respond to Markovitz's work not only because of its intrinsic appeal but also because so many of its attributes connect to values I was taught were of the utmost importance and to issues I remember hearing about throughout my childhood in Bucharest.

There were endless discussions in our house about the integration of the fine arts with the applied arts, about the need to eliminate any and all hierarchical order among materials and, above all, to maintain artistic freedom, without restraints.

I also grew up looking at works by many modern European artists, friends of my father, Marcel Janco, who was one of the founders of Dada in Zurich. These images were so very different from those I saw in museums. They were not always easy for me to understand, and this was compounded by the fact that, in spite of my curiosity, I never dared to ask any questions and therefore never got any answers. However, I could not help noticing that both my mother and my father wore clothes that looked like paintings-and that there were framed bus tickets hanging on the wall.

It took me twenty years, and a lot of looking and reading, to discover that my parents wore silk-screened abstractions by Sonia Delaunay and that the framed bus tickets were part of collages by Kurt Schwitters.  I also remember that needlepoint and woven fabrics in geometric patterns, which I found out later were by Sophie Taeuber and Jean Arp, shared wall space alongside their paintings and sculptures. Such precedents removed any feelings of surprise when, later in life, I encountered nontraditional materials used in works of art. When I first saw Markovitz's work, I perceived it as joyous and wonderful, without ever questioning what it was made of and why the artist chose those materials. However, I heard others comment on the "unusual" use of beads and realized that for them, such a choice carried other implications.

Although in certain areas of the art world such issues have long since been resolved, in others, prejudices linger on. Associations in people's minds die hard, and so for some, beaded needlework will always belong on evening purses, jewelry, or tribal and ethnic garments, not on art.

Avant-garde artists, by definition, depart from what already exists and thereby change the way we perceive things. To invent is to create from the imagination or intuition, through ingenuity or experimentation. Inventors do not deal with the familiar, the accepted; therefore, inventions are by definition new and often viewed with suspicion. In 1908, Pablo Picasso glued fragments of wallpaper, a drawing, a piece of sheet music, and bits of newspaper onto a board; he called it a "collage," from the French for "gluing," and now, one hundred years later, most everyone is familiar with the term.

The rules that separated arts from crafts in the wake of the industrial revolution led to the segregation of artists from craftspersons and of beauty from function. Not too long ago, in a 2001 review published in Time magazine, critic Robert Hughes, writing about sculptor Martin Puryear, remarked, "Puryear has always been troubled by the art/craft division in American culture. 'At bottom it's a class issue really,' he says. 'Art means thought; craft means manual work.'"In his text for Amish: The Art of the Quilt, Hughes wrote: "In their complexity, visual intensity and quality of craftsmanship, [Amish quilts] simply dispel the idea that folk art is innocent social birdsong. They are as much a part of the story of high aesthetic effort in America as any painting or sculpture. They deserve our attention, and abundantly repay it."

This statement defines Hughes's enlightened critical view, reiterating ideas formulated by the pioneers of modern art in the first decade of the past century. It is, to this day, not completely espoused by the art establishment, which still persists in perpetuating academic prejudices.

When the art/craft issue is aggravated by "folk art" and "women's work" clichés, we are faced with a solid case of double jeopardy. Women's work, such as needlepoint, weaving, and embroidery, was, like folk art, systematically segregated from the "fine arts" until the 1970s, when radical feminists such as Joyce Kozloff and Miriam Shapiro made patterned paintings that looked like quilts in protest against art-world practices based on gender-related prejudices. Hughes also addresses this "touchy" issue, giving voice to the unspoken: "The quilt is where the desire for beauty and the moral scorn for extravagance used to intersect. And being made by women from colored cloth, rather than by men out of 'nobler' stuff-like colored muds and chemicals smeared on canvas-it has long been regarded as a somewhat minor art form."

In a 2003 interview with curator Patterson Sims, Markovitz describes adornment as a "connection to the womanly instinct for glamour."  Regardless of whether there really is such a quality as "glamour" (a term associated with movie star looks and fashions), the impulse of women worldwide to add decorative elements of color, texture, and pattern to their garments as well as to their drab and cheerless environments may well have started in prehistoric times, when our earliest ancestors incised designs on bones, hung seashells around their necks,

embellished ritual tools, and decorated ceremonial vessels.

Complex and multilayered, Markovitz's work is anything but predictable. It has gone through many stages, and its only consistent attribute has been a subtext of metamorphosis and transformation. The early trophy-head sculptures, which started out as taxidermy armatures,

were adorned by the artist to flaunt and celebrate the animal's beauty rather than its death. In Markovitz's hands, they turned into affirmations of life without losing their original identity. Transformed into fantasy, they nevertheless retained their original countenance The feathered or brocaded costumes, which appear as disembodied apparitions, are stepping stones for works in flux, slowly dissolving their associations with reality, on the way to becoming vehicles for expressive purposes.

Gradually, the skins covering the early sculptures shed their jeweled barnacles, replaced by subtler, smoother textures as the artist substituted tiny, delicate caviar beads for the larger, chunkier ones. The tiny caviar beads, uniform in size and color, are strung together to form directional linear patterns that follow the contours of the forms, guided and sewn to lie tightly adjacent to one another, in parallel rows, to yield a seamless, smooth surface, a sumptuously glowing skin.

The doll's heads and busts, with their white pearlescent exteriors and minimally defined features, are doll-ghosts, closer to effigies than to the toys that were once their ancestors, later transformed by memory and experience. Their resplendent skins embody the slow transition from outer seductiveness to the later revelations of inner auras, which combine the interior light with the glow of their outer splendor. They exist in a delicately sensuous territory where spirit and physical presence are fused.

Breasted Buddha (2002-3) is an especially tender and quizzical personage, part Asian deity, part animal spirit, whose look is both compassionate and confused, as if faced with questions the answers to which he does not have. His face is covered in contour-hugging pale yellow and metallic ribbons of beads in varying widths; his dark, opaque eyes emphasize his expression of deep concern. The lower part of his bust, defined by the neck and shoulders terminating just below the upper part of his arms, in the manner of a Renaissance bust, is richly beaded to suggest dainty yet opulent robes. A small, tight-fitting skullcap ends in a golden pompom on top of the head, further accentuating the resemblance to Asian statuary of the Buddha.

Another bust of similar size and vintage, Steel Prayer (2001-3), is less sumptuous, less emotionally expressive, and more restrained and modest. Its skin is monochromatic, covered in steel-gray beads, and the figure is dominated by inward-looking eyes, which exude a desire for distance, for solitude, to better be able to concentrate on dialogue with the self These predominantly thoughtful and introverted works stand in marked contrast to a piece such as Legs (2003), which depicts a pair of funny disembodied legs enveloped in beaded bands of cheerful colors, marching resolutely toward an unknown destination. Although the mood differs greatly from most of the other works, what is striking about this piece is its humor and relentless march into abstraction and away from the earlier, more realistically inclined three-dimensional Object #1 (turquoise) and Object #2 (green) (both 1999-2003) complete the transition, since the sculptures have no resemblance to any particular object. The two ovoid forms, from a series that can be configured in any number of ways, are covered in multicolored bands and their relationship to each other is open to change. Completely nonobjective, the works rely solely on the relationship of form to form, yet the two ovoids are united by their common denominator-identical bands of beaded color.

Markovitz's recent works are ethereal combinations of drawing and painting that float like apparitions on gossamer white silk, barely attached to the studio walls, swaying ever so slightly, as if touched by a summer wind. The images they carry seem to emanate at times from sweet memories of early childhood companions and at other times, less than sweet, from encounters with loss. They are imbued with an emotional charge not previously perceived by this viewer or revealed by the artist. Overtly, they appear as ghostly portraits of babies, toddlers, or dolls-pink-cheeked and cuddly, some tinged with a hint of a curiously malevolent aura-mnemonic likenesses marinated in the juices of less than cherished yesterdays.

There is only occasional sweetness here, certainly no sentimental nostalgia. The expressions range from glaringly serious to marginally menacing, in spite of their frilly and lacy outfits, chosen by the grown-ups who rule their lives. It seems as if the emotional fluctuations of these "living" dolls or very young children are hidden within the festive garments they wear, which are meant to hide the unspoken rage that will eventually break through into unruly outbursts or torrents of tears.

Sherry Markovitz, "Shimmer"

The artist's commentaries come from an interview conducted by curator Keith Wells in Seattle, February, 2007.

I painted Big Donk in 1979, just after my father died. I remember as a child the lions roaring when I went with my father to the Lincoln Park Zoo. After he died, I went to Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle and was struck by how sad the donkey looked, which echoed my own grief. So in a way, this is a portrait of my father. At that time, I would hose my paintings down. I would paint and then hose down the rice paper and then paint again. I gave the donkey quite a large penis; he seems very nurturing, but I wanted him to be clearly male.

Autumn Buck is one of the early sculptures. I had been painting on the surfaces of these three-dimensional paper-mache forms and was not full satisfied with the way they were turning out, so I decided to let go and cover the entire surface with beads.

Eternal Vigilance was a major undertaking. I used hanging sequins, applied one at a time. I just responded to what seemed natural each time I worked on it and it became very experimental. All of the metallic sequins really shimmer. What I found is that I could constantly combine patterns, so I kept that up throughout the work.

New Guinea Clown Bear was a great piece to do. I remember that I was thinking about Victorian ruffs and New Guinean ceremonial outfits. They both sacrificed comfort for looks. So this bear has a frill around its neck and a bone in its nose. Around the time I made this, I had been walking a lot and finding a lot of goose feathers on the ground. I used mud, bones and feathers on this piece.

Bow Wow Queen was difficult. It is titled after a blanket I had as an infant, which I called my Bow Wow. My mother told me that I used to work it with my fingers, so much so that it was just a rag after a while. This female elk has a frill, so it looks like a queen. My mother died while I was working on it. It was difficult to finish because I was going through that loss and I just couldn't bring myself to work on this. But I had a show coming up so I did finish it. I wanted to withdraw and empty myself out completely and so just kept putting things from my studio on it until the sculpture was done. It took my mind off things. What started out as a formal confluence also became a reference to the comfort of the blanket, and the memory of that enabled me to finish the piece.

Copper Bear- I wanted to use that small piece of wood in something, so I decided to hang it from the bear. I glued sheets of copper to the surface of the bear that were soft enough to conform to its shape. I really love the color and patina of the copper. I think this is a very elegant piece.

Doll Bear- This is a transitional work. I often lost control of this piece and had to bring it back. I set it aside and brought it back out several times, putting it through a number of transformations before I was satisfied. I love the quality that a piece takes on when you work it so much- adding, removing, adding, removing- sort of like the way I wash out the paintings.

Salamatee is an Indonesian salutation and the spiral hand gesture one uses as a greeting. The green color and shape refer to calligraphy.

Flower Girl is a work that really plays with the crown idea. I made this after I went to Mexico. I was inspired by the color I saw there. ..you know, there is so much of it everywhere. It's both subtle and bright simultaneously. I wanted to make the headdress full of flowers and color- festive and bold.

I made Pink Belly several years after I had my son. I started the abstract work after my son was born. It was a clearing of the mind. I went from skinny to full. Again, the pattern evolved while I was making the piece.

Fate is the first big doll I made. I was going to be having a show in New York and I wanted to make something that was really spectacular. I had always collected lots and lots of feathers. And so the skirt is an old crinoline that has feathers stuck in the netting holes. The posture is sort of a greeting. I think I did succeed in getting a very wonderful piece out of it. And the dolls were a new direction for me. I covered only the face and the bodice in beads. The base is all sewn together with "around the world" dolls. I went wild with the color on that one. I totally went all over the place with it. At the time I was struggling with exhaustion, which freed up my mind to wander.

Mary Todd is about Mary Lincoln. I have a sympathy for her as a symbol-she was a woman who was acutely aware and tried to be engaged politically but was hindered by social conventions. I have always been interested in a certain photograph of Mary Todd in a ball dress that her seamstress sewed and that she herself detailed. She was always shopping for trims and flowers and fabrics. She was conflicted during the Civil War. She was Southern with Northern sympathies and was mistrusted by both sides. It was also a time of deprivation in the country, but she could barely control her compulsive spending. She was intelligent, but had a certain madness to her, and that's why I used flowers in place of her head. This is another one of those pieces that has a ton of stuff from my studio in it. The dress was a found Italian garment.

Mexican dolls is just that, with a classic Caribbean doll thrown in. There are also some empty braids in that painting. It has a sense of unfinished business. I collect dolls, but I don't collect in the conventional way- I don't care if they are old or torn or cracked. I look for expressions and costumes. The light purple is the color of a church I visited in Mexico.

Mechanics of Intimacy is a piece that came after I attended a wedding. I sometimes wonder how people manage to find each other, let alone find intimacy. This is about people who can practice only mechanical intimacy, which, through practice, may become real intimacy. "Mechanics" also refers to the interior mechanism that helps a doll walk.

Steel Prayer was all sewn, which creates a flatter surface. The steel beads are from the turn of the century. They made the beads out of old German bullets, so I guess it is a reusing of that material in a constructive way. After 9/11, the only thing that made sense was prayer in a spiritual sense.

Breasted Buddha is one of the half-dolls that I started making after I was in Italy, where I saw many busts in the churches. I used yellow, the color of the spirit. The main bed used is an antique, translucent Czech bead called "greasy yellow" which was used a lot by Native Americans. This piece is a playful, clownlike feminization of the Buddha.

My Mule is a potent political symbol, refers back to the founding of the US- it is an animal of burden, reliability and construction. Also, it comments on the promise of a new beginning given to freed slaves- "forty acres and a mule"- and all the issues that come out of that promise being unfulfilled.

Shine on Me- she is a formidable person, I mean, doll. She has conviction. This was the first time I used such tiny clear beads for the face and hands. China Doll was made with very tiny beads, but they were white. These are translucent. I was really working on getting a flesh tone there, and the beads were so tiny that I had to use a magnifying glass to put them on. There are mirrors on the hands and the dress. It is a call to the spirits. I think Shine on Me is moving toward the light. It wants to receive. It wants the light. This doll makes no bones about that- she wants to be shined on.

Marriage is a simple, yet complex piece. That was the first one on silk. I had this old Japanese silk and one day I just started painting on it. I had been reading a book on the captivity of a white woman among the American Indians. This type of captivity literature came about because there were a lot of mixed marriages between American Indians and whites. Both white women to Native men and white men to Native women and the white women did not always want to go back to their puritanical houses. And so they started coming out with this captivity literature to scare people away from these interracial marriages. Marriage is about being who you want to be, even without the world's blessing. I like to use dolls in these situations because dolls supposedly don't have expressions. I want the experience of viewing them to be disarming because you're not expecting such expression from rigidity.

Two Faced Cross Eyed Baby is about a grumpy baby. And I love incorporating the fancy infant clothing of the nineteenth century- the elaborate gowns and nightshirts. Babies are going to scream and make noise...there is no pretense. This is not a sweet baby. There is a tendency among many doll makers to overly sweeten the depiction of the babies; I wanted to have a noisy baby.

Shimmer refers to my love of water, reflection and light.

These portraits are like quick notes entered in a diary, before any chance of editing or camouflaging can occur. They capture fleeting moments that come and go so fast that they could hardly be incorporated into the more deliberate work of the sculptures. The latter, resplendently clothed in their beaded coats, are, by the very process they undergo, more measured, more meditative, more thoroughly considered.

The elegant skins enveloping these forms have a life and logic of their own, only rarely reflecting the spirit that lies within, whereas the drawings/paintings carry on their soft, silken wings the  vulnerability and emotional charge eventually contained in the sculptures.

Thus each and every work holds within it a flame that animates it-a spirit that lives underneath its splendidly extroverted, opulent exterior. It is all still in flux-and all we can offer here is a garland of words tracing the artist's journey, pursuing the evolution of the work, welcoming new ideas, finding solutions to problems that will undoubtedly arise, and enjoying the ride of the process.

No final conclusions can be drawn, no endings envisaged, since life is being lived and work continues. Inevitably, surprises will be waiting around real and imaginary corners.

 Sherry Markovitz: Shimmer Paintings and Sculptures, 1979-2006 has been organized and distributed by the Museum of Art/Washington State University in Pullman, Washington. Major funding for this exhibition is provided by The Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Additional funding is provded by Florence Wasmer Fund for Arts & Culture, Harold and Arlene Schnitzer Care Foundation, Washington State University Campus Sculpture Initiative, Lonnie and Susan Edlheit, Greg Kucera and Larry Yocum/Greg Kucera Gallery, Bettie Steiger, and H.S. Wright III.