By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
By Kyle Swenson
By David Villano
By Kyle Swenson
By John Thomason
By Michele Eve
Maybe it's leftover vibes from the highly successful "Saint Peter and the Vatican: The Legacy of the Popes." Maybe it's the presence of a new executive director. Whatever the reason, "Enrique MartÃnez Celaya Celaya: The October Cycle 2000-2002" is the best exhibition at Fort Lauderdale's Museum of Art (MoA) in ages.
There are only about two dozen pieces in this one-man show, but they're monumental, both in scale and in impact. The smallest piece is roughly four feet square, the largest nearly six feet by ten feet; most are about six feet by eight feet or vice versa (the artist works in both horizontals and verticals).
The size of these pieces, usually painted in oil on canvas but occasionally on board or velvet, is worth noting. For this series, the Cuban-born Martínez Celaya leaves large expanses covered with jet-black tar, with only minimal imagery applied. The subject matter, whether a tree or the outline of a human figure, seems to float on a sea of utter blackness.
Martínez Celaya did a series called "Black Paintings" in the early 1990s, then returned to the format for "The October Cycle," which is inspired by one of his own poems. Curator Daniel A. Siedell, who first assembled this show for the Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, speculates on the blackness in the exhibition's starkly beautiful catalog: "The blackness in the October Cycle recalls the backdrops of Goya's tragic Black Paintings and perhaps even Ad Reinhardt's use of black as an absolute negation of all that gets in the way of the aesthetic. The black in Martínez Celaya's paintings does indeed signal that something of terrible importance is manifest."
Siedell's catalog essay goes on (and on and on) to discuss the spiritual elements of Martínez Celaya's paintings. But his musings don't convey much of the paintings' visceral impact beyond the observation that they have a cumulative impact when seen together. The MoA show, which takes up all of the museum's main second-floor gallery, is an emphatic confirmation of that idea.
The exhibition certainly has a visceral start: At the top of MoA's grand staircase, we're confronted with a life-size, blackened bronze sculpture of a female nude. There's no getting into the show without acknowledging this simple but powerful piece.
On the big curving wall, just beyond the sculpture and to the right, is a huge, site-specific piece by Martínez Celaya that is visceral to the extreme: It consists of an outlined image of a man, with words (in Spanish) painted onto the wall on both sides. The medium? The artist's own blood, mixed with the soot from burnt birch trees, which appear as subject matter in some of the show's pieces.
Trees, in fact, are the basis of some of Martínez Celaya's most extraordinary paintings. Their ghostly traces fill October, in which densely clustered birch trunks are so faintly painted on black velvet that you must get right up next to the piece to discern them. Tree in the Snow wonderfully captures the play of light on the branches of a bare tree. And the huge Birch (Wood-Milk) features an expanse of blackness with a single shining birch, splendid in its solitude, in the center.
As best I can tell, Martínez Celaya doesn't just slap a coat of tar onto a canvas before focusing on a tree or a human form. The tar appears to have been worked over again and again, so that each piece has its own distinctive texture. If you really want to appreciate a Martínez Celaya work, you need to get close to its surface and move around a bit, so that the shifting light brings out the details of his brushwork. There's not a black in the artist's work but rather a range of blacknesses. I don't think I've ever seen an artist get this much mileage out of black.
When he inserts people into the blackness, Martínez Celaya usually relegates them to thin white outlines. Gabriela (First) shows a hint of a man (presumably the artist) tossing an infant child in the air. In The Future, a slightly more fleshed-out man cradles the child in his arms.
Then there are those startling works in which Martínez Celaya floods his fields of black with light. In Light, for instance, a small patch of light seems to be insinuating itself into the top center portion of the otherwise dark image. Man and Sky features a pale outline of the upper part of the man to the left, facing a pale horizon to the right; it's impossible to tell if it's sunrise or sunset.
The drama increases with Light and Figure (Almonds), in which a sketchily outlined reclining human form is bathed in warm light from above. And the artist's use of illumination reaches a near-delirious high with Gabriela's Laughter, in which the faintest trace of a human figure is drenched in a light from above that's so intense, it seems almost liquid. Snowfall comes across less as its stated subject and more as a take on the sky on a clear night.