A Visit to the Capital: Washington DC, The National Portrait Gallery of the Smithsonian Institution

by Roy Bernardi

A trip to the Capital is incomplete without visiting the National Portrait Gallery of the Smithsonian Institution located at 8th and G Streets NW in Washington, DC, even for those who may not have a keen interest in art and culture.

If you could only choose one museum to visit among the many in Washington DC, this would undoubtedly be the one to prioritize. The structure itself is not just a spectacular building but also a remarkable museum. The National Portrait Gallery stands as a significant institution in Washington. It boasts a collection of over 26,000 works featuring renowned historical and contemporary figures. President Abraham Lincoln marked his second inauguration in the Great Hall. 

LEFT; Gilbert Stuart (1755-1828) George Washington (1732-1799) 1st President of the United States, 1789-1797, 1797 oil on canvas 95 × 59-13/16 inches.

RIGHT; George Peter Alexander Healy (1813-1894) Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865) 16th President of the United States, 1861-1865, 1869 oil on canvas 73-3/4 × 55-5/8 inches
LEFT; Gilbert Stuart (1755-1828) George Washington (1732-1799) 1st President of the United States, 1789-1797, 1797 oil on canvas 95 × 59-13/16 inches. RIGHT; George Peter Alexander Healy (1813-1894) Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865) 16th President of the United States, 1861-1865, 1869 oil on canvas 73-3/4 × 55-5/8 inches

Historically, the building was home to the nation’s founding documents and functioned as a site for government offices and public collections. In the 1950s, it narrowly escaped demolition and was revitalized as part of the Smithsonian following a comprehensive renovation from 1962 to 1968. A further renovation occurred in 2006, which introduced a distinctive feature that is highly favoured by guests: the Robert and Arlene Kogod Courtyard. This building is among the oldest public structures in Washington. In summary, the historic edifice is nothing short of magnificence. 

I had the opportunity to visit the museum with Elizabeth Diane White, a resident of Washington and the author of the book “55, Underemployed, and Faking Normal.” Upon our arrival at the museum, a fortunate group of eight, myself included, was granted the privilege of a private tour of the collection, which was conducted by a silver haired woman who’s insights revel the hidden stories and quiet wonder surrounding each piece of art. She was not only knowledgeable about the collection but also exhibited great enthusiasm in recounting stories about some of the featured portraits. It was genuinely delightful to listen to her.

Elaine de Kooning (1918-1989) John F. Kennedy (1917-1963) 35th President of the United States, 1961-1963, 1963 oil on canvas 102 × 44 inches
Elaine de Kooning (1918-1989) John F. Kennedy (1917-1963) 35th President of the United States, 1961-1963, 1963 oil on canvas 102 × 44 inches

Undoubtedly, the Presidential portraits are the most popular artworks in the museum. They feature every president from George Washington to the current president, Donald J. Trump. Notably, both Trump and Joe Biden do not have a painting/portrait of themselves but do have their photographs displayed on the walls. When asked about the lack of paintings for Trump and Biden in the collection, our tour guide responded, “that’s a very good question, one that I asked myself,” and clarified that portraits are only created after a president has completed their term in office. Joe Biden’s portrait is currently being painted. It is fascinating that one of the most frequently asked about presidential portraits is that of John F. Kennedy, painted by Elaine de Kooning, the wife of the famous abstract expressionist artist Willem de Kooning (1904-1997). Kennedy’s portrait is significant for being the first to break away from the traditional, photorealistic style. Another noteworthy painting is that of Richard M. Nixon, created by the beloved American artist Norman Rockwell, which was actually painted in the year he was elected president. This may have been his tactic to gain the trust of the American public and a way to support his election campaign. Nixon later donated the portrait to the museum, ensuring it would serve as a lasting tribute to himself among the other presidents that came before him. President George H. W. Bush and President George W. Bush were the first father and son to both serve as presidents of the United States. 

Norman Rockwell (1894-1978) Richard M. Nixon (1913-1994) 37th President of the United States, 1969-1974, 1968 oil on canvas 18 × 26 inches
Norman Rockwell (1894-1978) Richard M. Nixon (1913-1994) 37th President of the United States, 1969-1974, 1968 oil on canvas 18 × 26 inches
Chuck Close (1940-2021) William J. Clinton (1946-       ) 42nd President of the United States, 1993-2001, 2006 oil on canvas 108 × 84 inches
Chuck Close (1940-2021) William J. Clinton (1946-       ) 42nd President of the United States, 1993-2001, 2006 oil on canvas 108 × 84 inches
LEFT; Ronald N. Sherr (1952 - 2022) George H. W. Bush (1924-1918) 41st President of the United States, 1989-1993, 1994-1995 oil on canvas 58-1/2 x 43-1/2 x 5 inches.

RIGHT; Robert A. Anderson (1946-      ) George W. Bush (1946-        ) 43rd President of the United States, 2001-2009, 2008 oil on canvas 52-1/8 x 36-1/2 inches.
LEFT; Ronald N. Sherr (1952 – 2022) George H. W. Bush (1924-1918) 41st President of the United States, 1989-1993, 1994-1995 oil on canvas 58-1/2 x 43-1/2 x 5 inches. RIGHT; Robert A. Anderson (1946-      ) George W. Bush (1946-        ) 43rd President of the United States, 2001-2009, 2008 oil on canvas 52-1/8 x 36-1/2 inches

William (Bill) Clinton’s portrait, created by the innovative American conceptual portrait artist Chuck Close, immediately captures attention upon entering the room due to its striking contemporary style and impressive size. Its rich, powerful colours almost sparkle and radiate with a sense of exuberance. In contrast, Barack Obama’s portrait, painted by American portrait artist Kehinde Wiley, evokes multiple meanings that can be interpreted differently by each viewer. For instance, as one observes Obama’s hands, they appear larger than life, symbolizing the burden and weight of caring for the world. The foliage that surrounds him may represent the evolution and fragility of life itself as an ever-growing entity.

Kehinde Wiley (1977-      ) Barack Obama (1961-       ) 44th President of the United States, 2009-2017, 2018 oil on canvas 84 x 58 inches
Kehinde Wiley (1977-      ) Barack Obama (1961-       ) 44th President of the United States, 2009-2017, 2018 oil on canvas 84 x 58 inches

The museum exudes an eerie atmosphere, resonating with the spirits of the lives captured within the portraits, each possessing its own narrative of triumph or sorrow. As you meander through the corridors and rooms, filled exclusively with an array of portraits ranging from the renowned to the obscure, from inventors to innovators, from affluent individuals to the less fortunate, from musicians to sports icons, from centuries past to the current century, and spanning every facet of life, you can genuinely sense and unconsciously feel their presence. One of the most remarkable pieces currently on view is the portrait of Toni Morrison by American artist Robert McCurdy, an oil on canvas that boasts such meticulous detail it resembles a photograph. Upon viewing the portrait, my lovely guide to Washington Elizabeth Diane White promptly requested to have her photograph taken alongside the painting. As a woman of colour, she shares a connection with Toni Morrison, who was also a writer and a significant influence in her life. It is fascinating how various portraits can evoke different responses in different individuals.

Edward Hughes (1832-1908) Juliette Gordon Low (1860-1927),1887 oil on canvas 52-1/2 x 37-7/8 inches
Edward Hughes (1832-1908) Juliette Gordon Low (1860-1927),1887 oil on canvas 52-1/2 x 37-7/8 inches
LEFT; Julius Rolshoven (1858-1930) Carol Mitchell Phelps Stokes (1875-1962), circa 1900 oil on canvas 54-1/8 × 44-3/4 inches.

RIGHT; Julius Rolshoven (1858-1930) Anson Phelps Stokes (1874-1958), circa 1900 oil on canvas 54-1/8 × 44-3/4 inches
LEFT; Julius Rolshoven (1858-1930) Carol Mitchell Phelps Stokes (1875-1962), circa 1900 oil on canvas 54-1/8 × 44-3/4 inches. RIGHT; Julius Rolshoven (1858-1930) Anson Phelps Stokes (1874-1958), circa 1900 oil on canvas 54-1/8 × 44-3/4 inches

A portrait that our museum guide particularly admired was that of Juliette Gordon Low, created by the British Victorian artist Edward Hughes, renowned for his royal portraits, including one of Queen Mary in 1895. The guide recounted the poignant story of Juliette’s life, which ultimately led her to establish the Girl Scouts of the United States of America. Born into a socially and financially prominent Southern family, Juliette married the affluent cotton merchant William Mackay Low, whom she regarded as her true love, on December 21, 1886. However, their marriage was marred by William’s frequent travels to Warwickshire, England, where he began an affair with actress Anna Bateman. In 1901, William’s request for divorce shocked society, leaving Juliette heartbroken as she returned to America. There, she encountered William Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scouts, which inspired her to create the American Girl Guides. Tragically, before the divorce could be finalized, William passed away from a seizure while traveling with his mistress. On March 12, 1912, Juliette registered the first troop of American Girl Guides, consisting of 18 girls, which was later renamed the Girl Scouts in 1913.

Elizabeth Diane White (Author and Entrepreneur) at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC posing in front of Robert McCurdy (1952-       ) Untitled (Toni Morrison 1931-2019), 2006, oil on canvas 73 x 68 inches.
Elizabeth Diane White (Author and Entrepreneur) at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC posing in front of Robert McCurdy (1952-       ) Untitled (Toni Morrison 1931-2019), 2006, oil on canvas 73 x 68 inches

The staff at the National Portrait Gallery are exceptionally kind and eager to assist you in locating any portrait you might be seeking. I inquired about the portraits created by the Detroit-born artist Julius Rolshoven, of which the museum possesses two in its collection. Rolshoven painted a portrait of Anson Phelps Stokes, a prosperous American merchant, banker, and property developer, as well as a portrait of philanthropist Carol Mitchell Phelps Stokes. Unfortunately, these works are currently stored away and not on display, but they were generous enough to provide me with images of them. I was genuinely impressed by their willingness to help me find a portrait of interest. An interesting remark was also made; I was informed that 90% of the collection is in storage, although it is rotated frequently.

Alex Cameron: Swashbuckler

by Gary Michael Dault

All the good things that can be said about a painter have been said about Alex Cameron. Which is not to say that they ought not be said again and again and again. Especially now, after his grievous and entirely unexpected death from a serious fall not far from his Toronto studio last June 17. He was seventy-eight years old.

Much will rightly be said, now and in the future, about Cameron’s pauseless exuberance, about his adventurousness: about his working as a studio assistant to the legendary Jack Bush, about his serving for over a decade as a mechanic for champion Formula 1 and 2 motorcycle racer, Miles Baldwin, about his intrepid voyaging into the wildernesses of Northern Canada and Western Canada, of India and Nepal. Fearless and dashing stuff. 

Alex Cameron, Yellow, oil on canvas, 40 x 50 inches. Courtesy the Bau-Xi Gallery, Toronto
Alex Cameron, Yellow, oil on canvas, 40 x 50 inches. Courtesy the Bau-Xi Gallery, Toronto

But while there is a lot to recount about Alex Cameron’s searching, expansive life—as an explorer in a tireless pursuit of colour and vista, form and transcendence—I just can’t bring myself to rehearse much of that bio-stuff here and now.  Others will supply all that.  For me, all I can think of right now is Alex Cameron and paint, Alex and the utter rapturousness of pigment. The Alex Cameron in my heart right now is the Alex Cameron who once explained to some interviewer that he saw his skies as “colour fields,” noting that he liked having skies in his paintings so that he could “stick stuff in them.” “Stuff” being paint.

I once began a catalogue essay for a Cameron exhibition at Toronto’s Moore Galley called (unhappily, I thought), “2001—A Paint Odyssey” (the Kubrick film had just come out), with a paragraph that I hoped simultaneously introduced and also summarized the kind of painter I felt Cameron was (and was still becoming): “Alex Cameron’s paintings,” I wrote, “are immensely, winningly genial. There is a painterly robustness about them that is remarkably infectious. And while this by no means denies them aesthetic ambition, it does mean that their seriousness lies behind and within the artist’s love of painting for its own sake. To look at a Cameron, to open yourself to one, means there is a good deal of joy to be got through before you come to the core of it—an onerous enough task in the generally repressed hedonism-wary times in which we live” (clearly nothing much has changed over the past quarter century).

Alex Cameron, Purple, 2022, oil on canvas, Courtesy of Bau-Xi Gallery, Toronto
Alex Cameron, Purple, 2022, oil on canvas, Courtesy of Bau-Xi Gallery, Toronto

The Cameron paintings I was writing about around this time (2000-2007) were usually large, airy, non-representational works which tended to be made up of painterly dots and swipes, flanges and rinds of colour, feathery sweeps of the brush over his gala surfaces, and a recourse to very hot, strident hues (plummy violets were big with Alex, I remember, and oxidized yellows and roasted tomato reds). Sometimes parts of the canvases were sprayed.  I remember being a bit discomfited, though, when The Globe & Mail titled one of my full-tilt articles about Alex (April 21, 2007) “Fauvist Fandango” (newspaper writers do not get to title their own pieces).

Alex Cameron, My Pinery, oil on canvas, 60 x 60 inches
Alex Cameron, My Pinery, oil on canvas, 60 x 60 inches

In a discussion of a big oil painting called “Gabriell’s Wings” from 2001 that I wrote about for the Moore Gallery, I noted that Alex was “A skilled landscape painter when he chose to be (his idea of a good tine is to be helicoptered into the wilderness and set down amongst the bears and beavers to paint the solitude).  Cameron,” I continued, “builds his abstractions on a firm footing of landscape-derived shapes—a bright swatch of lake-like horizontality across the bottom of a painting, above which a cheeky, serpentine wobble of pigment, an echo of a far shore, softens you up for entry into the aerial ballet taking place up in the rest of the picture.” I spoke of the “electric agitation” of his pictures. And I made admiring mention of the way Alex would smear paint onto his surfaces with his fingers or “let fly with it so that the deep space of the paintings is galvanized by infinitely small threads and hot wires of pigment—tiny, shrill utterances of hue.”

Eventually, inevitably, the Landscape-Idea shouldered its way decisively forward, informing the stream of vigorous, muscular landscape paintings that would now preoccupy him for the rest of his career.

And remarkable landscapes they always were. Alex gloried in the untouched forest and, in painting after painting, became its scribe, anthologist and, to some degree, its archivist.  This latter tendency actually used to give me pause sometimes. The fact is, Alex painted trees so vividly and convincingly they were themselves—or so I thought—beginning to encroach, as an almost documentary subject, upon the progress of his painting qua painting.   

Alex seemed to sense this himself.  And he gradually began throttling up the paintings so that the contretemps between his beloved subject (trees) and his handling of them (in daring acts of pigment) turned increasingly into a virtuoso tussle than a dutiful homage.

Which is to say that just when the paintings were on the edge of becoming too nakedly arboreal, Alex began using the trees—the forest skyline—as his armature upon which to drape and generally festoon his increasingly writhing and tumultuous attacks of pigment.  The artist’s forest increasingly became trees, not as they could be taxonomically described, but as they were felt—as purely visual objects in a scintillating visual field, as gloriously life-enhancing vectors thrusting up into the painterly light.

Alex Cameron, The Crashing Plane, 2020-2022, oil on canvas. Courtesy of the Bau-Xi Gallery
Alex Cameron, The Crashing Plane, 2020-2022, oil on canvas. Courtesy of the Bau-Xi Gallery

It strikes me that these descriptions of Alex’s excitingly lush and scrappy production of big sinewy wilderness paintings might position him, in the minds of people who didn’t know him, as a big, brawny, rather Paul Bunyan-esque figure, bestriding the waiting landscape like a colossus.  The truth is, Alex was a slight, tensile, quick and rather elfin man—with a boyish grin so infectious it was almost impossible not to see something leprechaunish in him.

While this enjoyable, mercurial joie-de-vivre was a sort of admirable constant in Alex’s life, he endured a number of distressing medical events which might well have stilled and silenced a less perpetually resilient man. I remember an afternoon in which painter David Bolduc—Alex’s best friend and mine too—and I were chatting at a Toronto coffee shop we liked called Il Gatto Nero (it was maybe 2007 or 2008) when Alex came to join us. I remember how, during one gregarious moment, he causally mentioned that he had just suffered a slight stroke which had left him with a strange floating rectangle of pure white blocking his eye—I think it was his right eye.  David and I were distressed, but Alex gave us the impression that he would simply soldier cheerfully on, seeing the world around this intrusive white spot. I can’t recall his ever mentioning it again. Then, in 2012, he suffered a much more serious stroke which left him entirely unable to use his right arm. Anyone else might have given up painting in despair. Alex being Alex, however, he simply set about learning how to paint with his left arm alone.

Not only did this would-be deprivation not appear to alter or diminish Alex’s progress as a painter, the paintings he would make from 2012 until his death this year would be the most brawny, restless, opulent and downright ecstatic of his career. His trees and lakes commingled exuberantly with his clouds and skies until each of his canvases shuddered and heaved with convulsive, painterly life. These later canvases grabbed you by the lapel and shook you until your sensibility rattled.

Look at a painting like My Dad’s Forest (2015) or the exquisite Colours (also From 2015.  Pictures like these offer—just as a technical feat—the best, most virtuoso paint-handling I’ve seen in Canadian painting for decades. Look hard at them and your eyes will never be the same.

The late Camerons are not so much landscapes as paintscapes. If the wilderness is in peril (and when is it not?), then Alex Cameron would try to brush it back to life.

 He loved to paint. And now his paintings will live for him.

Allan Rand: Painting that Questions the Law as a Uniform Enforcer of Conformity

by Chunbum Park

Icon for Safe Passage across the Seas (2025), 45 x 67.5 cm, Abalone shell, iridescent medium, acrylic, gesso on cotton (t-shirt fragment), cheesecloth and wood board.
Allan Rand, Icon for Safe Passage across the Seas (2025), 45 x 67.5 cm, Abalone shell, iridescent medium, acrylic, gesso on cotton (t-shirt fragment), cheesecloth and wood board

Allan Rand’s solo exhibition titled, “Transportation,” at YveYang is an earnest exploration of painting in all of its conceptual, material, and formal dimensions. How does Rand treat painting as a material and aesthetic object rather than an illustrational endeavor? This is a body of work, which Rand began as he researched the subjects sent to the penal colony of Australia, where he currently lives (he is from Denmark). The artist exhibits an ideological affinity for egalitarian and progressive thought that questions the state power and the oppressive nature of the law by the nature of its uniformity.

To an uninformed eye, “Icon for Safe Passage across the Seas” (2025) could be literally seen as a t-shirt fragment pasted onto a cotton stretched onto a wooden board. However, the work expands the material vocabulary, substituting the large brush work with the pasting of the fabric, which then becomes this wide expanse of a turbulent sea. The use of iridescent medium invokes the mysterious quality of the light of the celestial bodies visible in the night sky (perhaps within the eye of a hurricane or typhoon), as in J. M. W. Turner’s paintings. The work is very much a post-minimalist type that asks the viewer to give more in order to receive. It neither illustrates nor gives in a literal fashion; the work is highly abstract and minimal, asking the viewer to settle into the quietness of the painting and to ask questions within a slow, meditational-style state of mind.

What are we looking at? Is this representational or abstract, or both? Is this a cropping of a life-sized portrait or a scene cut from an expansive landscape? Are the colors staying consistent, or are they flipping between warm and cool colors, and what does this mean for the painting? The use of abalone shell glitter alongside the iridescent paint material is highly symbolic, conjuring up the idea or the metaphor of a defensive shell that protects a treasure-like core. Furthermore, the flipping of hues suggests the artist’s inclination to seek freedom and to resist conformity or uniformity. A lot is being said, and a great deal needs to be heard, despite the silent nature of this painting.

Allan Rand, Stoop Culture (for B.B.) (2025), 64.4 x 33.2 cm, Oil, emulsion, watercolour, charcoal, chalk pencil, coloured pencil, oil pencil, gesso, acrylic, brick pigment, acrylic (gold metallic), on burlap, linen, calico and wood panel.
Allan Rand, Stoop Culture (for B.B.) (2025), 64.4 x 33.2 cm, Oil, emulsion, watercolour, charcoal, chalk pencil, coloured pencil, oil pencil, gesso, acrylic, brick pigment, acrylic (gold metallic), on burlap, linen, calico and wood panel

A favorite in the show could be “Stoop Culture (for B.B.)” (2025), which the artist began off a story that he had heard of a building in the West Village of Manhattan that had its front facade fall off during a hurricane. Rand also heard stories of a demi-monde badger game taking place in another building, where extortionists had men lured by women into having sexual intercourse with them and then exposed the men through the setup by kicking down the door (and entering at the moment of climax). Rand’s work does not involve illustration in a literal fashion, but combines the two buildings into an atemporal archetype that stands outside a particular reference to a time within a linear or historical timeline. The narrative elements manifest as lines of charcoal, gently colored with passionate, rosy, and warm pinks and hot burnt siennas, some of which are made with ground-up bricks that originate from the Australian prisons.

This is the contradiction of Rand’s work – he positions the criminal figures in the story as the protagonists , like the movie “Ocean’s Eleven,” rather than automatically condemning them. This tendency of Rand’s to question the uniform requirement of the law, for everyone to obey the law and to not question it, could serve as a healthy dose of counter narrative or non-conformity against easy condemnation and judgment. Similar to how Philip Guston tried to understand the KKK by depicting himself as one, Rand feels the need to investigate the inner workings of the criminal mindset and psyche and thereby positions them within his own imaginative framework as the protagonists and the self. It is akin to method acting, in which the artist positions himself as true to the roles of his story, whether they are the “good” or “bad” characters.

It is this flipping of color, value, or perspective, which gives us the hint that Rand’s art is actively trying to understand… He is attempting to comprehend criminality in relation to the law and the subjectivity of the criminals. This understanding for the criminals involves the psychological, and the qualitative and quantitative complexity of and the subjective reasons for the criminal acts and the subjecthood of the criminals themselves. The complexity could manifest as a graph or a spectrum (in terms of the degree and the nature of the crime, whether petty or severe, and the person’s situational difficulty). (The law would be Procrustean if it treated petty and severe crimes with similar or same sentencing beyond the seas.)

What is justice if we are not allowed to question and challenge it? The bedrock for Rand is the need to understand the subjectivity and the shared humanity… or the need to respect criminals as human beings, despite their denigrated status and their denied humanity. This is the kind of painting and the accompanying dialogue that we should all learn to appreciate, despite their demanding nature… which requires bravery and honesty from us for ourselves… for the sake of truth, whichever that may be.

You Think That’s Funny?

by D. Dominick Lombardi, curator and participating artist

September 6 to November 16, 2025
Hammond Museum & Japanese Stroll Garden

Cary Leibowitz, Painting is Not Dead? Painting is Dead? (1998), marker on found photographs, 10 x 16 inches, 11 x 17 x 1 inches framed
Cary Leibowitz, Painting is Not Dead? Painting is Dead? (1998), marker on found photographs, 10 x 16 inches, 11 x 17 x 1 inches framed

Humor in Contemporary Art is a funny thing. Seriously. An exhibition with humor as its specific theme is not something you often see in galleries or museums. There have been exceptions over the years, where artists like Saul Steinberg, who straddled the two worlds of fine and commercial art with his many brilliant The New Yorker Magazine covers; and the outlandish works of Marisol Escobar and H. C. Westermann who have their own unique brand of humor, can be seen in museums throughout the world – artists that would not have been as successful without the recognition of their wit and humor. Today, some form of humor, albeit on the darker side, can be experienced in the contemporary works of numerous well known artists such as Carroll Dunham, Sarah Lucas, Barbara Kruger, Peter Saul, Erwin Wurm and last, but definitely not least, Maurizio Cattelan, who all have varying levels of dark humor in their creations.

Maurizio Cattelan, A Perfect Day (1999)
Maurizio Cattelan, A Perfect Day (1999)

The title of this exhibition, “You Think That’s Funny?,” comes from an email conversation I had with Mike Cockrill, one of the artists in the exhibition, who has been toying with the limits of humor in art since forever. He sees humor and the extent of what can be publicly tolerated as a satisfying challenge. He, like many of the artists in the exhibition, presents us with something to make us laugh privately, but maybe feels a bit uncomfortable when expressed in the public realm.

The artists selected for this exhibition have accepted the fact that there is humor in their art. Using a variety of media, styles, references and messaging, they all have created narrative art that should make visitors at the very least smile, or at times laugh out loud. What is also important to note is the substance beyond the initial humor. Humor only goes so far, so while these artists have your attention you can appreciate the abilities and techniques used in the fabrication of their very intriguing work.

(left) Todd Colby, To the Future (2024), acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 24 x 24 inches; (right) Peregrine Honig, Wonkey Donkey (2006), pen and ink, Gum Arabic, pigment on Strathmore, 10 ½ x 10 ½ x 1 ½ inches, all images courtesy of the artists
(left) Todd Colby, To the Future (2024), acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 24 x 24 inches; (right) Peregrine Honig, Wonky Donkey (2006), pen and ink, Gum Arabic, pigment on Strathmore, 10 ½ x 10 ½ x 1 ½ inches, all images courtesy of the artists

Todd Colby uses words and images to create weirdly symbolic, diaristic mixed media collages, paintings and sticker commentary that all have substantive impact. As a poet, writer and visual artist, Colby blends an endless series of investigative thoughts and images ignited by keen observations that, when added to a common surface, shed a humorous light on the often brazen and hard to bear new realities in our current sociocultural and political landscape. Peregrine Honig also utilizes words and images to create humorous vignettes, however in this instance, Honig’s art is more specific and far more intimate. Working with pen and ink, Gum Arabic and pigment on paper, Honig presents previously innocent stuffed animals in far more mature social situations that many adults can easily relate to. In doing so, humor is maintained, but in a very different light, whereby the source of one’s distinct personality traits, positive and negative, can be traced back to one’s early days at play.

(left) Rita Valley, WTF (2019), mixed materials: silk brocade, vinyl, satin, paracord. 48 x 47 inches; (right) Norm Magnusson, Horse (2025), archival computer print, 24 x 18 inches
(left) Rita Valley, WTF (2019), mixed materials: silk brocade, vinyl, satin, paracord. 48 x 47 inches; (right) Norm Magnusson, Horse (2025), archival computer print, 24 x 18 inches

Rita Valley is fed up with the state of our union. Utilizing her skills with fabric and fringes, Valley gets right to the point as she confronts the viewer with familiar terms of dissent. Using fancy patterns, shiny surfaces and heavily textured accents, Valley projects a passionate belief system that is being attacked on all sides. However, at first glance, the feeling one may get from her art is one of a universal, reactionary-type of humor, pulling the viewer in, as they think more deeply about what is hounding their own worlds. The art of Norm Magnusson reveals a multi-pronged approach to humor that varies between county fair controversy and lowbrow art bombs to more serious issues regarding our collective state of mind. Magnusson is a master at pairing words and images, contrasting references and recognising timely subliminal links that creep up on you unexpectedly. Magnusson constantly reminds us to stay engaged and to look at the world with both delight and suspicion.

(left) Judy Haberl, Sausages (2020-25), jewelry, pearls, sausage casings, acrylic medium, sizes variable; (right) Bret DePalma, Art Ham (2024), acrylic,collage on canvas, 48 x 48 inches
(left) Judy Haberl, Sausages (2020-25), jewelry, pearls, sausage casings, acrylic medium, sizes variable; (right) Bret DePalma, Art Ham (2024), acrylic,collage on canvas, 48 x 48 inches

Judy Haberl grew up in a home where food was often extremely experimental, as her father advised NASA on their “food in space program…”. Her family ate “…dehydrated foods to test for edibility,” which were usually godawful, as these early experiences with laboratory food still influences her art to this day. Included in this exhibition are her humorous sausage casings filled with faux jewelry, and witty Baby Cakes made of colored Hydrostone as she reminds us that it’s all getting too far afield from wholesome whole foods. Bret DePalma pushes his narratives well past reason. Nothing fits, yet it all works once his paintings are completed. No color, perspective, symbol or representation is off the table, as he weaves through uncharted spaces that sweep across his mind. The humor, which is very complex and layered, begins slowly and tentatively as the viewer comes to terms with what is in front of them as they wonder where all this wizardry comes from.

(left) Susan Meyer, Maggie, 2025, wood, foam, acrylic, Apoxie Sculpt, paint, 2 x 3 inches; (right) Jeff Starr, Landolakes (2024), acrylic, marker on paper, 15 x 13 inches
(left) Susan Meyer, Maggie, 2025, wood, foam, acrylic, Apoxie Sculpt, paint, 2 x 3 inches; (right) Jeff Starr, Landolakes (2024), acrylic, marker on paper, 15 x 13 inches

Susan Meyer’s sculptures have a B-movie type futuristic look to them that feels timid in one way and grandiose in another. A bold mix of emotions that gives her work a unique sort of humor that is subtle but effective. This is not to say that there is no depth here, there is, and much of it as exemplified by elements of High Modernism as a distinct placeholder, especially with respect to the aesthetic, while the presentation of materials in their curious shapes and colors adds contrasting notes of frivolity and seriousness. Jeff Starr creates mixed media paintings that feature multiplanar realities. These planes, which could not be more different, shift back and forth between an idealized ‘real world’ and an imagined astral plane that transcends what is considered normal processing of space and time. This overlapping of universes forms a visually halting transition, perhaps the way alien space travelers may perceive our world on their terms, focusing more on unknown elements we can not see, while turning the whole thing into an absurd visual conversation.

(left) Jim Kempner, The $6 Million Dollar Banana Split, video, running time 5:33; (right) Cary Leibowitz, Cubism? (1998), marker on found photograph, 8 x 10 inches, 11 ¼ x 9 ¼ x 1 ¼ inches framed
(left) Jim Kempner, The $6 Million Dollar Banana Split, video, running time 5:33; (right) Cary Leibowitz, Cubism? (1998), marker on found photograph, 8 x 10 inches, 11 ¼ x 9 ¼ x 1 ¼ inches framed

Jim Kempner, a well known, decades long art dealer on the corner of 23rd Street and 10th Avenue in New York City’s Chelsea District, is one of the more colorful individuals on the scene. A passionate purveyor of prints, sculptures, drawings and paintings, Kempner sees the humor in his daily reality and does something about it. His seven season video series, The Madness of Art, is a much needed breath of fresh air, a break from the austere atmosphere NYC galleries too often project when coming face to face with the general public. Cary Leibowitz uses words masterfully, and we never know if he is being cheeky or in the middle of a crippling crisis. Or is it both? Either way, Leibowitz’s art will forever stir things up by disrupting the viewer’s typical train of thought. Whether it’s cute stuffed animals, symbolic ceramics, intricately cut placards, pennants, paintings, shopping bags or an all out outdoor installation, Leibowitz leaves us with an indelibly blazing, bold and unexpected mark on many things searingly sociopolitical to the brilliantly benign.

(left) Mike Cockrill, The Door (2013), acrylic on canvas, 46 x 36 inches; (right) Mary Bailey, Pox - Let’s Go Viral (2025), wood, acrylic paint, 5 x 2 ½ x ⅞ inches
(left) Mike Cockrill, The Door (2013), acrylic on canvas, 46 x 36 inches; (right) Mary Bailey, Pox – Let’s Go Viral (2025), wood, acrylic paint, 5 x 2 ½ x ⅞ inches

Mike Cockrill’s art portrays feelings of hopelessness, futility, ecstasy or enlightenment. Using easily recognizable figures like clowns and the typical office worker stuck on a never ending wheel to nowhere, Cockrill strikes at the heart of the circumstances he presents in ways that will make the viewer smile or laugh at first, until the weight of the situation breaks through. After that, it’s back to the humor in a continuous cycle of responses that would never be as potent if not for the clever, straightforward, high quality of Cockrill’s art. Mary Bailey’s primary medium is painted or scribed wood that, when messages or symbols are added, has anywhere from unique tinges of Surrealism to a persuasive form of Pop. In her most recent series of symbolic cigarette packages, Bailey sends powerful socio-political statements utilizing her own brand of dark humor to make her point, concerns that are growing more and more troubling every new day. In the end, Bailey dives deep into realities that are best served with a little humor or all is lost.

(left) Cathay Wysocki, Expeller of Erroneous Thought (2022) acrylic, collage, sand, glitter, beads on canvas 20 x 16 inches; (right) D. Dominick Lombardi, CC 113 UC (The Impossibility of a Skinned Knee) (2021), sand, papier-mâché, gesso, acrylic medium and objects, 11 1/2 x 12 x 9 inches
(left) Cathay Wysocki, Expeller of Erroneous Thought (2022) acrylic, collage, sand, glitter, beads on canvas 20 x 16 inches; (right) D. Dominick Lombardi, CC 113 UC (The Impossibility of a Skinned Knee) (2021), sand, papier-mâché, gesso, acrylic medium and objects, 11 1/2 x 12 x 9 inches

Cathy Wysocki makes art that swings back and forth between fear and fantasy. Wild colors and crazy narratives somehow make everything oddly copacetic. The limits of which are stretched to the breaking point in every imaginable way. Hideous/Beauteous comes to mind here as Wysocki weaves her way through highly textured surfaces where emotions run raw and rampant propelled by a limitless and lively aesthetic. Very often in my paintings and sculptures, humor is presented as a prompt or a reward for looking at the art. With the sculpture CC 113 UC (The Impossibility of a Skinned Knee) (2021), I take a shot at the art world in general, and Damian Hirst specifically by making reference to his most famous early work The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991) where a tiger shark is suspended in a clear glass and steel tank filled with a 5% solution of formaldehyde.

Adam Niklewicz, ERWIN (2024), cardboard box, rubber boot, 30 x 12 x 14 inches
Adam Niklewicz, ERWIN (2024), cardboard box, rubber boot, 30 x 12 x 14 inches

Adam Niklewicz joins the fun with ERWIN (2024), an homage to the outrageous sculptures and photographs of Erwin Wurm. Like Wurm, Niklewicz often pairs absurdly unlike objects in penetrating ways to twist, confuse and delight – it’s physical comedy in 3D, yet there is something deeper and darker looming in the unconscious here. It’s called unencumbered imagining, free association, the ability to literally think outside the box and get excited about some of the most banal objects of the day-to-day.

Gary Michael Dault: A Self Interview

“…but it is extremely difficult to watch oneself working….”

                       –Xavier deMaistre, Voyage Around My Room, 1794.

Q: When did you first paint?

A: In 1952, when I was twelve. My friend, Robert Nunn and I walked to the edge of the St. Lawrence river (we lived in Kingston) and despoiled a canvas board each. His despoiling was better than mine; his painting was bolder, louder and more decisive than mine.  He was a barely pubescent Vlaminck or Derain. My painting was timid, abashed.  It was a timidity, a diffidence, I then set about to outgrow.

Q: When did you first exhibit?

A: In lots of momentary, glancing-blow places, but my first SERIOUS exhibition was in 1983, at the Jane Corkin Gallery in Toronto.  It was a big show of works on Paper. I was forty-three and in the throes of teaching and writing about art—other peoples’ art. 

Writer turned painter: Gary Michael Dault; the former art critic for The Star; shown here with his painting Burnished Day or Conch Of The Voice (mixed media; 1983) opened his one-man show at the Jane Corkin Gallery yesterday. The show runs until April 23.
Writer turned painter: Gary Michael Dault; the former art critic for The Star; shown here with his painting Burnished Day or Conch Of The Voice (mixed media; 1983) opened his one-man show at the Jane Corkin Gallery yesterday. The show runs until April 23.

Q: Let’s jump ahead about 40 years. How did your summer-long exhibition at the Periphery come about?

A: Entirely through the kindness and courtliness—the agency—of architect, artist and musician Dimitri Papatheodorou, for whom the Periphery is both a country home and a six-acre estate-wide workshop near the pastoral, pixilated village of Warkworth, Ontario.  Papatheodorou describes the Periphery as a landscape containing visual art, music, performance and architecture, seeing it as a “time-based project” where he pursues his painting (in the exquisite new studio he has recently designed and had built) and, in a spacious gallery next to it, mounts summer-long exhibitions of some artist whose work he likes (last summer’s exhibition was of paintings by Toronto-based artist Greg Angus).

Q: What makes up your Periphery exhibition?

A: It’s in two parts. The first is a small retrospective, a mounting of a dozen works on paper from 2005 to 2015. The second part, titled Passatempi, Painting in the Meantime, is a wall-sized array of about 75 recent small paintings (acrylic with collage) on rough hunks of raw cardboard, some of them (my favourites) only a few inches wide.

Q: What are they like?

A: They’re muscular and messy, wildly gestural, impatient, ecstatic, frenetic and as far as I’m concerned, almost unbearably beautiful. They make my chest tight.

Q: They are, as you say, awfully small.  Why?

A: Because they are painted on very small pieces of throwaway cardboard—distaff, disreputable, ignoble shardsof cardboard, a lot of which come to me as the wrappings around books I’ve ordered or the boxes some foodstuffs like pasta come in.  I save them all for painting.  I love cardboard.  I like its used look. It has a history.

Q: When do you paint?

A: Between writing poems.  Which is to say, all the time.

Q: How long do you spend on a painting?

A: About 2-3 minutes.  5 minutes tops.

Q: What’s the rush?

A: I’m getting old.  I’m eighty-five now.

Q: That’s the reason?

A: Nah.  In fact, I’ve always worked that way.  Back in 2010, when I was exhibiting my 1 Minute Cereal Box Landscapes everywhere, each one of them took me only a minute apiece.  I’d make a whole exhibition in an hour.  Labouring over a painting is okay, I guess, if you’re Magritte or somebody.

Q: What do you like about these rapid-fire cardboards?

A: Their hecticity, the rush of them, the meaning (sometimes august, symbolic and even mythic) that always—always—emerges from them.  Not one of them is ever non-representational.  And yet not one of them knows where it’s going when it starts out.

Q: What if you make a mistake?

A: I can’t.  If a painting begins not to work—to bore me, for example—I subject it to some cleansing, cataclysmic event, like a sluicing of white paint—and then I start in to fix it.  I haven’t lost one yet.   

Q:  How did you decide on their installation?

A: Dimitri did that. He’s an architect. He has a perfect sense of form.

Gary Michael Dault

July 16, 2025