Buffalo Spree Magazine

Single colors, many ways

By Elizabeth Licata

Verona Painting Green
by Phil Sims.

It’s often said that art museums are the cathedrals of modern times, serenely appointed chambers where we contemplate a higher and more beautiful world—though not necessarily the next world. If you subscribe to this way of thinking, don’t miss The Panza Collection: An Experience of Color and Light, now at the Albright-Knox Art Museum though February 24. There is plenty to contemplate here.

Count Guiseppe Panza di Biumo is easily able to make sweeping statements about the art he and his wife Giovanna have collected for nearly fifty years, stating that its beauty and meaning comes “not from daily life, but above daily life, life completely apart from our relationship to reality.” And listening to him, I believe him completely. However, I envy those who will come to this show knowing nothing about Panza or why he collects what he collects—that would surely be the best experience, for it is art that must be confronted head-on, almost entered, and I think this is best done without too many preconceptions. Just the willingness is all that’s needed (though that may be too much to ask from some viewers).

The exhibition begins with light sculptures by artists Dan Flavin (fluorescent), Robert Irwin (incandescent), Joseph Kosuth (neon), and Bruce Nauman (fluorescent). These are some of the earliest works in the show, indicating Panza’s interest in the literal use of light in an artwork, as well as his affinity for some of the pioneers of conceptual art. (Panza, like his contemporary in collecting, Seymour Knox, was among the first to buy the work of such artists as Mark Rothko, Cy Twombly, and Antoni Tapies, as well as the artists in this show.)

Swaney’s Meadow, May 5th, 1998 by Anne Appleby.

The second and most substantial part of the show is almost all paintings and shows how the collector began to focus on how light could be manipulated using more traditional media. Whether you use the word monochromatic or single-color (as the artists seem to prefer), these are almost without exception completely abstract paintings, most employing one or, at most, two colors, though the longer you look at these the more those one or two colors will begin to expand and express themselves. There are variations in density, saturation, and texture (or the appearance of texture); in addition, there are huge differences according to the type of pigment used. Each artist has her or his own exhibition space. You can—indeed, you must—sit in each gallery long enough to gather in the essential qualities of each group of paintings.

Semza Titolo, Blu by Alfonso Fratteggiani Bianchi.

I found my mileage varied the most with the paintings. There are vast and fascinating differen-ces between these works; lumping them under the term monochromatic would be a useless and counterproductive exercise. Few artists, for example, could be further apart than Max Cole, whose impossibly precise lines of paint create the illusion of texture, almost of fabric, and Alfonso Fratteggiani Bianchi, who soaks his pigment into Umbrian stone, creating rectangular pools of rich, radiant color. The experience of seeing these works in separate groupings is generous and necessary.

Paintings by Anne Appleby most awaken the instinct to create representation where none exists. She calls her work names like Coyote Meadow and Japanese Maple, reinforcing my urge to think of forests and gardens when gazing at her triptychs in various shadings of earth and green tones. These paintings are lighter and more evocative than many others in the exhibition; the triptychs are the most successful, evoking changing moods with each combination.

Finally among the paintings, works by Phil Sims and David Simpson seemed to emerge from the group. Sims’s Marienbad works contain subtle, lovely striations of paint, shimmering with light on a grand scale. Simpson’s paintings, infused with metallic gleams, have perhaps the most compelling surfaces in the show, suggesting long-lost content, maybe from a rubbed-out fresco.

The fact that all single-color paintings are not created equal is vividly demonstrated here; though all the work can engage, not all of it is equally rewarding. You will have ho-hum moments—but not many.

Dan Flavin’s Untitled
(to the citizens of the Swiss cantons, 3, 1987.

Perhaps because I had some familiarity with the light works, they didn’t seem to need as much time. The Naumans—clumsy and confrontational structures from the outside—must be entered to be appreciated; once inside, they envelop the viewer with light. If I had to quibble, I’d say the Triangle Room offers the most intense experience. The Irwin piece is subtle and luminous and the Flavins offer a rare chance to take in an entire series by this hugely important artist. As Panza says, Flavin’s fluorescent sculptures are a radiant revelation, amply complemented by the museum’s glorious James Turrell light sculpture (in an adjacent space).

It is human nature—it is certainly my human nature—to question, to quibble, even to oppose when told how something ought to be approached or appreciated. Every bit of advance publicity for this show emphasized Panza’s overarching esteem for a certain kind of art. In addition, group shows by their very nature instruct you that some kind of affinity ties the works together, overcoming their differences. So, perversely, I came to this exhibition looking for the differences, and I found them in abundance. In the end, it is these differences that make me want to return—and soon.

Elizabeth Licata is editor of Buffalo Spree.

Back to the Table of Contents

Back to Top