Intended as a snapshot of the many styles and media typical of the state's art scene, the 2014 Minnesota Biennial exceeds that modest goal but leaves a huge amount of talent unrepresented.
No doubt that's inevitable in a state that's home to 5,350 artists, according to MNartists.org. Still, with just 37 paintings, sculptures, photos and other artworks by 37 individuals, the show is barely a bonsai sample. It runs through Aug. 3 at the Minnesota Museum of American Art (MMAA) in downtown St. Paul.
The Biennial's limits were determined by the size of the MMAA's "project space" in the Pioneer Endicott building, a historic 19th-century office building that is being renovated into living quarters. While easy to find on a desirable corner adjacent to the new Green Line light rail, the space is extremely problematic as an exhibition site.
Its lovely windows admit sunlight destructive to art; the floors are a distracting mess of worn tile patched with rough concrete and mismatched wood; pillars and baffles cut the space awkwardly; lighting is inadequate, security iffy.
Faced with so many issues, curator Christina Chang produced a commendable installation that brings out the best in the art. It was chosen by Chang and jurors Brian Frink and Meredith Lynn from 377 applications. While there are no obvious themes tying it all together, there are strains of environmentalism and a concern for nature and its fragility.
The artists are skillful and innovative in their manipulation of materials. Together they cover the emotional, intellectual and conceptual waterfront — from high seriousness to humor, from abstraction to figurative dioramas, from painting to photography to ceramics to traditional beadwork. Minnesota in a 37-piece nutshell.
Sly environmentalism
Environmentalism slips in slyly. At more than 5 feet wide, Miranda Brandon's "Impact" is a startlingly intimate photo of a dead hermit thrush isolated on a pristine white background. In nature a dead thrush is a modest handful. Her bird is a human-sized bundle of beautiful, silken feathers that seem oddly and unnaturally fluffed and flared in death. That's because the bird died from crashing into a building, probably during a spring or fall migration. Brandon reports that there were 4,500-plus such bird deaths last year in the Twin Cities alone, and she invests that sad and alarming statistic with surprising power through her eloquent image.
Megan Vossler also shifts scales, drawing humans as tiny figures lashed together and clinging precariously to the face of a sheer cliff in "Canyon," a delicate 15-foot-tall scroll drawing of a bleak landscape in which one wrong move would condemn them all to obliteration.
