Ever searching for persiflage and tomfoolery in the way of artspeak and imagery, I comb the shelves now and then (they're too-reliably stocked with the same tired stuff) and occasionally find a gem-in-the-rough that needs our fullest attention. I have found one in American Art Collector (#8). It features such imperishable interpreters of the American scene as Bruce Handford, watercolorist; Glenna Goodacre, living successor to the collectivist sculptors of old Rogers'
Groups; Christel Minotti, heiress apparent to Matisse (and quite a money-maker to judge from her very own "Price Range Indicator", which is posted with every artistic profile.) There is somebody called David Knowlton, whose large works now fetch $3,100 (down from $3,000 in 2000. This is apparently leap enough to warrant recognition.) Kent Wallis does assembly-line paintings that belong in the finest cheap hotels, though the magazine singles such work out as epitomizing "truth (and) beauty." It also has a "spiritual quality." Michael Flohr is an artist that has to be seen with sunglasses lest the potential art-lover suffer from an acute strobe effect. He is, however, showing in a San Diego Gallery, which is possibly well aware of this problem and may have a whole box of Ray-Bans available. It doesn't say this outright. What the gallery does say is this: "Michael Flohr's works capture the nostalgia of American life.
Collectors from all walks and all ages can relate to the humanity that Flohr captures on the canvas. The urban street scenes and lively bar scenes could be from any time period in history. Michael Flohr is our top artist in the gallery. He is a talented artist and a wonderful person."

A man named James Thorne, of "Exclusive Collections Gallery", wrote this; he obviously suffers from the strobe effect himself. He also writes as if he's just learning the language. I won't even go into how unfamiliar history must be to this man. If Flohr's tacky restaurants and obviously Second Millenium nightlife seem timeless to him, he's really got to start cracking the books again. This kind of perspective just will not wash.

I must admit to being somewhat gleeful. I think I have found the Worst Art Magazine. There are, however, some moderating influences. A man named Stephen Magsic does occasionally excellent paintings of the kinds of subjects Robert Cottingham and Richard Estes made acceptable back in The Day. But he does them with greater feeling; I would even say panache - though the word denigrates him somewhat. The Bernaducci.Meisel Gallery has mounted what appears to be an excellent group exhibit - though I can't believe a word the reviewer has said about it. Why is it that so many of the writers sound as if they're more comfortable in another tongue? (Few of these writers are credited, showing that the magazine at least has some sense of this defect.) Listen to this anonymous scribe as he or she rhapsodizes about a painting called "Sole Morning" which "demonstrates a more subdued feeling of summer, with a serene seascape that exemplifies his (artist David Dewey's) superb treatment of tonality and color." This is a thesarus speaking and not a real person with some rudimentary grasp of what one's native tongue can and cannot do.
The eponymous Frank Bernaducci, however, has the best quote. When speaking of his brainchild, he says it "presents not only a seasonal review but attempts to explore a wide range of visceral emotions. . ." I should say emotions are visceral. I'd hate to have any other kind myself.

Another excellent artist, in the mold of Huey Lee-Smith, also comes to light in the magazine; it was worth the price just to know of this man. His name is Aron Wiesenfeld and he has a handle on what it means to be alone and perhaps afraid in a land not of one's own making. There is also a bit of Tooker in his sallow-faced isolates, his dour perspectives, his uncompromising honesty. How he got in a place like this baffles me, but I'm used to seeing this sort of dichotomy in the art world, where the bad and the ugly occasionally cross swords with the conscientiously well-made and authentically heartfelt.

I just expressed wonderment at Wiesenfield's presence:
his gallery has taken out a full-page ad. Gotta get a little something for that!

I must, however, pause to explore one man's gaudy, but apparently impregnable, self-regard. He is John O'Hern and is Curator of the Arnot Art Museum. In his article, Secret Visions, he brings to light a few good artists who are characteristically out of place in American Art Collector. First he tells us about George Inness. Seems to me that any serious art collector ought to know about old George. But I'm just quibbling here. Let's let him tell us that Inness painted in the style of the "French Barbizon School" which was "noted for. . .painting in a darker palette with lose brushstrokes." I think he meant "loose brushstrokes", but he's a museum director and I'm just a high school graduate, so what do I know?
He also points out that Inness' paintings "suggest a spiritual basis to Nature." I love it when people capitalize words like Nature and Prosperity and such.
It just makes me all tingly inside.

The painters O'Hern chose are all pretty interesting:
Daniel Morper, Ann Lofquist, Alan Bray and Ben Aronson. Skipping around, here's what he says of Daniel Morper's interest in something Hopper and Burchfield introduced almost a century ago and doesn't really need exculpating. "Rail yards and rail cars (that foreign English again!) are seldom seen as objects of beauty. Even when they occur in the majestic beauty (there is it again!) of the high desert of the Southwest, they are overlooked or regarded as eyesores." I don't think people working in the yards overlook them. And a lot of train buffs in that locality no doubt find them quite fetching.
Who the hell, then, is he talking about? Us? All sorts of man-made things have appeared in paintings for a long time. Railroad stuff is old hat. Mr.
O'Hern doesn't need to draw attention to a lack of suitability that isn't really applicable. He goes on to say that Morper's skies "rival the real thing."
Well, whoop-de-doo! Morper's a realist painter; that's his job. Do all the rest of the artists in the article - or in art generally - fail with their skies?
He goes on to say that Morper "chooses times of day and conditions the layman would most likely just pass through." This phrase evokes the hobo. I think he means "pass over." That foreign influence again.
Perhaps Mr. O'Hern grew up speaking Gaelic?

This is really too rich. I've spent the last half hour scouring the magazine for other tid-bits of the sort I've already supplied, but let them suffice. I think Joseph Jefferson said you shouldn't enjoy yourself too much, and I must admit that I got somewhat carried away, so I'll let whatever I've already said stand. But, oh, there's so much more! I just can't wait to dive in for another peek. I really think I've found the very worst art magazine in
creation.