Jackson Free Press

The art in the 2007 Mississippi Invitational falls on both sides of the modernist/postmodernist ideological divide. Some artists relate to a modernist conception of art, which counsels that art is more than the sum of its contexts and that the best works of art supersede questions of how, where, why and who. Such work insists on being evaluated on its own terms; conditions external to the piece itself are marginally relevant to its meaning, if at all.

Other artists in the Invitational have chosen to specifically address the issue of context in their work—as such, they have taken a postmodernist stand. In the '70s, postmodernists asserted that context had been ignored for too long, and that this act of ignoring made art incomplete and prejudiced. The transforming artworks of postmodernism engage in "pointing out" contexts and circumstances that propped art up but that had been regarded as irrelevant to art's essence. Specifically, production contexts (Who made this and how?) and consumption contexts (Where is the art placed? Who is the viewer? Who is the viewer looking at?). Both theories are deeply relevant to the work in the Invitational, and neither is more correct than the other; they simply offer distinct criteria against which to contemplate art. In each camp, some pieces are more successful than others, and the best pieces stand up to both schools of criticism.

One of the most successful pieces in the show is the freestanding fabric work by Rebekah Lynn Potter. After reading the introductory note to the show, with its emphasis on Hurricane Katrina's influence on Mississippi artists, I braced for literal documents of devastation. Instead, I encountered Potter's sculpture, which, in its mute formality, speaks volumes about dignity and self-preservation in the wake of tragedy without mimicking news imagery. The distressed fabric is layered like a fading sunset or a soil horizon. The sinewy seams running through the pieces are uneven, as though abused, yet the heavy cloth hangs straight and self-contained. Although Potter's methods and materials are laid bare to the viewer, the piece overwhelms considerations of craft. It is its own phenomenon—inexplicable through mere context, as all successful abstraction is. The only unfortunate aspect of this work is its place at the mouth of the gallery's entrance corridor, which compresses and diminishes the piece.

Contrasting with Potter's work is the photography by Suzi Altman. I am with art critic Jed Perl when he writes, "To insist upon this distinction (between popular culture and high art) is not to say that one experience is better and one worse, it is only to clarify the character of each experience."

Accordingly, why present in a museum material that has been successfully explored in popular media? Although Altman has a few photographs that are initially eye-catching ("Untitled, Bay St. Louis, Sept. 15, 2005"), upon contemplation they do not present much not already dealt with on television, in documentaries, the newspaper and on the Internet. The fade-in/fade-out screensaver-esque slideshow of Altman's images also erodes one's investment in her work—the sheer volume of images makes each individual photo less worthy of the intense attention that art usually demands. Altman's photographs would be at home among other straightforward documentary photographs, or in a show of their own, but in the context of the invitational, they seem hollow.

Another photographer in the invitational, Euphus Ruth, also takes a documentary approach. His pictures, however, are emotionally engaging meditations on absence and loss. In "Mount Tenia M.B. Church, Bolivar County, Mississippi, Interior, 2005," Ruth captures the moment of entering a long-abandoned room on a sunny day—the world outside is alive and illuminated, while this interior and the memories of its human occupants decay in the dark. Ruth's photos also feature a "peephole" effect: a fuzzy, curved black border that implies that the photo was taken with the camera pressed against a chink in a wall or door.

There's sacredness to enclosed space that remains undisturbed for years (hence our fascination with breaking into tombs). Ruth preserves that poignancy because his peephole effect implies that even he has not entered the room—its stillness remains undisturbed. Thus we are with Ruth as he reverently holds his breath and peeps into a church whose floorboards have not borne human weight in decades, whose walls bear fingerprints of people long dead. We wonder why these slowly moldering spaces hold such allure, and why they would be diminished if we entered. Ruth's fascination with his subject is palpable, and his photographs are marvelously self-aware. He is a photographer, and his work is a moving examination of the acts of searching and looking.

Jason Marlow also makes a strong impression. His video "Fever" is a portent of the relationship between humans and their environment. Marlow uses chemical-spill colors to create a post-nuclear holocaust world with a radioactive ocean where humans are susceptible to spontaneous combustion. The lighting is reminiscent of a flickering magnesium flare. Fanciful as that may sound, Marlow's video feels dreadfully realistic. Once one encounters Marlow's logo/TV-headed demon, one feels like the recipient of a vision, a prophetic fever dream.

I saved Lea Barton's "Sunday Morning" for last because it tortures me. It is a grid of 30 18-by-18 paintings of black women (from the Webster family of Pocahontas, Miss.) in Sunday hats, accompanied by sheets of hymn music. At first, the piece is delightful. While quite painterly, the portraits reference pop-culture portraiture: glamorous magazine photos, blurry TV images and moldy old family portraits. Some women pop vividly from the canvas, others fade beneath sheaves of hymn pages, some are obscured by patterned mark-making, others command the centers of sparse canvases, some are mere fleshy blurs beneath their graphic hats, and other portraits seem aged and mildewed. Together, they tell of an earnest investment of time spent with individuals and of the impression those individuals made on the artist. But the symphony of group portraiture is muted as, near the center of the group, one encounters a white woman dressed in black and white who stares intently out of the canvas with wide-open eyes. Clearly, this is the artist whose hand and gaze is already so heavily imprinted on the work—here she is again.

Once you have seen the artist's portrait, the other portraits lose distinction and blur into a background for Barton; their imagined voices are silenced by hers. This undercuts Barton's stated desire to celebrate sisterhood by creating a hierarchy—the artist is at the center, and everyone else is arrayed around her. It's a pity, because the other portraits are beautiful. It is unclear why Barton included herself, although the Hymn behind her—"Even Me"—implies a simple desire to belong. One questions Barton's awareness of the political implications of visually marginalizing black women in a museum space. Barton does not address this subject in her artist's statement.

I wouldn't recommend drifting casually through this show—it has too much to offer, and it certainly bears repeated viewing. Although much of the show is directly related to Mississippi, Katrina and the South, some artists have reached deep and uncovered larger, more difficult themes that become apparent to a patient eye.

The Mississippi Invitational at the Mississippi Museum of Art runs through April 1. Call 601-960-1515 for more information.