‘Progress’ Offers Likable Exercise in Sculpture

The current exhibition at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions is “Work & Progress,” seven sculptural installations by as many artists. They extend both remnants of performance and viewer invitations to get touchy-feely with the art.

LACE is a nonprofit, artist-run community gallery dedicated to emerging and offbeat art. It was an admirable goal when the venue was founded 21 years back. Since then, however, the world has greatly changed. Such once-exotic underground activities as these have done more than enter the mainstream of the art world. They’ve long since been co-opted by the media in everything from set design to special effects and music videos. To make matters worse, the ‘80s art market boomed then busted, leaving a poisonous impression that works of fine art are just so much merchandise. One artist shows wry awareness of this. Izumi Tachiki makes small soft sculpture abstracted from the modes of Claes Oldenburg and Mike Kelley. The sweet, pillow-size objects offer themselves for rent like underage runaways obliged to turn their first trick. The chilling impression is enhanced by LACE’s location.

A few years back the gallery moved from downtown to a storefront on once-glamorous Hollywood Boulevard. Despite attempts at revitalization, the street has deteriorated to--at best--an amusing, pathetic warren of faded tourist attractions, discount stores and boutiques selling flimsy lingerie or whips-and-leather paraphernalia. The latter have lost their power as sexual fetishes, having been reduced to mere costume by the fashion industry.

Jessica Buege’s “Redression” seems to ruminate on this. Its centerpiece is a cubical metal frame made into a cage by intertwined rubber tubing. Outside a black slip pierced by myriad nails hangs near a concatenation of leather straps and metal fixtures suggesting male costume. A video of the artist in performance sometimes broadcasts on a TV monitor in the front window. As often happens, it was inoperative when I saw the show. A gallery attendant explained that the video basically just shows Buege constructing the piece. That suggests some such thought as, “Making art is quite torture enough without this S&M; nonsense.”

The artists all broadcast qualities that make youth likable in spite of itself. Real energy and idealism override George Domantay’s posture of apocalyptic iconoclasm in “The bear and the coconut.” It includes a tiny workroom in the street vitrine. The artist periodically shows up to make clay bas-relief maps of California. Dried, they’re sent down a roller-belt to smash against a white picket fence.

David Hullfish Bailey’s untitled piece reflects concern for L.A.’s run-down infrastructure. He goes about engaging street-repair crews in conversations that center on those plastic orange Day-Glo cones and rods used to redirect traffic and frustrate drivers. Somehow Bailey winds up with examples of these artifacts. He used six of them to fashion a big star shape that would make a great giant Christmas star.

Jason Holley made a rudimentary lie detector from a mail-order kit. It looks as flimsy and helplessly unreliable as a druggie’s promise to kick the habit.

Evan Holloway constructed “Drum Box and Record Player.” It’s a free-standing enclosure just large enough to contain a set of drums and one person (a very small one judging by the size of the crawl hole.) Viewers are invited to enter and raise absolute hell banging on the drums, but only on condition they keep at it long enough to enter an altered state of consciousness.

The only physical evidence of the remaining artist is his name lettered on the wall with the rest. The Right Reverend Ethan Acres is an artist and preacher who reportedly occasionally shows up with a psychedelic mirrored crucifix cart. He engages viewers in prayers to bring them creativity.

All this is winning. What makes it poignant is the awareness that this art was made in historically exhausted modes exercised in an aura of profound cultural indifference.

* Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, 6522 Hollywood Blvd., to Sunday, closed Mondays, (213) 957-1777.