David Smith's Abstract Identity

The classic complaint against abstract art is that it alienates the average viewer. An odd combination of right-wing representationalists, left-wing socialist realists and bewildered museum-goers have long criticized the minimalist and expressionist pieces that dominated the art scene within the U.S. in the mid-20th century.

More judicious attention to the work of sculptor David Smith (1906-1965) might allay some of these concerns. Expertly curated by Sarah Kianovsky, "This work is my identity" demonstrates just how effectively avant-garde artists can address social concerns.

Most of the paintings, drawings, prints and photographs in the small but representative exhibit are the result of collaboration between the artist and Lois Orswell, a long-time collector of his work. Born in Decatur, Indiana, Smith had scarcely any exposure to the artistic community until he met painter Dorothy Dehner in the mid-1920s. After working in factories, Smith wished to bridge the world of industrial manufacturing and high art.

Inspired by the welded works of Picasso and Gonzalez. Smith followed their work in the journal Cahiers d' Art while pursuing his own experiments in non-representational sculptural forms. Always fascinated by the technical craft of sculpture as well as its form, he studied European sculpture closely, even analyzing fragments of ancient Greek statuary.

This concern with craft is readily apparent in all the pieces on display at the Fogg. Traces of solder mark every metal juncture on these pieces--even in the monumentally minimalistic "5 1/2" (1956). Stung by several critics' refusal to consider pieces created by industrial welding as art, Smith persistently defended his technique. The fancifully chaotic composition of "Bird" (1957) further evokes the spirit of an artist unwilling to bow to convention.

Additional reflection reveals Smith's passion and artistry in grappling with larger social concerns. The brilliant "Fish" (1950), composed of welded steel in the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, grippingly conveys the horrors of war in the nuclear age. Smith's composition, covered entirely with a cadmium red paint that is both mundane and menacing, forcefully aggregates scraps of metal and designed objects into a figure that evokes both the atom and our fear of its power. A core of barbs and chain links lies at the center of the work, surrounded by two askew rectangles of jagged metal forms. Recalling Escher's surreal staircase designs, Smith's work depicts technology as both embedded in all our forms of life and constituting the greatest threat to their continued existence.

This concern is echoed in "Detroit Queen" (1957) and the Sentinel series, both of which augment the sheer artistic power of Giacomettian sculpture with a deep concern for the role of form and color. Despite its poorly lit display area, the genius of the bronze Detroit Queen emanates from its patinate form. Composed of sheet metal, gears, and bowls, the rigid figure in the work stands precariously balanced on the flowing forms of its "throne."

A scorn for elitism also informed Smith's ambivalent response to the praise he ultimately garnered from the artistic community. Some critics have argued that Smith's stormy relations with contemporary artistic "authorities" represented a refusal to fit his work within the contemporary parameters of art discourse. But after viewing this exhibit, it becomes clearer that Smith's concerns were more specific than simply a complete rejection of artistic aspirations.

Smith was always fearful that his only audience would become a collection of aesthetes, critics and effete hangers-on within the artistic community. In an increasingly market-driven world of artistic creation and consumption, perhaps Smith worried that his images were becoming acclaimed merely by virtue of being the most fungible--most capable of being marshalled as the raw material of one interpretive school or another.

Smith, of course, could not keep pure of all such influences, and his missteps are on display at the exhibit as well. While billed as "explorations of form, color, shape and mass," his paintings and small assemblages convey little original thought. "Relief with Bones" is a particular disaster-- constructed of chicken bones, a shoebox lid, and canvas, this mess of gouache and watercolor artlessly melds the elemental primitivism of Jean DuBuffet with the cool detachment of pop artists. Although occasionally suggesting the powerful brushwork of a Kline, Smith's other paintings pale in comparison with the power of his sculpture.

Smith's work is at its best with the 1960 "Doorway on Wheels." Another assemblage of found and manufactured elements arranged in a strikingly two-dimensional form, this piece recalls Louise Nevelson's monumental works. The work's visual center is not the titled egress, but rather the bow of diamond-forms and supports that it frames.

With a base of dully orange-painted wheels, this work represents a portable American dream, a fantasy on wheels reflecting both the glittery consumer culture and real promise of American aspirations in the 1950s. We know not whether the stars are tumbling downwards or floating upwards; their fanciful arrangement reassures, yet their sharp edges make this fantasy menacing. In "Doorway," Smith shows American aspirations, warts and all--and the artfully clumsy, jerrybuilt support of its metal stars insistently reminds us of their real basis.

Judicious appropriations of other artistic styles are on display here but are always tempered by Smith's unique social background. "Doorway"'s exceptional craftsmanship and balance of elements recalls the ingenious arrangements of Alexander Calder's stabiles (grounded mobiles).

Just as Smith leaves behind the fantasy of primary colors which animates most of Calder's work, he also forsakes the Calderian motif of ingenious effortlessness. Produced in 1960 at the height of post-war economic prosperity, Smith's "Doorway" served notice on Americans that their consumer fantasies of self-fulfillment were only inspiring when left unsatisfied.

The powerful reflections rendered in these works make the title of Smith's exhibition--"This work is my identity"--all the more appropiate. Smith's simultaneous originality and centrality among abstract artists led him to problematize the notion of identity itself.

Smith's declaration that sculpture is "my way of life, my balance and my justification for being" articulates a courageous project. Smith did not regret this necessary "self-construction" as artificial, but accepted its burdens with a sense of responsibility.

David Smith's sculpture represents the promise of abstraction in sculptural forms, and ought to be required viewing for all those who consider themselves either too sophisticated or too earthy to appreciate non-representational art.