The Valley

Bill Sandusky makes largish Photorealist nudes, some in oil, others in pastels. We see coiffed and manicured Asian and Caucasian women who look as if they’d be right at home (with more clothes on) at any of Venice’s hip cafes. Here they lounge alone or in pairs on overstuffed chairs, bar stools and love seats or look wistfully away from us in dramatically lit interiors. The sensibility is not erotic nor is it the left-handed nudity we see in work like David Salle’s. What comes to mind is a late ‘80s version of those languid harem scenes done when Romanticism was fascinated with things naughty and exotic. Docile bare-breasted beauties may have titillated the 19th Century; today, paintings of nude women sitting around clutching pillows stand the risk of being called insipid objectifications of the gender. Zandusky turns the emotional component almost off: These gals don’t talk, interact, feel or suffer, they just sit there and look sexy. Further, his technique, though commendable in its ability to capture pink and golden light dancing on flesh is just not powerful enough to stand as a justification in its own right. What we’re left with is women who quietly strut their stuff as if before a camera lens. Though many may find these beguiling creatures enjoyable, viable art really needs to go a step or two further than the look, function and philosophy of magazines. (Orlando Gallery, 14553 Ventura Blvd. to Nov. 27.)