Vessels of Change for a Once Solely Utilitarian Craft

At Frank Lloyd Gallery, a well-chosen group of major works and minor masterpieces by John Mason, Ken Price and Peter Voulkos treats viewers to a legendary slice of art history. Even better, the 12 ceramic sculptures and vessels that make up this satisfying show still resonate today, confirming that although expectations about art constantly change, terrific works endure.

It isn’t difficult to imagine the shocking, revolutionary impact the objects by these three members of the movement known as Otis Clay had when they were first shown in the 1950s and ‘60s. Almost single-handedly, Voulkos transformed ceramics from a utilitarian craft dedicated to the construction of hand-held objects to a large-format art form whose ambitions and achievements equaled those of painting and sculpture. Mason and Price swiftly followed suit, confounding distinctions between the fine arts and the decorative arts by making uncategorizable works that appeared, simultaneously, to be both and neither.

The show’s centerpiece is a pair of stoneware doors that were made in 1962 and served as the main entrance to the home of the late actor and art collector Sterling Holloway. At once decorative and functional, Mason’s two-sided work has the presence of a three-dimensional painting that welcomes visitors by inviting them to walk through its picture-plane.

The doors’ exterior consists of 48 sections, each about 1 foot square, whose organic architecture forms a richly textured relief that catches and reflects sunlight as it casts an ever-changing dance of shadows. Inside, Mason dispenses with the formality of the grid, combining dozens of oddly shaped slabs of clay in the shape of a giant letter H. Echoing the outline of the doors’ frame, while serving as a larger-than-life-size monogram for the home’s owner, this side of the sculpture is animated by a fluid, calligraphic energy that belies its weighty monumentality.

Suffused with a more primal type of vitality, Mason’s “Untitled Vertical Sculpture” from 1960 has the presence of a pillar made of the living vertebrae of some powerful prehistoric creature. Likewise, the largest of Price’s four pieces, a stout, dazzlingly glazed dome, combines the solidity of a fireplug with the menace of an overcrowded beehive. Through a small opening in its pockmarked surface appears a handful of wormy, serpentine forms that recall a nest of writhing snakes.

But for raw, daunting vigor, neither Price’s sexy sculptures nor Mason’s solid structures can match Voulkos’ meaty works. Three tabletop pieces from the early 1960s compress so much physical punch into their compact formats that it’s hard to believe that none measures more than 20 inches on a side.

A vaguely rectangular plate looks as if it had crashed to Earth like a meteorite, or was forged from twisted scraps of shrapnel. It has the forcefulness of much larger Abstract Expressionist paintings, but is free of the pretentious solemnity that quickly attached itself to that style.

An aggressively sexual vase seems more at home among cannonballs than blossoming flowers. And the third, untitled work, whose surface has the texture of a crude burlap sack, slumps casually on a shelf--as if lying in wait for the next unsuspecting viewer who prefers the utility of conventional crafts to the risky unpredictability of art.

* Frank Lloyd Gallery, Bergamot Station, 2525 Michigan Ave., Santa Monica, (310) 264-3866, through Oct. 3. Closed Sundays and Mondays.

*

The Long View: Miles Coolidge’s mesmerizing photographs represent something of a breakthrough for the 35-year-old artist, establishing him as one of the more talented photographers of his generation. Unlike his earlier color prints, which crisply depict the interiors of garages and elevators or the streets of Safetyville (a two-thirds-scale stage set of a town where schoolchildren learn to cross the street safely), Coolidge’s new pictures of California’s Central Valley are curiously hazy. They marry a captivating exploration of an extraordinary landscape to an astute study of visual perception.

Each of his six images at ACME Gallery (along with a similar group that is simultaneously being shown in New York) depicts nothing but what’s out there: acre after acre of flat, fertile farmland, interrupted only by telephone poles, trees, trailer homes and scattered machinery. What’s amazing about the artist’s utterly unembellished photographs is the way their format, scale and quality of light come together to allow viewers to see a lot more than meets the eye.

Only 10 inches high and more than 10 feet long, Coolidge’s pictures initially invite you to see them as sweeping panoramas, all-encompassing overviews that fill at least 180 degrees of your visual field. But after a moment or two of careful looking, it becomes clear that these vast landscapes share less with traditional panoramas than with an entirely original type of tunnel vision.

Your eyes do not glide across a horizon-hugging photograph by Coolidge as much as they get pulled into its deceptive depths. To scrutinize one of these works is to feel as if you’re looking at the world as the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel--except that you never feel cramped, claustrophobic or put off by the distance.

Because the terrain they portray is so flat, hundreds of yards--sometimes even several miles--separate objects that appear to be right next to one another. As a result, these works wreak havoc with the accuracy of your depth perception, occasionally creating the sensation that you can see beyond the horizon.

Although such a feat is logically impossible, it goes hand in hand with Coolidge’s capacity to make the exceptionally unromantic landscape of industrial-scale farming look absolutely beautiful. While the stunning light, sensuous textures and gorgeous palettes of his photographs may not belong to a world that’s too good to be true, they certainly depict one that’s too weird to be ignored.

* ACME Gallery, 6150 Wilshire Blvd., (323) 857-5942, through Oct. 3. Closed Sundays and Mondays.

*

Stone Walls: Shane Hassett’s second solo show at Blum & Poe Gallery presents itself as a comprehensive investigation of the decorative stone walls that can be found on storefronts and homes all across Los Angeles. Made up of a three-minute film, a looped video projection, a pair of oddly proportioned paintings, five color photographs and six medium-size drawings, this doggedly coherent body of work appears to be more interested in milking an unambitious idea for all it’s worth than in delivering any insights into what these architectural embellishments from the 1950s and ‘60s might mean today.

Hassett begins his five-part project by photographing mostly single-story stores and offices whose facades include a decorative stone component. All of these buildings are unoccupied and appear to be out of business. There’s nothing remarkable about the artist’s photographic technique: His color snapshots are made with the studied casualness that is preferred by nth generation Conceptualists, who believe in downplaying artistry in order to emphasize weighty ideas and serious content.

To make the second part of his project, Hassett traces enlarged outlines of the stone veneers on proportionate pieces of rag board, adding some shading to give the rocks a touch of 3-D illusionism. Titled “Ruins,” these drawings recall a series of prints John Baldessari made in the 1970s, which pairs actual snapshots with enlarged sketches of a silhouette or two lifted from the accompanying photo. Unfortunately, Hassett’s remake of Baldessari’s prints replaces the deft playfulness of the original with the dreary portentousness of overwrought academicism.

The remaining three parts of Hassett’s exhibition offer variations on his drawings and photographs, while delivering little of interest. Two clunky paintings on panel, which measure nearly 16 feet long, follow the lines draftsmen use to indicate perspectival recession. A 16mm film depicts nothing but a stone facade’s close-up, and a repetitive sequence of videotaped scenes shows the back of a man as he runs toward a few dozen buildings.

In the end, Hassett’s fascination with decorative stonework is conveyed to viewers so abstractly and dispassionately that it’s unlikely anyone would be compelled to share it. Art does not have to begin with good ideas, but it does have to go somewhere if it’s to take anyone with it.

* Blum & Poe Gallery, 2042 Broadway, Santa Monica, (310) 453-8311, through Oct. 3. Closed Sundays and Mondays.