Julie Brown Smith in Straight Sets at Pharmaka

Lee Spiro

There's an intriguing group show entitled "Dear Mr. Saltz" closing soon at Pharmaka, a not-for profit, downtown L.A. gallery that has undertaken (pardon the pun) the task of resurrecting painting, declared dead by Ad Rhinehardt in the late1950s and, purportedly, having been buried shortly thereafter by Warhol. Speaking of whom, this show was mounted specifically in response to Saltz's critique of painters whose work is heavily informed by photography.

While Pulitzer nominated critic, Jerry Saltz, is clearly concerned about the preservation of painting (God bless him), and while his concern has (ironically) elicited an intensely negative response from the very committed painters in this show, and while Hockney, Thiebaud, Moses, Ruscha and others, including such notable younger artists as Elizabeth Peyton and Peter Doig have preserved painting in spite the domineering intellectual industry of conceptualism, and while Hockney in particular has provided scholarship that has redefined the formal analysis of Renaissance painting through his examination of the impact of lenses on said painting, and while this subject is certainly interesting, I can't recall having come across a contemporary painter who encapsulates - in each work - every major formal issue that has arisen in painting over the past half century or so, including the impact of photography, until seeing Julie Brown Smith's paintings at Pharmaka.

They are quiet, unpretentious black and white canvases: specifically, black acrylic ink on a white ground; hard edge images based on photos of ordinary people in ordinary places doing ordinary things. And, as if this isn't ordinary enough, unless you get right in the face of these paintings, the white ground reads dead flat and the black ink lays down like a hooker at a Vegas convention. The only thing flatter is a Frankenthaler stain painting. And, speaking of the mythic Greenbergian picture plane... Score one for Brown Smith.

But wait. These aren't abstract images, and they lean heavily on the painter's primary illusion: that of pictorial space. There's nothing flat about this. Now, if one looks carefully at the surface from an angle, you see that there are, indeed, little tiny brush strokes in the black acrylic ink, parallel strokes that play off each other like in a Cezanne: what the master called, "my little sensation." You know, the one he accused Gauguin of "stealing," as Johns did, with his Usuyuki and Cicada motifs. Post painterly abstraction anyone? Score another for Brown Smith.

Oh, I almost forgot about the titles, boldly stenciled on one slightly deeper than average edge of  each canvas, like labeling on a crate of military equipment, clearly calling one's attention to the fact that these babies have depth. It should also be noted that the edges are painted black, which by contrast makes the white ground of the front face look flat as a piece of paper. Nice passing shot Julie. Make that three for Brown Smith.

Moving right along, Brown Smith's use of a photographic style in the rendering of her images invokes Warhol, whose prototypical use of pop culture icons was a rebellion against what had, by then, become the institutionalized canon of high modernism. While invoking the presence of Warhol, Smith Brown, as mentioned earlier on, depicts ordinary people in ordinary places doing ordinary things: irony upon irony. Perfectly post-modern. What an overhead! Point, Brown Smith, once again.

Then there's the substantial negative space surrounding the images, in combination with the non-palette of back and white: a minimalist drop shot that catches you off guard and leaves you wondering how you ended up on the ground. And, we shouldn't overlook the asymmetrical grid implied by the photo booth filmstrip motif, like a blown up detail out of a Mondrian. Deep offensive lob... Time expands as the ball arches up and back. You're running like crazy to get there on time. Way back there now... how about the fact that the whole modern painting thing began with impressionism, largely in response to the proliferation of photography? Yeh baby, that's my kind of formalism. Game, set, match: Julie Brown Smith.

 She doesn't have a big serve. She doesn't need colors. She just keeps coming at you with deliberate, well placed returns. The art world's answer to Andre Agassi, she beats hell out of any attempt at dismissal with her absolute consistency from the base line.