The art of Jessica Jackson Hutchins has been known to befuddle upon
first glance: Her sculptures and works on paper can easily seem crudely
unfinished or confoundingly half-baked, when seen through unsympathetic
eyes. The rest of us, however, are captivated by the refreshing lack of
polish with which Hutchins sends her pieces into the world, serenely
comfortable with their dignified imperfections.
The title of her new show, Hours and Ours, suggests a
partnership that drags on against the indifferent passage of
time—a reading hardly negated by the exhibition’s 32 drawings
from 1999.
The verb tense of “Oh Yes We Were Fucking!” suggests both a present
dearth of said activity, and a provoked confession. The drawing’s
small, glittered rectangle has double-bed proportions, but refuses to
spill any other secrets. In “Suicide King,” a playing-card monarch’s
crown and raised arm are isolated, his sword-through-head gesture left
intact. Relieved of his facial identity, though, the one-time king is
little more than an implosive and impotent figurehead. “Arrest” sports
another sort of monarch: a luminous butterfly illustration. But instead
of being affixed to the paper with glue or Scotch tape, the fragile
creature is pinned to the paper by a leaden strip of gray duct tape
that bisects one of its wings.
Hours and Ours also features three new sculptures and a
recent video. “Still Life: Chair, Bowl, and Vase,” exemplifies the sort
of abject intimacies characteristic of Hutchins’ best work. Using a
tattered armchair as a base, the artist bulked up the chair’s surface
with chickenwire and papier-mâché, creating a lumpy and
unsightly growth that spills over the seat and arms. The rolling blobs
and valleys, however, cradle the piece’s titular, handmade bowl and
vase, both of which look safe and at home, despite the chair’s
superficial imperfections. In fact, they create something of a perfect
balance.
Hutchins’ video in the back gallery, “Sun Valley Road Trip,” is
perhaps Hours and Ours‘ most subtle work, but it, too, reveals
complex explorations of relationships in surprising ways. See for
yourself: The themes emerge from the piercing howls of the crying baby,
the tender, wordless feeding scene, and the foothills outside the car,
as majestic—but more emotionally true—than any mountain
Alfred Bierstadt ever rendered.