I first heard of Kevin McNamee-Tweed from poet Bradley King, who told me they both admired Joe Brainard’s art and writing. Shortly after, I received the monograph Kevin McNamee-Tweed: ceramic paintings (2020) from dealer Steve Turner in Los Angeles. It includes an essay by the painter John Dilg, who was McNamee-Tweed’s professor at the University of Iowa and whose work I have written several times. Although they have little in common stylistically, the two artists are tonal colorists who share a love for celadon green. Both combine imagination, memory and observation with their appreciation of the American vernacular and work in their respective mediums on a modest scale, eschewing the post-easel model associated with modern and contemporary painting in New York and Los Angeles.
For years, artists working on this small scale were not seen as ambitious – a prejudice that still persists in some quarters. In moving away from this narrow sense of history, artists as varied as Brainard, Dilg, Lois Dodd, Thomas Nozkowski and Richard Mayhew have pursued idiosyncratic trajectories. It is to this distinguished company that McNamee-Tweed belongs, and why I went to see the exhibition Kevin McNamee-Tweed as Pilcrow at Duton.
The 113 works in the exhibition can be roughly divided between irregular rectangular glazed ceramic plates that are mounted on the wall and bowls, cups and vases. The largest ceramic slab measures less than eight by seven inches, while many objects measure around two or three inches in height or less than five inches in diameter.
All glazed ceramic slabs are pictorial. If it is possible to disentangle various groupings, such as still lifes or nature, it negates the pleasure of seeing all the different types of images the artist offers. Here, I think, the comparison with Brainard seems accurate. McNamee-Tweed seems to draw inspiration from many sources. More importantly, he transforms the source material or inspiration into something that stands on its own, which is not so different from Brainard, who synthesizes his collage material in fresh and surprising ways that supersede their sources. Looking at McNamee-Tweed’s work, I could never recognize the source and didn’t care. On the contrary, I immersed myself in the appreciation of the harmonious combination of craftsmanship with quirky humor, homages and imaginary situations. The fruitfulness of the artist’s imagination is a pleasure in itself. Each piece is unique; he cares little for stylistic unity. There are no signature pieces.
Using a pointed instrument, McNamee-Tweed incises a design into the clay. Through paint and glazes, he arrives at an image composed of multiple colors and clearly defined areas. Disinterested in the kind of perfection associated with factory-made ceramic tiles and vases, many of the works have a speckled surface, like a blackheaded teenager, which, paradoxically, adds to their charm.
Beneath the row of ceramic tiles, which wrap the length of the gallery, are low, unfinished wooden benches holding the artist’s cups, bowls and plates. He wants viewers to consider the physical texture and material weight of objects, lean in and look more carefully. The dark, unpainted wood demands a close look, as many objects are earth-toned and almost blend in at first glance.
In “Frog Hop” (2023), a dark green frog with a large white oval belly stands out against a mustard yellow background. Standing on its folded back legs, it holds its front legs in the air. It seems like a gesture of human resignation, contradicted by the slight smile and the big eyes. As simple, direct and lighthearted as “Frog Hop” seemingly is, there’s more going on than meets the eye. That’s why I want to watch again.
In “Cherub with Writer’s Block” (2023), McNamee-Tweed reinvents the classic pose of Auguste Rodin’s large bronze sculpture “The Thinker” (1904) – a seated muscular nude man with his hand on his chin, full contemplation. Facing and dressed in a white toga, the cherub leans his right hand against the side of his face and rests his left arm on an empty sheet of paper. A cherub who is a writer — the sweet absurdity of the situation is one of the many places of introspection of the artist where the work transports me. Why would a cherub – a character not known to be self-aware – have writer’s block?
If the sweet absurdity returns in the work of McNamee-Tweed, this does not exclude the pathos and the enigmas. In “Lemon Tree” and its smaller twin, “Lemon on the Tree (Looking)” (2023), we see part of the brown lemon tree along the right edge. Near the middle is the lemon, extending from a short branch, like an eye; inside is an eye – a large white cornea with a black pupil. In the shell, a long white drop falls from the cornea. What is this fluid that is not a tear? In small work, the lemon-eye looks at us.
These two works are in dialogue with “Œil-ballon” by Odilon Redon (1878), a charcoal drawing of a hot-air balloon in the shape of an eye rising above a marshy field, with a severed head on a plate instead of the gondola. The eye looks upwards towards infinity. McNamee-Tweed’s lemon eye stares at the viewer, a yellow orb against a blue sky. The images of the two artists are enigmatic, but in the latter case, we have no idea what he is looking for. Redon wrote of his work:
My originality consists in giving life, in a human way, to improbable beings and making them live according to the laws of probability, by putting – as far as possible – the logic of the visible at the service of the invisible.
McNamee-Tweed expands on Redon’s ambitions, but walks away from his augury. His work is more cheerful, but no less serious. Working on sheets of clay, he makes paintings, cups and bowls that we probably won’t use because their miniature scale seems more appropriate for Alice in Wonderland. What is most satisfying about his work is that he hasn’t lost his sense of wonder.
Kevin McNamee-Tweed as Pilcrow continues at Dutton (127 Eldridge Street, Lower East Side, Manhattan) through July 2. The exhibition was organized by the gallery.
