Steve Riedell
Larry Becker Contemporary Art
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
April 2 - May 22, 1999

Steve Riedell's paintings are soft-hued, human-scaled, minimalistic works that call to mind a host of art historical references including Brice Marden's waxy monochromatic surfaces, Donald Judd's geometrically precise three-dimensional wall-based constructions, and Jasper John's slippery visual codes. But more interestingly, one viewer noted a connection between Riedell's work and the paintings of Edward Hopper—possibly detecting a resonance with the moody sense of isolation so palpable in Hopper's most memorable and successful pieces. It is this transcendent sensibility and ability to imply a range of subjective experiences through simple manipulations of color, light, and form that drives Riedell's pieces beyond ironic reference into an arena of tightly held, and highly effective personal content. On a cursory viewing Riedell's work seems simple and obvious; on closer inspection his pieces unfold to suggest long-past times and places that have been distilled into iconic solids redolent with longing, melancholy, and emotional evolution. This feeling is reinforced by some of Riedell's titles —Paris, Fire Island Walk, Los Angeles 1985, David's Place —titles that seem to function as shorthand for rambling bittersweet narratives far too personal and too disconnected from language to ever be verbally spoken.

Physically, Riedell's pieces can be described as relief paintings that employ primary forms—mostly horizontal and vertical rectangular elements with some diagonal members—to suggest architectural structures: doors, windows, fences, bricks, and boards. This strategy is most discernible in Double Window (1998), Los Angeles 1985 (1998), David's Place (1999), and Dutch Haven (1999). Other works—Stimso (1999), Bainbridge (1999), and both versions of Via Colinas (1998)—are less obviously referential, demonstrating the power of fragments as conduits of broad and intense experience. These leaner vehicles seem to carry just as much—perhaps more—content than the more representational work in the show.

Many of the pieces are smallish—around 3 by 2 feet. The size is physically manageable and it psychologically reinforces the sense of intimacy and contemplation that pervades the exhibition. This quality is further enhanced by the show's unusual installation—most of the work is hung well below eye-level implying exposure and vulnerability.

Formally and structurally, Riedell's pieces examine the conditions that distinguish painting and sculpture. However, his practice is not a rehash of the Greenbergian guidelines of exclusion— instead he seems to revel in the late-twentieth century melding of these historically disparate categories. To construct these works, Riedell uses palette knives and toothy cloth rags to develop oil and beeswax surfaces on flat pieces of canvas. These encrusted canvas "skins" are then cut and applied to the faces of simple geometric wooden armatures that Riedell has built following intuitive dictates rather than formal ones. Traces of the making process remain visible in many of the works. The exposed cut-edge of the canvas functions as a delicate line revealing a minuscule woven zig-zag supporting a thin line of exposed underpainting—a subtle detail that becomes an entry point into the work's anatomy. (In two recent pieces—Bainbridge (1999) and Stimso (1999)—all exposed edges have been covered with paint, effectively sealing the works' history and imbuing the pieces with an added sense of mystery and isolation).

The relationship of the painted skin to the armature is intimate: Riedell develops both aspects of the work simultaneously with their eventual marriage predestined and preordained. However, it is not a marriage of equals—in these works paint plays a dominant role. The uniformity of the surface dissolves into complicated textures composed of ripples, splotches, scratches, burrs, fibers, impressions, flecks, and cakes—the nature of paint is assertive and proud. The seeming uniformity of Riedell's color is likewise a ruse—the subtle tones are highly modulated but within tightly controlled parameters giving his color a fugitive quality—hard to name and even harder to consciously retain. As soon as a color is identified, it seems to shift and become something else—a chameleon effect that functions as a potent metaphor for the nature of memory which ultimately seems to be the essence of Steve Riedell's work.

Mr. Riedell can be contacted at mossmore@aol.com

This article originally appeared in Art Papers Magazine Vol. 23, No. 4, July/August, 1999.© 1999-2001, dan r. talley, all rights reserved.