By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Khedoori's second solo show at David Zwirner is better than her first, which was already more than good enough. The drawings here are of a more consistent level, although unfortunately Khedoori has cut back on her colorhopefully only momentarily. Hopefully, because color adds a note of needed seductiveness to her spare, cerebral art.
Khedoori is a visionary minimalistan artist who depicts minimalism's three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. She draws on enormous sheets of paper that have the effect of immense miniatures, or mirages, shimmering in and out of sight: you do a lot of blinking and eye rubbing around her work. Her subjects are man-made places and things: doors, rooms, furniture, and buildings; all of them strikingly devoid of any sign of life. Although her pared-down images can be likened to the big, empty space of Ed Ruscha (without the irony), or the uninflected expanses of Vija Celmins, she is emerging as something like her generation's Agnes Martin: an artist of metaphysical refinement and restraint.
Some would say Khedoori's is an art of taste, that it lacks substance, or that it is just big, boring, and gimmicky. A lot of people just look at it and walk away. Like so much visionary art, her work is singularly lacking in humor; you miss Ruscha's wit. Khedoori's work is bare, even bland, but her temperament is so weird, and her approach to all the elements of her art so curious, that these huge, bone-dry things take on a Platonic weight that turns them into tabernacles of vision.
Her drawings have always seemed like perfect California art: drenched in the tangible, omnipresent, transfiguring light that is Los Angeles's treasure. It's all-light-all-the-time, and it's everywhere. It's the light that makes us envy themthe light that, in spite of their supposed dearth of "real" culture, makes them silently smug. Khedoori depicts this light as if it were a substantive thing. She places you in that strange, existential space that pervades Los Angeles, where you're alone a lot. The horizon slips away, points of reference blur, spaces in between have an implacable presence, and objects take on an intensity and a life of their own. Everything you see, you really seeor at least you think you do, because more often than not, there's no one there to confirm it. Khedoori's work makes all this palpable.
Her process has a certain '70s echo about it. Khedoori coats huge, Richard Serrasized panels of paper in viscous emulsions of synthetic wax, then scrapes them smooth with a razor. She selects an object, photographs it from multiple angles (or occasionally makes a model and photographs it), then she begins to draw. After numerous full-scale preparatory sketches, the final image is transferred directly onto the paper (she never draws on the surface). Then, with a workmanlike lack of bravura, she paints the image in oil paint, and staples the finished drawing directly to the wall.
Warts of wax, footprints (human and dog), loose staples, dust, and a flurry of hairs cover her surfaces in a witch's brew of reality. It gets a little formulaic, but this detritus functions like the threads in paper money: as authenticating marks. As in frescos, surface and image merge into one contiguous solidity. And while Serra's black drawings have a flat, dense materiality, Khedoori's work radiates an illustrative, translucent ethereality.
Khedoori, 35, sees with the eyes of an outsider, or a stranger: everything catches her attention, nothing is normal. She has an uncanny feel for duplication, and twonessor, more accurately, a more-than-oneness. In the past she has depicted a set of stairs, an array of windows, and a wall of doors. She has drawn singular objects with repeating patterns: a chain-link fence, a train, empty seats in an auditorium. Possessed of an enigmatic appreciation for the home, its psychologically charged spaces and transcendental geometries, she often projects her sense of doubling onto domestic architecture.
In the five untitled works at Zwirner, there are images of rooms, buildings, a skeletal model of a building (or a jungle-gym maze thing), and furniture. In one piece, Khedoori draws two doors on perpendicular wallsa corner of a room with doors leading to other equally empty rooms. One door is a quarter open, the other opens further. Space multiplies, and place goes quicksilver. An ominous, deserted air lingers. The construction of these rooms feels recent, unarticulated, and impermanentin other words, very Californian.
A sameness or a similarity pervades Khedoori's art. The two doors, windows, or whatever, may seem alike, but she knows, at a biological, almost phenomenological levelin the way that twins knowthat things that appear similar are in fact distinct. She has an intrinsic understanding of doubling and the duality of experience. That may be partly why her objects are not rooted on the paper, and inhabit a strange, disembodied, somewhat sculptural, almost supernatural space.