Rarely do you go to an art show and not know how the image in front of you was made. Paintings, ceramics, drawing—these things we can understand. But “smoke on paper”? It takes a good search of Les Yeux du Monde to find a list of the media involved in Rob Tarbell’s latest show. Tarbell’s last exhibition, “The Struggles Play Nice,” was one of two installations hosted by Second Street Gallery in February. Kept in the smaller Dové Gallery, his eyeless, porcelain-infused animals (of the formerly “stuffed” variety) climbed the walls, sat atop pedestals or congregated at the foot of them, and generally appeared to be making mischief. But the overwhelming feature was Young Kim’s collection of salt tile portraits in Second Street’s main room, where low lighting on the serene faces ushered you quietly in or let you hauntedly out.
This time at Les Yeux du Monde, though Tarbell’s work is nowhere near the door, the space he takes up is vast, and each piece is more isolated and commanding—ghostly horses mid-gallop, or sitting with their legs sprawled awkwardly around them, surrounded by white space. The papers are huge, almost the entire height of the walls on which they are hung—big enough that the veils and small contortions of the smoke are easily visible. The sheets bear only the subtlest signs of human touch, the tiniest dings here and there. They are clean, but unmechanical.
Tarbell also gets points for hanging some of his “smokes” without frames. It is nice to have nothing between the paper and the eyes of spectators. And to appreciate them, you can’t just go to Tarbell’s website, or visit any of the other sites giving him press on the Web. Three hundred-odd pixels on a smooth computer monitor won’t cut it; you need 5′ of paper hung 5" from your face.
There has been a distinction made between spatial art (paintings, drawings and the like) and temporal art (music, film), and while I can agree with such distinctions on my less opinionated gallery visits, my trip to Tarbell’s exhibit is not one of them. You can see the time elapsing in these smoke drawings—particularly knowing, at last, how they are made. There is a clipping from the Richmond Times-Dispatch left on a John Casteen IV-crafted bookshelf that details Tarbell’s process: Paper is hung from the ceiling all Michaelangelo-esque (a belabored word for a belabored process) and he moves a strong flame some distance below. He got the idea while reading, in a post-divorce fugue state, that burning things helps. Tarbell’s invention is to harness that flame and make his process of creation manifest. Smoke rises of its own accord, ghosting the paper as it passes through. Though tamed into coherent images, the airy figures still appear wild on the page, or as circus animals that, though bridled, hold their own power, even beside their trainers.
