The Sisyphean task of art.

SPENCER FINCH: WHAT TIME IS IT ON THE SUN?

MASS MOCA

NORTH ADAMS, MASSACHUSETTS

MAY 26, 2007-MARCH 31, 2008

After the monochromatic canvases of Kasimir Malevich, Helio Oiticica, and Robert Ryman, it might be difficult to envision an artist who could make an entirely white work of two dimensions seem novel. But Spencer Finch, whose exhibition, "What Time Is It on the Sun?," currently occupies the entire first floor of MASS MoCA, has accomplished just that. His "white" drawings, which include Sun (August 27, 2001) (2001), created by exposing a sheet of paper to the sun from dawn to dusk, suggest that there is far more to the world than can be discerned at first glance. The result of this long exposure is a barely perceptible warping that stands as a testament to the power of otherwise invisible sunlight. It reminds us that for much of history, one of the more noble goals of art was to inspire sustained meditation on the elusive brilliance of nature. Finch's art does this and more.

Fittingly, the show's title is derived from Ludwig Wittgenstein, as Finch's experiments bear witness to the ineffable nature of all sensory perception. It was Wittgenstein who stated, "If a lion could talk, we would not understand him," proposing that how one perceives and thus describes the world is entirely individual. This philosophical truth is borne out in two of Finch's endeavors from 1995, the installation "Studio Interior (Odor of the Gowanus Canal Six Attempts), August 7, 1995," and the painting Grand Canyon from Walhalla Plateau with My Eyes Closed (morning, late morning, noon, evening effects, October 16/17, 1995). In "Studio Interior," Finch tries to recreate the smell of the polluted water outside his Brooklyn studio, using pastels to create six multi-hued squares that range from a fiery yellow to a corrosive gray. But Finch's "attempts" (as he rightfully refers to them) at synesthesia are ultimately that: mere attempts. A tactile person might find these images too flat to recall what once viscerally overwhelmed them; a visual person might find Finch's pea-green the perfect olfactory invocation of something putrid, yet find his purple inoffensive. No descriptive system seems quite right. In Grand Canyon, Finch tries to capture the view of that iconic landscape through his eyelids, and renders it as a palpably heated blend of reddish-brown brushstrokes that seemingly pulse and hum. Here, in using a visual medium to recreate a visual effect, one might be tempted to think that Finch comes closer to achieving a universal point of view. But, like Wittgenstein's queries, Finch's witty trials reveal just how subjective seeing through our own eyes really is.

The influence of Eastern philosophy is also present, particularly the contemplation of nature's transience and the futility of trying to recreate its beauty in art. Like a Buddhist koan, Finch's best work turns our attention to the evanescent, entreating one to revel in the moment. One such series, "Peripheral Error (After Moritake) Cymothoe Coccinata" (2004), comprised of ten watercolors of vividly-colored butterflies that float upon each white paper's periphery, is accompanied by haiku: "The falling flower/I saw drift back to the branch/was a butterfly." The combination underscores humankind's error in looking and thus presuming too quickly, and more obviously expresses regret that one did not observe such fragile creatures take flight first-hand. Likewise, Rainbow (Brooklyn) (2002), comprised of two photographs in which Finch recorded where he once saw the arched spectrum begin and end (but not the rainbow itself), betrays the camera's reputed skill in "capturing" a moment or a memory.

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Finch's electronically dependent multimedia work is arguably more obscure. "Composition in Red and Green" (2000), in which mechanically propelled red apples drop onto a field of green Astroturf, is a clever lovechild of Marcel Duchamp and Clement Greenberg, but the predictable 5-minute interval thud makes a paltry substitute for the truly random thumping of an apple tree in a windstorm. In "Two Hours, Two Minutes, Two Seconds (Wind at Walden Pond, March 12, 2007)" (2007), in which forty-four fans recreate the famous pond's air currents, the overly cumbersome apparatus needed to reconstruct such ephemeral phenomena seems absurd. But this is precisely Finch's point: to try to recreate what so effortlessly, so gracefully, occurs in nature is the Sisyphean task of art.

In the end, it is Finch's comprehension of color's intense, persistent presence, as well as its power to "color our perception" that is most exceptional. In 102 Colors from My Dreams (2000-2002), Finch recorded his dreams and attempted to mix the predominant color he recalled. The Rorschach-like splotches span the spectrum from a dull blond called "Medieval Scandinavian Architecture" to a pale blue "Waffle," the frequently illogical subtitles reinforcing how impossible it is to describe the psychological. The visual beauty of his efforts, however, is reward enough. Similarly, "CIE 529/418 (candlelight)" (2007), a site-specific work for the museum, may not fulfill its goal of simulating a flame's glow, but the ethereal feeling of this new millennium--albeit a poor man's--cathedral will make one want to linger.

ALISIA G. CHASE. PhD, is an assistant professor in the art department at the State University of New York at Brockport.