William Scharf, The Giver Threatened (1993), acrylic on canvas, 68 x 77″; courtesy Hollis-Taggart Galleries
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The following review was originally published in the February 16, 2004 edition of The New York Observer and is posted here on the occasion of “William Scharf: Imagining the Actual“, an exhibition that recently closed at Hollis-Taggart Galleries.
The last time New Yorkers had the opportunity to see the paintings of William Scharf was a couple of years back when they were included in “Painting Report; Plane: The Essential of Painting”, an exhibition of four artists seen at the P.S. 1 Contemporary Art Center–MoMA. Mr. Scharf didn’t make much of an impression. His large, floating conglomerations of biomorphic blips were pleasantly out of place amid the surrounding clatter typical of the Long Island City institution. The paintings came off as tepid rehashes of the sort of Jungian pictograph produced in Manhattan in the middle of the last century. It seemed obvious that Mr. Scharf had been included in the exhibition as a favor to a friend, as an exercise in curatorial privilege–artistic talent had nothing to do with it.
Or so I supposed. Upon encountering Mr. Scharf’s recent pictures, on display at the Richard York Gallery, I did a whiplash-inducing double take. Was this the same William Scharf? The Surrealist-inspired mood was vaguely familiar, but that was about it. Nothing prepared me for the lurid pull of the paintings, the velvety palette and glowing, spongy light. Each image is a languid collision of contradictory events. Blissful biomorphs and invasive geometry; arid surfaces and livid color; open atmosphere and confined spaces; Symbolist reverie and visceral excess–there’s no getting a hold of these paintings. They keep shifting and transforming right under your gaze. They don’t sit still.
William Scharf, The Sigh Weapons (2002-06), acrylic on canvas, 56 x 32″; courtesy Hollis-Taggart Galleries
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They don’t always sit well, either. Mr. Scharf refuses to square the belligerent elements that populate the paintings. Each canvas clunks along like the hodgepodge it is. Like other artists with a mystical bent–William Blake, say, or Arthur Dove and William Baziotes–Mr. Scharf is intent on tapping into otherworldly forces; tightening composition is a lesser priority. Mr. Scharf cuts a fascinating figure: He’s unclassifiable, florid, frustrating–and not in need of favors. I recommend the art and, more so, the artist. We should all be so singular and true.
© 2004 Mario Naves