Where the Owls Spend their Days Installation View 2009 Alison Jacques Gallery London Where the Owls Spend Their Days Detail 2009 Alison Jacques Gallery London Where the Owls Spend Their Days Gallery View 2009 Alison Jacques Gallery London IMAGES: WEBSITES: CONTACT: GALLERIES: • New York • Stockholm / • Paris • London LINKS: VIDEOS: • You Tube: Interview for San Franciso Art Museum Via Skype video chat, sculptor Klara Kristalova explains the ways the magic and terror of childhood and the struggles of becoming an adult have shaped the subjects of her work. See more videos at • You Tube. From: Klara Kristalova (b. 1967, Czechoslovakia) studied at the Royal University College of Fine Art, Stockholm, Sweden. A skilled and imaginative storyteller, Klara Kristalova’s figurative sculptures are influenced by myth and fairy talkes and exude both an innocence and horror that recall childhood fantasy, dreams and nightmares.

Art critic Anders Olofsson has said of her work, “Klara Kristalova is a storyteller who uses the plasticity of sculpture to build small micro worlds, where something peculiar has just happened or is about to happen. Here she relates to a sculpture tradition that has its roots several hundred years in the past. In this tradition the three dimensional artwork is seen as a means of three dimensionally ‘educating’ the viewer in a realm inhabited by both the viewer and the artwork simultaneously through their common physical relationship to the room.” Kristalova’s exhibition history includes exhibitions at the Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, Sweden (1997); Site Santa Fe, New Mexico (2009); and the Santa Barbara Contemporary Arts Forum, California (2009), among others.

Recent exhibitions include White Blues at Kunstvereniging, Diepenheim, The Netherlands (2010); Larger than Life, Stranger than Fiction at the 11th Fellbach Small Sculpture Triennial, Germany (2010); The Magic of Clay, GI Holtegaard, Copenhagen, Denmark (2011); SFMOMA’s New Work Series (2011); solo exhibitions at Lehmann Maupin, New York, (2012); Galerie Perrotin, Paris, France (2012). Gladstone Gallery, New York, USA By Katie Sonnenborn While most of Chelsea opted for the de rigueur September solo show, the Gladstone Gallery played the maverick and returned from summer with ‘Makers and Modellers’, a teeming group exhibition of 29 artists working in clay. The material choice was unexpected and bold: with contemporary sculpture increasingly reliant on complicated fabrication and highly orchestrated production, ceramics become the antipode, a low-tech, handmade practice that is generally associated with craft or decorative arts.

To temper this perception Gladstone peppered the show with famous names not necessarily known for their clay work – Urs Fischer, Elizabeth Peyton – and maintained a firm, faintly derisive and certainly unnecessary distance between the works on view and those of ‘master potters and ceramicists’. The chosen artists ranged in age, stature and background, and contributed a diverse set of sculptures that were loosely arranged typologically: abstraction, assemblage, pseudo-functional, mythological or fanciful, and anatomical.

The sheer density of work made these themes difficult to absorb separately, and the effect was vaguely schizophrenic: a catch-all installation that bounced enthusiastically from one piece to the next and used such a capacious definition of clay that sometimes it did not even include clay (again, Urs Fischer and his ebullient, bulging vase of fresh lilies, That’s The Way It Is With The Magic. Sometimes It Works And Sometimes It Doesn’t (2000) made of materials including plaster, silicon and polyurethane foam). Nowhere was this zeal more evident than in the main gallery, where an extraordinary concentration of small sculptures on large pedestals vied for space. As a result, some compelling works were diminished, such as those of Klara Kristalova, a Czech-born artist who lives and works in Sweden. She exhibited small figurines – a women blindfolded, a man submerged in a pool of water, a blackbird in a tree – that evoked the rich, dark world of fairy tales.

Scattered among so many others statuettes, their enigmatic peculiarity was reduced, and the story embedded within, and between, them was stifled. Similarly, Rebecca Warren’s masterful, grotesque sculpture evoking Willem de Kooning in colour and form was easily passed over; and Jonathan Meese’s NeoExpressionist busts were denied the circumambulation they screamed out for. Elsewhere, Sam Durant’s deft political stance (a porcelain lawn chair titled Light Blue, Unique Mono-Block Resin Chair, Built at Jiao Zhi Studio, Xiamen, China, Produced by Ye Xing You with Craftspeople Xu Fu Fa and Chen Zhong Liang. Kang Youten, Project Manager and Liaison, 2006) was drowned out by the cluttered visual noise around it.

While these examples reveal the generally high quality of the work stowed within the close quarters, they also show how the clay theme encouraged formal interpretations that often trumped the individual intention or conception of particular sculptures. Within this context works that explored process and the physical characteristics of clay were particularly successful.

These include three Anish Kapoor sculptures from 1994 where the artist experimented with unfinished surfaces and investigated oppositions within the medium (interior/exterior, rough/shiny, glazed/ bare, open/closed). Like studies, they revealed some of the exploratory process absent in Kapoor’s more refined and polished work. At the other end of the spectrum were William O’Brien’s chaotic coiled pots.

Spiralling joyfully out of control, they joined a raucous collection arranged atop a large wooden table, Cinaedus Table MDCCLXXV (2007), that also included glitter shoes, star-catchers made of yarn, glassware, pine-cones, butterflies in jars, cacti, tinfoil, candlesticks and a gilded log, among other art and artefacts. Treasures or trash, O’Brien treated each object on an equal footing, and the sculptures emit a self-assured spirit reminiscent of Bruce Connor’s assemblages. Andrew Lord benefited from a display of 20 works from his series ‘ the bowery, August 7 p.m.’ (2007). Most were elements cast from his body – sole of foot, nape of neck, testicles, torso – that were loosely glazed in a grisaille palette and hung on the wall.

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The totality of Lord’s endeavour, the equanimity given to each part of the disassembled body and the omnipresent sense of New York’s melancholic streets gave the room a pulse by letting the project breathe. What the show did not answer was: why these art works now? With no unifying bent other than an oft-overlooked medium, the eclectic collection was unpredictable and entertaining, but it made no claim for a past, present or future state for clay. Rather, it began a process of assimilation into the mainstream, intimating that collectors and – judging from the number of works created this year – artists are hungry for straightforward, handmade works. Review: Klara Kristalova, “Sounds of Dogs and Youth” Adolescent Awkwardness Is Given An Animistic Twist. By Paul Laster A do-it-yourself ceramicist, Klara Kristalova was born in Czechoslovakia, but raised in Sweden by parents who were abstract artists that had escaped their country’s oppressive Communist rule. Growing up, Kristalova considered abstraction the highest form of art, and struck out initially as an interpreter of such before turning to ceramics.

She began making figurative works that were more poetic than perfect, which caught the art world’s fancy. For her first solo show in New York, Kristalova presents surreal sculptures made in glazed porcelain, stoneware and patinated bronze that portray the awkwardness of youth, which the artist envisions as dreamlike amalgams of human form with elements taken from animals, insects and trees. Skinny Girl, a seven-foot-tall bronze, captures a teenage girl with long branches for legs, a twig for a nose and a carved-pumpkin-like face, clearly a kid with identity issues.

Likewise, Deer depicts an adolescent girl with the eponymous creature’s head – an imaginary being not at home in either the wild or the real world. Kristalova further toys with reality through her use of found and fabricated furniture as bases for her pieces, which imparts a sense of playful domesticity to the proceedings. A girl’s head supported by her long, stiff tresses sits atop a round table, a five-legged child dangles her limbs off a barstool, and a hooded kid with the eyes of a fly and the beak of an owl stands on a chair—all vying precariously, it seems, for a place in an ever-changing society.

Czech-born artist klara kristalova now lives and works in Sweden. Her recently opened exhibit at Alison Jacques gallery is her first solo London show. Kristalova is known for working plaster, bronze, wood and ceramics to create small scale figures which often allude to ornamental objects. Through these pieces, she tells allegorical stories that reference fairytales and folklore.

For this show, Kristalova has created a tall display case which houses a number of ceramic sculptures. This case makes reference to the display of ornamental objects and also refers to the psyche, ‘signifying different states of mind’ through the objects. The materiality of these unsettling characters attempts to signify their ‘imagined social awkwardness and physical fragility’.

There are songs that are better, there are songs that are worse, there are songs that'll become your favorites and others you'll probably lift the needle for when their time is due. But in the end, Exile on Main Street spends its four sides shading the same song in as many variations as there are Rolling Stone readymades to fill them, and if on the one hand they prove the group's eternal constancy and appeal, it's on the other that you can leave the album and still feel vaguely unsatisfied, not quite brought to the peaks that this band of bands has always held out as a special prize in the past. The have never set themselves in the forefront of any musical revolution, instead preferring to take what's already been laid down and then gear it to its highest most slashing level. Along this road they've displayed a succession of sneeringly believable poses, in a tradition so grand that in lesser hands they could have become predictable, coupled with an acute sense of social perception and the kind of dynamism that often made everything else seem beside the point. Through a spectral community alchemy, we've chosen the Stones to bring our darkness into light, in each case via a construct that fits the time and prevailing mood perfectly. And, as a result, they alone have become the last of the great hopes. If you can't bleed on the Stones, who can you bleed on?

In that light, Exile on Main Street is not just another album, a two-month binge for the rack-jobbers and then onto whoever's up next. Backed by an impending tour and a monumental picture-book, its mere presence in record stores makes a statement. And as a result, the group has been given a responsibility to their audience which can't be dropped by the wayside, nor should be, given the two-way street on which music always has to function. Performers should not let their public make career decisions for them, but the best artisans of any era have worked closely within their audience's expectations, either totally transcending them (the Beatles in their up-to-and-including Sgt. Pepper period) or manipulating them (Dylan, continually).

The Stones have prospered by making the classic assertion whenever it was demanded of them. Coming out of Satanic Majesties Request, the unholy trio of 'Jumpin' Jack Flash,' 'Street Fighting Man' and 'Sympathy for the Devil' were the blockbusters that brought them back in the running.

After, through 'Midnight Rambler,' 'Honky Tonk Women,' 'Brown Sugar,' 'Bitch' and those jagged-edge opening bars of 'Can't You Hear Me Knocking,' they've never failed to make that affirmation of their superiority when it was most needed, of the fact that others may come and go but the Rolling Stones will always be. This continual topping of one's self can only go on for so long, after which one must sit back and sustain what has already been built. And with Exile on Main Street, the Stones have chosen to sustain for the moment, stabilizing their pasts and presenting few directions for their future. The fact that they do it so well is testament to one of the finest bands in the world. The fact that they take a minimum of chances, even given the room of their first double album set, tends to dull that finish a bit. Exile on Main Street is the Rolling Stones at their most dense and impenetrable.

In the tradition of Phil Spector, they've constructed a wash of sound in which to frame their songs, yet where Spector always aimed to create an impression of space and airiness, the Stones group everything together in one solid mass, providing a tangled jungle through which you have to move toward the meat of the material. Only occasionally does an instrument or voice break through to the surface, and even then it seems subordinate to the ongoing mix, and without the impact that a break in the sound should logically have.

One consequence of this style is that most of the hard-core action on the record revolves around Charlie Watts' snare drum. The sound gives him room not only to set the pace rhythmically but to also provide the bulk of the drive and magnetism. Another is that because Jagger's voice has been dropped to the level of just another instrument, burying him even more than usual, he has been freed from any restrictions the lyrics might have once imposed. The ulterior motives of mumbling aside, with much of the record completely unintelligible — though the words I could make out generally whetted my appetite to hear more — he's been left with something akin to pure singing, utilizing only his uncanny sense of style to carry him home from there.

His performances here are among the finest he's graced us with in a long time, a virtual drama which amply proves to me that there's no other vocalist who can touch him, note for garbled note. As for Keith, Bill and Mick T., their presence comes off as subdued, never overly apparent until you put your head between the speakers. Convert 2g To 3g Speed Software.

In the case of the last two, this is perfectly understandable. Wyman has never been a front man, and his bass has never been recorded with an eye to clarity. He's the bottom, and he fulfills his support role with a grace that is unfailingly admirable.

Mick Taylor falls about the same, chosen to take Brian's place as much because he could be counted on to stay in the background as for his perfect counterpoint guitar skills. With Keith, however, except for a couple of spectacular chording exhibitions and some lethal openings, his instrumental wizardry is practically nowhere to be seen, unless you happen to look particularly hard behind Nicky Hopkins' piano or the dual horns of Price/Keys. Msh Brain Fbl Software.

It hurts the album, as the bone earring has often provided the marker on which the Stones rise or fall. Happily, though, Exile on Main Street has the Rolling Stones sounding like a full-fledged five-into-one band. Much of the self-consciousness that marred Sticky Fingers has apparently vanished, as well as that album's tendency to touch every marker on the Hot 100. It's been replaced by a tight focus on basic components of the Stones' sound as we've always known it, knock-down rock and roll stemming from blues, backed with a pervading feeling of blackness that the Stones have seldom failed to handle well. The album begins with 'Rocks Off,' a proto-typical Stones' opener whose impact is greatest in its first 15 seconds.

Kicked off by one of Richards' patented guitar scratchings, a Jagger aside and Charlie's sharp crack, it moves into the kind of song the Stones have built a reputation on, great choruses and well-judged horn bursts, painlessly running you through the motions until you're out of the track and into the album. But if that's one of its assets, it also stands for one of its deficiencies — there's nothing distinctive about the tune. Stones' openers of the past have generally served to set the mood for the mayhem to follow; this one tells you that we're in for nothing new. 'Rip This Joint' is a stunner, getting down to the business at hand with the kind of music the Rolling Stones were born to play. It starts at a pace that yanks you into its locomotion full tilt, and never lets up from there; the sax solo is the purest of rock and roll. Slim Harpo's 'Shake Your Hips' mounts up as another plus, with a mild boogie tempo and a fine mannered vocal from Jagger. The guitars are the focal point here, and they work with each other like a pair of Corsican twins.

'Casino Boogie' sounds at times as if it were a Seventies remake from the chord progression of 'Spider and the Fly,' and for what it's worth, I suppose I'd rather listen to 'jump right ahead in my web' any day. After four sides you begin to want some conclusion to the matters at hand, to let you off the hook so you can start all over fresh. 'Soul Survivor,' though a pretty decent and upright song in itself, can't provide the kind of kicker that is needed at this point. It's typicality, within the oeuvre of the Rolling Stones, means it could've been placed anywhere, and with 'Let It Loose' just begging to seal the bottle, there's no reason why it should be the last thing left you by the album.

Still, talking about the pieces of Exile on Main Street is somewhat off the mark here, since individually the cuts seem to stand quite well. Only when they're taken together, as a lump sum of four sides, is their impact blunted. This would be all right if we were talking about any other group but the Stones.

Yet when you've been given the best, it becomes hard to accept anything less, and if there are few moments that can be faulted on this album, it also must be said that the magic high spots don't come as rapidly. Exile on Main Street appears to take up where Sticky Fingers left off, with the Stones attempting to deal with their problems and once again slightly missing the mark. They've progressed to the other side of the extreme, wiping out one set of solutions only to be confronted with another.

With few exceptions, this has meant that they've stuck close to home, doing the sort of things that come naturally, not stepping out of the realm in which they feel most comfortable. Undeniably it makes for some fine music, and it surely is a good sign to see them recording so prolifically again; but I still think that the great Stones album of their mature period is yet to come. Hopefully, Exile on Main Street will give them the solid footing they need to open up, and with a little horizon-expanding (perhaps honed by two months on the road), they might even deliver it to us the next time around.