After learning of the exhibition “Presence” at the UNT Art Gallery (on view through September 26th) and reading Tracee W. Robertson’s curators statement I was eagerly anticipating the opportunity to view the show in person. Her essay is an insightful investigation into the normally accepted notion of presence of self, which is most commonly expressed in art in a physical sense. Robertson argues that “In the end the self, itself, is absent, made present in utterances of language and image.” And “when we encounter something now that touches us—sounds, aromas or sights that elicit wordless recognition—we feel connected, inspired or complete.” She also won me over by quoting Donald Kuspit. Yet upon arriving I was still not fully prepared for the absence that Robertson investigates and the emptiness knocked me flat. The silence of the gallery fills the work, uniting them in solemnity. The images become grave eulogies for self lost, vignettes of despair. The artists search in vain to recapture a former self, scratching at surfaces that will not yield the fruit so desired.

René Francisco, Erró la Perspectiva, 2008, Oil on canvas, 83 x 99 inches

The influence of the “house party phenomenon of the 2008 presidential campaigns” on the show is most apparent in René Francisco’s painting “Hope”, which should have been an Obama campaign poster (well maybe not, because although the word “hope” may appear it portrays quite the opposite). Faceless drones in existential mass cover her canvases underneath Big Brother-esque messages of control. The most interesting is “Erró la Perspectiva.” In this work, the words begin to form structures and take on a life of their own. We have to seek out each letter which in turn reengages with the surrounding figures.

Teresa Rafidi’s photographs dominate the room and are the best representation for Robertson’s ideas. Rafidi opens portals into her lost dimensions of reality. She suggests the unseen — ghosts of her former self that fluctuate between states of consciousness. In photos such as “Hood,” “Loveseat,” and “Connect” she captures time mid-journey, proving it possible to revisit a self once thought lost. Nothing remains solid through her eyes, matter and time are porous, malleable to her will, she travels where and when she pleases. She becomes a Billy Pilgrim documenting her mythic journey through time, searching for meaning in moments most are afraid to revisit.

Teresa Rafidi, Hood, 2009, Archival pigment print, 40 x 40 inches

Rafidi’s absence is not emptiness or loneliness. She detaches her emotional response to each place, her photographs reflecting a strong stoicism that patiently anticipates our own. This allows the image to change according to our temperament at the time of viewing—a mood ring flattened and framed. Her pictures speak of vacuity, spaces between moments yet to be identified and cataloged, like a flashing image of a previous night’s dream which we fail to ever grasp and remains tantalizingly just out of reach. Her best work to date.

Florencia Levy taps into that well spring of genius that is Robert Ryman. White on white – oh baby. The subtle manipulations of shape in her white paintings vibrate with the soft sterile glow of an operating room light. The simple planes defining intimate interior spaces remind me of the Dan Graham glass environments recently seen in his retrospective at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles. However the beauty of these paintings is lost in the installation. The surrounding works dominate these passive pieces and allow them to easily fall into the background. One is left to wonder how exactly to exhibit such delicate paintings that are so greatly affected by neighbors? A problem I’m sure Levy encounters in any group exhibit.

Photo: Ric Martin

The lone film, Levy’s “Turismo Local/Local Tourism” presents scenes from different places she visited in her native Buenos Aires allegedly through the fresh eyes of a first time visitor. She documents this experience in a diary form, a slide show of hotel rooms, lobbies, vacant spaces awaiting her presence. The film feels as cold as her paintings; she has removed emotion from it. The piece lacks the enthusiasm of a true tourist who experiences places for the first time, and her encounters function more as an inventory. The well-composed shots seem to work better as singular images. Despite the initial impression of emotionless-ness of the piece, the images reflect an ambiance or nostalgia reminiscent of the town in Fellini’s Amarcord and the apartment shared in Bertulucci’s Last Tango in Paris. But the reference is fleeting, only enough to remind me that it is time leave and watch these films again.

This is an ambitious exhibition in which Robertson showcases her strength as a curator. It is worth the trip to Denton. It is also helpful to reference Robertson’s statement.