Continuing through March 30, 2013
Though the compositions of Chicago-based artist Peter Karklins’ miniature-sized drawings are determined by the dimensions of a pocket notebook page, they’re by no means mere sketches. The fulsome, overworked surfaces have wrinkled under the constant, compulsive pressure of the graphite that has wrought Karklins’ obsessively repeated imagery. Masses of slithering, genital-like biomorphs dominate these works, some gelling to form seeping figures or nightmarish landscapes, while others are simply gruesome, all-over seas of anonymous organs.
The fronts of Karklins’ drawings recall the nature and horror of the romantic painters of art history, their organic content and compositions in stark contrast to the calculated notations that occupy the backside of these works. Notes, signatures and occasional psalms are commingled with addresses, dates and times that resemble the clocking-in of a time card, evidence of the wee small hours of the artist’s shifts as a security guard in which these tremendous, minuscule worlds are created.