By Jonathan Ramos
By Juan De Anda
By Mollie McWilliams
By Juan De Anda
By Mollie McWilliams
By Juan De Anda
By Jonathan Curiel
By Alexis Coe
Shut out at Pac Bell Park and dissed by scalpers for the Giants' first home stand, I found another way to see the game at the sixth annual "Art of Baseball" show, "Crack of the Bat," at the George Krevsky Gallery on Geary. It's free. And more to the point, Krevsky is a seasoned fan of the game, no less a connoisseur of the national pastime than of 20th-century American art. He brings these twin passions together in a richly conceived exhibit of some 70 works spanning 50 years of baseball art and a century of its legends and lore.
Krevsky (who sported an Oakland A's cap and served Cracker Jacks at the opening) and his staff have curated a fascinating journey though the sport's art in diverse media -- collage, assemblage, photography, watercolor, oil, cigar-box art, cardboard painting, wood engraving, and artists' books. These works illuminate the game, its rich history, and its often troubled racial undercurrents. The better-known artists include Ben Shahn and Elaine de Kooning; a few pieces by WPA artists from the '30s and '40s are scattered throughout the show, but to his credit, Krevsky has focused on recent works by contemporary West Coasters.
Even Leonardo da Vinci knew something about baseball, as Charles Hobson demonstrates in his delightful accordion book of monotypes depicting the sequence of a single baseball play juxtaposed with quotes from da Vinci's notebooks. Here's one: "The first picture was nothing but a simple line drawn around the shadow of a man made by the sun on a wall." Hobson's soft-ground etching SUN (Fielder)illustrates the epigram through the image of an outfielder's balletic leap against a wall, the kind of leap that brings a capacity crowd to its feet with a roar.
Admission is free
Baseball art is accessible because it's both topical and nostalgic, and Krevsky has covered the bases in representing its subgenres: gesture and motion studies like Brett Gottschall's striking charcoal and pastel image of pitcher Bob Feller's windup (Feller Up); action narratives of great baseball moments like Christopher Felver's gelatin silver print of Barry Bonds -- Going for 600; and iconic portraits of the game's heroes and superstars. He even includes conceptual takes on its paraphernalia, rituals, and landscapes, accenting the geometry of nostalgia -- the ballparks and playing fields that burn their way into the heart of every American kid who has ever played the game and dreamed of its glories.
The wonder and terror of that rite of passage is portrayed in Sidney Goodman's graphically intense oil painting The Try Out, in which a naked batter takes a swing from the home plate of an ominously darkened ballpark, empty but for a lone umpirelike figure in the distance. A no-less-troubling version of that allegory of ambition and vulnerability is a small, deceptively simple painting on frayed cardboard by UC Berkeley artist and teacher Anthony Dubovsky titled Baseball and Empire II. It depicts a child with a bat, painted, Dubovsky tells me, a week before the U.S. invaded Iraq. Bush did own the Texas Rangers, but on the eve of war, Dubovsky says, "I needed a sensibility that acknowledges damage." In other words, Bush may once have shared every child's dream of victory, but that dream can turn warlike in combination with power.
From the antic side of the plate, there's local bail bondsman, filmmaker, and junk sculptor Jerry Barrish's Springtime for Santa in USA; his Santa is a red-necked ballplayer who resembles a tipsy, lankier cousin of the Michelin Man. Beat poet laureate Lawrence Ferlinghetti also takes a crack at the bat in his assemblage 7th Inning Stretch: Night Games, which features a pair of baggy pants with a miniature Louisville Slugger, wooden and firm, hanging from the crotch. I predict a knockoff will soon appear on the Internet as a marketing ploy for the hottest growth industry in cyberspace: pop-up penis-enlargement ads.
Baseball art is also about the open green space of the fields, the hometown attachments of fans, and the boundaries of what's foul and fair. One such locale is beautifully evoked in Rob Cox's Gone, an homage to Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. The image's focus is on Fenway's forbidding left-field wall -- the "Green Monster," as it's been dubbed by fans and sportscasters -- no less a monument in Beantown than Bunker Hill. This 37-by-240-foot barrier, made of 30,000 pounds of Toncan iron, is capped by a 27-foot screen, and for more than 60 years it has confounded left fielders who've tried to master its quirky fly-ball caroms. (Baseball is not pool.) In Cox's narrow, color field- esque vertical canvas, an outfielder with his back to the viewer squeezes his fist in frustration as a home-run ball soars over the Green Monster, headed for the red-and-white neon ARCO sign, another Boston landmark.
The show is full of baseball lore and social history. It's got Phillip Dewey's miniature collage-portraits of Negro League greats like "Smokey Joe" Williams and Leroy "Satchel" Paige framed in turn-of-the-century negative holders. Paige was baseball's Muhammad Ali, and first learned to pitch in an Alabama reform school. He made his major-league debut in his 40s as baseball's oldest rookie. A model of endurance and control, Paige pitched until he was 59. Dewey's collage captures his signature 150-degree pitching arc, set against a background of tiny matchbook-cover ads for Alka-Seltzer and Wrigley's Spearmint gum plastered on the outfield walls of a Negro League ballpark from the 1940s. There's a reason for those matchbox cutouts, an admiring fan told me at Krevsky's opening: He'd seen Paige's debut in the majors, and remembered his pre-game warm-up, in which Paige lobbed his patented pitches (among them the jump-ball, wobbly ball, midnight rider, and hesitation pitch) at matchboxes positioned in the strike zone of a mocked-up batter's box.