Our critics weigh in on local exhibits

"Beaut Brute." Al Pacino's Scarface would approve. Taro Hattori's latest installation is a gangster's dream décor. The walls are lined with a row of assault rifles painstakingly constructed out of see-through plastic. In the center, two more rifles, of mirrored glass, lie casually atop a card table, also mirrored and trimmed in shaggy white fake fur. Above, the wall is draped with bunches of equally reflective, oversize grapes on fuzzy white vines, a cheap, disco-ized nod to the superabundance and amorality of Roman antiquity. The only thing missing is a few lines of coke. You could read Beaut Brute's exaggerated tackiness as a critique of the glamorization of violence, if the installation itself weren't guilty of same. By turning weapons into objets d'art, Hattori reminds us not only how we aestheticize mayhem, but also that guns are consumer goodies like anything else. Perhaps if the execution were a bit more streamlined, a little less funky, Hattori's intent would be clearer. The guns hover somewhere between coldly beautiful art and water guns on steroids. This ambivalence may ultimately be their message. Such products are really just exquisite toys for overgrown boys -- as in "Say hello to my little friend." Through Jan. 31 at Rocketworld, 660 22nd St. (at Third Street), S.F. Admission is free; call 318-8258 or visit www.rocketworld.org. (Sharon Mizota) Reviewed Dec. 28.

"Chuck Close: Self-Portraits 1967-2005." Step up to a Chuck Close painting and you'll see squares filled with abstract shapes, a precise arrangement of dots, or some other technique in miniature. Step back and you'll see Chuck Close. For nearly four decades the artist has rendered his own head, moving through styles but always retaining his signature mug-shot angle. Featuring more than 80 works, this show traces the arc of this astonishingly single-minded career. Since 1967 Close's stuck to his technique, laying a grid over a photo and painstakingly transferring the data in each square to a 9-foot-tall canvas with an airbrush. But along the way the grid itself started showing up, scoring the portraits with crosshatched lines, and Close began filling the squares with shapes, dots, and other designs. In 1988, he experienced chest pain while attending an arts ceremony at Gracie Mansion; by the end of the night he was nearly paralyzed. In rehabilitation, he strapped a brush to his wrist, trained his arm to do the work of his hand, and never looked back. Through Feb. 28 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, 151 Third St. (at Mission), S.F. Admission is free-$12.50; call 357-4000 or visit www.sfmoma.org. (Michael Leaverton) Reviewed Nov. 16.

"Dispersed: African Legacy/New World Reality." If you worried that the Museum of the African Diaspora might be the latest incarnation of dogmatic political correctness, fear not. This sophisticated inaugural exhibition of contemporary art asserts that African-American identity is a slippery, multifaceted thing. The featured artists explore diverse cultural and political histories with varying degrees of success, but their works all defy easy categorization. Most compelling is Safe House by San Francisco's Mildred Howard, a dainty house frame made of butter knives and carpeted with piles of silver -- dishes, platters, tureens, and the like. Toward the front of the house the objects are shiny and polished, but toward the back they're increasingly battered and tarnished, snaking out behind the house, where the butter knives become carving knives stuck violently into the wall. It's easy to read the piece as an allegory of the distance between master and slave, but it also eloquently suggests the oppression of women's domestic labor and the disparity between public face and private tragedy. Brazilian artist Marepe's installation of monks' robes -- an ambivalent attempt to redeem the Catholic missionaries who helped colonize much of the Americas -- is unnecessarily large and a bit obtuse. While Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons' video installation exploring her Afro-Cuban identity is multilayered and evocative, it never quite achieves the poetry it strives for. But perhaps more important than their individual merits are the ways in which these works defy stereotypical motifs and attitudes to honor the complexity and richness of the African-American experience. Through March 12 at MoAD, 685 Mission (at Third Street), S.F. Admission is free-$8; call 358-7200 or visit www.moadsf.org. (Sharon Mizota) Reviewed Dec. 28.

"Styrofoam Hummer (American Detritus)." Andrew Junge's sculpture is grotesque poetry: a Hummer made out of Styrofoam. Fresh from the Artist in Residence Program at the San Francisco dump, Junge reclaimed castoff pieces of the unrecyclable material, then cut, bonded, and sanded them into a full-size replica of our governor's favorite gas hog. The level of verisimilitude is amazing: The tow cable, windshield wipers, even the keyhole on the door are all meticulously sculpted. Junge chose to leave the Styrofoam its "natural" shade of white, so the effect is more ghostly than realistic. If you look closely, you can see familiar packing material patterns under the wheel wells and subtle seams on the tires where the artist has pieced square blocks together to make a rounded shape. But these details of fabrication are beside the point. The excesses of the H1 Hummer (a gas-guzzling, road-hogging, militarily inspired vanity) and the wastefulness of Styrofoam (too toxic to burn, too expensive to recycle) are a match made in trash heaven. Together they're the perfect expression of the often forgotten link between consumer luxury and the military campaigns enacted to preserve it. The consumer H1 turns military functionality into Army chic; Styrofoam Hummer brings the recklessness of that conversion full circle. Through Jan. 13 at View 155, 155 Grove (between McAllister and Grove), S.F. Admission is free; call 554-6080 or visit www.sfacgallery.org. (Sharon Mizota) Reviewed Nov. 30.

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