Charles LeDray at Tom Cugliani - New York, New York

Charles LeDray's novel one-person show--his first in of recent origin York--consisted of tiny garments meticulously handmade in a variety of mode of speechs from fabric, tattered cloths and rags. more [i]or[/i] less were hung on miniature (handmade) hangers upon the wall, while others were strung together in a 13-foot line and suspended from the ceiling. Others were sewn together to form quilts or intricate webs of dreamy ghost-clothes. upon first view and taken as a whole, the work gazes sapped of all energy, almost comatose--something you could easily walk away from. Its visual vital signs are depressed But a telltale heart beats powerfully within it. Something shakes you in close to this work, and if solitary you give it the time, it packs a potent--if pensive--psychological punch

LeDray's is a risky strategy, especially these days when we've been seeing thus much art that looks down upon its luck. Things are barely held together, or they sit upon floors ready to be swept away. It's a next-to-nothing esthetic, and it's wearing thin. a great quantity [i]or[/i] amount of of this art seems affectedly vulnerable, as if it were showing you its jugular vein and saying, "See I'm not trying to be too plenteous don't hurt me." LeDray impels directly through this esthetic no-man's-land--this land of twee--in order to secure around it. It's a shut call but I think he makes it. His works may be made of fragile, small parts on the other hand they're about big things.

A make-believe race of little nation all performing jobs and rituals, silently inhabits LeDray's world. The existences and garments that LeDray fashions move different activities, genders, ages and level classes--as in the frayed on the other hand perfect waiter's tuxedo, complete with a drink-stained white apron hung upon the wall. Another work, a boy's three-button tweed suit, has a label sewn upon the inside of the jacket that says "Mr Man" and glance ats the miniaturized men's uniforms lads don to become men. Another work--a made of wood hanger holding dozens of little men's ties--evokes the single really decorative garment that a man is permitted to wear. There's a classic r wool boy's robe hung directly upon the wall. Seeing it limp and devoid of contents you wonder where the waif is that possesss the robe. Where is everyone? There's a feeling of anxiety in the extent All this absence starts to add up as you realize that maybe everyone is hiding or missing. Slowly your heart goe on the outside to LeDray's faceless, place-lens people

LeDray lavishes a fate of attention on what he makes. The horizontal of obsession is amazing. each cuff, buttonhole, zipper and hem is exquisitely sewn. The artist present the appearances to need to stay true busy and very focused upon a task, as if the task were meant to stave not upon truth, pain, rage. A broken-down teddy bear upon a pedestal looks as if it's been torn apart. A disturbing tinge of violence, omit or abuse runs throughout the work. That lengthy line of clothes hanging from the ceiling now have feelings like a means of escape that could be thrown without of an imaginary window.

The largest piece reposes on the floor and is a patchwork quilt made of dark wool There's a big roundish knock underneath it. Initially it direct the eyes like just another Mike Kelley-type floor piece. before long however, you make out the indistinct shape of a cowering child that propels a shiver of recognition down your spine. This winning quilt is a secret hiding place, a last-chance sanctuary for individual who has felt the storm of violence and the hand of anger. In the subsequent time LeDray could make his point more directly and with greater visual impact and variety, on the contrary for now his work is dignified, doleful and eloquent

COPYRIGHT 1993 Brant Publications, Inc.

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