The Genius of Joel Shapiro | Peter Cole
Joel Shapiro’s art always seems to be asking questions. Is this large bronze figure collapsing or being uplifted? Does it say “Yes” or “No”? Or “Oh no”? And is it in fact a human figure? Why are those bright blue, pink, and yellow boards and beams floating in the exhibition space like motes or musical notes, or punctuation marks drifting away from their sentences? What about that one-inch-wide basswood ladder barely reaching a gallery-goer’s shin: does it imply fragility or futility? A model of how it is, or a tiny monument to what might have been, or still might be? I’ve been looking at Shapiro’s sculptures and works on paper for some four decades now. A certain quickening of affective attention takes hold in me whenever I encounter his off-kilter figures—in a book at a friend’s kitchen table late at night, turning a corner in a museum, against a landscape seen from a passing car. Or in “Out of the Blue,” at the Pace Gallery in Manhattan where, in a recent show, three invigorating large new …