The works in the show come from the following projects/series. For each, the number of works on view is listed, accompanied by additional print details:
- Ten Minutes in North Texas (5 gelatin silver prints mounted to aluminum, each 53x38, in editions of 5, taken in 1995 and printed in 2011)
- Unpacked (3 pigment prints, each 24x60, in editions of 5, taken in 2008-2009 and printed in 2012)
- Aftermath (3 pairs of 2 gelatin silver prints, each 14x18, edition AP, taken in 1979/1980 and printed in 1980/1982)
- Mt. St. Helens (2 pairs of 2 gelatin silver prints, each 10x24, in editions of 15, taken in 1983/1990 and printed in 1993)
- Grain Elevators (9 gelatin silver prints, ranging from 7x7 to 14x11, taken and printed between 1972 and 1974)
- Landscape/Untitiled (4 gelatin silver prints, ranging from 9x9 to 14x11, taken and printed between 1973 and 1975)
- Untitled (3 Polaroid type 50 series prints as a set, each 3x4, unique, taken and printed in 1971-1972)
Aside from a group of vintage grain elevators and other landscapes in the book alcove, all of the works in this show are diptychs or pairs, with varying amounts of time between the first and second images. In both his Mt. St. Helens volanco eruption photographs and in those made in the aftermath of a Witchita Falls tornado, Gohlke turns the usual "before and after" motif on its head, making it "after, and then later". The first image in each pair is a catalog of destruction: blown down trees, piles of ash and deep craters, or houses turned to rubble, roofs ripped off, and neighborhoods decimated. The second image is a story of healing, rebirth, and starting over, years later. New evergreens have sprouted up and craters have silted over, or straight sidewalks and new one story houses have once again become neat and tidy communities. Both man and nature are seen to be remarkably resilient in the face of disaster.
Gohlke's newest pictures shorten the interval between shots down considerably, in one series down to just ten minutes. In these deceptively unassuming images of broad Texas scrublands and prairies, the changes are extremely subtle: the path of the clouds, the wind on the grass, the movement of a river, or the shading of the sunlight. They require patience, and quiet, and contemplation, and they reveal a kind of solemn, pared down poetry of ever shifting tiny details. Their pleasures reside not in the cleverness of their conceptual framework, but in their deep and humble respect for the texture of the land itself.
Gohlke's work has an old school sense of nuance that we seem to be forgetting in these fast paced times. He still values rhythm and lyricism, tempered by thoughtfulness and a sense of history. He continues to look intently at the world around him, eschewing the interruptions and distractions, seeing the details that only come from consistent, sustained attention.
Frank Gohlke, One Thing and Another
Through May 5th