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MARIA PORGES : Shortest Stories and Exhortations

Maria Porges: Shortest Stories and Exhortations April 1 to May 1, 2016 Reception for the artist: Saturday, April 2, 5:30 to 7:30 pm Front Cover: Maria Porges, Montage: Shortest Stories and Exhortations Back Cover: Maria Porges, Short Story #39, “In rhe middle of the night. . .�

Direct inquiries to: Seager Gray Gallery 108 Throckmorton Avenue Mill Valley, CA 94941 415-384-8288 All rights reserved. Catalog can be purchased through the gallery for $25 plus handling and shipping. Email us at

M a r i a Po r g e s : Shor test Stories and Exhor tations Ar tist Statement A complicated, lifelong relationship with the printed word lies behind my exploration of books as both physical material and subject matter. A current primary source—both for sculpture and for collages-- is the library left behind by my grandmother Mary Löw, a citizen of the late Austro-Hungarian Empire who avidly read many English classics translated indifferently into German. These unwanted volumes (printed in a Gothic script now legible to few) are destined for landfill, so their new life as art: whether used as books or as fragments of illustration and text, functions as reclamation of their value and, at the same time, serves as an uncomfortable recognition of the decreasing role of books in a digital media world. Each collage in the Shortest Stories series, containing a mixture of Old World images and text and figures from 60’s readers, bits of sheet music and other random ephemera, is titled with the entirety of an abbreviated fiction. Selected from 100 Shortest Stories, each of these pieces of writing represents a mixture of memoir and fantasy, evoking styles ranging from detective novels to fairy tales to pulpy romance bodice-rippers. The aggregation of images in each work on paper is intended to represent a complementary reading, rather than serve as a literal illustration. The origin of the Exhortations lies in a fascination with words hidden inside of other words, like secret weapons or ghosts. Each debossed phrase found on these cut and reformed fragments of books represents an injunction to action of some kind. The first word must be contained within the second, which almost always results in something eccentric (slug lugubriously; harm charmingly; sob soberly). Like the contents of the books out of which the sculptures themselves are made, these phrases suggest disordered meanings and lost ideas—or, maybe, jokes to which we only know the punch line, having forgotten the rest.

Forgive and forget. How could anyone follow this rule? We try, because letting go is the only way to drop the burden of anger or grief. Yet remembering could mean that the source of the pain won’t be repeated—at least, not as easily as before. Forgive, and remember. Get on the train, even when you know what lies ahead, at the end of the line. There may be an unexpected chance to change tracks and arrive at another destination, if you pay more attention to the trip itself. collage, 9 x 12 in


Why are we like our parents? I looked at the words on the page, incredulous that anyone would have to ask. Even without the tiny map embedded in every single cell, we would have no choice but to follow, mimicking each pigeon-toed footstep, moment of compassion, angry thought or misguided dream. Briefly, it crossed my mind that it must be hard for orphans— never knowing why you feel an impulse or can do certain things without learning how. I closed the book and made another mark with a sharpened stick on the calendar I had drawn on my cell’s peeling wall.

collage, 9 x 12 in


I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering the game we used to play on the continuous slope of lawn that extended from house to street, an expanse of green interrupted only by the concrete lines of sidewalks leading to every house. Mother, may I, we would ask, before hopping, creeping, whatever was commanded, towards the Mother of the game. If you forgot to ask for permission you had to go all the way back to where you started. Usually, that meant you would lose, but it was possible that everyone else, just as eager to advance, would also forget. It could happen. In fact, with a rare, poetic justice, it just had. collage, 11 x 14 in


Open up, I willed the metal box. A smooth, six-sided object, it had no visible means of entry, but I was dead sure that there was a trick. Some subtle pressure, or a series of taps; maybe, if I sang it a special song, or shone a colored light on its silvery planes. But there was no time left for solving this kind of smarty-pants puzzle. Picking it up, I staggered to the window and started to swing its considerable weight towards the glass, hoping that a forty-story fall would do the trick. When I felt a panel slide beneath my left hand, it was almost too late. collage, 9 x 12 in


All I remember is turning around. Seeing grass and a bed of flowers, my nose and mouth filled with a really bad smell. Nothing that has happened before that moment—no person, place or thing— remains on the screen inside my mind. I don’t know my name, my age, my address; wearing clothes that are odd but mended and clean, I speak English with no discernible accent. No one claims me and that is that. For two decades, that moment in the park is my birth, at the age of around sixteen, until the day the building explodes around me, and the past comes back. In the hours I wait for someone to find me, I review my childhood with amused disbelief. As it turns out, I was raised by wolves. collage, 9 x 12 in


Over and over, she read the last few lines on the page. They could mean the end, or a new beginning. But was it new? No start can be really fresh, anymore. They’ve all been used. A hundred times. The best she could do, she surmised, was to settle for in medias res: to start in the middle. Methodically, she ripped the manuscript pages to that halfway mark, one by one. Settling again on her small, hard chair, she began to read the last lines on the page. They could mean the end, or a new beginning. collage, 11 x 14 in


Bitter, salty fluid stings her nose and eyes, as she feels herself sink to the bottom of the bay. Tossed there by a monster, she fears returning to the churning surface, but-- lacking the equipment to breathe in the sea-- she claws her way up towards the paler green. As her head breaks through the small, scummy waves, she can hear the beast roaring. “Hey Lindy!” he shouts, a smile as ugly as a flesh wound splitting his big red face. “How’s the water?” Closing her eyes, she sinks again. He will figure it out sooner or later: this is no way to teach someone how to swim. collage, 8 x 10 in


Brett thinks that broken glass looks like ice, sparkling in the dull grey midden of knee-deep trash and smelly dirt that surrounds the house. The pointed shards are so pretty and bright in the morning sun. There is one clean spot on the grimy window, and he likes to sit on the floor and put his eye to that little hole of light. It could be a peephole in a fence around a field of diamonds. A telescope, revealing distant stars; a wormhole into suspended time-- since no ice would last but a moment, in the sweaty, wet-blanket heat of summer in this place. But he knows nothing of these things, having only rarely set foot outside these walls, where three kids live alone without help or harm. collage, 6.5 x 8.5 in


You didn’t believe it when it happened. I know that. But no one could have possibly imagined that she’d go that way. All I can tell you is, the day was beautiful—warm for January, some 40 degrees, and we went outside the back door just to listen to the birds. They were going nuts, yelling at each other and jumping around, so Juney waved her arms and started to sing right back, in that screechy voice of hers, and I guess the vibrations just knocked it down. The icicle hanging overhead, I mean. Heck, James—she was ninety-nine, and couldn’t remember a blessed thing beyond her dead twin sister’s name: Willa, lost to influenza before they turned sixteen. Now they’re together, after eighty-some years. Wonder if they’ll even recognize each other-- one so old, the other so young. Or maybe, they will look just the same, in that other place. collage, 9 x 12 in


My sister could read anywhere, even in the car. By opening a book, she removed herself from the picture so thoroughly that she might as well have been erased. You would call her name several times, and when she finally looked up, her eyes blank and black, you felt like you had done something really wrong by pulling her back. I didn’t find my own secret passageway out for another ten years. Not surprisingly, it led to a different kind of place. collage, 11.5 x 15 in


Her hair is curliest deep below the surface, at the nape of her neck, where only my hands ever manage to touch. I remember reading once that there are places in the South where this spot is called, with affection, the kitchen. Twisting the blondest curls into a braid, I reach deep down for the tighter spirals, darker than the rest, and pull them in, smoothing them out. Who will tend her hair when she finally leaves? She is much too old to be coming to me every morning, complaining of her tangles and knots. I stroke them gently into some kind of order, from the kitchen on out, and send her on her way. collage, 11 x 14 in


The same six shapes, crowded together, still line the side of the peeling corner house: a cube, two spheres, and strange, irregular polygons, made up of carefully barbered twigs and leaves. Walking the blocks at night, I count the yards where this kind of topiary grows. Fewer every year, as the houses turn over; couples with babies rip out their lawns, letting shrubs return to their natural state-- whatever that means, in a place where almost everything that grows in the ground came from somewhere else. collage, 9 x 12


In the middle of the night, ideas like to present themselves, so clearly worth remembering she always tries to force herself to hold them in her mind. She repeats them to herself, over and over, thinking that she really should turn on the light and write them down. But she never does; it would wake him up, or she would never sleep again. In the morning, nothing but the memory of the vision’s luster remains. She finds single words in the notepad function of her phone, one after another: Tears, stare, steer, trees, tease, seats. Still half asleep, she taps in four more: from, form. Text. Exit. collage, 11.5 x 15 in


All the stories they told each other were about some harsh dystopic future world, where everything had run out or died: tales of privation, oppression and loss. In a present of everything, this bitter future of blasted earth, short lives and little choice had surprising appeal. She and her friends loved to play at these games, delineating elaborate rules of privation and oppression. Then, like generations before them had, they set out to make their fantasies real. Be careful what you wish for,-- her mom always said. Little did she know. collage, 11.25 x 15


Meanwhile, back at the ranch, she turned to me and asked, “What’s a woman like you doing in a story like this?” I handed her my card. About a thousand years passed, as her eyebrows worked themselves into a question to which there were at least a dozen answers-- all of them, dead wrong. collage, 9 x 12 in


The problem with language is that it is made out of words. I can tell you about a person, a place; a smell, a sound, or a quality of light, but my description is just an abstraction of the things I am talking about. Although a word can evoke a feeling (and often does), there is no guarantee that the contents of a powerful phrase: the associations that lie beneath its skin, will be the same for you that they are for me. Unable to enter each other’s minds, we can never be sure that our experience of things truly coincides—that the color of the sky or the taste of rice is the same for us both. All we really know (or think we know) is that what we call rice isn’t what we call blue. collage, 11.x 14 in


None of them knows how to stand or sit in a way that seems natural, and they argue with their arms, never having learned how to use their hands. Coming in, I see them, lying dazed on the furniture or shifting anxiously from foot to foot. No one hears me as they shout at each other, repeat the same questions over and over, ignoring the same answers. Late into the night, they continue to debate while, out on the lawn, I see myself as a child of five, crouched by the glowing squares that fall from the windows above. She is looking under the light, searching for some kind of opening or door. What isn’t clear is whether she is trying to find her way back in, or get out. collage, 11 x 13 in


It seemed right that they were together back then. They were both connoisseurs of sensory experience; unlike the rest of us, who went at acquisition in the usual ways (drugs, sex, foreign travel), they had carefully put their impressions together as exactingly as stamps or guns or wine. Once, I accompanied her to a place where the scent of a rare night-blooming vine made an island of strange but pleasant perfume. We stood in the dark without talking or moving for quite a long time. Soon afterwards, though, she left on an expedition from which she never returned. Maybe they had argued. Maybe she knew that he was losing his sight. I think sometimes of that evening I spent with her as a part of a collection of which only cryptic fragments--like this story-- remain. collage, 11.5 x 15 in


How can we measure memory? From moment to moment, different events rise to the surface, demanding retrieval from the river of time. Even when we linger in the same damp spot to savor a second of shared spectacle, the images lodged in our separate brains are never the same, colored as they are by our different pasts. It’s like shadows of a hand on a parlor wall: where one sees a wolf, another sees a dog. collage, 11. x 13 in


Weigh, measure, balance. Finger and thumb approach each other in a gesture of assessment, questioning the size of something hidden outside of the picture. Animal, vegetable, or mineral? Soft, or hard? Feeling or fact? In a cryptic language of signs known only to those who have experienced faith, a reply comes back, as if from a distance: approach with—passion? Caution? Kid gloves? As you squint to interpret the waving hand’s final blurry mudra, it melts away in the static-charged air. collage, 9 x 11 in


My mind was going a hundred miles a minute when I heard the voice. “Turn around. Slowly. Drop the book and put your hands up, where I can see them.” In the chilly silence, I could hear a ticking in the shadows behind me. Remembering that face, its numbered hours, I suddenly knew that I’d never be able to kill time again. collage, 9 x 11 in


It’s winter, raining hard. We are trying to snooze, sweaty mammals huddled close, but a gutter has ruptured on the house next door, releasing a stream straight down thirty feet to a fan of cement five yards from our bed. Stop twisting the covers into knots, he says. Just pretend it’s the freeway at rush hour, you’ll sleep. Somewhat soothed, I close my eyes to an imagined gridlock of fish and naked divers, accompanied by the tinny sound of mandolins, being swept out to sea. collage, 9 x 12 in


Archaeology horrified her: the idea that, beneath the present layer of clothes, magazines, embarrassing plush animals still lingering from childhood, cheap broken jewelry and discarded electronics, the evidence of another era might be found. Who had lived here before? What other houses were built on this spot? Did a girl live in this room, or a family of four in a tiny shack, or maybe a fox, in a hole in the ground? And how far down would she have to dig to be sure that she wasn’t sleeping each night on top of many others, their collective dreams like an awful piece of cake, bound together by the accident of place? collage, 9 x 12 in


“I make my living,” he said with a shrug, “by fixing the things other people break—whether through stupidity or accident, it hardly matters. The outcome is the same. Shards or shreds come back together until the place where they were once apart is invisible, stronger than it was before.” His eyes narrowed as he faced the door. “If only the mistakes were not repeated. The cruelty resumed. The criticism voiced for a thousandth time... If only, in other words, your dearest mother was more like a vase.” collage, 8 x 10


Sometimes in the summer the rain would start in the middle of the night-- a ferocious downpour/ opened spigot blown sideways into every room/ thunder and lightning waking and frightening everyone in miles, flashing and booming with such ear-splitting force that you thought for sure the house was hit. You’d fall out of bed and run to shut the windows, then, trembling, sink back on the rucked-up sheets and drift back to sleep as the storm moved away. In the morning you’d sometimes wonder if it had really happened, so little proof remained once the sun was up. collage, 9 x 12 in


There were piles of salt in the corners of every room in the house. She was trying to get rid of the odd, cold sounds that seemed to seep out of closets and floors-- the memories, she thought, of someone who had lived there because there was nowhere else to go. Not a prisoner, exactly, but close enough. Was it something about not being able to love? Or, maybe, live? It wasn’t clear. Finally, she learned that a son of the woman who had sold her the place, a boy deaf from birth, had never been allowed to go to school and learn how to sign. When the others left he had stayed behind, his mother’s companion as she slowly went blind. collage, 9 x 12 in


If there were a place to go, we would have gone there. Nothing remained except pieces of half-remembered landscape, corners in cities we had lived in and left. One day I came home, and he had taken his collection of 50’s radios and packed them into boxes stacked by the door. After a few days, I understood. Leaving the key tucked under the mat, I called you and asked you to come and get me, before I disappeared. collage, 11.25 x 15 in


Night after night, she would tell them a story, their Scheherazade: a story about them, their pets and possessions, the big stone house where they lived with a dragon, the benevolent wizard whose lessons were disguised as adventures and games. They had a circus with animal acrobats; they journeyed through a forest with talking trees; became fairies, went to dances, and flew through the air, over and over. When she started each evening she knew nothing about where events would lead—except, that magic would surely be involved. That, and all she believed and loved. collage, 11 x 14 in


Starting very early while the shadows were still long, we walked from yard to yard, picking up the bodies that had fallen from the trees, during the night. The day before, men on trucks had passed through in a futile attempt to stop the blight that eventually killed all the graceful elms. But the spraying had—unforeseen consequences. In a shoebox marked “Eleven Dead Birds” with colored pens, we buried them together, in Scott’s backyard. His mom got really mad when she found them, months later, while planting out her bulbs, but it didn’t seem right to just throw them out. collage, 11 x 14 in


In the village, we all knew what the red line meant, painted on the side of the old man’s shed like a careless crayon mark in a little child’s book, dashed across a picture in a moment of pique. It was the line beyond which no one ever was to go: where you left his mail or milk, or anything else. For years, I believed he had painted it himself, setting out a distance inside of which he lived, outside of which we stayed. It wasn’t until I was nearly seventeen that I realized his limits were set by someone else, the day the sheriff came and scraped the red paint away. collage, 9 x 12 in


The son of a couple in the godforsaken town where your grandfather lives has a badly twisted spine. One day you are walking alone near the woods and the couple, who are tricksters, drive up in their big black car. You get in. The boy is with them, almost your age, and somehow they persuade you to wear his body—just for an hour, the woman croons. Suddenly you’re sitting by the side of the road, your head feeling strangely off-center as you look up and see yourself between them, driving away. They don’t come back. Later, your dog comes and knows it is you, inside the broken boy. As he cries and licks your hand, you wake up. collage, 9 x 12 in


Exhortations ex·hor·ta·tion egzôr’tāSH(ə)n, eksôr’tāSH(ə)n/ noun plural noun: exhortations

an address or communication emphatically urging someone to do something.

Slug Lugubriously, altered book, 11 x 2 x 5 in

Dust Stupidly, altered book, 8.25 x 5.5 x 1 in

Fold Dolefully, altered book, 19 x 9 x 3 in

Damn Mundanely, altered book, 8 x 14 x 2 in

Croon Moronically, altered book, 8.5 x 17 x 2 in

Harm Charmingly, altered book, 15.5 x 13 x 2.5 in

Calm Calamitously, altered book, 17 x 14.5 x 2.75 in

Peak Unspeakably, altered book, 15.5 x 13 x 2.5 in

Maria Porges EDUCATION MFA, sculpture/drawing, University of Chicago, Chicago IL BA, Yale University, New Haven CT Also attended Grinnell College and the San Francisco Art Institute SOLO EXHIBITIONS 2016 Shortest Stories and Exhortations, Seager Gray Gallery, Mill Valley CA 2009 Balancing Acts: A Fifteen Year Survey of Works in Wax by Maria Porges, Bedford Gallery, Walnut Creek CA 2008 After the Age of Reason, di Rosa Preserve: Art and Nature, Napa CA 2003 Under the desk, Littlejohn Contemporary, New York NY Bombast, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA 2002 Bedtime Stories, Carrie Secrist Gallery, Chicago IL 2001 Tall tales & short stories, James Harris Gallery, Seattle WA 2000 Acts of Deception, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA (catalogue) Miraculous Vessels, David Beitzel Gallery, New York NY 1999 Hand Signals, Gallery A, Chicago, IL (catalogue) (S) light of Hand, Allene LaPides Gallery, Santa Fe NM 1998 Lost Language, Arthur Roger Gallery, New Orleans LA 1997 History Lessons, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA 1996 Anodyne, Arthur Roger Gallery, New Orleans LA 1995 Twenty Questions, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco 1994 Angelography, Shepard Art Gallery, University of Nevada at Reno, NV 1993 Fugitive Time, Terrain Gallery, San Francisco CA 1992 SECA Award Show, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, San Francisco CA (catalogue) Meridian, Terrain Gallery, San Francisco CA 1991 Under the Skin of Circumstance, Intersection for the Arts, San Francisco CA 1990 Read \ See: The Book of Knowledge, Installation at San Francisco Camerawork 1989 Harboring Illusions in the Sea of Information, Southern Exposure Gallery, San Francisco CA SELECTED GROUP EXHIBITIONS 2016 Avant Garden, Southern Exposure Gallery, SF CA 2015 The Art of the Book, Seager Gray Gallery, Mill Valley CA Terrain Biennial: Home (multiple sites), installation in Oakland CA Equilux, Southern Exposure Gallery, SF CA 2014 Transformation of Connectivity, Mercury 20 Gallery, Oakland Paronomasia, Tayloe Piggott Gallery, Jackson WY



2011 2010


2008 2007 2006

2005 2004

2003 2002

Smoke and Mirrors, Southern Exposure Gallery, SF CA Making ( ) That Matters, Tecoah Bruce Gallery, Oliver Art Center, Oakland CA Build, Traywick Contemporary, Berkeley CA, ten piece installation Day Redreamed, Berkeley Central Arts Passage, Berkeley CA, 18 piece installation Breaking Ground: Gifts from Katie and Drew Gibson, San Jose Museum of Art, San Jose CA IRL Alter Space Gallery, SF CA, fifteen piece installation Reverse Rehearsals, Southern Exposure Gallery, Sf The Wanted posters. Shipping & Receiving, SF CA The Art of the Book, Seager Gray Gallery, Mill Valley CA Under Cover, Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, CT X Libris, Root Division, SF Collect, Berkeley Art Center, Berkeley CA Kalafornia, Kala Art Institute, Berkeley CA Unbound: A Short Survey of Book Art, organized by the Bedford Gallery for the Walnut Creek Public Library Secret Drawings, Palo Alto Art Center, Palo Alto CA Shadowshop, SFMOMA, SF CA New Works/ Old Story: 80 Artists at the Passover Table, Contemporary Jewish Museum, SF CA Faculty Exhibition, Oliver Gallery, CCA, Oakland CA Belle du Jour, Collette Blanchard Gallery, NY Under Cover, Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, CT Book of Lies, Volumes I-III, 18th Street Art Center, Los Angeles CA Under Cover, Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, CT Transitional Objects, Palo Alto Art Center, Palo Alto CA War in the World, Hunterdon Museum of Art, Clinton NJ Summer, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA Artist/ Teacher/ Artist, Sonoma Valley Museum of Art, Sonoma CA Bottle: Contemporary Art and Vernacular Tradition, Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, CT 25th Anniversary Exhibition, Arthur Roger Gallery, New Orleans LA Re-Loaded, Carrie Secrist Gallery, Chicago IL Summer, Littlejohn Contemporary, New York NY Cabinets of Wonder/ Redux, Palo Alto Art Center, Palo Alto CA Spring Forward: New Work from the Studio, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA Plotting: Artist’s Studies, Carrie Secrist Gallery, Chicago IL Being There: 45 Oakland Artists, Oakland Museum of California (catalogue)

2001 Witcherina Pixerina, University Art Gallery, Illinois State U., Bloomington IL (catalogue); traveled to 3 additional venues Amused, Carrie Secrist Gallery, Chicago IL (catalogue) Objects Considered: Modern/ Postmodern Still Life, Bedford Gallery, Walnut Creek CA 2000 The Great Novel Exhibition, Palo Alto Art Center, Palo Alto CA Bluer, Carrie Secrist Gallery, Chicago IL (catalogue) The Ray Graham Collection, Albuquerque Museum of Art, Albuquerque NM (catalogue) American Art Today: Fantasies and Curiosities, The Art Museum at Florida Int’l University, Miami FL (catalogue) 1999 What is Art For?, Oakland Museum (Museum of California), Oakland, CA (catalogue) Looking at Ourselves: Works by Women Artists from the Logan Collection, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, SF CA (catalogue) Recent Acquisitions, Scottsdale Museum of Art, Scottsdale Still Life Infinitely Moving, Contemporary Art Center, Virginia Beach, VA (catalogue) Museum Pieces: Artists Look at the DeYoung, M.H.DeYoung Memorial Museum, San Francisco CA (catalogue) 1998 Four California Conceptualists, B & D Studio Contemporanea, Milan, Italy Art Around the Bay: Recent Acquisitions, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, SF CA Wild Things, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA Legible Forms: Contemporary Sculptural Books, Hand Workshop, Richmond VA; traveled to Chicago Cultural Center, Chicago IL House of Wax, Contemporaryn Arts Center, Cincinnati OH Posters, DBL00 Gallery, Albuquerque NM 1997 Image/ Text, Gallery A, Chicago IL John Berggruen at Andrea Friesen, Andrea Friesen, Gallery, Sun Valley ID Office Art, University Art Gallery, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque NM Spring Fever, Crown Point Press Gallery, San Francisco CA 1996 Matters of the Heart, Haines Gallery, San Francisco CA Objects Transcended, Allegheny College, Meadville PA (3 person show) Glass: Linking Art and Science, MIT Museum, Cambridge MA 1995 Sex Sells, Rena Bransten Gallery, San Francisco CA 25th Anniversary Show, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA The Art of Light and Glass, Bedford Gallery/Regional






1988 1986


Center for the Arts, Walnut Creek CA Points of Interest, Points of Departure, John Berggruen Gallery, San Francisco CA Transtextualization, Mark Moore Gallery, Santa Monica, CA Espiritu + Geistigkeit, Cabrillo College Gallery, Aptos CA SoEXX: 20th Anniversary Alumni Exhibition, Southern Exposure Gallery, San Francisco CA Wunderkammer, Rena Bransten Gallery, San Francisco CA Art About Books, Pratt Institute Galleries, NY/Brooklyn, NY Beyond the Written Word, San Jose Institute of Contemporary Art, San Jose CA The Art of Text, Comus Gallery, Portland OR Material Departures, One Illinois Center, Chicago IL The Object is Bound, Stephen Wirtz Gallery, San Francisco Homefront, Falkirk Cultural Center, San Rafael CA Paint\ Print, Rena Bransten Gallery, SF Undercover \ Out of Bounds, Scottsdale Center for the Arts, Scottsdale AZ Sacred Art, Bolinas Museum, Bolinas CA A Fragile Line: Artists Who Use Glass, Pro Arts, Oakland CA Harlequin, Terrain Gallery, San Francisco CA The Library of Babel: Books to Infinity, White Columns, New York, NY; traveled to Hallwalls, Buffalo NY (catalogue) Books as Art, Boca Museum, Boca Raton, FL (catalogue) Erotic Drawings, San Francisco Artspace, San Francisco CA Buying the Magazine for the Ads, Terrain Gallery, San Francisco CA AMDG, Installation at Grace Cathedral, San Francisco CA Phenom \ Phenotype: A Group Theory, Terrain Gallery, San Francisco CA Summer Salon, Upaya Gallery, San Francisco CA Con\Text, Richard/ Bennett Gallery, Los Angeles CA The Writing on the Wall, DICE Gallery, Reno NV & DTO Gallery, Oakland CA (2 person show; catalogue) The 1st International Festival of Contemporary Art, Soviet-American exchange show: Moscow, Russia What’s Wrong With This Picture?, San Francisco Arts Commission Gallery, SF CA (catalogue) Tools; Instruments; Implements; Utensils, Airport Commission Gallery, SF CA Artists and Books, Sierra Nevada Museum of Art, Reno NV Transfiguring the Mundane, New Langton Arts, San Francisco CA Airport Cafe: Food Images by Contemporary Artists, Airport Commission Gallery, SF CA Chairs: Historic Objects, Architectural Design and Sculpture, Airport Commission Gallery, SF CA (catalogue) Beyond Words, San Jose Institute of Contemporary Art

Maria Porges: Shortest Stories and Exhortations at Seager Gray Gallery  

Full color catalog of the collages and sculpture of artist Maria Porges in the exhibition at Seager Gray Gallery, Mill Valley, CA. April 1...

Maria Porges: Shortest Stories and Exhortations at Seager Gray Gallery  

Full color catalog of the collages and sculpture of artist Maria Porges in the exhibition at Seager Gray Gallery, Mill Valley, CA. April 1...