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Review by Reed Posey

Trenton Doyle Hancock's surreal autobiographical paintings don't suck. Not that that's a question on anyone's mind. Before age thirty he will have been in the Whitney biennial (at least) twice, and had a heavy handful of well-received solo and group exhibitions at major galleries. This may seem as though it could prime an artist for a success-too-quickly type burnout, but Hancock has been working on developing his body of work since the fourth grade. Seriously. Several of the works on hand at the show are dated 1984, which means Hancock would've been about age ten at the time they were executed. And although the characters (almost exclusively belonging to his overlying narrative) of his paintings first coughed, gasped, and started sucking imaginary air at this early age, they do not always adhere to the faux-naïve quality one might expect.

The recurrent hero, "Torpedo Boy," has become flawed with age... guilty of overzealous crime-fighting to the extent that he is depicted as stopping a shoplifter with the Charles Bronson-esque vigilance of a spiked plank to the skull. As a chapter in the Hancock autobiography, this is a real blast because we get to see the artist's guilt as his ego expands to reach an accord with his career's success. But not to worry, it's this kind of pathos in his paintings that make them so continuously engaging to the viewer.

But these things become apparent only once the viewer has discovered the narrative. On seeing the paintings, the audience first is struck by the technique with which the entire series is executed, and then by the cryptic and humorous imagery in each of the individual paintings. Painterly abstraction, broad strokes, tiny descriptive marks, text, cut up and layered canvas, trash, leftovers, and what really appears to be chewed gum, help to make up the images. Schizophrenic personalities somehow reside side by side successfully in the same work. The list of names one would be able to compare his work to is extensive, obvious, and impressive, but the work itself is not pastiche-ish enough regarding any one thing to be considered completely derivative, visually speaking. And due to the use of a rather quickly encompassing narrative, the viewer becomes versed enough in the paintings' vocabulary to see beyond the surface elements, the combative quality of which melt away as immersion in Hancock's epic tale takes over.

--Reed Posey

Review by Michael Stewart

A natural trend among emerging artists, contrary to the tendency to try to reinvent oneself every second year, seems to be the desire to return to one's roots. This nostalgia may be an attempt to bring back a waning passion, or to cull through the complexity and befuddlement of the evolutionary process. Whatever it is, it has not escaped Trenton Doyle Hancock who has proclaimed his desire to rekindle his passion for the cartoon figures that launched him on the road to success at -- judging from some works in his exhibition at the Texas Fine Arts Association -- what must have been age ten. Hancock's show spans from grade school through grad school. It includes his current work produced as a fellow at the Glassell Core Program in Houston. While viewing it, I was confused as to whether it was supposed to be a retrospective, or what. As a result, I found it difficult to approach the show as more than a conglomeration of individual pieces.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I say this because his individual works seem to conglomerate individual pieces as well. Pieces of felt, pieces of canvas, bottle caps, spray can lids, paint, pencil, and most importantly, narratives glom together in these (mostly) wall hangings to tell stories and address the experiences of being an artist, being a black artist, and being plagued by vegans. Trenton Doyle Hancock uses childhood fixtures such as cartoon characters (his own) to chronicle his personal experiences. He then uses the chronicles to make socio-political commentary. In this sense, Hancock's works are straightforward and understandable. Hancock appears quite deft at weaving narrative lines to link elements and issues within his paintings, as well as to link the paintings to one another. He presents these narratives with a satirical humor that is subtle in its mix of clarity and depth. Or so it would seem by taking a precursory view of his works in published form.

Viewing the works in person, however, I was affronted by the enormity of a large number of his wall hangings, the mish-mash of materials, and the mixed signals given by the artist. The satire I'd appreciated in the photo reproductions bordered irony. The works lost the delicate tone with which they'd handled subjects such as racial pigeonholing. They are confrontational with their crude use of materials and heavy lines. And the larger ones are difficult to view -- to savor the rich visual text -- without the advantage of significant distance. Because of this, the works sabotage their subtle, sensual subversion of our pretentious art world.

Naïve art, by definition, exists apart from the conventions of academia. Hancock's list of academic experience includes an MFA from Tyler Art School, and the Glassell Fellowship mentioned above. He has shown extensively in large art markets and his achievements include being the youngest artist to show in the Whitney Biennial. While Hancock may eschew contemporary dialogue, he cannot escape his academic exposure, or the influence that that exposure has had on his work. Trenton Doyle Hancock is not a naïve artist. So at times, his childlike demeanor wears thin. This statement is undermined, though, by some of his recent smaller works. These display the intimacy and innocence that the larger ones can only feign -- none being more revealing than the four etched prints buried in the back corner of the gallery.

These four prints, Mammogram, Post Load, Irribl, Happy Schtick, appear to be the work of a tyro's hand. They benefit from the softness inherent to the etching process. They are not forceful like the larger wall hangings. Instead, I was drawn in by the etchings for what I considered to be a more intimate conversation about the artist's driving forces -- mother, art, frustration and coping. This intimacy is not unique to the etchings. Moundmeat, 2001, Wow That's Me, 2000, and Bevintike, 1999 all use the zebra stripe banding of pink paint, white negative space, and fuzzy, black felt stripes that is ubiquitous throughout his works (except for the etchings), yet show a shrewd ability to edit out the unnecessary coyness. This brings up the possibility that materials and technique are secondary to Hancock -- a means to an end -- whose real art lays in visual storytelling.

--Michael Stewart