Art: Jonathan Winters: Paintings, Drawings

A Winters tale

By F. Andrew Taylor

I missed the opening for Jonathan Winters' show at the Art de Vignettes Gallery. Winters was there and everything, but I just couldn't make it. There was some sort of scheduling conflict, and now I'm kicking myself for missing the event.

I suppose it's possible, perhaps even likely, that a lot of people reading this don't know Winters, the comedian and master improvisationist. For a long time he was a standard guest on talk shows, a guaranteed audience-pleaser. He's manic enough that when he was a regular on "Mork and Mindy" he held his own with Robin Williams, and that was back when Robin still did coke. He's also an odd author. One of his many books, Jonathan Winters...After the Beep, consists of transcriptions of bizarre messages he left on a friend's answering machine. But until I heard of this show, I had no idea he also was a visual artist.

The problem with celebrity artists is that frequently, they suck. As a viewer, you have to ask if you're here for the art or the freak show. "Hurry, hurry, step right up and see the amazing half-musician/half-abstract expressionist. Just two bits, yes indeedy, just half of a half a dollah." But there are exceptions. Unburdened by the need to make money with their art, there are some who truly paint to express themselves and produce some fine work.

Which camp does Winters fall into? Well, it's kind of hard to say. The show consists of six pieces: two original pen-and-ink drawings and four color prints. Like much of his work in other fields, it's quirky, fun and original. Certainly the draftsmanship is competent. There is thought and symbolism in the pieces, and although it's unclear what exactly those might be, there is no doubt the wheels are turning behind that round and rubbery face. There were, of course, more pieces when it opened, but, as I said, I foolishly missed it.

I can't fault the gallery for continuing to headline the Winters show. The rest of the gallery is filled with a variety of work, but no one with as recognizable a name as Jonathan Winters. In fact, I'm glad it drew me back to the gallery, which I last saw when it was buried in the industrial maze south of the Orleans. But next time I'll program the VCR to tape "Murder, She Wrote" and make sure I'm at the opening.