(Courtesy of Soldiers' Memorial Military Museum)

Located downtown, the Soldiers’ Memorial is often overlooked when one thinks of St. Louis museums. A mere half mile from Union Station, the memorial has served as a testament to the soldiers from Missouri, who, according to the museum’s Web site, “made the supreme sacrifice in the [first] World War.”

Its construction is actually a somewhat tragic story. Beginning in the years following World War I, plans were made to erect a memorial recognizing the servicemen of the Great War. Ground was broken in 1935, and the memorial and museum officially opened on May 30, 1938. This was just half a year before the start of World War II, making the memorial an almost terrible irony. President Franklin Roosevelt dedicated the memorial on Oct. 14, 1936, remarking on the American wish to commemorate the sacrifices made in war and serve as an emblem of peace. Unfortunately, a little more than five years later, in December 1941, the United States officially entered World War II—the deadliest conflict in human history.

Despite its tortured creation, the building itself is an architectural marvel. Built to resemble a stripped down Greco-Roman temple, the memorial stands out from the other buildings downtown. Massive stone pillars line the sides, 14 each in the front and back and seven on the sides. Above the pillars stand engraved medallions that represent the various armed forces and enlisted men of World War I.

Flanking the entrance on either side of the building are two Pegasus figures, four in total. A human statue stands next to each of them. On the south side, “Courage” and “Vision” stand at the top of the steps, while “Loyalty” and “Sacrifice” are located on the north side. The human figures are male and female, respectively. The statues represent some of the most common traits associated with soldiers in battle, and they stand in majestic poses. They continue the Greco-Roman sculptural tradition and are dignified, heavily muscled and often armed with swords, furthering the overtly classical influence.

The open-air atrium is the centerpiece of the memorial with a cenotaph—a monumental tomb—placed within it. This structure was constructed out of Bedford limestone from south-central Indiana and bears the names of 1,075 servicemen and women from St. Louis who died during World War I. The ceiling of the atrium is remarkable in its own right. Constructed as a mosaic, the ceiling is tinted gold, silver and red, with a gold star in the center. The atrium as a whole—the ceiling and cenotaph especially —serves to create a public area where people can individually contemplate and appreciate the sacrifices that war requires.

On either side of the atrium are the museums of the memorial, which showcase military objects of significance, including flags, uniforms and firearms. Exhibitions often, but not always, cover the military history of Greater St. Louis. Current exhibits include “Montford Point Marines: Black Marines of WWII” and “American Superheroes: Popular Culture and the St. Louis War Experience.”

Overall, the monument stands as a testament to the sacrifices Americans made in the Great War and all subsequent ones. From its Greco-Roman roots, which celebrate the valor and bravery of those in war, to the museum, which examines the historical significance of wars, the memorial is fitting to those who fought and fell in defense of the United States.

The metaphorical capstone of the memorial, the atrium, is the heart of the cairn. As a whole, the impressive museum provides a proper memorial for the valiant Missouri soldiers who fought in World War I.

Allison Smith; Untitled; from Needle Work; 2009. Inkjet print on exhibition paper; 22 x 16”. (Courtesy of the Allison Smith)

“Needle Work” (2009) by Allison Smith, located in the College of Art Gallery at the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum (which housed “Metabolic City” this past fall), began as a series of photographs of cloth gas masks from the early 20th century. As her interest in the masks expanded, Smith began to create and modify them herself, to the point that they were no longer functional, let alone recognizable, as masks.

The masks themselves are located in the center of the room, held within glass cases, while the photographs of people wearing them hang on the walls of the exhibit. Highlights include a tall wizard’s hat—no longer even remotely resembling a mask—replete with a moon and stars­, a mask that gives the wearer the appearance of Sandman/Wesley Dodds (a character from the Golden Age of DC Comics in the early 1940s), and an especially memorable Ku Klux Klan hat. Numerous other masks are on display, mostly more reminiscent of their original form and purpose than those listed above.

Located in a corner of the room, a poster spinner also holds numerous small pictures of masks. These are even more diverse and experimental than those that the artist created, with a picture of underwear on someone’s head, one of something that looks vaguely like a bra. and one of Michael Jackson’s visage covered by a black handkerchief.

Also part of the exhibit are three large silk parachutes with inkjet prints of the assorted masks on them. Hung at varying heights throughout the room, the parachutes reinforce the military undertone that exists throughout the exhibit. Furthermore, they serve to tie the exhibit together as a whole. They combine the military and non-military masks, and fill the vast tracts of open space that would otherwise exist in the sparsely decorated room.

Centering on the Klan imagery and on the photograph of a man imitating a famous Guantanamo Bay photograph—he wears an orange beanie and holds his hands over his head—the exhibit dabbles in politics and is undercut by militaristic themes. Smith does not make her opinions explicitly known, however, choosing merely to display a variety of well-known and recognizable symbols. The result is that the viewer interprets Smith’s intentions on his or her own, thus becoming, as the cultural theorist Stuart Hall claims, part of the process themselves.

The title of Smith’s exhibit gives further insight into its message. By naming it “Needle Work,” rather than “Gas Masks,” or even “Masks,” the artist informs us that rather than focusing on the mask aspect of the exhibit, it is the creation, form and interpretation that are the important aspects of the exhibition. This further drives home her transmutation of the militaristic masks into often-benign images.

Smith’s “Needle Work” and Sharon Lockhart’s “Lunch Break”—which was reviewed in last week’s issue—work in different ways, but manage to get some of the same points across. They both have subtle, or not so subtle, political connotations, and both attempt to play or influence the viewer emotionally in a specific fashion. At this point, however, they diverge. “Lunch Break” attempts to create empathy for the subjects of Lockhart’s photographs, while Smith’s “Needle Work” plays into our personal psyche, drawing reactions out of us with controversial or unnerving images.

This is the second of two articles examining the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum. The first article covered Sharon Lockhart’s “Lunch Break.”

The movies are the main focus of the exhibition. “Lunch Break” is an 80-minute tracking shot of a long corridor within BIW, dramatically slowed down. “Exit,” on the other hand, is split into five eight-minute sections and was shot with a fixed camera; it documents workers leaving the factory. The films play within a box-like structure, reminiscent of a covered bridge. Painted black on the inside, the viewer sits in the relative darkness of the structure to watch the films. The movies themselves play at the closed end of the box, while the opposite end remains open. “Lunch Break” is especially disconcerting, as the slow movement of the camera forces the viewer to consider, then reconsider, the location of the film, gleaning details that would be missed if the film played at a regular speed. As stated in the exhibit guide, “Exit” brings to mind the first true motion picture ever made, “La Sortie des usines Lumière” (“Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory”), by the Lumière brothers—the world’s first filmmakers.

The photographs are designed to complement the two films. They can be viewed in several disparate orders; the exhibit guide itself numbers them differently at various points. The series most immediately available for viewing is located on the wall just outside the gallery. It showcases the booths from which lunches are sold; mostly hot dogs, hamburgers and other related food items. Totaling five photographs in all, they conspicuously lack both the vendors selling the nourishment and the workers themselves. In the center picture, a sign asks the employees to please leave money in the bank when they take food, giving the entire series a somewhat depressing feel.

The second series consists of several photographs of the workers themselves. They are shown, unsurprisingly, on their lunch breaks. The photographs often focus on only a few of the men, allowing the viewer to concentrate on individuals rather than attempting to merely get a vague overall feeling of the picture. The pictures were taken both inside and outside, with the workers interacting with each other. Through this photography, Lockhart manages to humanize the people in the industry who we never see.

The third and final series documents several lunch boxes taken by the employees to work. They appear in single photographs, diptychs and triptychs. Common amongst them are stickers used to personalize the boxes—retired Navy decals are the most frequent. The lunch boxes are shown both closed and open with their contents arranged around them. By viewing the workers’ personal belongings, we are able to get an inner look—albeit a limited one—into their lives and lifestyles. The photographs are noticeably bleak, however, containing a lot of negative space, which continues the melancholic theme found in the first series of pictures.

It is impossible to separate the current economic and political climate from the exhibit. Especially given the recession, Lockhart’s documentation of blue-collar workers is undercut by our interpretation. She forces us to take notice of the employees, the people whom we would otherwise forget about. As a result, the exhibit exists simultaneously as both an exposé and as art.

This is the first of two articles examining the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum. The second article will cover Allison Smith’s “Needle Work.”

Robert Freling speaks on the installation and use of solar energy in developing areas of the world. Freling’s talk was a part of the Assembly Series and was sponsored by Engineers Without Borders and the Skandalaris Center for Entrepreneurial Studies. (Matt Mitgang | Student Life)

Robert Freling, the executive director of the Solar Electric Light Fund since 1997, spoke in Graham Chapel on Thursday afternoon as part of the Assembly Series. Following the speech, the Olin Cup Idea Bounce took place.

Freling has journeyed on behalf of the organization (SELF) throughout much of the world—traveling to parts of Latin America, the South Pacific, Africa and Asia—in an attempt to provide solar energy to backwater impoverished villages.

SELF, a nonprofit development aid organization, hopes to “provide solar power and wireless communications to a quarter of the world’s population living in energy poverty.” It accomplishes this by going into small rural communities far removed from energy sources and giving individual houses, schools and essential buildings small solar panels-enough to supply electricity several hours a day. Other projects SELF is involved in include the creation of solar powered water pumps and irrigation systems for areas of the world with prolonged dry seasons.

Freling acknowledged that ending energy scarcity is an endeavor far beyond the capabilities of his organization. “There are groups that have sprung up in the past five, 10 years that have, in one way or another, copied or emulated some of the work that we’ve done in the past, and I applaud that,” he stated. “Let a thousand flowers bloom because 2 billion people without power, you know, we need all the help we can get.”

Part of Freling’s speech focused on the relationship between SELF and Partners in Health (PIH), the health care organization founded by Paul Farmer, subject of the best-seller “Mountains Beyond Mountains,” by Tracy Kidder.

“The first time I met Paul [in 2006], he said, ‘We’re really happy about what you guys are doing in Rwanda, but what about Haiti? Don’t forget about Haiti,’” Freling said. “This became like a mantra every time I saw Paul…Finally, in August of last year, we electrified the first of 10 P.I.H. health centers [in Haiti].”

Freling went on to say that, thankfully, the centers survived the quake and were being used to treat a large number of victims of the current earthquake. Partners in Health currently has plans to convert all of its health centers—currently running on diesel generators—to solar power, installed by SELF. Freling hopes to do the same with many other nonprofits around the world.

He closed by showing part of a movie highlighting SELF’s goals and accomplishments, focusing on Africa, and then took questions.

The event was open to the public and featured a diverse audience, ranging from students to senior citizens.

Crowd reaction to Freling appeared positive, with several attendees praising his organization and speech. Students, professors and attendees posed several questions regarding his organization, the challenges they have faced, and their current stance on the Haitian catastrophe.

“He was amazing,” said William Swanson, a sophomore. “He talked about a lot of stuff that people don’t think about and also had a lot of information that we didn’t know about before.”

The exhibits are introduced by a “Front Room,” which is a sort of mini-exhibition, featuring one work from a different artist. The current piece, on display until Feb. 28, is by the Norwegian artist Torbjørn Redlined. Consisting of four silver gelatin prints, the work focuses on the British comic strip character Andy Capp, an individual often invoked by Norwegian politicians as a sort of archetypal plebeian. Redlined places Capp in four odd and, frankly, confusing situations, thus demonstrating the pervasiveness of the common folk. The works serve as a lead-in to the exhibition, a sort of “everyman” to guide the public inward into the museum.

The first of the two main exhibits is “1991-1994, Improbable History.” Opening with “Tricast (Funeral for a Friend by Elton John),” the artist sings three different, very off-key renditions of the song simultaneously on three different screens. Echoing throughout the gallery, the work serves as an anthem for the exhibit. Continuing into the body of the exhibition, the viewer is greeted by several leaves of paper: One is a letter from a debt collection agency regarding payments due by Landers from the early ’90s, and the others are Landers’ response to them, detailing how he would love to become a productive member of society and repay them, but at this point lacks the financial solvency to do so. This sets the tone for the exhibit: It is simultaneously deeply personal, given the nature of the letter, but, at the same time, removed, because of both the time difference and the fact that it is merely cold text, rather than something more interactive.

The rest of the exhibit is an adventure into the life and mind of Landers. Highlights of the exhibit include “Naked in Nature,” 58 photographs of Landers, well, naked in nature. Perhaps the most telling work is a video titled “Dancing with Death,” in which the artist dances around his studio looking for all the world like a hippie, complete with long hair, on acid. Video and photography are only one aspect of the exhibition, however.

Throughout the exhibit, there are several large boards with Landers’ scrawl littered across it, given such names as “Fart.” The most notable of these is “Thought Bubble,” an enormous work. Located on a wall in the rear of the exhibit, the piece brings to mind “The Last Judgment,” Michelangelo’s fresco on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, despite Landers’ distinctly non-religious approach. Besides the obvious—both works are very large and hang at the back of a large room with a lot of open space—they each reveal more to the viewer when approached and studied than is immediately apparent.

Many more works bear mention, but these are enough to understand the basic design of the exhibit: an escapade into the psyche of the artist as a creator, and nature of self-examination. “1991-1994, Improbable History” is on display until April 11.

When compared to the Contemporary Museum St. Louis’ previous installation, “For the blind man…,” the current work is much more minimalist. This is not intended to be a criticism, however. “For the blind man…,” used numerous works to tell very little, giving the exhibit an air of mystery and confusion. While this exists in Prina’s and Landers’ work, they often use fewer pieces to tell more about themselves and their goals.

“REAM,” created by Tom Friedman, is the newest installation of SLAM’s New Media Series, an ongoing succession of expositions focused on contemporary artists. “REAM” is only one work of art (or 500, depending on your opinion): An animated film, “REAM” consists of a ream of paper, 500 sheets. Friedman drew on each of these sheets to create the short movie. It is rather sparse, and many of the images are nonsensical, including a rocket ship, a variety of faces and lips, a man and a woman lying down together, and several images that are gone too quickly to definitely make out. The drawings themselves are evocative of the opening sequence of “Juno.”

At first, the drawings appear random and often without meaning. After repeated viewings, however (the film is less than a minute long, and it loops continuously, lacking a defined beginning and end), one can begin to see several themes emerge, punctuated by a number of brief stories. The stories themselves are gone in a flash, usually only a few sheets in length; however, they encourage the mind to wander, creating entire narratives from those few pieces of information. On display until Jan. 31, “REAM” takes only a few minutes of your time and is definitely worth a visit.

The second exhibit, called “Document,” is composed of a series of 10 oil-on-panel paintings by Ian Weaver and is connected to “REAM” by a hallway. Consisting of Weaver’s depictions of 10 legal documents regarding his relatives, the single-room exhibition gives a brief snapshot into his family and private life.

“Document” opens with a triptych, a three-painting representation of divorce proceedings between two of his relatives. The rest of the exhibit contains such papers as a Social Security card and both death and birth certificates. Weaver doesn’t just portray legal documents, however; a painting of a personal letter is also on view. Though in a vastly different medium, “Documents” is strangely reminiscent of Robert Frank’s seminal photographic book “The Americans,” from which select photographs were on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City until recently. Frank felt that photography in post-war America had become too glossy and glamorous; he instead turned to grittier and, as he believed, more realistic settings. Through his barebones paintings, Weaver manages to do the same; he has succeeded in accentuating both the high and low points of American life, including marriage, divorce, birth and death, by painting the documents surrounding the situations themselves, rather than the people involved. “Document,” on view until March 7, is an excellent complement to “REAM” but can also be viewed alone.

The largest exhibit in the museum is also, arguably, the most confusing. “Mother and Father Worked Hard So I Can Play,” created by Yinka Shonibare, MBE, takes traditional colonial American and Romantic European settings and infuses them with African undertones. In five of the six “period rooms” of SLAM, Shonibare hides—yes, hides—headless fiberglass mannequins of children.

Shonibare, a member of the order of chivalry the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (MBE), was born in London to Nigerian parents and moved to Nigeria, but attended boarding school in England. His art unsurprisingly deals with pan-African colonialist themes. His six figures are dressed in Dutch wax fabrics, a material originally manufactured in the Netherlands but now connected to Africa. His figures engage in everyday activities, such as “Girl on a Scooter,” “Boy Playing with Marbles” and “Girl Playing with a Doll.”

The mannequins are clothed in batiks, brightly colored cloth that pops from the drab colonial rooms. This further emphasizes the disparity between colonialism and the creation of an African identity distinct from European influence. Though immediately noticeable, the headless children are overshadowed by the Western rooms, evoking additional thoughts of the dwarfing of African culture by other cultures for many years. The title of the exhibit—and its content—clearly suggests room for social improvement, however. The children are at play, taking advantage of their parents’ efforts and sacrifices on their behalf, exploring the ideas, as the museum puts it, of “social aspiration and achievement.” “Mother and Father Worked Hard So I Can Play” is on display until March 14 on the lower level of the museum.

SLAM’s proximity to campus and unusual collection of miniature exhibitions makes it a must-see for Wash. U. students, artists, art historians and laypeople alike.

Located at the corner of Washington Boulevard and North Spring Avenue, a block from the Fabulous Fox Theatre and Powell Symphony Hall, the museum is part of the small arts district of St. Louis, otherwise known as Grand Central. It is 10-15 minutes from the Grand MetroLink station on foot; the walk takes one past much of the Saint Louis University campus.

The museum is non-collecting, which means that it only hosts exhibitions. Its current exhibit, “For the blind man in the dark room looking for the black cat that isn’t there,” also known as “For the blind man…” is certainly a site to see. The exhibit takes up the entire ground floor of the building, a concrete two-story structure. The first floor has several large, open and well-lit rooms, while the second contains a walkway, a media center and the museum’s offices. The exposition is dedicated to the blind man named in the title, which was how, according to the exhibition guide, Charles Darwin described a mathematician. The principle behind the exhibit is that art can explain the world in speculative terms, much like mathematics, and mystery can be as exciting as knowledge and facts.

The exhibit begins with a dialogue by Marcel Broodthaers, a Belgian poet and artist. A speaker, a single black box protruding from a concrete wall, projects a recording, aptly titled “Interview with a Cat,” in which Broodthaers asks a feline a series of questions about art in Swiss French.

The viewer then continues into the exhibit, walking through a small dark room that houses a short movie, in addition to a 17th-century book open to a depiction of a “Wunderkammer,” or cabinet of curiosities, which is a form of proto-museum. “Wunderkammers” would most often consist of a room in someone’s home and would contain various exotic and rare objects that the buyer collected from around the world. The book conveys an idea of the museum’s history. Both the movie and the book provide an appropriate introduction to the exhibit, which is made up of a variety of works that are disparate in both subject matter and topic.

Notable works in the exhibit include “Voyage of the Beagle” by Rachel Harrison, “To do with a wide spot along a dusty road crossing a dry channel, between the old end of Old Red and the dead end of the New West” by Dave Hullfish Bailey and “The Klein Bottle Piñata” by Mariana Castillo Deball. It is hard to pick individual pieces, as all are fairly avant-garde and experimental, the sole exception being a pair of minimalist still lifes depicting bottles and cans by Giorgio Morandi.

“Voyage of the Beagle” is inspired by Charles Darwin’s journal of the second survey voyage of the HMS Beagle. Consisting of 57 photographic portraits, the artist heads off in a different direction from Darwin. Instead of following his theory of evolution, Harrison opts to juxtapose unrelated portraits. In fact, very few of the photographs are even of humans, and some even portray animated characters such as Patrick from “SpongeBob SquarePants.” The total effect is the creation of an almost “sliding” effect—the viewer’s eyes rove over all the photographs, attempting to find order when chaos may be the intended effect.

Bailey’s work, influenced by the community library at Slab City (the California community where he works), is a disorganized clutter. Arranged around the skeleton of a boat trailer, Bailey appears to have contiuously added household and artistic items, almost, as the guide to the exhibit says, “as if he is literally taking his research on the road.” When one initially glances at the oeuvre, it appears as if Bailey has merely haphazardly thrown objects together. Upon closer inspection, a slight method to his madness begins to emerge.

Deball’s work is much more simplistic than both Bailey’s and Harrison’s. “The Klein Bottle Piñata” is, unsurprisingly, a papier-mâché Klein bottle suspended overhead. A Klein bottle is, according to WordNet, “a closed surface with only one side; formed by passing one end of a tube through the side of the tube and joining it with the other end.” The work is a testament to impermanence. In fact, when the exhibit ends on Jan. 3, visitors are invited to break the art “piñata” apart. This, coupled with its confusing, almost illogical nature, is certainly in keeping with the exhibition’s theme.

Overall, the exhibit succeeds in showcasing the fascinating nature of enigmas and the unknown. From perplexingly shaped piñatas to pack rat-styled installations to bewildering photographic evolution, mystery is indeed achieved. “For the blind man in the dark room looking for the black cat that isn’t there” draws from several eras, mediums, artists and themes, yet it manages to hang together nonetheless. Its host, the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis, may be relatively unknown, but this exhibit and many others definitely make it worth the visit.

By reducing the number of professors who have tenure, a university can ensure higher-quality faculty. Once professors achieve tenure, typically done over a period of about seven years, they are no longer held as accountable for the work they do, nor are they held to the same standards and expectations. Because their jobs are no longer at stake, much of their incentive to work, publish and teach effectively disappears.

This removal of incentives, when coupled with the process that professors go through to get tenured in the first place, has detrimental consequences for overall academic quality. While attempting to attain tenure over their first seven years, professors face an unfortunate emphasis on published work, especially in the number of articles that they produce.

This leads to two unfortunate circumstances. The first has been referred to as “publish or perish,” in which academics are pushed into publishing numerous new works in order to sustain their careers. This raises the likelihood that new work will be of decreasing scholarly value, as the priority of publishing begins to trump the inherent value of the work itself. A closely related problem has been referred to humorously as the “least publishable unit.” This phenomenon involves an academic minimizing the amount of new information in each publication in order to spread his or her work into as many releases as possible and to increase both the volume of his or her published work and reputation—often deemed an academic’s most-cherished possession.

Of course, these are extremes. Most professors genuinely love their disciplines and teaching, and actually resorting to these methods is likely the exception, rather than the rule. But inherent defects remain in the system. In order to gain tenure, academics are often encouraged to publish the highest volume of information, sometimes disregarding the quality of the work; after gaining tenure, their motivation to work is removed because of guaranteed jobs and salaries.

Clearly, American universities need an alternative to the current tenure system. One option would be to offer tenure in seven-year cycles. In such a system, after faculty members earn tenure, they are guaranteed a job for seven years. After that time period is up, they are subject to some sort of review. If they pass the review, they gain tenure for another seven years; if they fail, they are dismissed. This system would ensure that the faculty would continue to work after receiving tenure, while simultaneously having a temporarily assured job.

A seven-year cycle, however, would not solve the “publish or perish” attitude and the problems it presents. In order to resolve these issues, universities must reform the method by which tenure is obtained. Instead of focusing primarily on the volume of published work, universities should focus more heavily on the quality of their professors’ work and, more importantly, the quality of their teaching. By concentrating on these issues, there is more of a guarantee that tenured professors are competent, excellent teachers who provide their fields with meaningful contributions.

Because of the tenure system’s adoption during the Vietnam War era, professors’ livelihoods are no longer ruled by the watchful eyes of their universities’ administrators. But their jobs are now governed by the framework of an unfair system that requires or encourages them to value quantity over quality and provides them with opportunities to shirk responsibilities after receiving tenure. In order for our professors to truly fulfill the promise of academia, it is clear that tenure as we know it needs to change.

The various works are usually titled “Cosmic Tears” followed by a number, and were painted between 2003 and 2004. There are two exceptions: a triptych, called “Cosmic Tears [A, B and C],” which was created in 2009, and an individual artwork painted in 2003, possibly the first piece in the series. Fairly large, the piece stands alone on a wall in the middle of the room. The background is very dark and there are yellow-outlined indentations on the surface. There are also several slightly raised reliefs scattered across the work, giving the painting the appearance of reaching into the third dimension. All of this contributes to the illusion that one is looking at a surface covered in drops of rainwater.

The triptych, fashioned five years after the rest of the series, was developed after Byron learned that MoCRA was going to showcase his work. The pieces are labeled “A,” “B” and “C” but are placed out of order. They hang on the wall behind “Cosmic Tears” and, like the other paintings, are the sole elements on their wall. The two works on the ends of the triptych are darker, reminiscent of the original Cosmic Tears. The piece between them is only dark in the middle, with multicolored edges. The two artworks on the outside flank the inner piece, giving it a sense of frame. They lack a defined mounting, so this effect is easily observable.

On Sunday, Nov. 15 at 2 p.m., Byron gave a lecture regarding his work and the inspiration and theory behind it. He talked about several topics, including Kandinsky and Rothko, two significant 19th-20th century painters. One of his main points was his relationship to and motivation behind the Cosmic Tears series. When he finished the first cycle of the work, he felt that it was completed. However, when he learned it was to be exhibited at MoCRA, Byron began to feel that he could perhaps create more in the sequence, depending on the nature of the exhibition gallery.

The abstractness of Byron’s work is certainly spiritual. By its very nature, one must strive to find a deeper meaning or motivation within work that has no obvious concrete significance or message. The numerous Cosmic Tears paintings throughout MoCRA force the viewer to confront his or her own psychological and spiritual feelings. While not overtly religious, the paintings do evoke a sense of tranquility.

A short statement is painted on the wall of the exhibit, a sort of subtitle. It reads, in part, “Each tear contained all the joy, pain, and sorrow each person’s life would hold…Our task is to shape that tear into Meaning.” Byron’s art allows the viewer to attempt to create meaning out of the abstractness of his Cosmic Tears. At least for me, it serves as a metaphor for the tumultuous nature of spirituality.

The tour lacks a guide, and one can start anywhere on the path; the map can be downloaded and printed from the Internet. The central hub is the Salt of the Earth store at Gazebo Park, 8150 Big Bend Blvd. At the grand opening of the exhibit in Webster Groves, the artists themselves were present. The reception lasted four hours, 6-10 p.m., with wine and beer available at several locations for those old enough to drink. Several of the stores scattered throughout the areas were designated “Friday Night Hot Spots” and had events to celebrate the opening. On Saturday and Sunday the crawl operated from 10 a.m.-5 p.m., and people were seen wandering around the area carrying maps or gazing intently at Google Maps on their iPhones.

Highlights from the walk included the Salt of the Earth store itself, American Visions Contemporary Crafts, Krueger Pottery Supply and The May Gallery at Webster University.

The gallery American Visions Contemporary Crafts focuses on displaying contemporary art from the United States and Canada. Located in Rock Hill, just outside St. Louis, it is the farthest away from Salt of the Earth. The use of public transportation is recommended for those lacking a car. The artists work with a variety of mediums, including wood, metal, glass, jewelry and clay. The glasswares are particularly noteworthy and contain a veritable garden of objects, such as pears, apples and pumpkins. They come in a number of shapes, sizes and colors and are definitely worth seeing.

Krueger Pottery Supply is a one-stop shop for all things pottery. One can buy homemade pottery, supplies and equipment or even take a class. The store was founded in 1988, the atmosphere is very friendly, and the staff is willing to help any interested parties. They sell everything required for pottery, from wheels to rollers to kilns themselves, as well as clay and various coloring agents. Taking a clay class, something many of us did when we were younger, looks very tempting here.

The May Gallery is a photography gallery located at Webster University. The current exhibit, which runs from Nov. 6-25, is “Gunther Cartwright: Industrial Blues.” Cartwright focuses on the relationship between industrial society and its surroundings. Pictures include several photographs of barren land with the telltale smokestacks of power plants and a variety of photos concentrating on warning signs. The photos bring into contrast manufacturing and nature, yet indicate a sort of beauty within the industrial world. This excellent gallery is a must-see for all with even a passing interest in art or photography. Located at 8300 Big Bend Blvd., a mere 10-minute walk from Salt of the Earth, it is easily accessible.

There were many more stores and galleries to visit, and all were worth visiting. The crawl ended Sunday, but opportunities still abound for students to visit the shops. It was an enjoyable experience, one that is highly recommended for all inquisitive persons.