In a seemingly endless era in which obscurity is the objective of art, and personal therapy is regarded as the apex of expression, one artist beckons us into a special communion with her work.
Ann Zahn's fascinating dry points, etchings, and white-line woodcuts now adorn the walls of the Washington Printmakers Gallery, located at 1732 Connecticut Avenue, NW. A photograph of Zahn's pictures -- part of a show called "Garden Journal Six, Stations, Garden Journal Nine, Portraits" -- reveals uniquely rendered people in not merely surreal, but fantastic attitudes.
Postcards arrive that feature a blue rectangle superimposed on a gray square, and the demand of the artist seems to be, "Be moved by this; if you're not, that's quite all right, because I am, but anyway, buy it, appreciate it, celebrate it. I'm immortal, now make me immortal."
Meanwhile, Zahn's works reward us. They demand our attention because they are so much more absorbing and evocative than the gray line painted on the page with the artist's hope that we -- the viewers -- will follow it to some great conclusion. Of course, we never get there, because there are no human forms, no human passion, no human struggle.
But that is not the case here.
Here, every picture captivates. Every picture dares to be something unique.
One shows a man playing a piano. The piano keys extend into a spiral staircase. Individuals smaller than the player -- a man and a little girl in a dress -- wander across the keys. Other figures appear to float out of the man's head. The top of the staircase does not lead to a door or into a room, but into a horse's torso and the horse is galloping into the man. There is nothing staged about the drawing. The metaphor is not immediately evident. It is not evident after study. We just want to keep looking at it because it is interesting and moving. It's moving because the faces and forms show human emotion.
Another image shows an older man. He looks sedate, even grandfatherly, but in his stomach lies what looks like an upside-down heart, or a boat, out of which is struggling the muscular image of a younger man.
Still another work features a man, seated and placid-looking. Surrounding him -- on his shoulders and in his lap -- are seven or eight small figures of various sizes, working, resting, running, or standing. What are they doing? We don't know, but we want to know.
There are shades of surrealist painter Max Ernst in the relations of the various figures in Zahn's pictures. The floating quality in her people suggests Marc Chagall. But finally, the images stand -- with all their seriousness, skill and humanity -- as one artist's interpretation and celebration.
The exhibit runs through May 2.