PRINT January 2001

Katy Siegel

BACK IN MY WISCONSIN HIGH SCHOOL, I HATED THE girls who figure skated; the double axels of Tricia et al. contrasted too starkly with my double bass. But I’m a big girl now, and I can recognize the poignancy of Los Angeles-based artist Andrea Bowers’s images of amateur skaters, from an exquisite colored-pencil drawing of a fat and fabulous teenager to the funny little videos of young girls performing their routines dressed as superheroes and vamps. Awkward and touching, this is art for those who sided with Tonya Harding, not Nancy Kerrigan.

Still, the ice-skating pieces weren’t what first attracted me to Bowers’s art. In the summer of 1999, I saw a drawing in a group show at Sara Meltzer Gallery in New York (where Bowers currently has a solo show). A lone fan at a David Bowie concert, holding a giant Union Jack aloft, shouts or sings, eyes closed, floating on a sea of white paper, presumably

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