The art world loves lost-and-found stories, tales of marginalized mavericks whose good work is later rehabilitated by enterprising curators on the prowl for underappreciated achievements. The recent exhibition of Alan Saret’s “Gang Drawings,” 1967–2003—the first solo show by the pioneering SoHo “anti-form” artist in over seventeen years, featuring works on paper made between 1967 and 2003 with “ganged” handfuls of colored pencils—only dipped into a single precinct of a much broader career, but nevertheless did a service by reintroducing one intriguing insider-turned-outsider.
In the late 1960s, Saret was a rising star, making his name producing gorgeously indeterminate volumetric assemblages of wire. Designed variously to crouch on the floor, cling to the wall, or dangle from the ceiling, these works operate between control and chance, springing here and sagging there with improbably animate
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