Journey along with Bruch

As a sculptor, Cris Bruch has a lot going for him. He starts his artworks with strong ideas, then creates elegant forms that vary in method, scale and material. And — to top it off — he is one dynamite craftsman, standing next in line for the mantle of Martin Puryear.

A 20-year survey of Bruch's work at Lawrimore Project on the outskirts of the Chinatown International District is the kind of encompassing, well-thought-out, museum-scale show that most sculptors only dream of. Few Seattle galleries have the space or inclination to mount an exhibition as ambitious as Bruch's "How Did I Get Here?" The display spreads through all five of the gallery's exhibition areas and allows visitors to follow each step of Bruch's unfettered process.

Not every inch of "How Did I Get Here?" is top-notch, but most of it is and the rest is necessary. The video of Bruch asleep in his studio, for example (shades of Andy Warhol), is no breakthrough moment. But that's OK. The point of the show is to demonstrate who he is as an artist, from his solid, sexy, abstract sculptures to the edges of his conceptual experiments; from the early days of his career to the present. In this, the exhibition serves us — and the artist — well.

The initial graphite and ink drawings are delectable studies of dimensional thinking. From there Bruch makes a deliberate leap to a dramatic 2001 installation that the show is titled after (effectively fashioned of garbage can lids, light bulbs and words), and then on to some different ways of considering a shopping cart — pounded into a flattened tangle; armor-plated into a minimalist tank. Bruch prods us along with him, from ideas on paper to dynamic, three-dimensional manifestation.

For his larger sculptures, including the recent work that you encounter first in the main gallery, Bruch generally sticks to primal forms. They can be stark and anatomically suggestive as in the vertical slit of "Cleave" and the nippled acorn shape of "Pilgrim," or lean to the mobius-strip dynamism of "Sketchbook," which mimics the convolutions of pencil sharpenings in graceful intricacy.

So much of the abstract sculpture that gets shown these days seems rudderless, just empty form with no intention, no resonance. It's styled to look like art but doesn't do the job. Bruch, like other sculptors with staying power, demonstrates that abstract art is a process of distillation, a way of finding the essential matter in form and sparking it to life. Part of that electricity comes from the gorgeous surfaces Bruch devises to finish his sculptures. From the luscious, mottled pomegranate stain of "Perfect Landscape" to the metallic shingles of "Mutterhulse," to the rich, coffee crushed-velvet of "Chortles," the work is a lesson in tactility and sensual color.

Bruch, 50, studied art in the Midwest, earning a master's degree in video and an MFA in sculpture at the University of Wisconsin. Since moving to Seattle in 1987, he has won Seattle Art Museum's Betty Bowen Memorial Award (1990) and a Neddy Fellowship (2003) and has been a visiting faculty member at Cornish College of the Arts, Western Washington University and The Evergreen State College. A number of corporate and museum collections hold his work and in 2005 Bruch was commissioned to create a major outdoor sculpture on the University of Washington campus.

"How Did I Get Here?" stands as a reminder of why museums should hold on to the depth of their collections and not cull down to a few agreed-upon highlights to represent an artist's work. Naturally we all like to dip into the crème de la crème of art. But a few masterpieces at one time is a lot to take in. If we get to look deep into the way an artist thinks and strives, sometimes repeats, stumbles and falls short, then those occasional bursts of greatness make more sense and mean a lot more. Bruch has more than his share of successes so far, so getting to look at the path that led there is a pleasure. That in mind, I'd vote that museums mount fewer hit and miss group shows and more in-depth surveys like this one any day.

Sheila Farr: sfarr@seattletimes.com