Dark and sweet fables for a modern age

We need myths and stories right now. And not just the romantic, happily-ever-after aspects of fairy tales, but their original, real-life messages, too: warnings to stay on the trail in the woods or to deal fairly with others ... or else. Our increasingly troubled times call for these kinds of cautionary reminders, in conjunction with healthy doses of fantastic escapism. Fortunately, artists Julie Paschkis and Kensuke Yamada, in very different works (at Grover/Thurston Gallery and Catherine Person Gallery, respectively), offer playful, sometimes disturbing characters and engaging narratives that are both dark and sweet.

Julie Paschkis' embroidered panels, paintings on silk and gouache paintings with cut-paper borders are filled with scenes of quaint beauty and folksy fantasy. Drawing on poetry, fables and sheer whimsy, Paschkis uses a folk-art style that seems at once Scandinavian, Russian and Mexican to create snippets of narratives that are, usually, rich in visual detail. Occasionally, the compositions lack the balanced complexity of her best work and err toward simplistic charm. The most compelling pieces are not only brilliantly intricate, but suggestive of nuanced meanings.

In "The Tragic Tale of the Old Rooster," Paschkis presents a scene with an untold beginning or meaning; we see a beautiful peasant girl grieving over the beheaded rooster, suggesting a tale of romance and tragedy, much like that of Chanticleer, the overly proud rooster in Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales." Paschkis employs an equilibrium of darks and lights and harmonious compositional reversals to evoke a cyclical tale of life, love and death. The black and white cut-paper border around this painting, and many others, adds both a striking visual element and a sense of fragility.

When she moves from painting and paper to embroidery on fabric, Paschkis smartly eschews the filigree effect of positives and negatives for bigger blocks of color and sparely used decoration. "Idun and the Apples of Youth" reminds us that there are many ways of interpreting the iconic coupling of apple and tree. Paschkis uses bold color contrasts to hint at the power of Idun, the Norwegian goddess who watches over the apples of eternal youth. Paschkis' eerie two-faced treatment of the goddess and her repeated inclusion of the snake motif remind us of the fickleness of youth and the dangers of vanity.

While Paschkis' work is inhabited by lyrical and graphic characters from poems and world myths, Kensuke Yamada's ceramic sculptures are more introspective and harder to read in terms of a clear narrative. But his thoughtful, bigheaded ceramic people and their animal companions create strong personal connections with viewers.

These are odd and occasionally disturbing groupings, with their hybrid qualities (birds with hoofs) and condensed and swollen forms. But they are essentially alluring, not frightening, creations. Their more lighthearted qualities are created by Yamada's plump animals and childlike figures, and his saturated colors achieved through multiple glazes and firings.

Although Yamada's sculpted humans are individualistic and absorbed in their own meditations or communions with their animals, there is something quite universal about their expressions and gestures. We vaguely identify with these creatures and imagine various meanings for Yamada's repeated use of birds and totemic stacks and piles of animals.

Two ceramic figures, "Agent Mr. C" and "Agent Mrs. C," sit astride their giant birds next to each other but worlds apart. Their names suggest dynamic action and a marital relationship, but these agents have become mired in silence and suspicion. Try as they might, with their hands stuffed in rooster puppets and sideways glances, they cannot move or communicate with each other. These droll and poignant creatures are typical of Yamada's work: They simultaneously take us away from the problems of our lives through their witty weirdness while reminding us of our struggles to connect.