Alex Frost 1973
Until October 30; Changing Room, Stirling

When Minimalism was a movement which meant more than tasteful brown coffee tables and pristeen domestic habits, it carried with it a range of philosophies. Prime amongst these was the idea of creating an object so pure and universal that human touch was imperceptible. Donald Judd had his spartan structures industrially manufactured, while Sol LeWitt issued instructions for wall-paintings over the telephone.

Minimalists even battled against the temptation to assemble their artworks according to taste. Would this box look best next to that box, or above it? The best way to avoid any such visual hierarchy was to use identical parts, and to arrange them in uncompromising grids. The artists were writing themselves right out of the script.

It’s hard to say whether Alex Frost is a disciple of Minimalism or a tardy thorn in its side. His work harks back to the modular approach of that era, but it’s home-made and messy. It might be based on grids and almost-identical parts; it might even use rigid systems which deny the artist any subjective input; but it is human at every turn. It is, Frost is saying, impossible to remove the artist from the art.

Four drawings express the conundrum most explicitly. These are taken from snapshots, one being an ink spillage in the artist’s studio, another of a sculpture hanging next door. The photos are broken down into tonal ranges on computer. Each of these ranges is represented by a simple symbol which Frost draws in pencil onto graph paper. This rigid process doesn’t allow much scope for artistic freedom, but Frost’s own presence is clearly felt in the tiny, patiently performed pencil marks.

Three of the drawings contain elements of Frost’s other artworks. One is a heap of slide wallets, partially full. It’s a safe bet to assume that they are images of Frost’s work to date, but it’s impossible to say for sure in these codified pictures of pictures of pictures. If this was a tv drama you could say “enhance that shot” and the detail would miraculously appear. Here, we can only make sense of what limited visual information we’re given.

In his large sculpture, 1973/l-beam, the oozing gripfill hasn’t been wiped from between the layers of plywood, and the overall effect is once again deliberately rough and ready. The material reflects Frost’s interest in repeating modules, and in ever-repeating fractals. Many thin layers make up a piece of plywood. Frost has glued eight layers of plywood together to make straight-edged blocks. Around 20 of these are glued together to create the overall shape of a circle, while there is not a single curve in the entire object.

Frost’s work constantly makes you examine the visual connections which your brain is making instinctively all the time. Straight lines can add up to a curve. Plus and minus signs can add up to a flower in bloom. The act of seeing is a non-stop response to a complex mix of clues and equations. A classic example is the image of the vase which doubles as two faces in profile. You can either see the vase, or the faces, but not both at the same time.

Frost has extended this visual experiment by creating real vases based on his own profile. They sit on plinths, rotating so slowly that their movement is imperceptible. If you try to perceive the movement you are faced with a problem: the vase looks the same from every angle. The smooth surface is the same, the shadows and light unchanged, and the profile continuous through 360 degrees. As a result, the way to change what you see is not to alter your position in relation to the sculpture. It’s to flick a switch in your brain.

This takes Frost to the heart of an old battle about whether artworks should be self-contained objects impervious to the world around them, or whether it’s all a question of relationships. Does it matter where the art is positioned, or where you’re standing? Is what you see different from what other people see?

This is art for art critics. Frost addresses numerous questions raised through the history of art, about the nature of art itself. The art world will happily debate these issues until the end of time, and so it should. But whether the rest of the world will care is another question entirely.

Catrìona Black, Sunday Herald 10.10.04