Wheelchair Epidemic

'Wheelchair Epidemic'

Gallery Lombardi, through April 5

It appears that "artist" is only an umbrella term these days, something you put on your passport profile for official purposes, something terribly abstract in our nano-specialized economy. So in the real world you are a musician. Or you are a photographer. Or you are a painter. In each of these categorizations, the operative word is "or" – a divider, a spacer that makes these narrower categories feel safer, tighter, more compact, manageable: marketable. And nothing feels more pressing this month than divisions of marketability as the South by Southwest Film, Music, and Interactive festivals theoretically split and operatively intermingle on the same ground, the same town, and yet supposedly such very different subcultures. So true to form in more ways than one, Gallery Lombardi's "Wheelchair Epidemic" straddles these divisions with its own peppering of defiance, nostalgia, and bravado, bringing out an exhibition that finds singers behind the lens and guitarists behind a paintbrush. In this authentically mixed-media presentation, there is something raw and wonderful about the (primarily) unpolished results. The show features works by the Dicks' lead singer Gary Floyd – known for bringing hardcore punk to Texas – beside prints by rocker Win Wallace and work by the Ends' Ian Schults. Susan Antone also debuts an exclusive group of her photographs collected over years of famed performances at Antone's, along with work by the multifaceted Tim Kerr (think Bad Mutha Goose & the Brothers Grimm or Jack O'Fire or the Monkeywrench or ...) and Texas Skatepunk Scrapbook photographer Bill Daniel. The musical eclecticism of this Lombardi exhibition mirrors not just the gallery's old-school-Austin vibe, its focus on the "found" exudes a strong vintage ebbing. Gary Floyd's work, thoughtfully curated by gallery director and Austin art savant Rachel Koper (also a Chronicle visual-arts writer), is a postering session gone wild. Provocative at times and something near thematically extant, Floyd's work sets up psychological stills that work best when buzzing beside one another. Tim Kerr's work carries the show with flat painted portraits and handwritten commentary on cardboard, chalkboard, and pull-down Texas maps. Painting with an innocence and idolatry that only true fans can muster, Kerr's work is a vibrant blend of down-home folklore and musical iconography appreciable from those on-, off-, and backstage.