After the previous night’s (literal) snooze fest of a film, I had some anxiety about yesterday’s gallery outing. From Jen Graves’s description in the Suggests blurb, I was dreading a kind of Special Olympics of Art; some mawkish “look at what the economically disabled children can do!” type of deal. Only the last couple lines of Jen’s recommendation gave me hope.

But the weather was fair when I arrived in late afternoon, and my cynicism melted in the warmth of an El Nino embrace. I’d never been to the Frye, and I loved how the sun’s angle made the water feature blaze in refracted light along the entrance ramp. The whole thing put me in a good mood, and maybe that’s why I found the art inside so ass-kickingly awesome.

Jen called it a “literary” show, and she’s not kidding; the paintings incorporate actual book pages, using them as fluid backdrops for confrontational, balls-out concepts. It’s true that some were a bit on-the-nosey for my taste, but gleefully impolite works like “Animal Farm,” which puts a Jesse Helms head on a mangy dog body, were satisfyingly meaty and muscular.

The only thing I didn’t like was the emphasis on the show’s back story. So what if the art had humble beginnings; isn’t that true of most art? I respect what Tim Rollins has done and all, but the up-with-people angle felt like filler. The creative juice was the real nourishment.

I definitely approve of this recommendation, and I urge you to see this sucker at your earliest convenience. It’s a small show—only a dozen pieces or so—so you can get in and out of there fast. Go on a lunch break, even. Just be sure you go.