When it comes to the cultural significance of the West, there are at least three versions—the Mythic, the Romantic and the Real—and each version can more or less apply in either the past or the present. The Myths of the West might best be found in pulp literature, while the Romantic West is a fixture of Hollywood. Perhaps the best view of the Real West we have is found in the painting of Jeff Pugh, whose work is currently showing at David Ericson Gallery in the Avenues, along with a handful of works by Jeff’s wife, Julia, which compensate for their comparatively small number by being more than a little bit intriguing.

Let’s get this question of “real” out of the way at the start. Anyone who has driven out I-80 to Snyderville, then turned south on 224 toward Park City, may share my experience that the major landmark on that stretch, seen off to the right and signaling that you’re about to arrive, is an enormous barn, originally part of the McPolin farm but now the property of Park City. Few things in this life are more real than a barn, a structure that says “ranch” or “farm” more powerfully than the ranch house or farm house that sometimes stands in its shade but—as these paintings of Pugh’s readily demonstrate—can be entirely omitted without prejudice to the concept. Furthermore, consider Pugh’s “A Dozen Cows a Grazing,” in which the artist displays his mastery of both barn architecture and cubist skies. Two defining elements contribute to the horizontal line that completes the missing middle of the horizon. In front, there is the missing barn-red, iron-oxide paint, an absence that identifies this hard-working structure as purely utilitarian. In the back, seen to either side, there are the dozen cow, pleasurably divided into seven and five to add to the pleasure of counting them. Not only the title creatures of this canvas, they are the whole reason for what we primarily see—the grass, the barn, and even what remains of the fence. Yet they are almost invisible in the vastness of what they have made present.

The observant viewer will have noticed that many of Pugh’s barns are white, rather than red, thereby confirming that the artist isn’t just making things up. Economics aside (though they never are for farmers or ranchers), Utah is well known for its white barns, an adjustment for the health of animals keeping relatively cool in strong sunlight. In fact, due to the light desert colors, the preponderance of spectacular clouds or Pugh’s personal taste, the overall tonality of his work tends to golds and off-whites, contrasting gently with the occasional green field or the all-but ubiquitous blue skies.

New seascape works by Jeff Pugh at David Ericson Gallery capture the artist’s signature geometric style applied to ocean vistas, from quiet shoreline walks to sailboats gliding under layered skies.

Speaking of the color schemes, there are a couple of good reasons not to miss this exhibit. One kept the gallery’s ever-pleasant and helpful hostess, Karen Ericson, busy urging viewers not to miss the artist’s new theme, which was about a dozen or so images painted at the seashore. After so much parched grazing land, it’s worth seeing what Jeff Pugh can do in oil with a large expanse of water. The first of these may have been meant to break it to the Utah audience gently, because “The Beach Comber” actually has no liquid, just a high-tide line of sea wrack that indicates the presence of surf just beyond the canvas. That said, the comber connects this scene to Pugh’s more customary circumstances by staring into the middle distance, an empty-seeming stretch of sand that makes a metaphorical connection between the beach and the desert. What follows in these new works has an autobiographical, or at least memoir-like feeling: “Breakers” reveals offshore rocks that a couple of sailboats avoid; a pair of children play—or pose—in the sand in “Sun Kissed”; and in “Morning Walk,” the subject’s knit cap and hands thrust deep in pockets conjures up an early chill. In others, a couple on a spit are “Watching the Waves,” while three are “On the Rocks,” which they share with a flock of gulls, and twenty or more of all ages are “Soaking Up the Sun.” Together, these works share the direct gaze of an experienced eye taking in a totally new view.

And finally, on the gallery’s “Wall of Favor,” there are just shy of a dozen innovative paintings by Julia Pugh. Some of the most satisfyingly experimental art is created by those who associate closely with a successful artist—one who has settled into a distinctive, identifiable technique or style, which gives the newcomer something to work against, possibly in an effort to distinguish their own work from that of their inspiration. To take a potential example from Julia Pugh’s work, the best case in point might be “Summer Beauties,” a bed of flowering plants that she has provided with a dense quantity of shadows that make them appear three-dimensional and to be grown close to a wall. A similar effect occurs in “The Birds,” in which the naked branches of a tree with no foliage are filled instead by a dense flock of blackbirds. In these and several other works, a feeling like collage shares the space with one of marks made with stencils or possibly palette knives. Exactly how these are made is a matter for the artist and possibly her collectors to know more about: it is possible to look so closely it spoils the effect. Should Julia Pugh explain exactly how the various textures of “Steam Bath” are produced, it might send her fans looking in the wrong direction at this landscape of what might be Yellowstone, or Mt. Shasta, or some other place entirely.

Julia Pugh, “Summer Beauties,” 18×24 in.

Jeff Pugh’s West has always been there, since I first started looking in these parts. Julia Pugh’s work is new and proffers its own magic. Even when I thought I knew and could dismiss these Western places and the skies that light them, they were waiting to catch me unawares. And they are still waiting for new eyes.

Jeff and Julia Pugh, David Ericson Fine Art, Salt Lake City, through November 14.

Geoff Wichert

Geoff Wichert objects to the term critic. He would rather be thought of as a advocate on behalf of those he writes about.