Last week I ran into a woman who told me that reading a City's Choice on an altered book workshop inspired her to attend. Neither of us knew the other had been there, but we discussed how cool we thought the books were, and also our own pitiful attempts at the workshop to make one. I blogged about it here. I say this because when I learned that the Memorial Art Gallery's "Rochester Biennial" was to include a book artist, I was excited.

First, a gripe. The $10 admission seems a bit steep considering I can go to Buffalo's Albright-Knox, which IMHO has a far superior permanent collection, for the same price.

And on to the dogs. Juan Perdiguero's doggy drawings are the kind of art that makes me see what I view as mistakes. "You smudged it there. You forgot to erase your pencil outline." They reminded me a bit of Tim Burton creations, with their glowing eyes.

Next was Susan Lakin's photographs of peoples' reflections in their television sets. Initially interesting, like TV-obscura, it quickly became boring. I found the settings and the posed smiling faces lacking any interesting features. The placements, high and low on the walls, while giving the idea that the settings were to seem life-like, were a bit annoying. It mattered not, as I was just about to turn the corner to see what I really came to see -- the books.

The books. Some were like murals painted on accordion-like folding pages. Others were collages. One had piano-hinged pages. They were pretty. They were well made, beautiful even. But not at all what I expected. These were more the art of bookbinding and bookmaking. They were art books. I was expecting altered books -- books made into artworks. I was bitterly disappointed.

Then, I turned the corner...

Gigantic, 800 lb. bronze sculptures of black birds are impressive. "I model these forms to contain a taut equilibrium, a balanced pressure from inside and out -- like a breath held in," says Todd McGrain's artist statement. Mission accomplished. I would gladly take one home to live with me. There was a living essence in them that made them feel like old friends to me.

Imagine things wired to a wired stand. That's Ronald Gonzalez's installation. Wiry stands with odd objects like antique toys and tools connected on top. I didn't understand the artist's statement about the "...shared psychic indeterminacy, tragic consciousness..." of the objects, but I did feel like I was channeling Ty Pennington giving a lecture on grouping objects by theme.

By far the most surprising to me were Melissa Sarat's paintings. At first I thought they were quilted. They are so bright and plump that they seem almost three-dimensional. Brimming with symbolism, they transported me to a steamy bayou, replete with drug-induced dancing. I don't know much about art, other than what I like and don't like. But her work, I just know it is good.

Next up: Stay-cation on Canandaigua Lake