Charles A. Hartman Fine Art

Included are nearly all of Link's iconic images of steam trains and small-town Americana, as pictured by an off-duty commercial photographer fascinated by railways and epic lighting scenarios. Link portrayed the dying steam train industry of the 1950s with the same unapologetic sentimentality he applied to small-town life. In image after image, locomotives barrel past fresh-faced teenagers and hardworking farmers, roll like clockwork through Edward Hopper-esque towns of sweet loneliness, and signify the promise of economic growth throughout the coal belt.

In capturing the private goings on of his subjects, Langer's pictures suggest the nudes of the Impressionist Edgar Degas, whose paintings of nude women engaged in their private daily rituals and habits had a voyeuristic clinicalness.

But Langer's pictures have a more benign quality to them. And, like Kenna, Langer strives deeply to achieve a cool formality. You're seeing a world in motion, but not a world moving naturally, and a world held at an emotional distance, too. It's a deliberately constructed world of shadow and mood.

In "Selections 2004-2009," themes of human density once again occupy Peterman's meticulous photographs, as the artist juxtaposes vast landscapes of sublime emptiness with claustrophobic metropolises of impenetrable saturation.

Peterman goes for the wide shot in his muted, spare images of the American Southwest. The standout among his desert photos, "White Sands III," depicts the blanched landscape just as the cloudless, dust-filled sky turns the same shade of off-white as the dunes below. Like a glaucomatous mirage, the desert threatens to vanish into a monochrome abyss.

This is a breezily-paced historical show whose individual works would fit quite well in the Portland Art Museum's photography collection. And while it's not an extraordinarily unique sampling by any measure -- Portland has welcomed such works regularly in the past through other commercial art venues -- the quality is affirming. The Portland art world needs the consistency of these kinds of shows.

In mid-June, four days after his interview for this profile, photographer Corey Arnold left Portland for a two-month odyssey to Bristol Bay, Alaska. As this issue goes to press, he is on a commercial fishing boat, catching and gutting salmon by day, sleeping in an abandoned salmon cannery by night, and photographing these eerie environs—and their eccentric habitués— whenever he can steal a moment to click a shutter. With their exotic imagery and narrative quality, Arnold’s portraits, seascapes and landscapes have an offbeat appeal that sometimes veers into the absurd, mythic and grotesque.

Ultimately, there's great mystery on the walls. And as much as I admire and like the aesthetic qualities developed in these works, I think every choice is a precise calculus meant to increase the enigmatic, a mood of puzzlement. Maybe these extremely manicured photos, which are almost exclusively devoid of human presence, hint at some level of emotional closure. Like the works of Richard Misrach, Kenna's photos are so beautiful and faultlessly consummated that they're closed off to imperfection, perhaps even nature's ways.

But perhaps the most compelling way to look at these works is within the framework of a changing era, the transition from mid-20th-century industry to something far more abstract and ephemeral. Robinson's paper mills and grain elevators, as well as other natural landscapes we often forget about, remind us of a past and a way of making things that may not return or thrive again in the same way --just like General Motors.

That's not a bad thing. This is a dizzying, electrifying time where time present is already time past and where eloquence is measured by 140 succinct words. It's an era beyond measurable history, beyond the usual metrics. Robinson's gaze at the present is already a sentimental, nostalgic one. They remind us of how fine and beautiful things were. And will be, no matter what.

The show’s most innovative works, the gold-leaf sculptural wall piece, Award, and the silver-leafed Tarnation, were meticulously carved and sanded wood panels that mimicked the puffed-out, wrinkled-up look of bed pillows. Glinting, gleaming tours de force, they presented a visual paradox: the apparent softness of quilting and padding versus the solidity of gold bars and silver bullion. The viewer, registering but unable to reconcile these dueling impressions, was left with a dissonance that might have proved disturbing, were it not for the broadly smiling opulence the pieces exuded.