Art: Rock Me Softly With a Table Saw: Bill Rutherford’s “Guitar” and the Curious Case of Frozen Funk

Here stands a man—maybe—strumming a purple guitar with the kind of detached elegance you’d expect from a mid-80s Prince backup dancer turned suburban art teacher. This is Guitar by Bill Rutherford, and it does not rock. It glides. It poses. It doesn’t want to be your idol; it wants to be your attitude.

The figure is lean, expressionless, and possibly allergic to emotion—but dressed like they were vacuum-sealed from a Solid Gold taping. Painted teal pants? Check. Burgundy boots with golden cuffs? Oh, honey. And that red guitar? It’s slung like a weapon, but the only thing being slain here is subtlety.

Bill Rutherford, born in 1945 and too cool for the mundane, carved his niche (literally) in painted wood sculptures that fuse African American culture, folk art energy, and more 80s visual flair than a Trapper Keeper caught in a high-speed collision with a Ken doll. He came of age artistically in a post-Civil Rights, post-funk America where expressive identity wasn’t just permitted—it was power.

While others were throwing paint on canvas and calling it therapy, Rutherford was whittling entire personalities out of pine and giving them enough color to make Miami Vice look grayscale. He was a quiet rebel, carving joy into geometry, soul into stillness.

Guitar is a time capsule: not of history, but of vibe. This figure doesn’t just play music—it is music. Mid-thrill. Mid-riff. Mid-“I’m so cool I don’t have to try.” And isn’t that exactly what we want to be? Effortless. Poised. Flawlessly dressed in a fantasy where rock and roll never gets greasy, and art school never calls your bluff.

And yet—beneath that varnished veneer—is this a celebration or a eulogy? Is Rutherford preserving the purity of performance, or is this sculpture the wax museum version of soul—immaculate, impersonal, and just a bit too perfect? Has the spontaneity of funk been turned into museum-safe decor?

Or more provocatively:

If a guitarist shreds in a gallery and nobody hears the solo, did it even wail?

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