Kaz Oshiro: Steven Wolf Fine Arts.

DRUM MACHINES HAVE NO SOUL reads a bumper sticker duct-taped to the side of what appears to be a small Fender guitar amp. That sentiment, characteristic of classic rock, expresses a yearning for authenticity that is also at the heart of Kaz Oshiro's meticulous sculptural practice. Using Bondo (an auto-body repair filler), canvas stretched over wooden frameworks, and acrylic paint, the Japanese-born, Los Angeles-based artist crafts convincing facsimiles of ordinary objects. The amplifier is one such fake--a peek at its backside reveals an unfinished interior, the seam of the canvas stapled haphazardly to the support. Here, then, an act of technical finesse is applied to an ordinary-looking device that's used to make one's point heard.

In his San Francisco debut, Oshiro showed just five works, and the show's spare installation made the gallery feel more like a severely underfurnished warehouse loft than an exhibition space. The lonely Fender Vibro Champ #3, 2006, was placed in the middle of the room, while in one corner stood an unassuming stack of small white speakers, Bose Entertainment Sound System, 2002. The hot pink Trash Bin #9, 2005, which looked as if it had been salvaged from a Wendy's dining room, nearly abutted a pillar, leaving just enough room to peer at its back and see its artificiality. Shiny cola-colored stains pooled on the top of the sculpture helped to make it so believable that guests attempted to dump plastic cups into it at the opening reception, adding a few extra scuffs. The artist uses acrylic to lend a dull sheen to the seamless surface he engineers, and while there are few areas that reveal the artist's hand, his trickery invariably inspires the desire to touch.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Oshiro flirts with one-liner gimmickry, relying on trompe l'oeil deceptions, yet there's something about Trash Bin #9 in particular that nudges us toward a more involved consideration of the modes and meanings of positive and negative space: The piece appears solid on one side, but a glance at the other side reveals its emptiness. And the artist's signature is also plainly visible on the unfinished interiors of most of his works. Only Wall Cabinet #5 and Small Fridge #5 (Black Flag), both 2005 (the reference to the pioneering punk band is expressed in another artist-rendered sticker on the fake-wood-grain appliance) are pushed against the wall, their construction concealed, an act that introduces a sense of existential doubt: How does one find authenticity in a prefabricated world?

Does Oshiro's work have soul? That the question even arises points to a certain kind of success. His highly finished surfaces are immediately appealing, yet because they conceal essentially empty boxes his constructions offer none of the uncanny frisson of, say, a Duane Hanson mannequin. Oshiro turns his viewers into supporting players in a quotidian drama--a boyish one at that--but we are required to provide the heart.