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Category: columns
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Yuja Wang, Gustavo Dudamel, the L.A. Phil — and Rachmaninoff
We Came to Dance‘People are talking about….’ is the way Vogue used to frame it from the old Diana Vreeland/Leo Lerman days until well into this century. And people have been talking about Yuja Wang’s Rachmaninoff cycle since her marathon performance at Carnegie Hall less than two weeks ago. Well it’s here—with Gustavo Dudamel (he’s still here, too) and the L.A. Philharmonic; and I’m guessing next Friday’s and Saturday’s crowds may be thinning just a bit earlier than the art fairs anticipated … as fans make their way downtown.
It’s hard for me to believe that there was a time when Sergei Rachmaninoff’s first piano concerto (he wrote four) in F# minor was held in less esteem than his three others. It’s certainly no less romantic, though it has always seemed less cloying, less ‘carried away with itself’—which is saying something, because even this rhapsodic, frequently fantastical and darkly romantic concerto doesn’t exactly hold back. That said, part of its structure owes something to famous Romantic predecessors (interestingly, both in A minor), the Schumann piano concerto and (as I learned somewhat later), the Grieg piano concerto (apparently a kind of template for Moscow Conservatory composition students—which is what Rachmaninoff was at that time). But Rachmaninoff breaks out of this framework at a racehorse gallop and the finished work, whatever parallels might be sifted from it, is vividly original, as alive and electric as anything he wrote—which is also saying something, given that this was his first published work. He had only just turned 18 when he finished it.
You hear a bit of that youth and impetuosity in the work still—the long romantic lyrical lines offset against staccato triplets, the insistent brass hovering overhead; and Wang and Dudamel are as well suited to it as Sharks and Jets might still be ready to rumble. Wang brought the fire and Dudamel came to dance with it. The opening cascade of chromatically descending double octaves were firm and fortissimo, while Dudamel kept that tension of alternately legato and staccato passages tight, letting the woodwinds and brass choir sing. The tension is real—at one moment I questioned (to myself anyway) a clarinet’s intonation leaning into a note setting up the second movement andante romance. Wang’s hyper-articulated rendering of those chromatic triplets that segue into the mid-movement cadenza seemed like something out of Everything Everywhere All At Once. I felt as if I needed another pair of ears to fully appreciate it. Once there, though, Wang swept through it in a kind of brilliant swoon, that managed to close (well) majestically.
The second movement is all but carried by the piano (with hovering brass and strings, as if on some very dark, distant horizon) in a dark, rhapsodic major-minor nocturne that breaks into a dark staccato dance. Wang is a master of the wistful, Chopin-esque double-trilet passages that close the movement, but she didn’t let the languor slow the pace; and both Dudamel and Wang were alive to the lively dialogue with the orchestra’s woodwinds, which (especially the flutes) shined throughout.
It’s really in the third movement where we hear Rachmaninoff coming into his own, both pianistically and orchestrally, with verve and originality, turning the suspense and mystery of the first two movements into something brilliantly resolute, yet not without tragic dimension. It’s almost three mini-movements, alternating beautiful lyrical passages with staccato triplets—gorgeously set in relief by the horns brightness and ferocity and the beautiful interplay between flutes and woodwinds with Wang’s piano. There were moments when Wang made some of those dance-like staccato passages sound like jazz.
As they came off the stage (Wang wore a mint-green halter-neck satin gown with cut-out, crystal studded bodice; Dudamel, a charcoal suit), I couldn’t help thinking—the dazzle of the music and the moment aside—he’s going to miss those horns and woodwinds.
We begged for an encore; and Wang delivered—the Mendelssohn “Song without Words,” Op. 67, No. 2, which Wang rendered with a kind of Schubertian innocence, as if to take us back to down earth—a wistful adieu distantly echoing the triplet passages of the Rachmaninoff she had just played.
I’m not sure if they changed the program (for some reason I was expecting a performance of Rachmaninoff’s choral symphony, The Bells), but the Opus 45 Symphonic Dances seemed appropriate. As I said, Dudamel came to dance—and to watch him on the podium with the full orchestra (featuring a heavy percussion section, and the Phil’s wonderful harpist, Emmanuel Ceysson) was pretty delightful. The first movement has a dynamic, almost martial aspect—think hordes (Scythian?) thundering across the Eurasian steppe, or perhaps Gudrun chasing away the cattle (I’m thinking of Glenda Jackson’s Oscar-winning performance of the role) in Ken Russell’s adaptation of Lawrence’s Women In Love. Nothing whatsoever to do with Hollywood, but this is an orchestral showpiece that this orchestra understands down to their shared DNA. (That includes Sergei Rachmaninoff himself—who spent his last years here and died in Beverly Hills.) Dudamel singled out his woodwinds, horns, percussion—and Ceysson (who was wonderful) on the first curtain call. We all ‘danced the masque last night’—and we enjoyed it.
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Remark’s on Color: Denouement Daffodil
February’s HueDenouement Daffodil is a real downer and the first person to leave the party, proffering reasons like “I must go home and feed my guppies,” or “I can’t concentrate because my nose hairs are making me sneeze.” Always quick to wrap things up and never one for a winded story, Denouement Daffodil refuses to stand in line for more than two minutes, which makes shopping for the latest couture quite challenging. Instead, she orders things online, but if the delivery takes more than 24 hours, she promptly sends the item back. DD is a self-proclaimed “tidy-maker,” an individual who cannot stomach the thought of procrastination. She has a particular dislike for people with endless patience like those folks who wait for 72 hours in the pouring rain on Black Friday just to get a new pair of sneakers.
DD has a weekly blog called “Down Time” where she features stories about people who waited too long on the ski lift and sadly met an untimely end, or the guy who was told his timing belt was about to snap, yet he drove across country anyway. Needless to say, his Buick wound up in a ditch. DD regularly excoriates people for overcooking their vegetables, calling into famous cooking shows and complaining that the chefs are lazy, waiting too long for the noodles to boil while the broccolini sits simmering for three extra minutes in the pan. She finds it personally offensive when she sees people lining up at In & Out for an overcooked grease fest of oil laden fries and brown meat, some even waiting as much as an hour in the hot sun to get their fat fix.
Denouement Daffodil has ceased going on the internet as it takes too long for her computer to connect, and soon she begun to lose her hair with every passing minute. Her solution was to purchase a sensory deprivation tank which she had installed in her living room. Like Jean Paul Marat, she even set up a small writing desk inside the tank to ensure a state of perfected silence, and is currently at work on a new self-help book entitled People Suck, But I Move Mountains, soon to be released to a limited readership.
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Publication in the Age of Negation, Part X
A Mystery…With a Missing Body of WorkDear Friends,
It is with deep sorrow that we inform you that we lost Jim early on Monday morning, after a long illness. Jim’s last days were spent at peace with his family, and true to his character, he kept working until the very end, finishing a lengthy review of a new Dreiser biography only days before he left us. We ask that the family’s privacy be respected at this time. A small funeral ceremony will take place in the coming weeks, and a celebration of Jim’s life and work, in the convivial spirit that Jim intended for his many friends and colleagues, will take place in the near future.
Jim’s death was conveyed in a mass email, sent out by somebody I had never met. I had known that my friend—one of the most distinguished figures in the New York literary world—was seriously ill, but hadn’t expected him to check out quite so soon. It was a sad day… words got in the way.
Jim’s last words to me had been to tell me that he was using his considerable influence to get my novel into “the right hands,” and that he was waiting to hear back from various parties among “the more enlightened and discriminating echelons of the publishing world,” from whom he was confident of hearing his own effusive praise echoed.
However, Jim hadn’t indicated who these parties were, which placed me in an awkward position. I couldn’t very well hit up his grieving widow, Penny Brooklinen, and ask her to go to the trouble of combing through reams of her late husband’s correspondence for the express purpose of unearthing information that could only benefit me personally: that would be unseemly at such a time. Moreover, it was unlikely that the parties in question would prioritize such a trifling bit of literary business in the wake of their friend’s death (they probably didn’t even have my contact information). That digital paper trail would be left un-followed, leading as it did, to a lost cause. It would remain a mystery, with a missing body… of work.
My timing and judgment had been terrible. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t fathom why I hadn’t sought the help of my willing and highly influential friend earlier, instead of appealing to the nonexistent goodwill of various disinterested local literary acquaintances, when from the outset I correctly sensed that they would do nothing to advance my cause. It had been pure, thoughtless, self-defeating perversity on my part. With Jim’s infallible imprimatur things would have moved along smoothly and swiftly; by now my novel would have been passed into the hands of a reputable publisher. Instead, I had wasted a lot of time trafficking with various insecure minor talents and major egomaniacs who wouldn’t have lent a hand to Shakespeare himself, or even recognize that he might have something to offer, if he wasn’t in a position to leverage their own careers by association, and if he wasn’t invited to the right parties.
James Ensor, Death and the Masks, 1897. I froze when I saw Tyler Priligy strolling through the weekly farmers’ market, carrying a New Yorker tote bag stuffed with fresh produce. I looked around for a means of escape but it was too late, he was walking towards me with a smile on his unruffled face. Such was the extent of our acquaintanceship that an exchange of pleasantries was unavoidable.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you moved to El Sereno.”
“I did,” he said. “But I just had a meeting around the corner.”
“Towards what end?” I grudgingly asked.
“I’m having a book published,” he announced in his shrill but grating voice.
“A book,” I repeated, dumbfounded. This fresh development in Tyler’s charmed life doubtless accounted for his oppressively chirpy mood. Then again, he always exuded that air of unlimited self-ease peculiar to those who subsist on invisibly independent means. His confidence and carefree nature were entirely attributable to freedom from financial worry, which also allowed him to pursue some very pedestrian artistic activities.
“About what?” I asked, with unconcealed incredulity.
“It’s a memoir,” he said with a straight face.
“Just what the world needs,” I spluttered out, once I had managed to stifle an incipient burst of malicious laughter. “Aren’t you a bit young for that?”
“It’s about the last year of my life,” he said. “You know I’ve been through a lot recently.”
Here we go again… I seemed to vaguely recall that Tyler’s marriage had recently ended after he discovered that he was gay, which had always been glaringly obvious to his tiresomely heteronormative friends. He had also cultivated a drug habit and almost died of an accidental fentanyl overdose.
Now he had something to write about.
From being praised in the highest circles I was back to trawling the lower depths, among the punishers, poetasters and pretenders. I had never left, and probably never would. This was my domain. My hopes had risen, only to come crashing back down again, and again. There was no point holding back anymore.
“Congratulations on your devastating originality,” I said, succumbing to the rapidly rising red tide of indignation.
“Well, what do you have to write about?” Tyler shot back at me, evidently offended by my reaction.
“What?” I said, taking it down a few notches, recognizing that restraint, and even a degree of false modesty, might be necessary when confronted with this crudely posed question. “Well since you’re kind enough to ask, although it might seem like an odd approach to some people, I deliberately didn’t publish anything, other than journalism, until I had something to say. I wrote but it never occurred to me to publish.”
“That’s admirable,” said Tyler, scoffingly.
“For one thing,” I continued, “when I was your age, there was nowhere to publish. The internet has created massive opportunities for the inexperienced and the inept, who start publishing no sooner than they put pen to paper, to facilitate the illusion that they are writers. Nowadays one doesn’t have to prove oneself. There are no standards, there’s no quality control, and there are too many outlets. In order to have something to say I had to do nothing for a long time. I waited a long time, until waiting itself became the subject. And, frankly, it wasn’t worth the wait.”
“Really admirable,” said Tyler, picking his bulging New Yorker tote bag from the ground.
“It’s more than can be said for most people,” I said. “I was under the mistaken impression that I had to live first. Although I was doing everything, and more, that you feel you have to share, it seemed gauche to write about it. There’s nothing further to say on the subject of drugs. Every nickel has been chipped out of that rock.”
“It’s a literary tradition,” said Tyler, as if he was giving a history lesson to a recalcitrant student. “There’s a book from the eighteenth century called Confessions of an English Opium Addict.”
“It’s from the nineteenth century: Thomas de Quincey. I haven’t read it, although I did enjoy his Recollections of the Lake Poets. That wouldn’t interest you though. It’s not about drugs.”
“The thing is,” said Tyler patiently, placing his New Yorker tote bag back on the ground, “that there’s a long history of writing about drugs and as long as people take drugs, people are going to write about it.”
“Well, it’s run its course. Heroin memoirs are as played out and predictable as Marvel movies at this point.” Tyler didn’t respond, so I continued: “In order to be able to address a subject with authority, it was necessary to become a failure. I could have played the game, been a screenplay hack, done commercial stuff, with all the concomitant climbing and groveling. But I thought it would be more interesting to explore the possibilities of a career in failure, really immerse myself in it, get stuck in, and it has proven to be a rich, fertile and ultimately unrewarding lode. It’s lonely work but somebody has to do it.”
“Read it and weep,” said Tyler.
“Weed it and reap, that’s what the drug memoir epidemic amounts to,” I brusquely rejoined.
“My book isn’t exclusively about drugs,” said Tyler. “It’s about addiction and my journey….”
“So you’re covering all the bases. That’s a foolproof strategy. All this crap about gender, race and identity politics is going to get tired very quickly. Nobody’s going to want to read about that stuff in twenty… ten… five years time. It may well be a necessary corrective now but it will soon look hopelessly dated. Maybe two or three of the thousands of books that are being churned out on these already exhausted subjects will still be in print in twenty years time.”
“And your complaining about not getting your novel published, I suppose that has a timeless quality,” said Tyler, condescendingly.
At least he was aware of my articles; that was heartening. “It’s a lot more than just that,” I said, striving for evenness of tone. “It started off as a rant against the publishing industry but it’s turned into a send-up of the local literary scene. It’s richly layered.”
“You’re pretty confident about it, aren’t you?” said Tyler.
“Actually, no. I’ve been struggling with the latest installment. It’s going to be the last one, and the worst one. I’ve lost interest in it. I’m wrapping it up in a very uninspired manner. You might get a bit part if you play your cards right, although you’ll probably appear quite wooden. I don’t feel up to putting much effort into any new characters.”
“It would be an honor,” said Tyler, mockingly, “and don’t worry, the cream always rises to the top.”
“It curdles, at the bottom, into bitterness,” I said, grateful for an opportunity to quote myself. I attempted to be more cordial by asking Tyler who was publishing his book, and the conversation petered out in a weak drizzle of uncomfortable laughter.
James Ensor, Skeletons Fighting Over a Pickled Herring, 1891. What was the point? I wasn’t sure that I even believed my own bullshit anymore, let alone anyone else’s. As I walked away, with a plastic bag containing three punnets of berries and a head of broccoli, I was assailed by doubt and guilt. Tyler was a nice enough guy. He had never done me any harm. I couldn’t be going around spewing bile about the work of people I barely knew to other people I barely knew. I wasn’t doing myself any favors, and I usually felt guilty about it afterwards. It was okay to do that in print with a mitigating degree of humor and self-deprecation, but I needed to restrain myself from doing it in person.
These publishers were more than willing to provide a forum for anybody who wanted to brag about their predictably unorthodox sexual proclivities and their drug intake. There was no hope. All gates were closed.
I would gladly give up, if anybody would notice. But neglect can be a powerful fuel.
When I got home that evening I drafted a new cover letter:
“My novel examines issues of gender, race and sexuality. It addresses the intersections between the political and spiritual, weaving personal narrative with urgent questions about desire, identity, and the limits and possibilities of love and language. It is a poignant exploration of the transformative power of art and the very act of being alive.”
I couldn’t possibly go wrong with that.
THE END.
This is the conclusion of a series by John Tottenham. Please see previous installments: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII and Part IX.
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Pussy Riot at Jeffrey Deitch Los Angeles: Putin’s Ashes
Neutralizing the political and cultural toxins of patriarchy“The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned….” W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming
Since its inception, Pussy Riot (Nadya Tolokonnikova, Maria Alyokhina, Yekaterina Samutsevich, et al.) made the balaclava a trademark, but I couldn’t help being reminded Friday night—at the demonstration-vernissage-performance of Nadya’s Pussy Riot Putin’s Ashes show at Jeffrey Deitch Los Angeles—that it also served an entirely utilitarian purpose as an essential mask or camouflage. Even at the time of their 2012 performance at Moscow’s Church of the Redeemer, it was almost inevitable that, given the Russian Orthodox Patriarch’s (Vladimir Mikhailovich ‘Kirill’ Gundyayev) well-established connections with Kremlin leadership and Vladimir Putin in particular, pressure would be exerted to detain or arrest them; and within a week of their performance, they were.
Their arrest was met with immediate protest in Red Square and beyond, but they remained under arrest, were charged and ultimately tried. Few in the Moscow art world at the time expected more than a wrist-slap level penalty; Tolokonnikova was already well-known, in part through her connections with the protest art collective, Voina—which only the year before had been awarded a state-sponsored(!) prize for their protest art (including a performance explicitly flipping off the FSB—successor to the KGB, Putin’s first employer). But as Americans have learned over the last year or so (Britney Griner), the Russian legal system (if you can call it that, given built-in prosecutorial bias, its judicial caprice and heavy-handed enforcement of state authority), has a way of escalating the wrist-slap to the draconian-punitive.
Tolokonnikova is free, in Los Angeles, and continuing to raise her voice against the world’s most powerful mass-murdering chief of state; but beyond her appearance Friday night, her whereabouts can only be identified to the extent geo-location tools may place her coordinates from one moment to the next. Putin may or may not (at least not immediately) be headed for history’s ash-heap, but his foes are never out of his sightlines. His surrogates and operatives are everywhere; and his identified opponents—or even self-exiled one-time allies—have been dropping dead just about everywhere under predictably dubious circumstances.
But we all felt vulnerable Friday night. Surveillance footage of the Pelosi assault in the morning. Memphis police monitoring camera footage at dusk. Many of us came to what felt more like a vigil than a performance, having just viewed yet another black man tortured to death in broken but unedited video sequences with real-time impact. (Emmett Till died for what exactly? Were Inquisition tortures ever this bad? Afghanistan and Iraqi atrocities? Guantanamo??) The many balaclavas we donned felt as much a concealment and admission of vulnerability as a signifier of willful, inexorable resistance to oppression. No point to ‘putting on a brave face’—although I could see that many of the unmasked in the audience were trying. We were still in shock.
The performance that became Putin’s Ashes appeared to have been shot in the desert. A cohort of 12 young women appear to come over a rise descending onto a gray landscape of scraggly brush, gravel and dessicated foliage. The performance gets down to its business briskly—essentially an execution and cremation in effigy. But here again, as Tolokonnikova and her fellow performers had in 2012, the performance had a quasi-religious frame. They rapidly paired off, bearing their ‘icons’ and ‘instruments’ as they might in a religious procession; the trappings of choir (or conceivably judicial) ceremony swapped out for black slips, fishnet stockings, and long red gloves, with red balaclavas their executioners’ hoods. Hard not to think that in a lighter, more hopeful moment (conceivably only a year or two before their fateful Moscow performance), such a performance might be played to almost comical effect. But their white-hooded leader (Nadya)—in more conventional black-and-white ‘schoolgirl’ attire—raised her dagger and made plain their court’s intention to deliver damning and deadly judgment.
The perforated billboard icon of Putin echoed the half-tone newsprint image that might effectively serve as a visual equivalent for his own reality—isolated behind a bulletproof Kremlin security apparatus and insulated by a cadre of yes-men from the grim actualities of his war, terror apparatus, and the deterioration of daily life in his own country. This is a fire of his own making and Pussy Riot have simply delivered him to his fate.
But notwithstanding the focus on Putin, the visual cues had an aspirational dimension. The framed red ‘button’—shorthand for the infamous nuclear arms command ‘football’—poised to “neutralize” Vladimir Putin under Tolokonnikova’s hand, might also “eliminate(s) sexism” (framed as with the performance button, and installed in its own space on another level of the gallery). I think this might have been better expressed as ‘eliminate’ or ‘neutralize the patriarchy’. But the intent was clear enough.
It was also noteworthy that this Pussy Riot cohort—not coincidentally the size of a jury—all wore the Russian Orthodox cross—an explicit rebuke to both Putin and his ally, the Patriarch of Moscow, but also appropriation of a symbol of patriarchal authority to its own ends: letting the patriarchy fall by its own standard, and neutralizing its cultural authority. There is the half of humanity that may be ‘redeemed, and the other half (the downward slant of the ‘footrest’ bar) condemned to hell. (Arguably that incline should be a lot steeper, but the point is made.)
The flames reduce the image to ashes, which Tolokonnikova than retrieves to be placed in slender vials (also part of the installation). The symbolism of portioning out Putin’s ‘ashes’ into 100 mg, 30 mg, and 5 mg vials wasn’t clear to me. The point of their toxicity seemed to have already been well established. But again, the appropriation of religious rites and symbolism were very much a part of the performance and exhibition.
They can’t kill us all, we think; and—absent a nuclear blast—they can’t. But as the news out of Ukraine reminds us every single day, they can kill a lot of us. And why stop with hostile foreign agents when too many of us are subject to the random terror of police assault under color of law.
From Washington to Florida to Texas to Arizona, authoritarian-minded political operatives continue to organize from the legislatures to the streets to turn the country away from its sister democratic states and make the U.S. over into a police state. And there’s clearly no shortage of thugs—of every religion, race and ethnicity—to help them do it.
Except that we’re not martyrs. (Writing this as I’m listening to a Met broadcast of Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites—where in the penultimate scene, the soon-to-be disbanded sisters offer themselves up not to their religious order, but to martyrdom—and the irony is screaming at me not unlike the Prioress, Mme. de Croissy, on her deathbed. ‘Hey—Goddesses—this isn’t what I had in mind!’) The culture does not belong to the patriarchs, however riddled it may be with their toxins. They can hold on to their arsenals. We’re donning not veils, but balaclavas; and we won’t be going quietly.
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Ten More to Remember—and Not Just Because…
Postscript to the 2022 Artillery Top TenOkay…so…we get notes. We get feedback. We hear the gossip, the suggestions of angry whispering from one corner or another. First of all– there’s more, there always is; and I’m happy to acknowledge and eager to share it all—or at least as much as I can get down coherently on paper or a screen. Or a stone tablet. (That would be an edible.) But here’s the other thing. I’m just so fucking exhausted all the time. Obviously it could be worse. I could be some polar bear mama swimming 100 miles of icy (but not icy enough!) sea to get some food for her cubs and praying they’re alive if and when she ever gets back. But it’s been challenging. Politically. Physically. (Insert sound of person heaving violently here.) Like that. Daily. Most mornings before 11 a.m., I sound like the character Jennifer Coolidge plays in Mike White’s HBO series, The White Lotus—not the one who might be an ‘Italian opera heroine’ (an opera of the absurd, obviously), but the one who knows she’s “doomed.” So if at any point in the following I sound like that character, you’ll know I was scribbling it at some point before 11 in the morning and before the 10 essential espresso shots I need to see much less think straight have been mainlined into me.
It should be obvious that these are not just ‘honorable mentions’ or ‘Miss Congeniality’ runners-up to—(drumroll, trumpet fanfare)—’The Crown’. There’s a lot of noise in this town and there’s always going to be that sound and fury around a host of cultural (and political and planetary) issues throwing certain works into a kind of relief that in the moment leaves perfectly stunning work in the shadows. Except I wouldn’t even call it that. We see you. Maybe just not fast enough. In fact never fast enough. Sometimes you sort of have to fly in our faces a bit. I mean that literally. This morning I looked up from my desk to see a bird (not small either) perched on one corner of my piano. She suddenly began to chirp a kind of complaint. Something like ‘I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. As if you didn’t know. Please get me out of here! Now!—you stupid twit.’ I got up to open the front door—which would have made her exit route plain. Instead she immediately flew across the room to perch on this sculpture—shaped like … a tree branch. She had already figured out her Plan B. How did she size up the best options so quickly?
You have to let us (people like me—or for that matter my editors) triangulate a bit. We’re not exactly sitting still in the sky. We move around a bit (even when we mostly feel chained to our desks). It’s the same way in the City of Los Angeles. I think Nancy Holt (who’s included here) would have gotten this. Or maybe Shizu Saldamando. Just breathe.
Patricia Iglesias Peco, Las Flores del bien, 2022. Courtesy of François Ghebaly. Patricia Iglesias Peco — Naturaleza Viva
François GhebalyIf you’ve looked at any of the second season of The White Lotus, maybe you’ve already taken in the scene where Jennifer Coolidge as Tanya gets taken to a performance of the Puccini opera, Madama Butterfly, at the Teatro Massimo, and is simply dazzled by the scene on and off the stage, culminating in Cio-Cio San’s aria, “Un bel di.” Well that was me with this show. Verklempt.
I felt driven almost to a state of intoxication by these paintings, which seemed to sweep me up as if on a wind-borne perfume distilled from these brushstrokes fashioned into foliage and flower petals, that might have been choreographed by the later, Mannerist Veronese in a Monet, Cezanne or early Bonnard palette. The brushstroke makes its very palpable mark on the canvas (or linen) yet is somehow also weightless. But more than that, each painting was a world unto itself: recognizably a larger or smaller fragment—but nevertheless an entire world.
As if that weren’t enough, in the next gallery Paulo Nimer Pjota debuted with what looked like an archaeological expedition in mixed media (Every Empire Breaks Like a Vase). It was like that dream or dream fragment you keep going back to and noticing something different. (‘Wait – did I leave that there? And isn’t that my Uncle Irving’s head – or, I mean, maybe something out of his office?’) It’s also a performance. Pjota is from São Paulo so I’m guessing he knows how to samba. It’s a ritual sacrifice. ‘Put out that cigarette—on that head over there. It will be your last.’ I could use one of those ashtrays on my coffee table.
Earlier that year, Sayre Gomez also showed a smashing new body of work. Remember Hollywood? Well it’s all on sale now. 99 cents or less. Or more — who’s counting? It’s all in bitcoin, or something crypto. Hey—they don’t call it crypto for nothing. Anyway it’s now called Halloween City and Gomez (as usual) nails it.
Andy Woll, Mt. Wilson (Princess Margaret Theresa, XII), 2022. Andy Woll — Green Earth
Night GalleryAcross the alley, at Night Gallery, Andy Woll went to the mountains and discovered why we climb them and what they tell us. More specifically, he went to Mount Wilson where he took pick-axe and pitons—I mean brushes—to it and made a few discoveries. More specifically, that this is not the whole story; this has been going on a long time; this is not where it ends. Which is why this is also where we jump off to the stars. On the other hand, you could be Velasquez and make the same discoveries in the playrooms of Philip IV’s Buen Retiro palace. They didn’t call him the Planet King (seriously) for nothing. And there were horses. The End.
Katie Grinnan, Synapse, 2022. Courtesy of Commonwealth and Council. Katie Grinnan — Synapse
Commonwealth and CouncilOr sometimes you want to go deeper. Behind your eyes—or a pal’s (or a frenemy’s or an enemy’s). Maybe find another creature that expresses it better (or at least companionably—a girl’s dream). Shankar Vedantam calls it ‘hidden brain’—but actually there’s a kind of gut-level extension to our cranial-heavy perceptual and reasoning capacities we call the enteric nervous system. And how is it we’re putting all this together? And how do we actually make these leaps—to actually extend, expand, intersect, interweave consciousness? To expand our truly limited, almost shackled intelligence? Katie Grinnan had some thoughts and really went out on a limb (or maybe an octopus arm) to deliver.
Ross Bleckner, After 51 Years (111), 2021. Courtesy of Vielmetter Los Angeles. Ross Bleckner — Sehnsucht
Vielmetter Los AngelesIt’s been a while since I connected with Ross Bleckner (how about you?), and this show took me down a dark, subterranean, even slightly brutal, road—but seemingly beneath the sea. (Is that where we’re headed? It certainly feels that way sometimes.) In a way this show was an inversion of the Patricia Iglesias Peco vision and sensibility (though not exactly at the same level). I walked through it as if I were seeing it in the after-life. Maybe I’m not really here after all.
Julian Stanczak, Glow, 1973. Courtesy Diane Rosenstein Gallery. Julia Stanczak — The Light Inside
Diane Rosenstein GalleryAnd then there was Julian Stanczak. We’re always looking closely—sinking our eyes into an artist’s work, some (hopefully all) of which pulls us deeper, further, in any number of directions. And not so surprising that some of these directions put us into some fairly obscure corners, folds and pockets—some of them quite dark in every sense. (It’s not ‘fin de siècle’—it’s fin de civilization—and conceivably well beyond). In this compact but truly dazzling survey, the late master does a number of extraordinary things—including effectively giving us that ‘sink’ back—moving our eyes across innumerable fields and directions, and (as I put it in a posted essay), fresh horizons.
Masaya Chiba, Like multiple objects intersecting as they grow / drawings with ghosts, QR code, sound, time (#4), 2022. Masaya Chiba — Appearing → Talking about the object of regrets or obsession → Dancing → Leaving (resting in peace or just simply leaving)
Bel AmiSometimes the most fascinating work flies at us (or just as often—seeps into us) from a place or conceptual frame we have no way of coherently apprehending or describing, much less physically situating ourselves within. It doesn’t have to be ‘exotic’ in any conventional (or unconventional) sense to effect this kind of distance or shift of mood and perspective. Chiba’s show had that kind of osmotic and multivalent effect, notwithstanding the distinctive and disparate elements that composed the work and show as a whole—everything from Noh theatre to traditional Japanese arts, painting and mythology, to chemistry and molecular biology, to everyday objects—recomposing not merely a way of seeing or narrating, but of experience itself, of being.
Jose Alvarez, I Wish You Were Here, 2020. Terms of Belonging (group show curated by Efrain Lopez)
Gavlak GalleryThis was a fascinating, brilliantly curated group show of mostly Latin American artists (including U.S. born or based Latinx artists) that, on one level seemed to pick up where the Hammer’s brilliant 2021 No Humans Involved exhibition left off in terms of unpacking legacies of colonialism, but went far beyond it on a number of other levels, to interrogate the sheer sense of place itself, and our relationships with it (irrespective of its function as an aspect or signifier of identity).
Installation photograph, Lee Alexander McQueen: Mind, Mythos, Muse, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, April 24–October 9, 2022, photo © Museum Associates/LACMA Lee Alexander McQueen: Mind, Mythos, Muse
LACMA — Resnick PavilionOne of my great regrets of 2022 was not posting any of my notes on this gorgeously and rigorously curated show of McQueen couture (including some ready-to-wear and custom pieces), deftly integrating and informed by examples of the kind of art that directly or indirectly shaped, conditioned or inspired his themes, design concepts and technique and the larger vision that subsumed it all. The exhibition showcased Regina J. Drucker’s magnificent collection of McQueen designed fashion, which she has gifted to the Museum (not so incidentally making LACMA the largest repository of McQueen’s work in the United States). No less noteworthy (further emphasized by the excellent catalog I only saw some months after the show had opened) was that the exhibition became a showcase for the scope and depth of LACMA’s own permanent collections and its outstanding curatorial resources—led here by Clarissa M. Esguerra and Michaela Hansen, the Costume and Textile curatorial team, and curators throughout LACMA’s departments.
Danie Cansino, Cruise Now, Cry Later, 2022. Courtesy of Charlie James Gallery. Danie Cansino – I’m Starting to Forget
Charlie James GalleryDanie Cansino’s U.S.C. MFA thesis show was already the buzz of the L.A. art world less than a year earlier, but her trajectory to both MFA and gallery debut was far from conventional. Before pursuing art formally, Cansino was a professional tattoo artist. You’d have to be legally blind, though, not to see that Cansino would need a much bigger ‘canvas’ to pursue the scope of work she was clearly born to do. Whether it was Cansino herself or some other not-legally-blind person who planted the idea, the rest is herstory. Cansino characterizes her figurative style as a kind of tenebrist realism—but it’s much richer and broader than that. This is an artist and image-maker of astonishing pictorial and narrative power and scope, at the beginning of what promises to be a very important career in both art and the culture at large.
But of course that wasn’t enough. In what seemed to be the fashion of the year, Charlie James delivered still more shows that—excuse my devolution to show-biz terms (but hey that’s half my DNA)—killed—most notably Rostro (curated by Ever Velasquez) that, pace Ghebaly, Gavlak, etc., could have been in a museum. (Okay—I exaggerate, but not by much.) I’m not going to bother listing any of the artists here (including many recognizable names), but there were 40 of them.
And one of them was Shizu Saldamando, who delivered her own beautiful show of ‘pandemic’ portraits, Respira. Something I have to remind myself to do now and again.
Nancy Holt, Electrical System, 1982. © Holt/Smithson Foundation, Licensed by VAGA at ARS, New York. Nancy Holt — Locating Perception
Sprüth Magers Los Angeles
Holt’s artistic objectives were both larger and more specific than her partner Robert Smithson’s (and in truth, her approach to earth- or site-specific works and accompanying devices or studies is probably more comparable to James Turrell’s). Her focus is less on place as a specific geo-location, but at least as much on the way we perceive and move through it and onto the next position, place or location. This beautiful show re-creates one of her most beautiful (literally radiant) installations, Electrical System (1982), in addition to bodies of work that poetically frame the peculiar ways the human species bookends its passage through this part of the United States.
Nancy Holt. Image from the series Western Graveyards, 1968. And—as promised last year—Another World: The Transcendental Painting Group (curated by Michael Duncan) appeared at LACMA (in the Resnick Pavilion) before the Winter solstice, making spirits bright—no small feat situated only a matter of a few meters away from LACMA’s sprawling Afro-Atlantic Histories.
For those ready to venture beyond the city limits, The Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture of the Riverside Art Museum, spotlighting work by such artists as Carlos Almaraz, Gronk, Frank Romero, John M. Valadez, Patssi Valdez, Einar and Jamex De La Torre, opened to acclaim.
In New York, Wolfgang Tillmans’ mid-career retrospective, To look without fear, gave us the most expansive view to date—of Tillmans’ fluid photography practice within a no less fluid and continuously morphing contemporary social space—the ‘lived-in’ world, as experienced immersively and in a moment-by-moment continuous present-tense. The show will be traveling to San Francisco, but not Los Angeles.
In collaboration with the Fraenkel Gallery of San Francisco, the David Zwirner Gallery mounted Cataclysm: The 1972 Diane Arbus Retrospective Revisited in its Chelsea space—a replication of her celebrated posthumous retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art that at the time provoked a divided (and heated) critical response. Yet today, the underlying rationale for much of the criticism leveled against the work (including that of well-regarded and still important critical voices) seems almost entirely untenable. Needless to say I have notes. But at this point I’m inclined to let the work speak for itself.
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Monet with a Side of Mashed Potatoes
Art BriefA bomb explodes in one of the Met’s galleries leaving 13-year-old Theo motherless in the harrowing opening of Donna Tartt’s 2013 bestselling novel, The Goldfinch. In the wake of the explosion, caused by an apparent terrorist attack, a mysterious survivor prompts Theo to steal Dutch 17th-century artist Carel Fabritius’ painting of the small colorful bird, setting off Tartt’s convoluted Dickensian plot. Ever since reading the novel and viewing the film depicting swirling billows of dust and debris inside the Met’s Dutch galleries, I have been concerned that such an attack could easily happen at almost any American art museum.
Recently, on a visit to MOCA on Grand Avenue, my ladyfriend asked if she could check her overstuffed handbag, and was told the museum does not check in items, causing her the discomfort of lugging her bag around the galleries. I was horrified by the prospect that visitors could conceal virtually any kind of weapon or substance in their handbag or backpack.
I spoke to the director of a major Los Angeles art museum who rebuffed my suggestion that magnetometers be placed at entrances to museums and visitors’ bags should be searched, claiming it was not worth the “inconvenience” or the expense. It seems almost inevitable that some tragedy will occur at an art institution given the substitution of young “visitor assistants,” many of them art students, for experienced security personnel at numerous museums in recent years.
Hapless “security guards” have proved to be no better than mere bystanders at deterring the defilement of art masterworks by climate change activists during 2022 at numerous European art institutions. The climate protestors have flung everything from mashed potatoes to tomato soup at such masterworks as Monet’s Haystacks at the Museum Barbarini in Germany and van Gogh’s Sunflowers at London’s National Gallery. Fortunately, the only thing preventing damage to the paintings has been the panes of glass protecting them. Some protestors have also recited speeches and slogans which have gone viral while gluing themselves to the ornate frames of classical works such as Botticelli’s Primavera at Florence’s Uffizi Gallery, unimpeded by security.
The climate protestors—going by such names as “Just Stop Oil” and “Last Generation”—were seeking worldwide attention with their antics. These acts of desperation are a tacit admission that protests at energy company headquarters and facilities have become so routine that they hardly produce any media coverage.
In July, 2022, members of Just Stop Oil went so far as to glue themselves to a 16th-century copy of Leonardo’s Last Supper at the Royal Academy in London and spray paint the slogan “No new oil” under the artwork.
While the goals of the protestors are generally admirable—only a delusional politician (such as Trump) would deny that climate change is not merely real, but rapidly approaching the point of no return—holding art museums hostage is not the answer. The only positive effect may be that the activists have revealed to the world the vulnerability of art museums to serious attacks. The flip side is that obvious security lapses may provoke a mentally unstable person to deface a masterpiece, or inspire a Goldfinch-like terrorist attack.
Art institution boards of trustees should assess the lack of response to the protestors and glaring vulnerabilities of security protocols at some of the world’s most popular museums. While most of the major art institutions may be close to theft-proof, defacement of priceless artworks is a growing danger.
The Association of American Museum Directors should put these security lapses at the top of their agenda. The growing pressure on art museums to make admission free of charge has blown a hole in already stressed budgets, but fund-raising campaigns earmarked for increasing security are long overdue.
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A Bold Statement
DecoderI have a friend who, for the most part, paints abstract paintings. We were talking on the couch the other week about this period where she had started making not-abstract paintings. She had painted paintings with images of recognizable things, with words, with clear references to the issues of the day. “I wanted to do what I wasn’t supposed to do,” she said.
This struck me as new and odd—or, at least, counter to my experience and understanding. The contemporary art world I knew—the one I’d been told about since at least high school—very much craved messages and clear references to the issues of the day. Not only do artists whose work refers to topical lefty issues occupy an esteemed position in the layer cake of art-critical discourse, but even artists whose work’s connection to topical lefty issues are less than obvious, are obscure, or are arguably nonexistent, are described and promoted using the language of topical lefty discourse. If you believe what you read, contemporary sculptors, painters, video artists and installation installers are forever shaking up status quos, forcing us to question received ideas, critiquing commercial culture, and promoting diversities and alternatives.
At least within the relatively cloistered hothouse of the contemporary art world, my understanding is that what we were all casually expected to do is (while steering clear of becoming the kind of confrontational career-suicide who forces art-support institutions to confront the not-lefty-friendly parts of their power base) pretty much constantly tackle topical lefty topics in a way that would align us with the New Yorker or NPR view of the world, thus making it all the easier to get written up in the New Yorker or interviewed on NPR and so remain relevant. That’s what every single well-known artist in living memory had done before.
However, my friend reminded me that this top layer of the art cake—occupied by artists who casually say things like “my next retrospective”—is not the only layer with enough icing on it to put your kids through college. Many mind-bendingly good artists occupy a low or mid-tier strata where the job is less about the art speaking to writers who in turn speak to potential customers, but more just the art dealer talking straight to the customers. And sometimes what these absolutely commercially necessary customers want is: to put the painting in a bank, or a hotel, or some other place where a Republican, a small child, or an unusually Catholic person might see it.
These may seem like strange places to put contemporary art, but there are a lot of them.
In many ways it is not even a question of offense. There’s a certain quality to images that make their plays for your attention on very specific terms—on my way to the drugstore I will notice images asking me to buy a beer, to watch a television show, to support a candidate and/or a cause, to change lanes, to beware of dogs, to use the other door, to press the button to call the clerk. None of these are bold creative or social statements but they all ask something super-specific of me, and they all dissolve into visual noise once the asking has been addressed: I already watch that show, I did change lanes, I voted for the other guy. Art with this quality—the quality of asking, by implication, for a judgment or a take on some other thing in the real world, the quality that nearly any representational image has—there’s always a risk that it annoys someone, that it’s a little louder on the wall than a big lavender lozenge, no matter how lovely. This can make it harder to sell.
What emerges is a bizarre class system of expression: artists who have a bulletproof sniper’s nest (like having escaped a prison camp or having gotten famous in the ’90s) out of which to spray their bullets have the ability to make art full of statements and can be sure this statement-making is received as heroic, and they can sell work off that reputation so long as it can be distinguished from those lower down in the pecking order who—while having views that are nearly identical—are less phenomena of the media than of the luxury goods business. These artists must ride to work on the same squeamish tides of commercial demand as any other product in the market and might be punished not so much for rocking the boat as for reminding the sailors the sea has waves.
Sometimes they want you to say something and sometimes they don’t, but the boldest statement—the one that involves risking something real that you might not get back—is not caring
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Cold and Down
The DigitalAlt Coins, Bear Market, Crypto Winter, Down Bad, Expected Returns, FTX Fraud, Government Oversight, Hacked ($477M), Insolvent, JPEGs, KYC, Liquidity Gone, Margin Trading; I could easily go through the whole alphabet alluding to the current crypto market conditions, but anyone who follows web3 or blockchain technology understands that there is blood in the streets. Well, that is not 100% true across the board. The traders are down and the holders have been defrauded, but what does that mean for those of us here for the digital ART? Honestly, it doesn’t mean all that much unless you are down bad and need to sell. Inherently there is less new money liquidity or as some like to call it—“fake internet money liquidity”—but the truly rich are still rich and the collectors are still collecting. Those with money know that accumulating during a down market is the best time to accumulate.
Not everything is sunshine and roses and some of the rich have even taken an L this last year in the digital space; Meta (Facebook) loses over $30B on metaverse projects and fires a small city worth of employees (Ouch!), the owner/CEO (SBF) of FTX trading platform and crypto government oversight activist announces that he had “a bad month” in October as he loses over $10B in customer funds prior to stepping down and filing Chapter 11 (Oopsy). To add insult to injury—let’s call it the pixelized cherry on top—current market evaluations say that Justin Bieber’s Bored Ape has lost over 90% of its value this year ($1M+ USD). (Poor Guy).
These major losses didn’t slow anything down in Miami, where collectors at this year’s Art Basel flexed their digital wealth in a volume of ways. One of my favorites was interacting with a technology-based sculpture by Brooklyn art collective MSCHF. The artwork—essentially a functional ATM located within the Perrotin Booth at the fair—oh so much more than that. The subversive art collective known for celebrity collabs retrofitted this ATM with a digital screen that scrolled through a real-time monetary leaderboard. As each patron stepped up and withdrew from the ATM, their picture was taken, ranking them based on the amount of money left in their wallet. For the opulent at Basel Miami, is was the perfect piece to feed your hubris or provide some hilarious content for social media. If you had $3.1M in the bank and a private jet—one could jaunt down to South Beach and overtake the current leader, Music DJ Diplo, who clocked in at $3M. For those over-invested in crypto—don’t be embarrassed by your account balance, you are probably at home in front of a computer anyway!
Across the bridge in downtown Miami was the new NFT event for Basel that took over two city blocks and 12 buildings, “The Gateway: A Web3 Metropolis.” Touted as a festival with classic fair-style booths, IRL art installations, NFT speakers and music—massive sponsors such as Christie’s and global galleries to the scale of Pace even grabbed a foothold. Pace Verso (the web3 division of Pace Gallery) showed a mix of artists, in which a fan favorite was Tara Donovan, known for her sprawling sculptural installations built from thousands of standard household goods. QWERTY, Donovan’s first NFT project, used the letters/symbols found on a computer keyboard in much the same way as she would use a stack of buttons in an installation. A repeated character is layered, spaced and patterned in a way that toes the line between legibility and design. In the end the 500-piece collection had the feel of digitally woven tapestries that embodied the thesis behind much of her work, yet pushed into the new realm.
For those over-invested or simply without generational wealth, just hunker down and wait it out. As Hal Borland said, “No winter lasts forever.” Or even better, as our favorite singer-turned-angry-intellectual writer Henry Rollins said, “In winter, I plot and plan. In spring I move.”
If you are rich, kindly disregard the above statement and show us that generational wealth. Now is the time to accumulate, buy the digital art and fuel the fire that will keep us warm through the rest of this cold winter.
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Afrofuture Zombies
Bunker VisionOne of the very positive effects of MTV and YouTube is the restoration of demand for short films. Early cinema consisted mostly of short films. Auteurs of early cinema managed to pack a lot of plot into films that ran 20 minutes or less. MTV also inspired a lot of musicians to try their hand at making films. These films were often short. Many musicians went to art school, so short films by musicians aren’t necessarily vanity projects by celebrities.
Baloji was born in the Democratic Republic of Congo. When he was three his father took him to Belgium without telling his mother. He grew up as an outsider and started performing with a rap group when he was 15. A letter that he received from his mother when he was 26 was a paradigm shifter. It served as inspiration for his first album, which he dedicated to her. His stated goal is to make art that stands the test of time. In 2019 he made his first film. Although his music serves as the soundtrack for it, the film transcends the music video genre.
It opens in a Kinshasa barbershop. The opening lines of the song that provides the soundtrack are sung a cappella by a customer who is getting a haircut. The camera lands on a man walking by the shop in a lurid yellow jacket, and follows him. As he navigates the crowded streets, the jacket keeps our focus on him. He heads across a swarming traffic circle that has as its central feature a sort of robot that directs traffic. (Traffic control robots are an actual thing there.) He arrives in a residential neighborhood as night falls, and everybody’s face is lit up by their cell phones. Tossing off the yellow coat he makes his way up a flight of stairs to a dance club. In the club, everybody is glued to their phone as he sings about “everybody in the spotlight” of their phones. (The song is called “Zombies,” and refers to people becoming mobile phone zombies.) There is a lot of spirited dancing with selfie sticks and VR headsets. The camera lands on a flashy pimp who is partying at the club. One of his ladies gets up to leave.
As she leaves, we get a wonderful instrumental interlude that could have been torn from a Belmondo secret agent movie. She makes her way to the traffic circle wearing bright red so that she is easy to follow, and after crossing it starts to tear off her club clothing, starting with the straight black wig. She arrives home, where her mother appears to have a underground beauty shop in her living room. A young girl is getting an elaborate hair treatment (a sort of ironic Topsy). She explains how many likes she’ll get for it on social media.
Then follows a segment in the courtyard outside which most resembles a music video. It is a fashion show of wild Afrofutristic costumes with characters dancing outdoors. Following this scene comes a parade in the street featuring those costumes and a live brass band. A white man (the only one in the film) is being carried on a litter in a colonial uniform. He is tossing cash to the people watching the parade. In the final shots of the film his bloodied body is carried pieta-style to a dump. As the final melancholy music plays, a giant (a man on stilts) leads a horse (two men in a costume) down a long alley. The credits are a mobile text exchange superimposed on the action. Although this film is made by a musician, it is more of a short film than a music video. Let’s hope that this becomes a trend.
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OFF THE WALL
Under the BridgeThrift stores are potentially the end of the line for any object on sale therein; after that, it’s either ref-use or reuse. Consequently, there’s a poignancy to the purchase of any artwork from a thrift store, whether by an ironic hipster being or a sincere abuelita. But despite prices that tend to be 99 cents and not 99,000 dollars, some art pieces seem destined to remain orphaned, which adds a certain noblesse oblige to their appreciation and collection by artists and cultural decoders like Jim Shaw, who first published his findings in the 1990 book Thrift Store Paintings. The book exults in artworks good enough to be for sale in legitimate galleries but too weird to be bought there, which explains the occasional discovery of a thrift store masterpiece “in the wild.” It’s an unfortunate paradox as thrift stores are considered as low as it gets, and collectors of Outsider Art prefer a more respectable provenance than Goodwill.
Anonymous, Untitled, Date Unknown. This discretion may be warranted: most donations of naïve art to thrift stores are aesthetically and financially worthless. Even so, there is artwork whose repugnance and abysmal dollar value exclude it from even that group. Homeless Art is made to satisfy the primitive, often drug-induced, art urgings of nomadic people who may not describe themselves as artists. Many of their burgeoning number are more likely to be searching for a drug dealer than an art dealer. But for those with a different agenda, busking art on the avenues is a good source of income. R.A. Wood is a “houseless” artist “in downtown LA who makes cash with his custom calligraphic drawings of names. But on a different block of Spring Street, the homeless work for pedestrians’ baksheesh, most of them favoring honesty’s comedic value to openly advertise whatever they’re lacking. One step above panhandling, sales in this quaternary art market depend on sympathy and amusement more than skill and name recognition.
Still, many Homeless Art pieces are made without an audience in mind; as a result, they can represent a self-expression purer than anything on display in many galleries and museums. And even though Homeless Art can include genres approved by the “official” art world, there is a multitude of factors making any relationship between the two impossible. After all, promoting homeless artists is difficult when most also prefer to remain nameless. Such is the case of The Master of Victory Bridge, known only by a grouping of four small paintings discovered this year in an abandoned homeless camp near the LA River. Their appearance evidences an innate artist’s ability and preference of material, even with the random art supplies available to the homeless. Individually wrapped in plastic Vons’ bags, the works seem to have had personal significance at one time, but their current state of ruinous decay shows that preservation became a low priority. Whether this is Process Art or simply circumstance is immaterial; the Homeless Art made by The Master of Victory Bridge excels. With their imagery bolstered by damage, the paintings successfully invigorate a cavalier attitude that’s refreshingly antithetical to contemporary cultural fetishism. Got art? We could use some…
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ASK BABS
Jack of Not All TradesDear Babs,
One of my greatest music heroes recently started painting. So when a local gallery showed his art in a pop-up show, I was excited to go. But his paintings are really not good. He’s had a very long career as a musician and always puts a ton of effort into his music and it shows. But his paintings look like what they are: indulgent play by someone who hasn’t done the work to understand what they are doing. The problem is that now when I listen to his music, all I can think about are his paintings, and it’s starting to spoil the experience. I guess my question is, are there any examples of famous musicians who eventually became excellent painters? Is there hope for my hero’s paintings?
—Frustrated Fan
Dear Frustrated Fan,
Of course, it’s possible for your hero to make better paintings, but his visual art probably won’t surpass the impact and importance of his music. Becoming an innovative and important artist (musician or painter) takes time and dedication, at least if you want your work to mean something more than name recognition. It’s unfortunate but predictable that galleries are eager to capitalize on his fame to make a quick buck, with little serious investment in ensuring the work can withstand critical scrutiny.
There are few famous artists who are equally well-known for their music AND their visual art. Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth is a good example; she’s just a good artist in general and her visual art is as exploratory as her music. It’s the same with Yoko Ono, but she’s not really a painter. Miles Davis made some inspired paintings and drawings that could hold their own in most galleries today. Joni Mitchell can draw as lyrically as she can sing. What all these musicians/artists have in common is they had to work on their craft, try, fail and try again—and hold their visual work to the same standards as their music. That is a very rare ability indeed. It would actually be surprising if your hero was one of the few who could pull it off
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ARTILLERY 2022 TOP TEN
There has never been a year in Los Angeles—certainly not in this century, more probably the last 30 years—when our artists haven’t delivered something surprising, extraordinary, something to change the way we talk and think about and look at the world. This year was no different—but somehow it felt more urgent; and on one level or another it was. We’re in trouble. The biosphere continues to collapse catastrophically. An era of trans-national and global migrations is upon us. Throughout the West, our constitutional democratic republics are under threat. Autocrats rain death and destruction upon neighboring states far and wide pursuing strategic dominance and sheer psychopathic fantasy.
Both individually and institutionally, we’re more demanding in recent years simply because the stakes are so much higher. Yet in one show after another, we could see artists peering through this twilight fog, cracking the codes of our cultural pathologies, navigating an evolving semiotic landscape to show us something new—a way of looking, seeing, listening, experiencing or understanding something; or simply drawing our attention to the extraordinary in plain view.
Kaari Upson, Kris’s Dollhouse (detail), © The Art Trust created under Kaari Upson Trust. Courtesy of Sprüth Magers Kaari Upson – never, never ever, never in my life, never in all my born days, never in all my life, never
Sprüth Magers – Los Angeles
August 4, – October 15, 2022In a video performance that constitutes part of the work, Kris’ Dollhouse (2017-19), Upson (in heavy, mask-like maquillage) guides us through portions of her over-scale domestic ‘dollhouse’ interior, accompanied by ‘Kris’ herself (similarly made-up), who bears an odd resemblance to Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. I’m sure it wasn’t, but there was something oddly fitting about one of the songwriters of songs like “Ghost Bitch” and “Society Is A Hole” getting a guided tour of a place she would have understood down to her bones. Upson was, among many things, a kind of necromantic theoretician of the symbiotic construction of identity, place and habitat, also their ultimate entropic decay. She understood the fantasy and violence underlying this peculiarly human cultural construction and the not-so-indelible but corrosive stain it leaves behind. This was a forever never for the death days.
Catalina Ouyang, Debt, 2022 (detail). Image courtesy of the artist and Night Gallery, Los Angeles, and Make Room Los Angeles. Photo: Nik Massey. Catalina Ouyang – forgive everything
Night Gallery (in collaboration with Make Room Los Angeles)
November 12, 2022 – January 21, 2023The scope of Ouyang’s installation was immersive—not unlike the ‘restricted’ version of the three-body problem—the conceptual armature of the exhibition—that essentially underlies our physical existence on this planet. Video footage of dancers in flowing costumes (Syzygy, with choreography by Eloise Deluca and Lu Yim) swirled around gallery walls and scrims separating the space into three discrete zones (by way of spinning projectors), as if to simulate the ‘bodies’ in motion. Within the spaces, surreal assemblage configurations seemed to elongate and articulate moments in these trajectories—as history, allegory, legacy, both illuminating and mysterious—discrete events, yet conceivably connective tissues that may never properly join in this serious, delirious and above all, generous vision.
Wassily Kandinsky, Heavy Circles, 1927. oil on canvas 22-1/2 x 20-1/2 in. (57.2 x 52.1 cm). Norton Simon Museum, The Blue Four Galka Scheyer Collection Drawing Down the Moon
Hammer Museum
June 19, – September 11, 2022This was a show that seemed to take us completely by surprise and I almost wondered if it had been deliberately programmed to offset the grim here-and-now of its (fine) neighboring exhibition. But then this, too, was work which invoked or acknowledged an elemental struggle—this one implicated in both the shaping of the planet and its capacity to generate and sustain life. Of course the moon evokes myth and magic—and we need reminding of it at a moment when the tides have turned against us. That these exhibited treasures were drawn almost entirely from local institutions was somehow reassuring (it’s not all magic) and brought further delight.
Cy Twombly, “Leaving Paphos Ringed with Waves (IV)” (detail) (2009) acrylic on canvas (267.4 x 212.4 cm.) Private collection, courtesy Gagosian Gallery and J. Paul Getty Museum. © Cy Twombly Foundation Cy Twombly: Making Past Present
J.Paul Getty Museum – Getty Center
August 2, – October 30, 2022Regardless what first drew Twombly to the Eternal City and held him there, when you come down to it, neither abstraction nor expressionism could ever be enough for him (nor would it be even for most artists labeled as such). He was pursuing a kind of free verse mythography in drawing, painting, and the kind of mark-making we once simply called graffiti, and naturally went straight to the source. Virgil was clearly an inspiration, but as we saw in this ecstatic show, he made himself his own Aeneas.
Amir Zaki, “Built in 1874, Damaged in 1889, Renovated in the 1920s X” (60 x 48-3/4 in., framed), © Amir Zaki, Courtesy of Diane Rosenstein Gallery Amir Zaki – On Being Here
Diane Rosenstein Gallery
June 4, – July 16, 2022The sea, the endless sea; the limitless horizon line; and that final jumping-off point, our perch at the shore’s edge—and how do we get from here to there, where we finally tip over the vanishing point of the planet’s curvature? There’s loneliness and longing in these brilliant bisected views of our place of (mostly imaginary) voyage out—and voyage home. (Look to the birds for clues.) The title sums it up perfectly: this is where we are.
Nancy Evans, San Joaquin Series #3, 2018-2019. Transcendent
Louis Stern Fine Arts
December 10, 2022 – January 28, 2023Anchored by stunning masterpieces by Frederick Wight and Lee Mullican, and featuring outstanding recent work by Nancy Evans, Khang Nguyen, Kymber Holt and more, curator Michael Duncan makes a persuasive case for the transcendental mode as a constant through contemporary non-objective abstraction and well beyond, embracing organic, biomorphic, and mathematical dimensions.
Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley, GAPE, 2022. Courtesy of David Kordansky Gallery. Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley – GET HOME SAFE
David Kordansky Gallery
May 27, – July 1, 2022The masterpiece art encounter is, whether we realize it or not, a participatory event (which should be apparent from all of the foregoing). Not surprisingly game design (as with film, video, performance, other media) has entered the fine art domain—here integrating personal and panoramic aspects to create a simultaneously immersive and hypertextual (and textural) experience. Brathwaite-Shirley’s focus here is a very specific passage: the evening walk home, with black trans persons as her central subject. Race and gender fluidity magnify the stakes here, but also the community landscape, social markers, the manifold of individual and collective consciousness—all of which Brathwaite-Shirley has brilliantly illuminated.
Victoria Gitman, “Untitled,” 2013. Private Collection, Courtesy of François Ghebaly Gallery. Photo by by Paul Salveson. Victoria Gitman – Everything is Surface: Twenty Years of Painting
François Ghebaly Gallery
April 2, – May 2, 2022Once encountered, you can never have enough of these paintings (and drawings), these objects, these jewels. A few of them were just that in their pre-Gitman lifetimes. They draw our gaze, our desire to hold, to possess—invite us to venerate their preciousness. But more importantly they demand we linger with (in Gitman’s own words, quoted in Debra Singer’s essay on the show), the “circuits of desire” that connect our gaze with such work; furthermore, the potential disruptions of such ‘circuits.’ These are, after all, specimens, objects, facets, paintings—each one a masterpiece. This was a museum quality survey that would have been right at home at the Met.
Tala Madani, O, 2015 (detail). Image courtesy of the artist and David Kordansky Gallery, Los Angeles. Tala Madani: Biscuits
Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) – Geffen Contemporary
September 10, 2022 – February 19, 2023There is something almost brutally frank about Tala Madani’s paintings and animations; and it’s sometimes hard to figure out how and where it starts and if it ever really comes to something we can call an end. It was apparent early on that Madani drew and painted in a particularly unfiltered way. At the same time there’s almost always something tremendously articulate about it—she’s speaking to us as directly as painting can. Beyond whatever influences one might read into her particularly fluid and more than slightly scatological style, she may be the ultimate action painter. Call them turds or ‘biscuits’ (same thing ultimately), she paints the landscape humanity has fashioned for itself
Djanira da Motta e Silva, Bahian Market, 1956. Collection of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Afro-Atlantic Histories
LACMA – Resnick Pavilion
December 11, 2022 – September 10, 2023This is a sprawling—not to say exhaustive (though it is exhausting)—exhibition of art depicting, describing, reflecting, agonizing, protesting, denouncing, and/or otherwise documenting humanity’s recurring impulse to subjugate fellow members of their species (distinguished by whatever status classification they can think to devise—race, culture, language, location being fairly obvious characteristics to single out—with a specific focus on Europe’s and its former colonies’ human traffic from the continent that is mother to us all) to the state of insects, and thus establishing pretty definitively that, 5,000 years of civilization notwithstanding, there’s not a whole lot to distinguish our anthills from theirs. It should be required viewing for all students over the age of 12 and the entire state of Florida.
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Remarks on Color: Resolute Red
January’s HueIt’s that time of year again, when the mistletoe has wilted and bedraggled Christmas trees line the city streets, slumped against dumpsters like drunken sailors. It’s that time of year when Resolute Red makes BIG plans, none of which will ever be realized, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
The year before there were several failed philanthropic ventures including an ostrich egg hunt in New Guinea where underprivileged children could experience the joys of Easter. The only problem was the fiercely territorial ostriches were having none of it and chased the terrified screaming children into the neighboring village. Then there was the edible ring company called “Sugar Thumbs” designed as an alternative for people who can’t afford opulent jewels, but covet them nonetheless. The rings were sculpted from meringue that very quickly hardened onto the wearer’s finger and had to be wrenched off with plyers. It was a bloody affair to be sure.
But Resolute Red refused to give up, instead opening a discotheque in a swamp in Mississippi, thinking it would be all the rage. Unfortunately, the day it after it opened an alligator decided to join in the revelry and ate a man’s foot.
Still, Resolute Red persisted, having hired a prestigious PR firm to help promote his new ventures, but that too met a sad end when the president of the firm was trampled by an ireful ostrich. But Resolute Red was on a mission, believing in his heart that each New Year was destined to bring good fortune, and that the coming year would be different. Of course, it never is, as our resolutions languish on the shores of our best intentions and our hair turns white and the skies shift to gray. Resolute Red finally concluded, after years of false mirth and feigning good cheer, that he really is an old Scrooge at heart, and the best one can hope for is to not ring in the New Year at all but take to one’s bed as early as possible until the whole bloody thing is over!
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The L.A. Phil’s Tristan Project
Long Day’s Journey Into Night by way of earth, water, fire, air, and the human element[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”3.22″ global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”3.25″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”3.25″ custom_padding=”|||” global_colors_info=”{}” custom_padding__hover=”|||”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.14.8″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” global_colors_info=”{}”]We revisit the canonical operatic repertoire for many reasons. And—notions of gesamtkunstwerk to one side—it’s really no different with the Wagnerian repertoire. You could almost attach that description to operas dating from the Baroque. (One might easily make a case for the trio of Handel’s Orlando operas. Verdi’s Don Carlo has something of this scope.) The music is what keeps us coming back (and in its most compelling instances, never really lets us go). What sets Wagner apart is an ambition that can only be described as (after one of Wagner’s most famous ‘frenemies’) Nietzschean.
Even amongst Wagner’s operas, including the Ring cycle, Tristan und Isolde stands out for the cumulative and convulsive power of its fusion of music and dramaturgy. And it’s not just in that famous ‘Tristan chord’—that dual harmonic ‘sigh’ of apprehension and resignation that moving past its dominant seventh willfully falls short of full resolution, but in the rich, variably cresting and conversational orchestral interplay amongst strings, horns (on and off stage), and woodwinds, that carries both the opera’s principals and the audience through its volcanic depths and delirious heights of romance, release and transfiguration.
I don’t always read program notes, but although this was my fourth or fifth Tristan (and my second time encountering the Viola Tristan Project—I saw two parts of the first (2004) mounting of the Project), I did this time around and was delighted—both by John Henken’s informed and very smart musical and cultural commentary, and director Peter Sellars’ open-hearted, almost cosmically empathic notes on this mythic drama. (Though I’m more inclined to attribute Wagner’s philosophical/theosophical gloss on the Tristan poem and mythos to Schopenhauer’s influence, along lines Henken cites in his notes—not to mention the Hans von Bülow Nirvana, which Henken (not missing a trick!) also references.) I’m not sure Tristan and Isolde are really acknowledging the Buddha’s ‘four noble truths’, however their trauma-riddled lives bear witness to them; but certainly Sellars’ (to borrow his own words) is a “celestial voice of compassion.”
Whether these two wounded, destiny-crossed lovers should inspire such compassion is a question that only the music can answer affirmatively, and only after progressively darker chromatic transitions—much like the lovers’ mutual flight into Night and darkness, all but defying the suspense, or even the fate and foreboding of the Act III Prelude. Like Brangäne, like Kurwenal, we can only bear witness.
Bill Viola meets Wagner more or less at this spiritual/emotional/elemental fulcrum between light and dark/day and night, fire and water, earth and air; and the molecular ‘weave’ between them. I have to assume this production benefited from Sellars’ and Viola’s cumulative experience over several productions. If anything Viola’s overall concept and execution seems even more successful and fully realized the second time around—but then I was more than a little dazzled by the imagery and electricity of the performances in its original incarnation (and with a cast no less dazzling, including Christine Brewer and Jill Brewer in the roles of Isolde and Brangäne).
This time it was as if I gave myself over not only to the orchestral painting and Viola’s visual accompaniment, but to the elements themselves. I was reminded yet again just how much of the story unfolds on water, on the open sea (between the Ireland coast and Cornwall in the first act, and again between Cornwall and Brittany (or at least its approach) in the third). The sea is never far from us—crucial to the bond between Tristan (Michael Weinius), King Marke (Eric Owens), Kurwenal (Ryan Speedo Green) and the sailors that steer them forward and literally put the wind in their sails. Wagner writes fate and foreboding into the score (the final act’s last F minor mount in modulating fourths up to that ethereal G above high-C), but he is also the weatherman of the winds and waves that carry us there. The first act opens in shades of gray—grainy waves (Viola reportedly used surveillance cameras to convey this effect—I thought of Vija Celmins’ drawings) giving way to white water waves, and ultimately to pale gray horizon lines with pinpoint harbor lights—before (following Isolde’s dark memories and darker meditations) transitioning to more explicitly symbolic imagery.
As sea and landscape elements give way to the symbolic, it’s as if Viola is trying to create visual portals (almost literally) between the fated lovers (empty door frames channel gazes that cannot yet meet), though eventually figures are set in motion through them across a barren isle. I almost felt as if Viola could have treated the figures abstractly—Giacometti silhouettes sent wandering across desert islands, through trees, wind, waves. But, not unlike other elements, putting the figures in motion is sometimes best accomplished by actual human actors (and acrobats). We’re also reminded here of the compassion that pierces the bitterness of Isolde’s human connection to her nemesis-true love. Viola’s play with the elements—water becomes flames, waves become cliffs, trees dissolving into clouds into light—is both symbolic and almost physically triggering, echoing the musical alchemy of transformation and transfiguration.
Here was a crucial distinction between my bedazzlement in 2004 and my sobering, slightly skeptical view more than a decade and a half later: it is more difficult to ‘put down the sword’ when ‘Night’ has so clearly, sweepingly, and lethally consumed and conquered ‘Day’. We come to this ecstatic transfiguration (and there is all of that in the Leibestod) in a kind of melancholy—conscious of the inexorable ebb and flow of matter, energy, and physical phenomena, of our place in that ebb and flow; but also conscious of what we see in the clear light of day. We’ve set water on fire (in so many ways and places) and it’s not as if we just arrived here. Tristan and Isolde are agents of love, advocates for its transformative power. But they’re also simply variously blunt and sharp instruments of human treachery.
From the light of Day . . .
I wished to flee
into Night,
to take you with me,
where my heart would bid me
end all deception,
where the vain premonition
of treachery might be dispelled. . . .
[Das als Verräter
dich mir wies,
dem Licht des Tages
wollt’ ich entfliehn,
dorthin in die Nacht
dich mit mir ziehn,
wo der Täuschung Ende
mein Herz mir verhiess;
wo des Trugs geahnter
Wahn zerrinne;. . . .]
Brangäne (Okka von der Damerau, flexible but fierce in the role), already acknowledging that “Love’s draughts must extinguish the light of reason,” begs Isolde not to “extinguish the torch.” Yet the previously grievance-collecting (I exaggerate a bit here—yet the Finnish soprano, Miina-Liisa Värelä, managed to put a distinctly acidulous edge on her first act ‘wild Irish’ Isolde) throws caution to a merciless wind. “[W]ere it the light of my life, … I do not hesitate to extinguish it.” The orchestra, under Dudamel’s masterful direction, reinforced the titanic impact of the principals’ abandon with a power that equaled or exceeded that of the final act.
LA Phil Tristan Project Act II
Greg Grudt/Mathew ImagingThat would include the third principal here, King Marke—a stellar Eric Owens, who on some level must have sensed he was carrying the entire audience with him, personifying the promontory of honor and esteem from which the betrayal, dishonor and disgrace of Tristan’s surrender to Night has leveled him—but also conveying a finely wrought sensitivity and deep vulnerability. Sellars reads into the potency of Marke’s more-than-avuncular connection to Tristan as evidence of a more intimate possession; and the lyrics (at least in their English translation) may support this interpretation (which I hadn’t seen before): “She [Isolde], whom I could never dare approach; she for whom I foreswore my desires in bashful reverence, so splendid, so lovely, … who could not but refresh my soul….” And he’s there to the end—the one who will stubbornly not break faith when everyone and everything else has. “But misfortune’s impetuous haste — how can the bringer of peace control it?” It’s a question any number of us ask from Washington to Kyiv, from the Arctic poles to the Amazon.
“Are they gentle aerial waves /ringing out clearly, surging around me?” It’s not exactly the way of the oceans or the cosmos, to say nothing of our pathetic social and political orders. Still, we’re not quite ready “to drown, to founder” in 2022. We breathe and ‘give ear’ both until our return, as Rachel Carson might have put it, “to the ocean rivers.” In the meantime, the waves and the music—especially as brilliantly executed as this Tristan’s—will be rapture enough. Without belaboring that point, I don’t think enough can be said about the L.A. Phil’s woodwinds—or really any other section of the orchestra. There is no orchestral challenge that exceeds their technical and sheer poetic reserves. Owens, as mentioned above, was the stand-out in a very strong cast; but as is it so often, the Los Angeles Philharmonic was itself the star.
The Tristan Project — Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde — collaboration of Peter Sellars (direction and staging), Bill Viola/Bill Viola Studio (video), Gustavo Dudamel (succeeding Esa-Pekka Salonen) and the Los Angeles Philharmonic — December 9-11, 15-17, 2022, Disney Hall
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Remarks on Color: Perspicacious Periwinkle
December’s Hue[et_pb_section admin_label=”section”] [et_pb_row admin_label=”row”] [et_pb_column type=”4_4″][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text”]Perspicacious Periwinkle is an avid reader of The Tarot, having once predicted the sudden death of the world’s oldest rhinoceros in Zambia, and a cataclysmic wind event that no one witnessed off the Cape of Good Hope. It is safe to say that PP as she calls herself on her world-famous blog, Off the Tongue, is the most renowned (albeit self-proclaimed) psychic healer in the world, though she does have a few singular detractors. Having once prophesied that unicorns were making a fierce comeback, she drew criticism from famed unicorn historian, Sondra Bleachhorn, who claimed PP’s prophesies were not only bogus but very dangerous as a newly formed itinerant group of unicorn worshippers who call themselves the Cornites, threatened to blow up several historical monuments that feature horses, demanding that the equine be replaced with unicorns.Contrary to popular belief, Perspicacious Periwinkle is not an advocate of the Black Arts and is a close friend of the famed singer/songwriter Stevie Nicks who in addition to making fabulous music is also a white witch. Like Nicks, PP has been known to concoct potions in the dead of night and often takes specific requests. For example, a woman in Des Moines Iowa once asked her to create a love potion so Barry Manilow would leave his husband for her.
In addition to formulating fantastic love potions, PP is also a specialist in undiagnosed and often bizarre ailments such as Alice in Wonderland syndrome which consists of an alteration of visual perception wherein the sizes of body parts are perceived incorrectly. PP was once written up in a medical journal for having found the cure for Alien Hand syndrome where the person loses control of one hand which acts as if it has a mind of its own. Perspicacious Periwinkle found that by mixing artichoke hearts with licorice and cat piss, a person with this syndrome would suddenly begin crocheting furiously, and the aberrant hand would eventually settle down.
Suffice it to say, PP is now considered a living legend and has gone on to host her own television show on HBO called How Blue is Your Sapphire where people from all over the world bring her antique jewelry to deduce whether it is haunted. Of course, it’s a massive success.
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AI “Artist” Declares Victory
Art BriefThe age of artificial intelligence (AI) has arrived whether we like it or not and now it has come to the art world. That should not really be much of a shock. It’s now five years since AlphaGo defeated the best Go players in the world. Writers have auto-complete options readily available. AI is facilitating incredible advances in the bio-sciences with AlphaFold. The latest frontiers are the creative ones—writing fiction, composing music and making visual art.
This column has periodically explored the question of just what constitutes art. My very first column explored digital art and devices that assist artists such as David Hockney, who has produced prodigious quantities of stunning artwork made on his iPad. A recent column concluded that NFTs are not art but really entries on Blockchains (not surprisingly NFT values crashed during the summer 2022 crypto apocalypse).
Now we are dealing with the controversy surrounding the advent of AI image generating programs such as DALL-E 2, Midjourney and Stable Diffusion. The complex programming process known as diffusion is evolving fast. It is estimated that DALL-E 2 produces images four times more detailed than the first iteration introduced a little more than a year ago.
A computer engineer, Jason M. Allen of Pueblo, Colorado, achieved instant notoriety when a “work of art” he created strictly with descriptive word prompts on the Midjourney program won an annual art contest at the Colorado state fair this summer. The work he titled “Theatre D’opera Spatial” won a blue ribbon and a $300 prize—and millions of dollars worth of publicity. Some of the judges confessed they had no idea the work was AI-originated, but they said it wouldn’t have changed their votes.
The media anointed Allen’s entry the first wholly AI-generated artwork to win an award, neglecting the fact that Bessie the cow also won first place in the bovine division at the same fair. Yes, cowboy, we’re a long way from the Venice Biennale. However, the story was deemed important enough to make it into The New York Times, Washington Post, and BBC News.
“A Pietist painting of an Artillery Art Magazine cover.” Image generated by DALL-E/OpenAI As the Times put it, “Users type a series of words in a message to Midjourney; the bot spits back an image seconds later.” Algorithms are used to recognize descriptive artistic patterns among millions of online images. The user can refine the images with further prompts and use of Photoshop. Allen’s winning image was indeed sophisticated and mysterious and some major art critics were duly impressed. A Washington Post art critic, Sebastian Smee, compared it to the work of Gustave Moreau, the 19th-century artist associated with the Symbolist movement.
Midjourney and other AI programs have generated social media opprobrium with their dependence on bots to scrape the internet of art and other images (much of which is copyrighted) providing an instantly generated unique image or series of images. Allen received considerable hate and dislikes on social media. Some artists were appalled that their work was essentially pimped out by AI programs, but the resultant image rarely, if ever, relies on a copy of an individual artwork.
Nevertheless, it will only be a short time before some enterprising lawyer and his artist client file a test case, claiming copyright infringement based on substantial similarity. Of course, the AI “artist’s” defense of fair use will be based on the argument that the generated image was transformative of the original artist’s work.
In reaction to the controversy, Allen was quoted in the Times as saying, “Art is dead, dude. It’s over. AI won. Humans lost.” Whoa, pardner—human-made art is more alive than ever. However, AI-generated art should be categorized as a hybrid creation made, not just by a human, but primarily by a machine. When Christie’s holds its first auction of AI art—likely not too long from now—full disclosure of the genesis of each AI artwork should be made.
As always in the art world, fakes and frauds will become a problem. The Big Eyes scheme is sure to arise, but instead of a flamboyant Walter Keane fronting for Margaret, his artist spouse, we are sure to encounter imposters attempting to hide their dependence on Midjourney or DALL-E 2, claiming to be the next Jeff Koons. Eventually, we may be unable to tell if it’s the real thing, or the ghost in the machine.