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Category: features
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People Are Still Making Art
“Have you noticed, that people are still having sex? All the denouncement, had absolutely no effect.”
—LaTour, “People Are Still Having Sex,” 1991
After a long conversation with my Lyft driver about the cult he’d just joined, I walked into “The Pleasure Principle” at Maccarone Gallery—a show sponsored by Pornhub.
First, E.V. Day’s sculpture Saarinen’s Mother: a saddle-shaped, deep-sea thing, frilled like a collar, a frayed nerve or an Atlantean crown, made of devil-red and translucent womans’ underwear, resined and damp-looking, slit front and back for easy access, stretched and stellated at dozens of points by a symmetric system of monofilament lines anchored dramatically with metal eyelets in glass and holding, in the tenuous criss-cross between the slit-mouths, a blown-glass and drippy bubble-shaped bottle.
E.V. Day, Saarinen’s Mother I, 2008 (photo credit: Tom Powell) Many sculptures arrest a moment in time, a few good ones isolate, extend and offer up for inspection what previously existed as a temporary and barely coherent sensation you might’ve seen somewhere in the black back-room of the brain. There’s a lot here—the title suggests affinities between architect Eero Saarinen (a virtuoso of the distending modernist shapes made possible by prestressed concrete) and his textile-designing mom. Even without the dripping and gloss and the thing in the middle being lingerie, the spectacle of a familiar body pulled tautly and transformed in a way that makes every part of it important and beautiful and absorbing and different from every point of view by precisions that make that tension last forever should earn this piece a place in any art show about sex.
Installation view at Maccarone: E.V. Day, Saarinen’s Mother I, 2008 (photo credit: Coley Brown) There keeps on being sex because people keep on being alive and people keep on being alive because there keeps on being sex and there keeps being art about sex because art is always about life. But never mind all that: how do you weaponize it? What can the 2019 battlespace use Saarinen’s Mother to fight about?
Maccarone Gallery is fighting a skirmish to show that this sex show isn’t all a gimmick and that a private gallery can maintain standards and integrity while taking a big company’s money to produce a show about what that sponsor distributes. On another front, Pornhub—a company that’s even more controversial inside the porn community than out of it—is fighting to be considered a responsible corporate citizen that, like any insurance or cigarette company, can be expected to just go around sponsoring humanistic beaux-art endeavors.
Installation view at Maccarone: Trulee Hall, Eves’ Mime Ménage, 2019 (photo credit: Coley Brown) To these ends, it’s no coincidence that the rhetoric around this particular humanistic endeavor humanizes pornography (from Pornhub’s press release:“…these artists carve out space for the profane and the pornographic, the abject and the occult, the sexual and the sexualized. The exhibit centers a variety of feminine sexual subjectivities, decoding erotic pleasure amidst a visual culture so stifled and diluted by concerns of appeasement.”) or that it comes at a time when the porn industry is being shaken up by a variety of border wars most people don’t care about—including SESTA/FOSTA legislation, the rebranding of anti-porn laws as “anti-sex-trafficking” and “anti–sex slavery” and the chilling effect around sexual imagery created by the fact most public conversations about sex or anything else now take place on privately owned social media sites with no clear rules about what is and isn’t offensive and an ever-expanding desire to keep China happy.
Installation view at Maccarone: Annie Sprinkle, Anatomy of a Pin-Up, 2006; Doris Wishman, Satan Was a Lady, 1975; Come with Me My Love , 1976; Let Me Die a Woman, 1977 (photo credit: Coley Brown) In this phase of the Kitchen Wars Saarinen’s Mother—being sexy, abstract and figurative, avant-garde, subtle, relatively new, made by a woman, and very good—is a high-carbon vg-10 Kasumi Damascus knife fresh from the sharpening block. Easy-to-grasp, contoured for use, and sharp enough to make you forget that the real reason this wonderful thing got made wasn’t to help you fight with anyone, but to slice things up so you can eat them and so be happier afterward.
Compared with this, Annie Sprinkle’s Anatomy of a Pin-Up, also present at the Maccarone show, is the can of mace by the back door—an object purpose-built for personal protection. It is happy to take a side in a cultural brawl—its entire purpose is to take a side in a cultural brawl. It’s a photo full of annotations pointing out all the stagecraft and sleight-of-hand in a pre-Photoshop sexy pic, and has an unambiguous message: Pin-ups are artificial constructions, at best tangentially related to reality and to real female desire.
Annie Sprinkle, Anatomy of a Pin-Up, 2006 Around the corner are pin-ups. Classic mid-century pin-ups, by-and-of Bettie Page, and Bunny Yeager. Any message Yeager (whose how-to books include “How I Photograph Myself”) or Page might’ve intended is less The Message than the message sent by the fact of their inclusion: Pin-ups and porn can be high art and its authors—which include women—can be credited as artists. Around the corner from those are super-cut collages by a contemporary video artist of appropriated porn films—authors uncredited. Across from those are older porn films directed by Doris Wishman, including two she apparently didn’t like because they had explicit rather than implied sex and which she therefore denied making before she died—both feature Annie Sprinkle, author of the pin-up deconstruction.
Bettie Page (attributed to Irving Klaw Studio), Untitled, n.d. (photo credit: Henry Feldstein) In aggregate, these pieces can’t easily be pressed into service as propaganda—they tell no coherent tale together because they weren’t meant to. The subjective experience of sex during a single human’s life is not about what we share universally—it is about peculiarities shared by one person and a highly select group of other people they ended up in bed with. Sex is a subject for a novelist, not a pamphleteer. Pretending artists are attempting to speak to the universal about these most private parts of themselves only results in familiar and reductive cliches, where the only important piece of information about the art is the name on it: straight men’s art is always assumed to be about obsession, straight women’s art is always assumed to be about media images, queer artists’ art are always assumed to be about queering the art space, the art of the marginalized is assumed to be primarily an attempt to get unmarginalized, the art of the powerful is presumed to be clever self-satire—even if all of them just painted the same boob. For the most part artists accept these cliches because they at least attract attention—and attracting attention is how they can afford to eat.
Installation view at Maccarone: Bettie Page and Bunny Yeager photographs, n.d. (photo credit: Coley Brown) Art is not obliged to make statements—it is free to deal in fictions, poetry, thought experiment, reportage. As a result our public square is full of artworks about sex and sexual possibility that are interesting, inventive and useful while our ability to talk about them is still held up at an intersection miles behind.
In a standard press release about art, you often get the feeling that some stoner’s desire to paint circle-people or stack colored sponges has been dressed up by a gallerist or critic with references to Foucault and Adorno, but shows about sex inevitably invert the formula: the art is smart and informed by real experience, the talk is dumb and informed by fear of what will be said in response. The dreaming individual can say more about sex than the cautious collective. All the dialogue can do is approve (liberating!), disapprove (don’t @me!) or look nervous and go “This raises issues.”
Genuine, unperformative descriptions of what good art about sex does to audiences remains thin on the ground, because few critics are in a position where they can risk admitting to what excites, surprised, or alarms them. For anything remotely sane you have to find someone not just smart but unassailably successful—like Zadie Smith, who writes about being shocked by her initial encounters with Crash, JG Ballard’s novel about car-collision-fetishists, as a college student in the ’90s:
What was I so afraid of? Well, firstly that west London psychogeography. I spent much of my adolescence walking through west London, climbing brute concrete stairs—over four-lane roads—to reach the houses of friends, whose windows were often black with the grime of the A41. But this all seemed perfectly natural to me, rational—even beautiful—and to read Ballard’s description of “flyovers overla[ying] one another like copulating giants, immense legs straddling each other’s legs” was to find the sentimental architecture of my childhood revealed as monstrosity…
Bettie Page (attributed to Irving Klaw Studio), Untitled, n.d. (photo credit: Henry Feldstein) She describes eventually coming to terms with Ballard’s vision some time after the Britain’s conservative Daily Mail went to war on David Cronenberg’s film adaptation of the novel:
Crash is not about humiliating the disabled or debasing women, and in fact the Mail’s campaign is a chilling lesson in how a superficial manipulation of liberal identity politics can be used to silence a genuinely protesting voice, one that is trying to speak for us all. No one doubts that the abled use the disabled, or that men use women. But Crash is an existential book about how everybody uses everything.
What strikes me reading Smith’s essay on Cronenberg now is that her desire to intellectually justify the book seems almost as old-fashioned as her initial outrage at it. Who justifies anything anymore? We don’t keep works of art around because they deserve to exist, we keep them around because they serve someone’s purpose. Everybody uses everything.
The 20th-century cycle of shock-censor-justify has ended not with a truce that raises sexual imagery above suspicion, but with one that lowers all art production to the level of a kink. The contemporary moral panics aren’t about what’s in the art, they’re about how much all this frivolity costs and who benefits. It was once shocking that someone of talent might want to portray a glistening nipple, it’s now only shocking who got paid for it. The outrage is about how power is being deployed, not how creativity is. The morally fraught question “What is in this art?” (suggesting it might be something unknown) has changed into “Which side have you thrown in your lot with?” (suggesting every image has a predetermined place in a hierarchy of Right Ways and Wrong Ways To Represent).
Installation view at Maccarone: Laurie Simmons, Color Pictures/WIlliam Baziotes, 2009; Color Pictures/Walt Disney, 2009; Renee Cox, Garter Belt, 2001 (photo credit: Coley Brown) The most offensive, antisocial thing about sex is the same thing that’s most offensive and antisocial about art: the difficulty of exploiting it. No matter how much we advertise it, the experience of the encounter remains individual and private. Yet, people insist on doing it anyway.
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Q&A with Toni Bentley
Toni Bentley danced with New York City Ballet for 10 years under George Balanchine and is the author of five books that include The Surrender, An Erotic Memoir, about an obsessive love affair that introduced her to sodomy, rendering the physics, paradoxes and transcendence of the act a revelation. She is a Guggenheim Fellow and writes for The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Vanity Fair among others.
How did you come to write about your four-year love affair that took you to the moon, shall we say, with your discovery of anal sex?
As a 15-year-old girl I began writing what became an extensive diary so I have always been in the habit of using the blank page —what Tennessee Williams called the “Pale Judgment”—as the only place on earth I know of where one can tell the absolute truth, my absolute truth, in total freedom. Here I tell of my most powerful or mysterious or painful experiences in order to understand them, give them shape, excavate their meaning. During this particular life-changing affair I kept notes after each and every rendezvous (all 298 of them—yes, I counted!) as I quickly realized I was in the midst of an utterly unique and profound erotic experience. After the affair ended and I had scraped the molecules of myself back into a new form, I connected these notes to tell the story that is the book. All very raw, immediate. Like live sex on the page.
Toni Bentley, photo by Clayton Cubitt. How is erotic literature different from pornographic writing, other than the obvious—the prose being just better when it comes to literature?
Complex question. I am very pro-pornographic writing: it’s a form of writing that still has a long, long way to go—and if it’s bad, as it usually is, then just don’t read it! After all, even one’s most exquisite sexual experiences if filmed would be “pornographic”—at least they damn well better be. I learned, viscerally, as a ballet dancer, the mind/body connection. In The Surrender I was very clear about my intent to attempt to depict my experience accurately, which meant being entirely literal and physical—what is termed “graphic” sex—while also attempting to convey the internal, metaphysical, even spiritual, experience that can, if one is so fortunate, accompany the “pornographic.” The challenge to do this—a virtual impossibility given that one is transposing a multi-leveled three-dimensional, perhaps four-dimensional experience into flat, two-dimensional, dry symbols, words on a page—was very appealing to me. Guaranteed failure at the outset of a project provides an elating freedom to proceed. I have always thought that if this book managed to convey 15% of what the experience was truly like in the moment, in the flesh, I would have succeeded.
Original cover (censored by Barnes & Noble so publisher slapped the black keyhole cover over it!) of The Surrender. How much influence does pornography have on today’s sexuality—especially with the instant availability of it now?
Pornography is here to stay—thank God. Just as there will always be attempts, especially in our Puritan country, to control it. But it will never, never, never be stopped. Hurray for the relentless march of human desire! I, however do not watch any current-day porn myself, but prefer the great classic films of Radley Metzger aka Henry Paris from the Golden Age of porn in the 1970s that contain actual plot, wit, European locations and Brigitte Bardot beauties. Needless to say—though I will as it can’t be said enough—porn featuring pedophilia, snuff films or any violence against women and the like is beyond reprehensible.
I do think the reliance on pornography as the main source for sexual learning by young men and women certainly sets up all kinds of unrealistic problems that can indeed be not only damaging but presage terrible disappointment. I don’t think, in general, for example, women love blowjobs as ubiquitously as porn indicates—as one of my girlfriends says, “they don’t call it a ‘job’ for nothing.” Young women who laser off all their pubic hair, blow up their breasts, and fake noisy orgasms are setting themselves up for all kinds of failure—not least really wanting a few strands of that pubic hair back later in life!
My biggest beef—as I am solely concerned with women and their power and pleasure (men’s power and pleasure has run our patriarchal world since Adam blamed Eve so they don’t get any more time, or outrage, from me)—is that pornography contributes yet another barrier to real female orgasms in its totally unrealistic portrayal of them, including the ease and frequency of achievement. Female orgasm is the best, and simplest, literal barometer of female sexual happiness. I simply don’t buy the often heard notion—I heard it just three days ago—that “I don’t really care if I come, it’s the whole experience that I care about.”
To my mind (and from much personal experience) this is yet one more female accommodation to male dominance. And accommodation is complicity, plain and simple. Women still have a long, long way to go to sexual freedom and satisfaction, and the endlessly faked orgasms in porn only encourage the Great Fake in real life. Until women find the courage to put their own pleasure first, and give up “trying to be loved,” they won’t come and won’t be loved. A risky, even terrifying prospect indeed. But to my mind, the only choice.
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In Conversation with Monica Majoli
Monica Majoli, an artist and professor of art in painting and graduate studies at UC Irvine, whose work explores sexuality and intimacy, is interviewed by art historian, Ph.D. Candidate and Provost Fellow in the Humanities at USC, William J. Simmons.
Monica Majoli, Blueboy (Armando), 2019 WS: I’ve been really interested lately in queer nostalgia—a term that, I’ve found, some artists find grating. I do not mean nostalgia in a gay-men-who-love–Judy Garland way, or maybe I do. Point is, I’m wondering, what is your relationship to pastness, and to locating desire in the past? Where does appropriation (of emotion, perhaps) fit into your conception of pastness?
MM:
Judy Garland had been dead for 10 years, and I was about 12 when I became (romantically) obsessed with her after being given Judy at Carnegie Hall as a gift. My first concert was the female impersonator Jim Bailey in a small neighborhood theater in Beverly Hills. The audience in “Judy’s” thrall consisted of about ninety-eight gay men, my mom, and me. Jim as Judy was possibly the beginning of many surrogates that I came to identify as stand-ins for missing persons so loved and necessary that a stopgap was required to abate intolerable longing. By remaking time and reconfiguring by approximation, a third option opens–one that embodies love and fulfillment in its full complexity–one that accounts for loss and change and our lack of control over things needed and loved or of time itself.
Monica Majoli, Blueboy (Ted), 2019 Queer nostalgia haunts us. Why else would Over the Rainbow be a queer anthem from another time? It speaks of the yearning for the impossible–a location that embodies the unreachable. The thing about pastness is that one can revel in parts, not the whole, one can shape it with one’s will and through feeling and since it exists custom made it is therefore safe, private and again, curiously present though unreachable. The unreachable, in its permanence, can be a sustaining force.
Pastness is linked to a memorializing instinct in my practice. AIDS figures into this as it defined the time when my friends and I came of age in the mid-’80s. I soon realized that as a lesbian, I was more a witness to a plague. The memorializing aspect of my painting practice became wedded to technique and method at that point, and I found meaning in that fusion. I began working slowly with sexually explicit, factual material in 1990. The elements of experience and recording held more urgency for me than fiction or pure material exploration with paint. It made the work real for me.
Monica Majoli, Blueboy (Carl), 2019 I was struck by the frequent use of the term “former lover” to describe the people in your “Black Mirror” series. It got me thinking about the degrees of intimacy inherent in your work that run the gamut from women who you’ve indeed loved and touched to men in porn magazines who you don’t really know. I wonder if any love or body is truly past, or, if you want to get really art-historical, if any medium can?
The act of painting a body over a long period, where a great deal of repetition is involved–whether belonging to a former lover or a man circa 1978 pictured in blueboy — leads to an internalization of the body/person I paint. So not only does the woman or man become animate, not past or absent, it enters my own lived experience over time. There’s a transmutation in painting that makes it possible to feel both identified and outside of my subject. Prolonged time and repetitive application–which has defined all my work– re-living and reconfiguring the other as self is not sought after as much as happens. I agree that I don’t experience my subjects as past or various periods of art history or the medium of painting generally as belonging to the past. Being affected and changed by someone or something makes that thing alive, present, and essential. I think the ways that artists are inspired by artists from other eras, the way a body of work can be responsive to a “conversation” with an artist long dead–is evidence of the inaccuracy of these particular categories. Painting is a temporal medium and exists in simultaneous time–the time it was made, the time of making that one imagines when looking at it, and the time at the moment. The collapse of linear time is one metaphysical aspect of the medium.
Monica Majoli, Blueboy (Ryan), 2016 How does care, specifically the care you have taken with Lutz Bacher’s work after her passing, relate to your own work?
My exposure to Lutz’ practice, directly in studio visits over decades and many conversations with her, make the boundaries between my own work and hers somewhat hard to define. In installing one of the first posthumous exhibitions of her work with “Blue Wave” at UCI, I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of doing justice to her work. I was also afraid that the work would not feel like her and would, therefore, reinforce her absence, her death. None of the works had been installed previously, so little determined the venture but her guiding ideas and studio experiments. Without Lutz to validate my decisions, I relied on a sense of recognition of her during the process. What you’re describing when you refer to care is our relationship. And collaboration, which is another form of making care in relation. Boundaries become much more complicated after death.
In general, my work is about attachment. It’s private to the point of being too intimate for public space. The relationship between myself and the one looking enacts a triangulation that fuels my engagement in the process. I’m aware of an outward direction toward the spectator and an inward direction toward the subject. I work between these two points of awareness or contact.
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Leigh Salgado’s Thrills & Frills
A pair of pastel-hued bikini underpants are draped across the wall. Riddled with tiny holes, the thong-thin back resembles the mesh of fishnet hose. A large lavender moth orchid hovers over the genital area, recalling the poetic similarities between labia and the petals or “lips” of the flower. The patterned panties embody the teasing shuttle between revealing and obscuring that is the substance of sexual seduction. Leigh Salgado’s cut-paper painting reminds viewers how women present themselves in order to be seen and desired by men.
Leigh Salgado, Which Witch, 2010 British scholar John Berger was one of the first art historians to analyze this process. In his seminal Ways of Seeing (1972), Berger wrote:
“Men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at. This determines not only most relations between men and women but also the relation of women to themselves… woman turns herself into an object—particularly an object of vision: a sight.”
Leigh Salgado, Garter Bridge, 2003 Salgado’s oeuvre explores the ways women see themselves and are seen by others. She focuses on undergarments, the signifying items of feminine intimate apparel that are traditionally concealed and only occasionally—flirtatiously, sexually—displayed. Salgado works with thick paper, first painting, then meticulously carving the surface with an X-Acto knife. The cut-away or negative spaces in her complex, layered works open as lace-like miniature windows onto the walls behind them.
Leigh Salgado, Wonder, 2019 It was not until the late 1990s that Salgado happened upon cut paper as a medium. One day, unhappy with the way one of her drawings was developing, she cut away a section of it. Looking at the result, she had an epiphany. The artist had always thought of 2D art as additive, i.e., one started with a piece of paper (or canvas) then added colors and lines to it. But, she realized, flat surfaces could also be treated subtractively, by incising areas. (As Salgado multiplied the cutaway areas of her works, they began to resemble images from the Mexican folk art tradition of papel picado, although she had not intended the connection.) Today, Salgado is exhibiting her cut-paper works widely, participating in “Dress Rehearsal” at the Oceanside Museum of Art (July 2019–Jan. 2020) and “Let Me Talk” at the Brand Library & Art Center (opening April 2020).
Leigh Salgado, Picnic, 2019 Salgado’s work has always been based on her female identity, with references to female attire and female anatomy. One of her first exhibitions was as part of a group show titled “Girly Things.” Her 2015 exhibition at Launch LA, “Soliloquy,” featured bustiers, corsets and brassieres, all adorned with lace, netting and elaborate floral or geometric patterning. Even without the cutouts or layered dimensionality, Salgado’s works would be intriguing collisions of color and pattern. Her incised works, like Frank Stella’s later compositions, straddle the divide between sculpture and painting. She navigates the inner/outer, personal/public and art/craft binaries. Uncovering what has been covered, Salgado shifts the inside out and challenges viewers to see below/beyond the objectified feminine surface.
All photos courtesy of Leigh Salgado.
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Janet Levy’s Sexy Stones
Meeting the Los Angeles–and Mexico City–based sculptor, songwriter and curator, Janet Levy, was a gift from one of the many “ifs” of life. Our serendipitous encounter occurred at one of my favorite cafes when I couldn’t help but notice a woman at the adjacent table, lavishly adorned with an ornate necklace, who exuded an air of eccentric confidence. It wasn’t long before we were talking and I then learned that Levy was an artist whose practice centralized on stone carving, often utilizing alabaster. I knew a studio visit was in order.
Janet Levy, Pretty Dirty Things, 2011 My infatuation with alabaster began at the age of 13 when my mother gave me a bowl carved from the luminous stone. She explained how alabaster’s resemblance to solid marble—yet soft, malleable and transparent—led to its historical reputation as a metaphor for feminine strength and purity. I adored this bowl, where I stored my most precious treasures—stones, shells, jewelry and other trinkets.
Janet Levy, Fire Tip lll, (Bound Beauty), 2017 Entering Levy’s studio, I was enveloped in a chrysalis of calm. Consisting of primarily alabaster, onyx and marble, the flesh-tone forms of her sculptural work incorporated ropes, chains and elements of suspension. Erotic in shape and arranged in clusters, the pieces resembled dancers on stage, frozen in mid-performance—not surprising due to Levy’s passion for dance, film and music. Her works embody desire and unapologetically take up space. The stone carvings are often phallic and beckon to be touched.
Janet Levy, Golden Dream ll, 2018 Throughout her practice, Levy’s pieces often reference the pressures and tensions of natural phenomena that carry a sexual charge. Levy explained, “My practice reflects the sexual desire of wanting someone and the tension just beneath the surface that this generates… the same as a when a butterfly is about to burst from its cocoon or a before a volcanic rupture.” Levy exhaustively researches the dynamics of nature, and the results are clearly visible in her sculptures. Her latest works are on view at Merchant Gallery in a duo exhibition Twisted Two, inspired by the mating habits of snakes and the
Bender-Gestalt Test.Janet Levy, Love Looks Like Fire, 2017 As Levy talked, I was struck by how personal her work is. Her practice references the delicate tensions of her own energies, desires and traumas in relationships both past and present. The process of carving becomes cathartic, transforming deeply rooted experiences into seductive alabaster and onyx that are then hung, bound or placed on display. The works articulate the whisper before the rupture, the buildup before the release, and reveal what was previously hidden. She explains, “For me, rocks have innate sexuality. While they are hard, they maintain a concealed softness. Sexuality can be hard and soft, pleasurable and painful, all at once.” Levy celebrates this fragile balance of intimacy and pressure, which no matter how nuanced or explosive, results in emotional exchange, release and ultimately, in transcendent expansion.
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John Currin: My Life as a Man
The paintings in John Currin’s show at Dallas Contemporary, a non-collecting warehouse museum, widely induced a queasy, unsettling tension. A common response to the artist’s work, the visceral repulsion and simultaneous attraction result from an unresolvable friction between the paintings’ typically dreadful subject matter and the sensuous, masterful (a word I use advisedly) paint handling. One is drawn to the paint but repelled by the imagery.
John Currin, Homemade Pasta, 1999, courtesy of Gagosian. At its best, Currin’s painterliness is extraordinary, if retardataire, not seen anywhere in painting today. In style and often subjects, Currin’s evocation of the “old masters” reminds us of the historical association of painting with male artists, which led many feminist artists to discard the medium. Effortless passages of gestural brushstrokes enliven Currin’s paintings with restrained bravura. In contrast, three-dimensional forms in the paintings are often smoothly modeled by gradations of soft color, in which the brush is palpable. In places, his convincing depictions of fabrics and fur are tactile, felt as much as seen. As a figure painter, Currin employs a facile, often sinuous—some might say elegant—draftsmanship, especially in postures and gestures. However, his misogynist or pornographic subject matter is decidedly distasteful. Proffering an alternative to the sexualized female figures for which Currin is known, this exhibition devoted to male subjects invokes a similar grotesquerie, fallibility, and pathos. Men will be men and nothing can be done about it.
John Currin, Hot Pants, 2010, courtsey of Gagosian. The big-breasted or nude women featured in Currin’s paintings would seem to appeal to masculine fantasies expressed by the objectifying male gaze. By focusing on his paintings of men, Alison Gingeras, an adjunct curator at Dallas Contemporary, counters his politically incorrect reputation with an argument for his incisive exploration of the “gender politics that animate our fractious sociopolitical moment.” Despite Gingeras’ deserved reputation for challenging the canon and conventions of painting in past exhibitions, her interpretation, supported by catalogue essayists Naomi Fry and Jamieson Webster, of “My Life as a Man” as feminist because the male subjects are fops, fools, or sad sacks is barely convincing.
John Currin, Office Workers, 2002, courtesy of Gagosian. Representing four decades of work, the exhibition included some revelatory early portraits of men with wide, staring eyes ringed with exaggerated, cartoonish black eyelashes. As blatantly adolescent kitsch, they expose the artist as a self-conscious provocateur. Less convincing than the paintings themselves is the process argument in the catalogue that many of Currin’s men originated as portraits of women (with long eyelashes?) and thus express a sympathetic transsexuality or at least gender ambiguity. Currin’s narratives are also marshaled in support of the “#MeToo” movement. Office Workers (2002) literally illustrates the subject of workplace harassment, depicted in a glorifying style of thick oil paint, luminous highlights, and a heavenly background of blue sky and puffy clouds. Like a dirty joke—Currin refers to the influence of MAD Magazine throughout the catalog—this tiny, approximately one-foot-square canvas, requires close inspection, a voyeur’s apprehension of a man and woman sitting at a desk with a computer screen to the side. Her elongated bratwurst-like breasts are plopped on the desk while he reveals an impossibly extended penis.
Installation view at Dallas Contemporary, including The Kennedys (1996), The Dream of the Doctor (1997), amongst others. The Kennedys (1996) is a double portrait in which the bodies of a girl and boy have identical heads representing JFK. The flesh of the ruddy faces is repellant, rough and bumpy, the result, according to Currin, of applying paint with a palette knife to simulate the impressionistic, Rodin-like surfaces of the ubiquitous bronze busts of President Kennedy that Currin knew as a child. The softer, brushed application of paint, particularly responsive to the depiction of light, and more nuanced use of color in The Dream of the Doctor (1997) are typical of Currin’s sensuous, most tender style. Although the subject is jokey—a seated doctor leans into a folding screen on which a lacy brassiere hangs—the pale shadows cast by the furniture and the flesh-like rendition of the surface of the flesh-colored screen (standing for the concealed female patient) are as seductive as the narrative pretends to be.
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Desert XXX
There are plenty of deserts around the world. As President Trump memorably said when he abruptly pulled American troops out of Syria as a favor to the Turkish president Erdogan: “There’s a lot of sand there.” So why is it that Desert X, the organization that has put on two well-regarded biennial shows in the desert of the Coachella Valley, decided to agree to a special installation in the Saudi Arabian desert opening this month? Was the Sahara off limits, or is this all about a public relations campaign by the kingdom to greenwash its image after widespread condemnation of the grisly murder of Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi? The funding for the installation comes from the Saudi monarchy.
Visitors walk outside the tombs at the Madain Saleh antiquities site, AlUla, Saudi Arabia The Desert X board of trustees’ decision to do an installation in AlUla, Saudi Arabia, at the UNESCO World Heritage site of the ancient city of Hegra led to the October, 2019 resignations of three board members, including artist Ed Ruscha and art historian/curator Yael Lipschutz. The chosen site is replete with ruins dating back to antiquity that few Westerners have seen, so it would seem to be an intriguing location. The Saudis are seeking to diversify their oil-based economy and see the show as part of an initiative to increase tourism.
Despite material modernizations in the feudal kingdom, it remains a tightly controlled monarchy ruled by Mohammed bin Salman (MBS). U.S. intelligence officials believe MBS personally ordered Khashoggi’s murder and dismemberment in its Istanbul consulate. Prior to the Khashoggi atrocity, in 2017, MBS showed the kingdom’s princes and billionaires who’s boss with the house arrest of dozens of the upper crust in the Riyadh Ritz Hotel for months—where they were terrorized and blackmailed into submission to MBS. There are virtually no human rights afforded in the kingdom and though women have finally been granted permission to drive, they are still subject to the whims of male family members.
Desert X installation view, Armando Lerma, Visit Us in the Shape of Clouds, 2019. Photo credit: Lance Gerber. Apparently, MBS has some interest in the art world, as evidenced by his purchase of “Salvator Mundi,” a portrait of Christ attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, which shattered the world record for a painting sold at auction in 2017 when he paid Christie’s $450 million (the painting is reportedly secured on MBS’s super-yacht, despite the expectation that it would be loaned to the Louvre Abu Dhabi).
The suppression of human rights and the Khashoggi murder were central to Ruscha’s decision to quit the Desert X board, as he stated in an interview with Frances Anderton, host of DnA on KCRW, labeling the impending exhibition “the equivalent of inviting Hitler to a tea party.” Lipschutz cited reasons such as the Saudi war with Yemen and its suppression of LGBTQ rights for his resignation from the board. In addition, Desert X is a nonprofit and the outrage surrounding the Saudi exhibition caused one major donor, the MaddocksBrown Foundation, to announce cessation of its funding in protest.
Desert X installation view, Cecilia Bengolea, Mosquito Net, 2019. Photo credit: Lance Gerber. The Desert X controversy is part of a rising tide of art world social consciousness. In last issue’s column, I surveyed protests in the art world to remove donor recognition rights afforded the Sackler family—who own Purdue Pharma, the major supplier of Oxycontin, source of the opioid epidemic— and other actions around dubious business ties of art mega-donors.
On Anderton’s KCRW show, Neville Wakefield, artistic director of Desert X, pushed back: “I think essentially you either believe in embargo and that you don’t communicate with people with whom you believe there are differences, or you believe in the power of art to connect people.” The Desert X message is that the Saudi installation will help build western bridges to the kingdom.
Lita Albuquerque, Stellar Axis: Antarctica, 2006. Photo credit: Jean de Pomereu. Participants in the Saudi show include Lita Albuquerque from LA, Egyptian-born Sherin Guirguis, Danish art collective Superflex and at least six Saudi artists. Albuquerque has done site-specific installations in deserts around the world, including 2017’s inaugural Desert X. She will install a mile-long sculptural work at the Saudi site.
The Saudis have taken too many steps backward since the Crown Prince assumed power, and all their art outreach and public relations can’t obscure their obscene and dismal failure to become enlightened citizens of the world. Desert X has made a major blunder. When Desert X fundraisers inevitably ask for more donations from the art community, they may find they are stranded in the desert without a drop to drink.
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Saying Goodbye to the Godfather: John Baldessari (1931–2020)
I learned yesterday—along with most of the Los Angeles art world –that John Baldessari had died. (He had actually died Thursday, but the word filtered out only this week-end.) Long before I knew him or what he represented (not only in Los Angeles, but the world), and long before I wrote about fine arts in Los Angeles, I would see him frequently at art gallery openings. (I always had many artist friends; and in Los Angeles it was easy to fall into the habit of keeping an eye open for developments on that front.) There were odd jags when I would see him at several in a row, often in the same evening.
You couldn’t miss him. He was almost always the tallest man in the room and, even in his minimalist, pared down artist/teacher’s style of dress (usually a simple T-shirt or sweater and jeans), the most distinctive—with his thatch of white hair fringing his forehead and short white beard; and everyone seemed to know him. In other words, even before I knew him as the godfather of L.A. conceptualism, he was clearly the godfather of at least half the L.A. art world. He was by that time already quite famous – though it seemed as much by association with other artists as by his own work, some of which was already the stuff of legend. Even then, the scope of his influence hadn’t quite hit me.
The ‘legend’ finally saw ‘print’ in his hometown not long thereafter with his 1990 mid-career retrospective at MOCA; and it was probably only then that I began to ‘connect the dots.’ It was certainly the first time I began to fully contextualize his place in the larger art world (though even then I did not grasp the global reach of his influence). This was a way different kind of ‘cool’: cerebral but grounded; distilled more than abstracted; and informed by the entirety of actual and variously filtered or mediated experience. It seemed immaterial to me at the time that he had abandoned painting, or what might be considered traditional art media and the notion of hand facture.
John Baldessari, photo by Tyler Hubby. But this abandonment was more than a mere gesture, in a post-Duchamp, post-Warhol sense. In retrospect it seems of a piece with his work in other media—not simply the text paintings, though they certainly presaged it, but the later ‘commissioned’ paintings (with their pointing fingers), and the early photographic series that played on visual syntax, rhyming, conjunctions and disjunctions—works which reached a kind of zenith in his works with film noir stills. His insight into the syntax of commercial narrative was uncanny. No one understood cut, composition, and dissolve like Baldessari (with a few possible exceptions, e.g., Godard). But Baldessari was moving towards a kind of metacritical art—preoccupied no longer with composition, but with the notion of composition; not time, but the notion of time (naturally using art itself—e.g., his proto-canon of contemporary art history). He was moving beyond Conceptualism before he was even through with it.
I had the opportunity to interview him for ARTILLERY in 2010 in conjunction with the Tate Modern-LACMA exhibition, Pure Beauty. By that time I knew him slightly; but Baldessari was not exactly an easy interview. Still he managed to be thoughtful and good-humored about the whole thing. (I was able to tease him about his then dismissal of art-fashion collaborations only a few years later when I saw him at Gemini G.E.L.—not long after he had executed a project for Saint Laurent—which he again took with good humor.) I took some issue at the time with his resurrection of that old chestnut from his text paintings for the show’s title. At that moment (only a decade ago?), it seemed disingenuous and almost simplistic. Now in 2020, it makes a kind of circle-game sense: not a pure beauty—after all, he saw the language of images in the fullness of their simultaneous humor and horror—but a beauty of the pure. Baldessari was after that kind of reduction, a kind of DNA of visual art, and perhaps the sublime itself. And in true Baldessari fashion, he wanted us to reconceive our notion of the sublime—a 100-proof distillation that might soothe and burn, dazzle and terrify all at once.
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The Motherload of Crap Hound
Sean Tejaratchi is a taxonomic guerrilla and semiotic hoarder. His social media phenomenon (and book) Liartown generated a tsunami of WTF memes, that have been described as “layered, multivalent detournees of the entire gamut of visual culture from the last century and a half,” and have rightly garnered him a modicum of hybrid literary/graphic design/comedic/web culture celebrity. But Tejaratchi’s cult began way back in the early ’90s, with the unleashing of his eye-boggling all-clip-art zine Crap Hound (CH).
Clip art in this case consists of not only the licensed generic line drawings of happy consumers, etc., but of unique magazine spot illustrations, as well as images from cartoon advertisements, public service pamphlets, food packaging, religious tracts, anthropomorphic business logos, and so on—mostly dating from the Golden Era of print media from the ’30s to the ’60s. Each issue had one or more themes; the first was “Death, Telephones & Scissors” and subsequent volumes centered on “Clowns, Devils, & Bait,” “Superstition,” and so on.
Crap Hound #9 cover. These massive periodicals offered thousands of related images arranged in intricate mosaics that orchestrated the already visually interesting and entertaining pictorial units into playful and dramatic page designs, mutating the staid inventories of a Dover Pictorial Archive, with a dose of punk plunderphonics, into something rich and strange.
Nothing, however, could have prepared us for The Crap Hound Big Book of Unhappiness (CHBBoU)—Tejaratchi’s literal magnum opus, a doorstop of a book that extends the CH formula across 270ish pages and into another dimension altogether. Originally conceived in 1999, as an antidote to mainstream design culture’s embracing of the chirpier end of the vintage clip-art spectrum, the project was repeatedly back-burnered, though Tejaratchi’s stash of graphically reified misery continued to grow and grow.
Crap Hound #9 page spread. Published by Feral House (who also published Liartown, and with whom Tejaratchi has worked as a designer) just in time for the holidays (the perfect gift for bitter old hipsters and angst-drenched teens alike!) the CHBBoU compiles thousands upon thousands of separate images depicting an encyclopedic array of unpleasantness —men, women, children and even pets in states of confusion, pain, fear, stress, anger, embarrassment, sorrow, depression and frustration. Tejaratchi accurately forecast back in ’99, “Headaches, upset stomachs, storms, earthquakes, fires, floods, vehicular collisions, weight issues, drugs, suicide, murder, execution and punishment, atomic bombs, unemployment, riots, injuries, falls, fistfights, tantrums, and the silent, nocturnal shame of bedwetting… From the tearful sting of a scraped knee to the ominous shadow of impending planetary doom, you can expect a rich tapestry of trouble.”
Crap Hound #5 page spread. Indeed. Tejaratchi’s cup of rue is so full, in fact, that it hath runneth over into a standalone zine Crap Hound #10: More Unhappiness—available, as are reprints of earlier issues and the legendary “Social Justice Kittens calendar” —at buyolympia.com. And this isn’t some condensed version or sampler, but a wholly autonomous volume addressing the same themes, but toggling back to the traditional CH portrait-oriented layout.
Crap Hound #5 page spread. This last zine is significant in that it reiterates the surprising narrative quality the Big Book’s horizontal format brings to the fore. The CH zine always struck me as some sort of avant-garde comix, with its intricate, clattering rows of nearly identical signs, stuttering populist archetypes burnished into cliches, fragments of stories reiterated from dozens, hundreds of slightly different POVs.
The cloud of connotative difference between an early 20th-century angry white man rendered in old testament engraving stylee and a 1960s angry white man executed in the Modernism-informed New Yorker panel mode could probably fill a dissertation. But it doesn’t have to, because it’s right there in front of you, in sign language (times gazillion).
Crap Hound #9 page spread. The horizontal format (and long duration) does make the CHBBoU seem like a codex, or hieroglyphic scroll—a pictorial key to unlocking the mysteries of a lost civilization. But the implicit universality of its theme—the suffering of humanity—tempers this seeming hermeticism—as does the sheer symbolic legibility of the content.
Tejaratchi’s compositional virtuosity adds another entire layer of narrative, but it’s the narrative of the eye’s journey around a page—up, down, back and forth, in and out, and through to the next. The currents and tides of various themes and variations—foul weather modulating into parasitical infestations, for example—are rhythmic and intuitive. In spite of the apparent arbitrary nature of its organizational principle, the CHBBoU comes off less like a hip graphic design cheat book than the “War and Peace” of semiotically appropriated collage graphic narrative. That’s gotta mean something!
Crap Hound #5 page spread. -
Most Artful Time of the Year
The holiday spirit was everywhere in the LA art scene this past weekend, from gallery openings to open studios to fun fundraisers.
At Torrance Art Museum, a lively and excitingly interactive opening for Adjacent Adjacent in the main gallery drew a robust crowd. While artist Molly Schulman wound up her motorized hands to dance through the gallery, artist Dakota Noot glittered in gold before his own wild beast, and figurative and abstract images from Hagop Najarian blazed from the walls. 14 artists in all presented eclectic works in a wide range of media in this 2019 Forum artists exhibition, a ten-month mentorship program of which this was a glittery culmination.
Dakota Noot and his work. Downtown, the Durden and Ray art collective hosted a jam-packed small works exhibition, Partita II, fundraiser, and raffle. Champagne and Tecate flowed while an eager crowd waited to see who would be a winner. The real answer: every artist and art lover attending the jubilant festivities. Overheard: “Should I really give art for the holidays? Isn’t it too personal, like lingerie?”
Raffle-goers wait to win at Durden and Ray. Also downtown: a sneak peek of new large-scale sculptural work from artist Zadik Zadikian at his Produce Haus Gallery, plus a delicious holiday spread of vegan cuisine with a Mediterranean vibe. Attendee attire: sexy, blingy black, and high-heeled platform shoes.
Zadik Zadikian at Produce Haus Gallery. On Sunday, performance art captivated in a theatrical production, Ladybird, at Pasadena City College featuring delicate, graceful art design from local artist Vojilav Rad. His signature ethereal paper birds were infused with light and danced along with the performers.
Vojilav Rad’s “Ladybird” performed at Pasadena City College. A tribute to late LA Art Core curator Lydia Takeshita included the work of three strong artists at Art Core’s Brewery Annex outpost; guests enjoyed sushi, fruit, and cookies, while taking in an exhibition focused on the natural world in approaches both figurative and vibrantly abstract.
Young Summers with floral abstracts. Also downtown, at an open studio exhibition on 6th Street, five captivating artists served up hot tea, wine, petite fours, and cheese and crackers while displaying quintessentially LA works that ranged from the desert flora and fauna and exquisite trees of Catherine Ruane, to the mysterious layered petroglyph patterns of Joy Ray, Molly Segal’s otherworldly futuristic scenes, and Gay Summer Rick’s lustrous Angeleno cityscapes. Holiday gift ideas and too-tasty chocolates on the buffet table both abounded.
Mike O’Connor, Johnny Rich, Catherine Ruane, Samuelle Richardson, Joy Ray, and Gay Summer Rick at 6th street open studios. Happy, arty holidays!
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The Award Goes to…
“The most important thing to me was exposure to people who are making things, to other artists,” says Doug Aitken of his education at ArtCenter College of Design. Last Saturday he received the Lifetime Achievement Award from his alma mater, honored along with three other alumni in a ceremony in Oculus Hall of The Broad, followed by a celebratory dinner at the posh Otium next door.
Lorne Buchman presenting Doug Aitken with the Lifetime Achievement Award at ArtCenter 2019 Alumni Awards. Aitken (BFA 91) was one of the two fine artists who got an award; the other was Sterling Ruby (MFA 15) who received the newly created Distinguished Mid-Career Award. When he got up to the podium, Ruby said, “For me, ArtCenter was a real beacon. The graduate program…was so beyond distinguished.”
Tom Gilmore, Melany Bennett, and Matthew Rolston at ArtCenter 2019 Alumni Awards. In his speech, Aitken recalled how fateful it was when a high school teacher recommended him to ArtCenter. After getting in, he assisted the legendary Keith Haring who arrived to do a mural at the Hillside campus. The young man’s reward? The leftover enamel paint – a boon to any cash-strapped student. Recently, Aitken found a can of that historic paint in his mother’s garage, and here he pulled it out and presented it to ArtCenter President Lorne Buchman, who accepted with some bemusement.
Sterling Ruby, Philomene Magers, Sonja Mauro, and Tyler Britt at ArtCenter 2019 Alumni Awards. “I was working with Keith Haring just a couple days,” Aitken says in a phone interview afterwards. “It was symbolic of my path through ArtCenter, which was very nonlinear. I was always zigzagging, sitting in on classes that interested me.” He believes that “You have to sculpt your own experience, you have to do it on your own, fueled by your own curiosity. It breeds a DIY aesthetic. If you believe in something, you find a way to do it. If you have a problem, you learn to solve it. It’s not a bad thing, it makes people who create have to step up.”
The other two awardees last Saturday were Gloria Kondrup for the Outstanding Service Award and Ini Archibong for the Young Innovator Award.
Lorne Buchman, and award-winners Gloria Kondrup, Ini Archibong, Doug Aitken, and Sterling Ruby at ArtCenter 2019 Alumni Awards. Photo credit for all images: Owen Kolasinki/BFA.com, courtesy ArtCenter College of Design
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United States of Prison
Nestled on the ground floor of an academic building on Pitzer College’s campus, the Lenzner Family Art Gallery is easy to miss. Its layout is as humble and curiouser still: an L-shaped room is flanked by two alcoves too small to be rooms and too large to be closets; the ceiling feels low, and the perpetual whir of air conditioning permeates the space (“It’s always on,” says Chris Michno, the gallery’s Exhibitions and Communications Manager). Jolted into a heightened awareness of one’s body in this setting, one asks, “Am I really in a gallery—what did it used to be? What could it be instead?”
Here, where our assumptions about public places are spotlighted and disrupted, Ashley Hunt presents Degrees of Visibility, a deceptively understated collection of photographs, drawings, maps, activist ephemera and other objects documenting and resisting what he terms the aesthetic regime of the prison industrial complex in the United States. “The prison industrial complex is a system of things we think of properly as prisons and jails and detention centers,” Hunt explains, “but also different regimes of policing, border security, surveillance, probation and parole systems, and the multiple economies that exist around and between them that form a carceral system. We think prisons bring justice to crime victims and have the possibility of healing [or] bringing peace to anyone and are essential for safety. But I see it as a sprawling system of relationships through which the dominant orders of Western society are maintained—so, colonial relations, dehumanizing relationships, relations that extend out of slavery, indigenous dispossession and imperial expansion, gender controls and normativity, and labor exploitation and politics. I think these are all part of the dominant order the system is really there to preserve, and is doing less and less of a good job at.”
Timeline With the highest numbers of, and exponentially increasing, prisons and imprisoned or detained people per capita, the U.S. presents a panoramic manual for the propagation of prison systems within and beyond a country’s continental borders. In the last nine years, Hunt has taken from publicly accessible vantage points over 260 photographs of sites containing prisons and detention centers across all fifty states and territories, where all carceral buildings—whether through occlusion by natural or manmade structures, remoteness, or appearing as something other than a prison—bear strategic facades reflecting local politics. Arranged in the gallery like stanzas of a poem—grouped, for example, in twos, threes or fours, clipped provisionally onto plywood or matted and framed, hung on a wall or angled alternately on the floor in call-and-response style—roughly half of Hunt’s total photographs are included in this exhibition, curated by gallery Director Ciara Ennis. Each of the show’s twelve iterations has featured different images and arrangements reflecting respective venues and local politics; these evolving poetic presentations echo the perversely poetic way in which the prison industrial complex, or PIC, has ramified throughout the country, adopting variegated camouflage to infiltrate diverse milieus.
94 boys and girls, ages 9 to 18, Miami-Dade Juvenile Detention Center, Miami, Florida, on 13.5 acres, the third largest youth prison in the U.S. The overarching aesthetic strategy of the PIC adopts twin tactics of normalization, where both peddle optical illusions tied to circular logics. The first tactic makes prisons blend in with their environments or appear commonplace; through outwardly resembling schools, civic centers, corporate office buildings or even grass-covered hills, prisons deter us from examining their interiors (of stacked human cages). The Miami Dade Juvenile Detention center in Florida bears a cheerful mural behind swaying palm trees and a towering barbed wire fence; without any signage indicating its purpose, we can only infer by its mural that the site is for children. Yet, as fences, cameras, guards and metal detectors in and around public schools and other institutions have become commonplace, the “Security Cameras In Use” sign on the fence legitimizes rather than red flags the site, and we walk by without further questions. The penetration of public places by carceral practices like surveillance systems points to normalization’s viral and circular operation: as prisons steal the facades of other public institutions, other public institutions absorb prisons’ tools of control and punishment. Thus, the PIC burgeons through conflation and consolidation, and we barely bat an eye at the lyrical sleight of hand whereby a former Walmart—emblematic of the exploitation of undocumented migrant workers—becomes a migrant children’s detention center at the U.S.-Mexico border.
1,469 children imprisoned in a former Walmart as ‘unaccompanied minors’ and children separated from their parents, Casa Padre Facility, Southwest Key Programs, Brownsville, Texas The PIC invokes oppressive normativity as its second tactic of normalization. Through allusions to scientific or natural social orders justifying the isolation of certain categories of people—diseased, insane, homosexual, nonwhite, degenerate, or otherwise deviant—from society proper, prisons have been allowed to proliferate; in turn, by virtue of appearing commonplace, prisons seem to reflect natural or inevitable social orders. Again, a circular logic—that seduces a public standing at either end of the argument into accepting it as a truism—emerges as a hallmark strategy of the PIC in manufacturing political consent.
Hunt deftly captures the PIC’s deployment of normativity in his layering of visually understated landscape photographs and captions against equally quotidian grids and plywood backings. The raw plywood boards speak to naturalness and guileless candor, while the gridded paper “came for me as a reference to field notetaking, somewhere between that and architectural renderings and rational grids,” Hunt notes. Hunt’s formulaically conventional landscape photographs—employing the elementary rule of thirds, for example, or centering prisons or other structures where we would expect to find a photograph’s subject—invoke a repetitive visual—and ideological—syntax. Articulated through camera lenses Hunt describes as “at the edge of a wide field of view before bending off into distortion, or at the edge of a natural-seeming angle of view,” this visual syntax generates an undistorted, seamlessly continuous and ubiquitous narrative that points to a comfortably familiar and sustainable way of life that need not be questioned.
386 men and women, Federal Detention Center Honolulu, Honolulu, Hawaii Taking visual dictation of what appears in plain view is referenced by the layering of photograph, grid and board, as is surveying land and recording scientific data, all alluding to the PIC’s ostensibly honorable practices of observing, planning, designing and building around self-evident natural phenomena such as landscapes and categories of people. At the same time, the imposition of the net-like grid on the untreated board suggests a more ominous impulse to capture and striate the untamed or wild. In so presenting poetic propositions where optics and meanings are densely layered, Hunt exposes the PIC’s aesthetic tricks of selectively framing and amplifying appeals to rationalism, naturalism and classification systems while diminishing or erasing detained people and the violence inherent to their detention. Inducing hypnotic persuasion, these manipulations mask while replicating a racialized agenda of control. “The ideology of criminal justice today is unquestionably the ideology of race, itself disguised as another science,” Hunt argues.
To escape the caging circularity of the “normal” conditions of our present, radical alternatives must be seen or imagined; in the same layered gestures through which he unveils the PIC’s strategies, Hunt, fortunately, points us toward a way out. “The primary poetic gesture of the work,” he offers, “is the juxtaposition between the landscape photograph and the number of people you can’t see but who offer another description of that space; the contradiction between what the image does and doesn’t show and what that number does and doesn’t tell is where I think the main poetic energy is.” Indeed, the counting and labeling of incarcerated people in both a conventional font and position below the image contours and flattens incarcerated bodies in a holographic or alternating manner. On one hand, we recognize the presence of distinct human beings although none are in view and decry their imprisonment. On the other, as quantitative captions were taken directly from prison websites, we read the PIC’s matter-of-fact designation of an othered group of people as uncontestable reportage; these others or “criminals,” we figure, ought to be put away, and the faint squares of the grid referencing jail cells help effect a clean, visually palatable erasure of the reality or even idea of cell occupants. In presenting competing dignifying and disappearing interpretations, Hunt forces us to acknowledge that both are operative at once, and that we, ultimately, are responsible for what we see—first in our minds, then in our world.
Blindness to our complicity in perpetuating the PIC has historically netted the progressive impulse to fall in line with normalization and “improve” prisons by making them “more normal.” “There’s a discourse around normalization in the sixties and seventies which was about trying to have carceral spaces feel less brutal, less austere,” Hunt notes, alluding to reform efforts aimed at softening prison conditions and treatment of prisoners, rather than the more radical alternative of eradicating prisons and punishment-based systems altogether.
12,402 men and women, 53% Black, 36% Hispanic, and 11% White and other, Cook County Jail, Chicago, Illinois Referencing one of his more distinctive framed pieces featuring the back cover of the B.B. King album, “Live at Cook County Jail,” Hunt explains, “The B.B. King concert [in 1970] is one of the more famous examples where musicians and artists went into prisons to do concerts in solidarity with prisoners around that timeframe. Reform-minded wardens would say, ‘We can have a concert for the prisoners.’” The concert crowd spanning the back cover points to, Hunt muses, “spectral bodies referenced only through numbers or imagination in looking at the [landscape] images.” While Hunt acknowledges that reform efforts have amplified the dignity of prisoners, he contends they do not go far enough; on this cover, he notes, the imprisoned bodies are “still very faint.” “More harsh and draconian treatment was reinstituted in the eighties and nineties,” Hunt observes, pointing to the fact that a fundamentally dehumanizing system only affords oscillating degrees of dehumanization.
When prisoners’ consciousness around the conditions of their imprisonment became too heightened, counterinsurgency architecture developed to reinforce normalization strategies and the PIC’s dominion. “One of the other histories of erasure came in response to the many rebellions within prisons of the sixties and seventies where prisoners were able to communicate with each other, organize, consciousness raise [and where] support systems outside the prison were able to grow,” Hunt notes. “Those all became threats to the system when they became articulated along the direction of social change, and that’s when you start to see the creation of permanent solitary confinement with supermax prisons and control units, keeping prisoners from communicating or knowing where they are, even. Around those kinds of prisons there’s more secrecy, more locating them farther and farther away from urban centers, making them hard to get to [and] further destroying families.”
683 women and men, Metropolitan Correctional Center, Chicago, Illinois [partial view] At an extreme, castle motifs are instituted, manifesting the rhetoric of empire and war that underlies not only counterinsurgency architecture but the agenda of the PIC as a whole. Hunt observes, “Every big city has a federal prison, and they have a fairly unified architectural language that is erased of the historical signifiers of punishment we’re used to seeing, but that look like, at the same time, brutalist fortresses.” Sliver-width windows, like those of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in the heart of Chicago, “come from castles and fortresses,” Hunt notes; his longer plywood boards and a framed horizontal piece containing multiple images reflect this narrowness. Rather than keep enemies out, Hunt further notes, penal fortresses like the Kentucky State Penitentiary, dubbed “the castle on the Cumberland,” are designed to contain enemies, particularly those likely to incite rebellion.
2,152 men with a median age of 38.4 years, Attica Correctional Facility, Attica, New York Several pieces acknowledging prison uprisings and their interlinked histories showcase text or information exceeding quantitative captions. Hunt commemorates the 1971 rebellion at the Attica Correctional Facility in New York with the sheet music for Charles Mingus’ “Remember Rockefeller At Attica,” mourning then-governor Nelson Rockefeller’s deadly decision to quash inmates’ demands for humane treatment by calling in the National Guard. Beneath his photograph of cotton fields surrounding multiple prisons in Atmore, Alabama, Hunt narrates an extended history of racism and forced labor culminating in a national prison strike organized by inmates in 2016 that commenced on the 45th anniversary of the Attica riots. Alongside a photograph of Salinas Valley State Prison in a car’s sideview mirror, Hunt excerpts a 1971 interview with former inmate George Jackson, whose extensive activist writings and work were germinal to the Attica uprising; we note this interview excerpt challenges the prison image in size, as do letters placed beside images of other prisons where the respective writers were detained. These spoken words, letters, sheet music and Hunt’s expanded histories build up a chorus of uncensored consciousnesses, resisting with at least equal strength their oppression and creating an alternative network. Beyond reorienting our vision, thus, Hunt invokes vocalization to counter the PIC’s silencing, and we become increasingly embodied in relation to the work.
3,168 men, 160% of the prison’s capacity, Salinas Valley State Prison, Soledad, California In placing us in the driver seat through his framing of the sideview mirror, Hunt further causes us to be embodied and mobilized; as sideview mirrors come with the alert that “objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” we intimately and viscerally gauge our personal proximity and relationship to what is reflected on our path. The framing of the prison in a rearview mirror also highlights the backward-looking trajectory of the PIC, where what lies ahead reflects and repeats what came before. “One of my last works before this was on the impacts of Hurricane Katrina on New Orleans,” Hunt reflects, “which in many ways was about erasure—the disappearance of whole communities subject to the incredibly corrupt and racist criminal justice system in that city. Degrees of Visibility evolved out of a shift in my photography from describing what prisons look like, to describing how they’re hidden, creating an encounter for a viewer with that disappearance that wasn’t about the state of emergency that follows a disaster, but a sustained, continuous catastrophe that extends so far backwards.” While the reflected prison might be interpreted as inescapably following us forward, it can also be viewed as something we are leaving behind.
Installation view at Lenzner Family Art Gallery, 2019 Our embodied agency in interpreting and responding to our environment is further ignited by the alternation of frames and clipboards throughout the gallery, where once again competing interpretations afforded by conventions are brought to our awareness. Framed gallery pieces are not to be touched, but clipboards are meant to be handled; we are further tempted to swap out photos on boards with some of the scores of loose prints on shipping crates in the center of the space. In omitting instruction as to whether anything may be handled, Hunt subdues the authoritative artist’s intention and activates our own. Yet, he does not remain neutral; as we circulate the gallery, mesmerized by imagery, our steps are disrupted not only by shipping crates indicating physical and far-reaching mobility, but also by activist ephemera and takeaway newspapers on the floor highlighting community gatherings and conversations resisting the historical erasure of organized bodies in dialogue. Usurping or reclaiming the quotidian aesthetic coopted by the PIC, these grassroots activities redirect focus from optical illusions onto human bodies, enacting a new normal or commonsense vernacular rooted in community-based care rather than punishment.
Having reenergized our sight, voices, and authority and ability to act through his artwork, Hunt invites visitors to participate in a ten-part conversation series on abolition scheduled through December 7 throughout Southern California, co-organized with artists and activists Silvi Naçi, Kenny Crocker and Jess Heaney. Reflecting his most extensive programming series to date around this work, Hunt and his team partner for this iteration with longtime collaborator Critical Resistance, California Coalition of Women Prisoners, Californians United for a Responsible Budget, Starting Over, Inc., All of Us or None, Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity, NAVEL, Southern California Library, the Women’s Center for Creative Work and Claremont Colleges Prison Abolition Club, among others.
2,306 men and 488 women, Folsom State Prison, Folsom, California (diptych with obituary of Hugo Pinell) As distinguished from prison reform, abolition seeks not only to abolish prisons and punishment-based systems, but to reimagine how public safety is defined and maintained through overcoming what Hunt describes as alienation, and supplanting prisons’ ostensible roles (to hold people accountable and to rehabilitate, heal, or effect peace and justice) with locally-based practices of care rooted in listening to and addressing the histories and needs of those most impacted by the PIC. “All of the rhetoric around the ‘tough on crime’ movement since the late sixties in the U.S. has been this way of disappearing the reality of racism, classism, sexism and homophobia in our society behind a language of individual choice and weakness and failure, that totally alienates—and by alienates, I mean detaches the relationship in our minds and perception as to how social forces overwhelm people and how history lands on communities,” Hunt explains. “It might appear that it’s one person’s choice to wind up harming someone, but that doesn’t tell you anything about the larger social backdrop against which those choices become reasonable or the only choice. Whole economies that are black market economies have literally sustained communities who’ve been given no other way to survive. And I think the erasure of that historical reality is what we’ve got to get over.”
While even a handful of years ago the idea of eradicating prisons and punishment-based systems in the U.S. seemed politically unfeasible, Hunt and local activists who for many years have combatted plans to construct new jails or legislation aimed, for example, at prolonging detentions and sentences are beginning to witness a tidal shift. Hunt remarks, “What’s unprecedented about right now is getting a county like Los Angeles to recognize that what has been taken for granted for a few hundred years as a rational and effective way to address harm is actually not that. So, LA County’s decision to not build two new jails this year and instead commit to redistributing those three billion dollars to a new infrastructure of care throughout the county on a local and much more accountable level—I think that reflects something of a real kind of change that’s different than ‘fixing prisons.’”
“On Art and Organizing,” public conversation with Jess Heaney, Kenny Crocker and Ashley Hunt, Sept. 19. Photo by Victoria Aravindhan. As abolition gains traction nationwide through online platforms, its intersection with polarized online opinions on forgiveness, fairness, absolution and accountability (e.g., with respect to Botham Jean’s brother and a judge hugging Botham’s killer, former police officer Amber Guyger, in a courtroom) points to the danger of inadvertently replicating the punishing, ostracizing, flattening and exploitative discourse of the PIC online. “I see the contradiction that comes when one thinks about what possible limitations there are for a social movement that takes place within the same architecture that is set up to surveil and convert us into another form of commodity and raw material to be capitalized upon,” Hunt reflects. “But I disagree with a technologically deterministic view that because that’s where it’s taking place, nothing else is possible within it. A hashtag campaign is limited, but if it’s set up in a way that can take you deeper, that’s great. That’s how I think about art [here], too—if it’s set up so that all you do is look at this work and never have to think about it again, I don’t think it’s really doing all that it can. How can that work help interrupt these economies and histories and habits? How can it support work taking place on the ground that needs additional storytelling and image-making?”
In raising these questions, Hunt unveils perhaps the most invisible lens or point of view operative in his work, pertaining to his own relationship to it. As the poetry imbuing the show alternately reflects the PIC’s manipulations or inmate uprisings, it also undoubtedly mirrors the eye and heart of the artist—sober, haunted, meticulous, and wedded to a relentless and urgent sense of responsibility. “I always ask myself, ‘Who am I to tell this story?’” Hunt admits, addressing the irony or problem posed by his storytelling as a white male around a system that predominately criminalizes, disenfranchises and decimates communities of color. On reckoning and reconciling with his privilege, Hunt reflects, “My privilege affords me access to specific resources, and an inconspicuousness around locations of concentrated power [that] has allowed me to drive throughout the country and photograph prisons and jails and get stopped only one time, without consequence. A mentor in graduate school, an amazing anti-racist and Anti-Apartheid activist, told me, ‘You hear the honest conversations people in certain positions of power would never have around me, and you can help share that access.’ Another mentor, an elder Civil Rights activist, admonished that we ‘take the gifts, skills and talents we have received because of the privilege we have, and sit down, listen and serve.’ Although I have personal stories that have shaped me into one who would do work around the prison system, in no way am I one who is most heavily affected or at risk in relation to it. But that doesn’t mean I have no relationship to it—as one who sits comfortably within the violent fiction of whiteness, I am both the beneficiary of the system’s racism, and, as James Baldwin has taught perhaps most eloquently, impoverished by it. So, I work from a place of responsibility—as a fellow opponent of this system, with the aim to contribute to the knowledge, conversations and actions that help to change it.”
After the Prison, Ruins of the Atlanta Prison Farm Among all of his captions, Hunt’s description beneath the site that once hosted the Atlanta Prison Farm run by prison labor is the most unusual. On one hand, Hunt’s historical elaborations and tallies of people incarcerated across multiple photographs can be read as memorializing the PIC’s conquests; such a reading is amplified especially where photographs and captions are matted and framed like awards. In a conversation held around a prior showing of this work (transcribed in one of this show’s takeaway newspapers), Hunt discusses with local activists the idea of utopias, where “the utopia of the oppressor” is a “paradise” evincing “perfected forms of control.”
Yet this photo, while using the convention of centering a structure where we would expect to find the photo’s subject, creatively pushes the possibilities of the convention to upend an oppressive reading. The centering of structures, particularly occluded prisons or vestiges of forced labor, not only creates a predictable visual syntax that might render the structures uneventful, but alternatively affords us the opportunity to detect or consider their presences at all, where, were they not centered, we might miss them entirely. Hunt’s lens flare across the center of the former prison farm building yields still another reading: in rending the emblem of oppression with a flash of illumination that both exposes and purges the past, Hunt creates an aperture or clearing for an imaginative new possibility to flourish. This alternative utopia is one of liberation and growth, expressed in Hunt’s foregrounding and cataloging of proliferating foliage. The center of the frame now delivers the radical alternative—a site without prisons—and this reading can be applied to all images in the show where prisons are hard to see.
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Enrique Martínez Celaya Takes the Road Less Traveled
Enrique Martínez Celaya is embarking on a new journey, and we are faithfully following in his wake. The masterful Cuban-American painter had his first solo exhibition in LA since 2015, “The Tears of Things,” at Kohn Gallery this September. The artist took full advantage of the gallery’s sweeping ceilings, working in his preferred large scale to create a body of work that reveals the nature of his concerns.
One month before his exhibition, I was invited to interview Martínez Celaya at his sprawling Culver City studio. His studio director greeted me and ushered me into the artist’s workspace where I was hit by a wall of sound. To the blaring music of Aerosmith, Martínez Celaya was working on the centerpiece for his show, The Reign, a large oil-and-wax painting featuring an apple tree in a winter landscape. Feeling my gaze upon him, he gestured for me to please wait a minute while he finished up. After a few more rapid brushstrokes, he left the room, and Steven Tyler was silenced mid-howl.
Enrique Martínez Celaya, The Lesson, 2019 Martínez Celaya, not a stranger, swiftly greeted me, and then was off, motioning for me to follow him. I jogged, trying to keep up with the artist, who was clearly still riding a wave of creative adrenaline.
He gave me an expedited tour of his mock-up of the Kohn Gallery installation and a quick run-through of works in progress. We sat before one work that seemed nearly finished, The Virtue, a painting of a solitary skater gliding across a huge body of frozen water with snow-covered hills in the background. The skater is tightly bundled up, as one must be to survive in such a frigid atmosphere. Across the top of the painting was inscribed a quote by Robert Frost: “Here are your waters and your watering place.”
Martínez Celaya used to write his own words on his paintings, but as of late he prefers to include phrases by writers he respects; this is done partly to deter viewers from assigning an autobiographical narrative to his work.
We talked about the multitude of allusions in The Virtue, and how metaphor is critical to his work. The ice sheet represents the idea of something essential, like water: “In the wrong place, it’s inaccessible,” and the relevance of the well-known phrase “skating on thin ice.”
Installation view of The Reign, 2019 Martínez Celaya also revels in the power of his primary medium, paint, and the ways in which it can trick the mind. He paints abruptly, roughly, to keep viewers suspended within an idea we can almost hold but is just out of reach. For example, the inhospitable environment of The Virtue is visually driven home with a puff of the skater’s breath that freezes immediately upon hitting the air, partially obscuring his or her face.“The entire painting was made pretty much just to have the breath,” said Martínez Celaya.
His prowess with metaphor and paint is undeniable as he produces work after work of representational imagery—usually a young boy or girl, or an animal, or both, in a landscape—layered with meaning, yet denying a narrative. “In my work, there’s always a balance with the reference, never getting too much into storytelling… but always a fragment of a narrative,” he said. Through metaphor, the artist intentionally gives the viewer the power to project personal experiences onto his images, encouraging an intimate connection to his work.
While each painting suggests mere fragments of stories, the totality of work in “The Tears of Things” does indeed tell a narrative—and a personal one at that, despite Martínez Celaya’s best efforts at concealment. Front and center across the board are images that reflect his ruminations on the elements of hope and risk in new journeys through such diverse imagery as a well-trodden golden landscape, a matador taking on a bull, a skater gliding across thin ice, a man with children walking through a “dome of darkness.” These paintings seemingly embody the paradigm shifts he has frequently ignited in his own life.
Enrique Martínez Celaya, The Virtue (detail), 2019 Most people don’t know, for example, that Martínez Celaya was once a successful physicist and inventor of lasers. Leaving science for art in his early 20s “was my first rebellion,” he said, adding, “I wanted to be in the world as an artist.” More recently, the artist took a huge risk by leaving LA Louver, one of the most important and historically respected blue-chip galleries in town. He also went through a divorce, a “rebellion against my own idea of the good.” These were not small adjustments but massive alterations undertaken with the belief that happiness—currency equal to gold—would be waiting at the end of his journey.
The key to his success, perhaps, is that Martínez Celaya takes these risky, dramatic and self-assured changes of course with a certain sense of grace. “I wanted this [show] to not be so obvious: ‘A bullfighter and a skater, what is the relationship?’ Well, they’re both in this endeavor in which they launch themselves in some glamor outfit of some sort, and there’s a risk—risk of death or drowning. A lot of it depends on grace, as you glide, as you wear this fancy outfit. The relationship between grace and risk; the two of them seem to be the same.”
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jill moniz: The Quotidian Blacksmith
jill moniz has been a curator at the California African American Museum (CAAM) and is now principal of her own downtown gallery, Quotidian. She curated the current exhibition “LA Blacksmith” at CAAM.
I understand that you have a PhD in cultural anthropology—how and when did you become interested in art?
My mother was a curator, so I grew up in museums, art studios and around conversations about aesthetics and cultural capital. As a young person, I fell in love with African art— particularly from the Benin, Yoruba, Dogon and Mende peoples of Sub-Saharan West Africa. Inspired by non-Western art, I did my undergraduate study in humanities with a focus on Oceania. My doctorate focused on visual imagery as a unique cultural language that could be used/misused, read/misread depending on your location. I also always loved Calder and Louise Bourgeois. And of course, my mother introduced me to the work of Betye Saar, Lois Mailou Jones, Elizabeth Catlett, Jacob Lawrence, Romare Bearden and others.
How did opening Quotidian come about?
Quotidian opened when my mother came to LA after stepping down as director emeritus from Featherstone Center for the Arts in Massachusetts. Together we honed my programming goals—focusing on connecting people to the power of visual literacy by making art an everyday experience. After she passed away, the Spring Street space became available, and it seemed a perfect location for our vision—a storefront with street traffic, in a place that was grounded in the past, yet open to the possibilities of tapping into and sharing creative stories and experiences.
What are your areas of focus at Quotidian? And why did you decide on those areas?
The goal of Quotidian is not to have a roster or represent artists, but to offer a space where different works by diverse artists are brought together to show the strength of narrative visual language. I curated “Signifying Form” at The Landing in 2017 about black women sculptors, which I think says something very particular about the aesthetic freedom found in Los Angeles. I am moved by things inside and outside of my personal and intellectual life. And I am dedicated to grounding work in a local history—featuring artists who have made space by teaching, through their innovative use of materials and establishing socially conscious art practices, including Peter Shelton, Magdalena Suarez Frimkess, Beulah Woodard, Betye Saar, Melvin Edwards, John Outterbridge, Todd Gray, Rodney McMillian and Linda Vallejo.
jill moniz with Betye Saar’s Red Signs of Transformation, 2015, Photo: Tito Molina, HRDWRKER courtesy of CAAM When and how did the idea for “LA Blacksmith” (through Feb. 16, 2020), the show you’ve curated for CAAM, come to you? At first the topic seems surprising, yet when one goes through the show, it feels a natural.
When CAAM Executive Director George Davis asked me to do an exhibition for the museum, “The RIDDLE Effect” was still on view at the Craft Contemporary. Sculpture has always been my passion and thinking about how black artists made connections, work and communities blossom without regard to the canon or outside validation took my focus back to African sculptures that spoke to and for the people. So I centered on a unique element of Africa—metalsmithing was invented there—that bridges backwards and forwards to demonstrate the rigor and spirit of black art in Los Angeles. I don’t want people to forget, and I want them to see that the drive and willingness to communicate in metal is rooted in traditions that survived the Middle Passage and became an innovative material of contemporary aesthetics.
You’ve chosen some remarkable pieces—Betye and Alison Saar are quite well known, yet others much less known. How did you go about putting together your list, and what criteria did you use for selection?
I worked as a curator at CAAM from 2006–08 and have substantive relationships with artists and collectors throughout the city, so I know where things are—at least the things I can’t stop thinking about. I knew Beulah Woodard’s mask had to start the story, and from there, I picked up the phone and starting asking for work that revealed the legacy of metal as a means of artistic and communal language. I knew I would be heavy with male artists, and I balanced that with women who work in metal but with different intentions and outcomes. The exhibition is not exhaustive. My aim was to highlight artwork using this material and its ideation in sculpture to convey imagery and concepts vital to black life in LA.
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An Art Ramble with Top LA Dealer Jeffrey Poe
“You’ve caught me in a really good mood,” said Jeffrey Poe, as he sidled up to the bar of an upscale West Hollywood restaurant.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I was hoping to play up the ‘lonely at the top’ angle and find a backhanded way of comparing your fortunes unfavorably with mine. I guess I’ll have to ditch that idea.”
“I’m happy because I bought a new piece of furniture,” said Jeff, with the distinctively soothing and seductive tone of voice he has always had—the deceptively lazy and effortlessly polished bedside manner of a consummate dealer that has facilitated his ascent to the very pinnacle of art dealership as co-owner of Blum & Poe.
Talk quickly turned to a mutual passion.
“I hit a $4,000 trifecta at Santa Anita,” said Jeff. “I boxed three long shots that were all dropping in class.” Unlike with most horseplayers, I didn’t get the impression he was lying or exaggerating.
“That’s nice,” I said, not without a trace of envy. “I’m still trying to hit the Pick 6. Last time I was out there I hit the first five races. I singled a Baffert favorite in the sixth race. You couldn’t have singled a safer horse… on paper. It was too good to be true, of course.”
“Lost by a nose?”
“A lot more than that, actually. Beats like that can be very embittering. But at least it put me off going out there for a while, which is a good thing. It’s hard enough dealing with all the other obstacles, but then you have to deal with yourself. It’s psychological mayhem. I make my picks the night before, then I go out and deliberately thwart myself. It’s too madly overstimulating out there.”
Jeffrey Poe and John Tottenham. “That’s why I have an online account. I don’t have to deal with the people,” said Jeff. “I get the Form the night before at a liquor store in Santa Monica, and I’ll lay there on my chaise longue next to the pool. I have my dogs with me and we make picks.”
“The dogs help you handicap?”
“Yes. I put the alarm on my phone and two minutes before the race goes off we’ll waltz inside and watch it on TV.”
“You look healthy,” I remarked.
Jeff pulled out his iPhone and displayed the Health app. He clocks about four miles every early morning, walking the canyons near his house.
We downed our drinks and were escorted to a table.
“Can we have a quiet table. He’s interviewing me for Vanity Fair,” Jeff said to the maitre d’. “Watch,” he whispered to me, “they’ll comp us.”
We were seated at a comfortably upholstered curved banquette and menus were handed over. “I have heard of some of these,” said Jeff, perusing the lengthy wine list. “But I think we have to order a bottle based on the name. We have to drink the Joy Fantastic.”
“Is that a hearing aid I see in there?” I asked, upon observing a tiny device attached to Jeff’s ear.
“I’m deaf, man. I have hearing aids.”
“I have terrible tinnitus,” I said, picking a toasted almond from the tin of nuts and olives that had been brought along with the bread.
“I do too. I have no memories but I have tinnitus.”
“You think it’s from the Blue Daisies days?”
“Banging metal rods on an anvil. What was I thinking?” said Jeff.
Young Jeffrey Poe. When I first arrived in town, more years ago than I care to remember, Jeffrey was one of my first friends. At the time, he was one-third of a band of incorrigible young exhibitionists called the Blue Daisies, who gave wildly abrasive performances in varying states of undress. A sort of industrial boy band with considerable chick appeal, their repertoire included such charming ditties as “Suck Me” and “Hand Job.” Among other innovations, they ushered in the genital sock-wear fad that received mainstream exposure from the Pale White Silly Puppies.
“I just wrote some lyrics and I could sing a bit and I had a tiny bit of presence,” said Jeff modestly.
“And you took your shirt off, and your pants.”
“I was kind of ripped so some performance photos made it into a gay porno mag. They put me in two issues in a row, I guess because so many guys were jerking off to me. The second time they gave me an entire page. I look back and I didn’t realize what a peacock I was. It was taken at the Anti Club. We were opening for Sonic Youth.”
“I was there. Kim Gordon gave me her phone number,” I said.
“Did you call her?”
“I did. Her husband answered the phone.”
“How did that go?”
“It was slightly awkward.”
“She’s a major figure these days.”
“Yes, she’s turned into the Hillary Clinton of rock and roll.”
“That sunset glare is hurting my eyes,” said Jeff. Harsh light was flooding in through a window above a table occupied by a party of five.
The waitress brought the Joy Fantastic and poured some into a glass for Jeff to appraise; it was obvious to her that Jeff was the one who got to taste the wine. And it was to his liking.
“That is good. It’s nice and soft and clean and fresh… Could you pull the blinds down over there,” he added in the smooth manner of someone who is used to having his gentle commands carried out.
“Here’s to us. We survived,” said Jeff, raising his glass.
“I always thought of you as being a bit of a stud,” I said as we clinked glasses. “To me, an Englishman abroad, you were the living definition of a hot young American stud. Blonde, muscular, very confident.”
“Thank you for that, I’ll take it.”
“You’re welcome. I’m secure enough in my sexuality to pay tribute to another man’s beauty.”
“Likewise. You were like a pretty John Hawkes.”
“The writer?”
“No. The actor. I remember, we’d just walk into a bar, and sometimes…”
Another dish of nuts was placed in front of us.
“I was a shy narcissist. I didn’t realize what I had. I don’t think most young people do,” I said.
“In those days, perhaps. Today it’s a different story, with social media. It’s tragic. It is the end.”
The Blue Daisies recorded one album before folding. Jeff and fellow ex-Daisy Nic Greene went on to form a somewhat more commercially viable outfit, a two-piece band called BOF (Blissed Out Fatalists). They burned hard and faded fast. In the interest of self-immolation, they rejected the advances of major record companies and blew other golden opportunities.
“I really did think that BOF would amount to something,” said Jeff. “What’s the point of this interview anyway?”
“Good question. It’s supposed to be a conversation between two people who are involved in different fields of the art world. There’s going to be an Artillery issue filled with such encounters, of which this will be one.”
“Let’s figure out what we want,” said Jeff, as he surveyed the short but complicated menu.
“What the hell is bulgar and green harissa?” I asked.
“I’m getting the fish.”
“I was going to get the fish though.”
“That’s okay. We can order the same thing.”
“You know, all this frivolous stuff about sex, gambling and rock and roll isn’t going to fly with the art-damaged Artillery readership. Let’s try to steer this conversation into something more relevant to the arts,” I suggested.
“Good idea,” said Jeff, with characteristic magnanimity. “What were the chances of our both ending up in the art world, our lives running a parallel course?”
“They’re hardly parallel. If there was a graph the lines would only intersect at the very beginning. I would never have predicted you’d get involved in the art world.”
“Me neither. I just fell into it,” said Jeff.
Indeed, there were no signs at that time, in the mid-1980s, that Jeff possessed any interest or ability in the course he has subsequently taken. Following the dissolution of BOF, he turned down an offer to drum for Jane’s Addiction. An autodidact who never graduated from college, Jeff worked on Chris Burden pieces in the late ’80s before becoming a preparator and an assistant at various galleries. Blum & Poe opened in the mid- ’90s in Los Angeles. The gallery achieved immediate success and there are now satellite galleries in New York and Tokyo.
John Tottenham (R) with Blue Daisies band member Nic Greene (L) “You used to do those beautiful drawings of Victorian architecture and floating girl’s heads,” Jeff said.
“Don’t remind me. I should have kept going. I retired in my 20s and picked it up again in my 40s—a weird trajectory of willful self-sabotage.”
“But you got into poetry.”
“Better late than never,” I said between swills of the Joy Fantastic. “That was a desperate last resort. Having wasted so much time, I had to shrink my aspirations down in order to produce anything. Poetry and small drawings are unlikely to set the world on fire.”
“But you’re not exactly a pyromaniac.”
“True.”
“Remember that morning when we had to go and house paint after we’d been up all night doing speed?”
“Yes.”
“That was so much fun. I miss it so much,” said Jeff, wistfully. “The thing about doing drugs like that is I felt absolutely fucking invincible. Are you still friends with…?” Jeff mentioned a certain ruthlessly ambitious artist (identity withheld in order to avoid shameless name-dropping and potential recriminations) with whom we were up all night doing gak during our house-painting days.
“No, he doesn’t speak to me anymore. Maybe I wasn’t obsequious enough. These oversensitive egomaniacs are hard to deal with, as I’m sure you know. I offended him somehow. Or maybe I offended his girlfriend and he took offense, I can’t remember. It’s mostly a blur. In any case, he lives in a mansion in Bel Air now.”
“Actually it’s in the Palisades,” said Jeff, who was apparently still on friendly terms with this now massively successful artist.
“I remember us spending a lot of time lying around hungover when I lived on Western Avenue,” I said.
“I do too. It was almost like we’d nap together. You have to put that in the article because there was a beauty to it, despite all the pollution of being high on drugs and being crazy. I was out of my tits.”
Jeffrey Poe in a gay magazine. The waitress had pulled the offending shade down but it had been hoisted back up again by the diners.
“That fading Dylan hair of yours is helping to block out the sun,” said Jeff.
“It’s a good thing you’re not sitting on this side of the table then,” I rejoined.
“You can talk to my bald spot if you want,” said Jeff, unabashedly. “It’ll answer you back.”
“It looks like a sacred place.”
“It is a sacred place, totally.”
But, lest we digress, back to the hearing aid:
“It helps with the tinnitus. It allows me to hear other things.”
“It’s very discreet.”
“It’s very expensive.”
“How much?” I asked, indiscreetly.
Jeff quoted an astronomical sum.
“I don’t suppose my low-grade health plan would cover that.”
The salad with the “End of the world citrus” arrived—containing sprouted greens, cubes of cucumber and sour apple slices.
“Your sense of wonder is still intact,” I remarked.
“If you get bitter, you’re fucked. You have to stay engaged. You know these people are really turds for putting that window shade back up. I’m going to actually demand it go down because we’re doing this Vanity Fair article.”
The waitress was summoned. “The sun will go down in a minute. They’ll live,” said Jeff, more firmly this time.
“We’re supposed to be talking about art,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Are you still showing Henry Taylor? He’s great. He breaks into song in the middle of a conversation.”
“He’s incredibly in the moment. Even when the moment is completely gone, he’s still in it. There is no strategy to Henry, and as an artist today that’s almost impossible to find. He’s pure. He’s fucking pure.”
“He came through the academy, didn’t he?”
“He did and it clearly informs him, but at the end of the day he’s one of those artists who just has to work; his hands are always moving, that’s just the way he is. Seriously, he has an intuitive gift. There are no other artists like Henry Taylor, and that’s why he’s gotten to where he’s gotten. He just presented new work at the Venice Biennale.”
Jeff went on to lavish fulsome praise on the curator of this year’s Biennale, with whom we had both been great friends back in the pure old days.
“He hasn’t talked to me in years,” I said. “He moved on. I wasn’t the sort of person he wanted around as he climbed his way to the top. Can’t say I blame him. I’m still leading much the same existence as I was when we first met. On the few occasions that we’ve subsequently run into each other, he has been conspicuously ill-at-ease in my company. I offended him somehow.”
“How?” Jeff asked.
“I can’t remember. Don’t ask.”
“It’s a wonder that I’m still talking to you.”
“We only see each other once every five years. That way nobody gets hurt… So he’s doing well?” I tentatively added.
“He’s doing great. You know, he’s curious. At the end of the day, isn’t that what we want to be?”
“Curious?”
“Yeah.”
“Lack of curiosity is unforgivable,” I replied.
“We like to be curmudgeons. It’s a default mechanism. I’ve been waiting my whole life to be a sad-sack senior and I’m finally on the cusp of it. But I honestly do want to be engaged in the world.”
The fish arrived, lying on a pillow of pungent garlic alongside several robust spears of asparagus—the virginal white flesh slipped softly from its bones.
“You must frequently find yourself in a very engaged position,” I naively remarked.
“Not really in the way people might think, because I have to deal with a lot of business stuff. When you’ve got three galleries and 30 employees spread out over the world, it’s like a 7-Eleven— somebody’s always open, it’s exhausting and stressful. Luckily, I’ve got a business partner, or I’d kill myself. That’s why, in a certain way, I look at you and I think you’ve skirted it all.”
Tim Blum and Jeffrey Poe. “I haven’t though, at all.”
“You’re not responsible for anything but yourself.”
“That’s not necessarily an advantage. It’s all I’m capable of. I’m still scuffling.”
“How did your show at Bergamot go last year?”
“Reasonably well, sold three-quarters of it.”
“How’s the process of making drawings?” asked Jeff, in an admirable attempt to stick to the subject.
“I only do it when I have a show. I used to do these drawings of abandoned buildings and desolate streets, and someone said ‘You’re supposed to be a poet, throw some text on them, they’ll sell’—so I did, and they did, to some extent. But mostly what I’ve been doing for the last three years is writing a novel.”
“Can I see it?”
“No way. I can’t show it to anybody I know. I’m only interested in the opinion of influential strangers.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, I have no grasp of plot, character or dialogue and my imagination dried up years ago, so I’m obliged to rely on personal experience rather more than I would prefer or approve of. It’s very likely that nobody will ever read it.”
“A novel that will never be read.”
“Why not?”
The sun went down over our table and the Joy Fantastic induced a nostalgic glow.
“I really do miss those times,” said Jeff, alluding to the halcyon days of our youth in the relatively untarnished and untamed Los Angeles of the 1980s.
“It seemed like there was a lot going on downtown at the time,” I said. “But compared to now, I guess there wasn’t. It was a squalid paradise, looking back on it. The bars, the cafeterias, the art scene. I guess kids nowadays are getting the same charge out of it but in a different way.”
“No,” said Jeff, emphatically rejecting that notion. “Because there’s no boredom anymore. People are always on their phones. Nobody is able to stare at a wall or actually engage in a moment where there’s a breath. It’s because… we’re fucked. We were forced to be with ourselves then. There wasn’t all this crap, and this crap has created all this noise…”
“Aural pollution.”
“Yeah, we all have tinnitus, in our own way—visually, aurally, it’s fucking exhausting, and you’re tethered. Those were days when things weren’t tethered, and, quite honestly, we were at the edge of the edge, in the darkest corner of the underground. There was a time and a place for us and it was organic. I don’t think there’s organic shit going on anymore.”
“We have digital lives and we had… what’s the word?”
Jeff was stumped.
Jeffrey Poe and John Tottenham. A couple of minutes later, I remembered the word: “analog.” Yes, we had analog lives. But by then Jeff was musing about gambling again.
“The other thing I’ve done, that you were 100% right about, is that I do not bet horses that come from Golden Gate.”
“Just toss them out, even if they’re favorites,” I said. “You know, the intricacies of handicapping are very boring to anybody who isn’t into horse racing, which is most people, especially nowadays. But don’t worry, this won’t make the final cut.”
“Horses dying at Santa Anita. It’s a bad thing. A horse died on Preakness day,” said Jeff, in reference to the recent spate of equine fatalities at Santa Anita.
“Yes, it’s hard to put a positive spin on dying horses. Did you watch the Preakness?”
“No, I was on a plane to Europe. Shall we order dessert?”
“That’s all right.”
“The track is dying. We’re dying. We’re like old horses dying. The whole game is going to be over soon,” said Jeff.
“How was your prostate exam?”
“Perfect. I’m healthy. My morning constitutionals keep me in check.”
“I doubt I’ll get an article out of this,” I said. “It’s exactly the sort of thing I hate: two old geezers rambling on about the good old bad old days with self-congratulatory tales of bygone excess, while bemoaning the state of today’s youth. We haven’t gone into any depth on the subjects I was hoping to explore. You know: success, failure, age, death—that sort of thing.”
“We sort of touched upon them.”
“I guess so. It’ll come off as self-indulgent, but it’ll have to do.”
“We’ll have to have another meeting,” said Jeff, slapping a credit card on the table. “This is a business dinner. You’re a huge client.”
They hadn’t comped us.
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UCLA’s Kristy Edmunds’ Tour de Force
Kristy Edmunds took over the reins of performing arts at UCLA at a time (2010–11) when the kind of avant-garde international theater and festival programming it was famous for seemed to be all but dropping from UCLA’s sightlines. But Edmunds’ purpose and seriousness were conveyed in the rebranding alone: the Center for the Art of Performance (“CAP” UCLA). Within a year, we had a treatment of the work of Jun’ichiro Tanizaki by Complicité, Peter Brook and the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord, a raft of new music, and a reunion of Robert Wilson, Philip Glass and Lucinda Childs; and Edmunds was just getting started.
Edmunds went on to make CAP UCLA a case study in how to transform an arts institution, and how to bond it to the artists and the community it serves. In essence, she has done that by taking an artist’s approach to programming by transforming the creative and curatorial process to them.
Pam Tanowitz, Four Quartets. Photo: Maria Baranova. Another of her achievements has been a major expansion of CAP UCLA’s physical presence beyond the UCLA campus into the Village and across town at the ACE Hotel, which is more or less where our conversation began.
The decision to expand CAP’s programming to alternative spaces was deliberate, Edmunds confirms. “I began to understand the extraordinary complexity of traffic and logistics and also the changing demographics: where artists are moving, the cultural enclaves and pockets of folks on the East Side… If people can’t get to us with the frequency they desire, can I find the vehicles that will bring the work closer to them? So the ACE partnership was one of those things. Moving a third of our programming into the downtown area was really about creating another point of access for the artists and the work and the communities.”
It is a complex equation, a kind of choreography, to connect these worlds. In another part of our conversation, Edmunds summed up the creative aspect of her role in that equation: “We have to have as much lithe and nimble erudition as an artist will to put the work in the context in which it’s going to mean the most.”
Jerome Bel, Gala. Photo: Josefina Tommasi Audiences are seeing the evolution, and elevation in the standard and their own expectations, and the sense of what is driving this endeavor: a commitment to work across any number of media in pursuit of original ideas, forms and ways of thinking about and making sense of the contemporary world. Edmunds is fully committed to creating the conditions essential to achieving an artist’s vision and bringing the project forward.
“Every single dialogue and discussion with artists means I’m going to eventually end up on a pretty bespoke journey with them,” she explains. “If upholding the integrity of their vision as it’s evolving is part of the practice that I hold, then staying close to what those ideas are matters a great deal. It’s not just transactional.”
When asked if she shapes the programming with the intention of building community, Edmunds affirms, “Absolutely. It’s about what is the role of an artist in cultures across the world and inside a city of this size that the whole world lives in—either temporarily or permanently. For me it’s been about how I program in a way that is taking the artists with an extraordinary generosity of vision that they’re willing to put in front of the questions of our time and the questions they have with their art form, and to give it as much context for an audience as I can, so that they get… not just, ‘do I like the work, thumbs-up or down?’—but: Who is this maker, and in what conditions are they making? And why would they go to such extraordinary lengths to call our attention to something that might be less familiar, and certainly disruptive of the status quo, in order to open us to be awake to the world differently?”
Kristy Edmunds. Photo: Thomas Wasper. For all her breadth and commitment to the fresh and unfamiliar and nurturing the formal evolution of performing artists, she is careful to place some distance between her own enthusiasms and institutional prerogatives. “The worst thing I can do is privilege my personal aesthetic preferences,” she says. “If I condition people to respond to work that I like, then I’m denying the role and responsibility of an institutional practice. I have to be able to connect people to what is going to have integrity and meaning for them, with these artists in these specific sets of conditions—so that everyone can thrive together.”
Edmunds’ process involves helping artists shape their work, and bringing it to CAP UCLA’s various stages and alternative spaces. At any given time, Edmunds is conducting about 300 active conversations with artists, managers, producers and agents. Out of these, the CAP budget will expand to do 45 to 55 projects over a given set of years.
“But that’s probably about the amount an institution is going to be able to mind-share with an audience that’s already over-worked, overtaxed, over-stressed can even handle anyway!” she adds.“So I try to drill as deeply as I can in the principal art forms we’re focused on, and that tends to be five or six [major] productions or concerts a year. And then there are the areas that are signaling where artists are going—interdisciplinary collaborations or projects that are not squarely dance or choreography but might involve visual artist collaborations or a very unique way that a composer is addressing a cultural question in their work, and so forth.”
Taylor Mac, A 24 Decade History of Popular Music, Decades 13 thru 18 (1956-2016) Beyond the daunting difficulties in staging large productions in Los Angeles, are the many problems in facilitating the movement of international elements.
“There’s a lot of reshuffling that goes on… I constantly feel as if I’m in an air traffic control station, seeing which planes can land and with what magnitude,” she says. “Which ones have to keep circling? In the complexity of humanity, there’s almost one project that’s programmed into the season; and then life happens… and it can’t happen. But there’s something real about that, too. When I have to tell our audiences that a project has to be postponed, it’s not like they see it as institutional failure. The reality is people understand now. When I think of the number of artists and practitioners who actually land and arrive here, or are local—our fellows—and have managed to be able to pull residency, creative development with us, find form and get that work on stage, it’s gobsmacking.”
In the last season, such artists included Jérôme Bel (“Gala”), Meredith Monk (“Cellular Songs”—which made for a kind of prelude to Yuval Sharon’s LA Phil production of her “Atlas”), Merce Cunningham (“Night of 100 Solos”) and Nico Muhly (a deep dive into the music of Philip Glass). Kaija Saariaho returns this season (collaborating in a multi-media production of Eliot’s Four Quartets), as does Jean-Claude Barrière, alongside Toshi Reagon’s musical treatment of Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, and Michael Keegan-Dolan’s fantastical Nordic-Irish reincarnation of Swan Lake, among too many others to recite here.
Michael Keegan-Dolan, Swan Lake. Photo: Colm Hogan. The reverberations of last season seem to flow forward and back from Taylor Mac’s four night/24 decade ‘moment’ (A 24-Decade History of Popular Music). Revisiting that triumph, Edmunds conveys a sense of how she builds the connections between the artists and the audiences for an institution. “I look for where an artist making theater or choreography or whatever form—in order to add some authentic perspective—is bypassing the conventions they already know to allow an audience to be provoked to actually be more emotionally available to seeing something from a different angle, as opposed to the perceived security of going along with the conventional route or wisdom. Building a framework of an audience’s belonging, coming in and out of an institution, is asking people to remember that value proposition: that artists are not here to merely decorate our stages or reinforce our complacency. They’re provoking us to being awake differently and to use more of ourselves towards what they’re thinking about. If the performances are extraordinary, we will go there.”