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Category: Cat Call
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STREET ART ALIVE
STREET ART ALIVE is a 25,000 sq. ft. immersive “multi-sensory art and culture experience” that presents Street Art from Los Angeles and other major cities around the world. The interior entrance to the show features a recreation of an ‘80s New York City subway station with a heavily bombed (painted) train stopped at the platform. Although Philadelphia is often cited as the birthplace of modern graffiti, the installation neatly and attractively presents the premise that Graf and Street Art began in the train yards of NYC. The end of the faux-station segues into a simulacrum of another Graf shrine, London’s Leake Street graffiti tunnel, a 300-meter passageway that is the city’s largest legal wall. The end of this tunnel opens onto two large rooms of projections, which in turn lead to another series of rooms featuring an installation by Timbuctu State dedicated to disappeared indigenous women, a gorgeous installation of hand-painted murals by Dourone, and finally, a room with blackboard walls where one is encouraged to throw up a few tags of one’s own.
Subway station installation. Photo by Anthony Ausgang. Most of the art featured in STREET ART ALIVE is presented as large-scale moving projections on the walls and floor of the two huge open areas. Grouped by their cities, each artist is introduced with a brief biography and mission statement. Generally, the pieces are first featured in long shots to establish their urban context, then the details within them are revealed by “pan and zoom” effects. Some of these elements are further animated, which seems unnecessary as the pieces in the show are all first rate as they are. An “audio experience” soundtrack accompanies the images and runs the gamut from late ‘70s and ‘80s distorted punk/pop, break beats, and rap poetry, to contemporary musical stylings. The combination of the visual art and the music creates a controlled chaos that drives the 45-minute film; if not for the opening and closing credits, one would be excused for thinking it was either much longer or not looped at all. This is both a benefit and a detriment. In terms of quantity, one certainly gets one’s money’s worth for the $39 admission fee, but the unrelenting onslaught of beauty without respite becomes a bit wearying and its impossible to examine a favorite piece at length.
Street view of Berlin Wall sections painted by RISK. Photo by Anthony Ausgang 
In an interesting remedy to the paradox that the art in STREET ART ALIVE is presented indoors, sections of the Berlin Wall have been installed on Broadway in front of the show. Before it fell in 1989, The Berlin Wall that divided East and West Berlin had become a major location for graffiti, most of it political. Although the wall was demolished, these sections were saved, and to make them more relevant to people who were born after the concerned events, Graf artist RISK was commissioned to paint new work on the obverse side facing the street. According to the artist, “with everything going on in the world and the historic importance of the Berlin Wall, I wanted to paint something that gave people hope for a bright future.” As positive as RISK’s addition may be, it’s worth checking out the reverse sides to see graffiti painted by locals when the wall still stood in Berlin, work reflecting an authentic expression of German zeitgeist at the time. With these relics, STREET ART ALIVE not only gives a valuable history lesson, but also a similar optimism for the future.
Reverse side of Berlin Wall sections. Photo by Anthony Ausgang.
STREET ART ALIVE at THE LUME LOS ANGELES
1933 S. Broadway, Los Angeles CA 90007
Tickets and information: https://thelume.com/losangeles/ -
CAT CALL: Synthetic History
My Retrospective at the Fullerton Museum CenterMy cultural quarantine began on March 28th, 2020, when I arrived at a huge building in the Fairfax District housing The Zone: The Britney Spears Experience. I was there to cover what was promoted as a massive “immersive retail experience” for Artillery Magazine, and particularly looked forward to visiting the IG-ready, full-size replica of the interior of Spears’ personal jet. But the entrance was locked, and on the door was the first of the many CLOSED DUE TO COVID-19 signs I would see from then on. I frantically called my editor and we wailed at each other in disbelief as she revealed that the next issue of Artillery might have to be cancelled anyway due to advertisers dropping out. I drove home, vaguely thrilled with foreboding at this unprecedented situation.
For a couple of weeks, the ”new now” was OK with me; I called friends when I found toilet paper and they called me if they located pasta and sauce. Although a lot of people were suddenly out of work, my life didn’t change much since my wife is an essential worker and I was already working from home, arranging my 1980 to 2020 retrospective exhibition. Scheduled to open May 23rd at The Fullerton Museum Center, I was confident that the museum shared my “the show must go on” attitude and everything would continue as planned. But after several postponements, it became clear that wasn’t the case; in fact, the FMC was closing due to financial difficulties at The City of Fullerton. I felt it would be unfortunate if the two years’ worth of work locating paintings and dealing with collectors had all been for nothing, so I chose to publish an exhibition catalog regardless. It was important to me that all those paintings be presented together in one form or another, and I figured that in fifty years it wouldn’t matter if there had been an exhibition or not. Either way, the only form of remembrance would be the catalog, so I enthusiastically included paintings that had not been available for the exhibition, thereby creating a facsimile record of the show I really wanted to have.
Painting by Anthony Ausgang By pre-pandemic standards, this “improved simulacrum” is about as legitimate as a football game in an empty stadium. But within the liberties of art’s New Now, such work without witness proves the public is no longer a necessary ingredient. Which is indicative of the current art world’s reliance on synthetic history to bridge the gap between a stalled culture’s before and after. Still, the good news is that the pandemic has freed artists from the Art-Industrial Complex and its incessant need for masterpieces; keeping art relevant is up to the artists again.
Anthony Ausgang Retrospective Catalog Cover -
ROCK STARS
Prior to the arrival of the Spanish in 1771, the Serrano and Paiute indigenous people of Southern California created outdoor parietal rock drawings called petroglyphs in an area of the southern Mojave Desert known as Victor Valley. This once-remote desert is where the cities of Apple Valley, Hesperia and Barstow are now located. Although the remaining ancient Serrano petroglyphs are mostly in locations far from Apple Valley’s residential sprawl, there is a group of contemporary rock painters working the new suburban landscape. And while the exact purpose of the ancient petroglyphs is unknown, there’s no question about these modern artists’ motivation. Calling themselves High Desert Rocks, this collective of artists doesn’t paint on stationary rock formations like the indigenous tribes once did; they prefer to paint small individual rocks, generally between two and five inches in length. The rocks are typically painted a solid color, then the obverse is scribed with a helpful maxim accompanied by a related image; the reverse side features the High Desert Rocks Facebook page address. Once finished, the artist searches for a proper place to leave the painted rock where it will be found, optimally by an individual in need of reassurance or comfort.
Rock painted by Rhonda Newman Walker, photo courtesy High Desert Rocks The combination of the painted rock’s message of goodwill and its serendipitous delivery is powerful enough to most people that they post photographs of their find on High Desert Rocks. The Administrator of the FB page, Roxy West, who describes herself as an “art activist spreading kindness,” says that the artists “get a lot of gratification from someone finding their rocks.” Some, like Cecilia Rodriguez, feel that it’s okay if they “never see the smile on a stranger’s face or the painted rock ever again.” But one never knows: West tells the story of a homeless man who unintentionally crashed a rock painting party and to everyone’s amazement, pulled out three treasured painted rocks from a small velvet Crown Royal Whiskey pouch. Rodriguez is so proactive about people finding stones that she helps out at “fairy gardens,” places where rocks are left en masse for those unfortunate enough not to find one at random. This kind of psychic gratuity is a good example of how the missionary zeal of High Desert Rocks painters is powered by a relentless positivism.
Photo by Roxy West Like all art forms, rock painting isn’t confined to one purpose or type of imagery. Although many High Desert Rocks painters favor feel-good iconography such as Snoopy or elfin toadstool houses, there are others like Lindsey Germain, who prefer “creepy, comic and sci-fi stuff.” And, like all artists, she has her critics, “I can’t hide some stones because I know someone would complain about it. LOL” Such internecine conflict may be unexpected, but it’s not surprising considering that the point of all this activity is to improve other people’s lives through sentimentality.
Rock painted by Lindsey Germaine, photo courtesy High Desert Rocks July 3rd, International Drop a Rock Day, is touted as a global opportunity for rock painters to become “kindness ninjas.” But even with such an international base, the Fine Art World considers rock painting, if it considers it at all, with a characteristic elitist contempt. And that’s a shame, because with a refreshing sincerity reflecting its rural sources and isolation from High Culture, rock painting evidences all the hallmarks of legitimate Folk Art; as West says, this art “is purely from the heart and doesn’t need recognition or validation.” In fact, one could say that these rock painters are literally returning to the roots of desert culture. Although there isn’t a direct link between High Desert Rocks and the ancient petroglyph paintings of the Serrano and Paiute Indians, there is a kinship based on successful artistic communication between remote individuals. Which is great, because what the world needs now is art that exists for a purpose other than the justification of its own existence.
Photo by David Stillman -
Ten Books on Art
Looking to do something other than Netflix and Chill? We got you. One of our funniest, most-loved & recognizable writers, Cat Call columnist, Anthony Ausgang, shares his ten favorite books on art.
1. The Recognitions, by William Gaddis
2. The Apes of God, by Wyndham Lewis
3. Vincent and Theo, by Deborah Heiligan
4. A, by Andy Warhol
5. The Warhol Diaries, edited by Pat Hackett
6. Interviews with Francis Bacon, by David Sylvester
7. Here to Go: Planet R-101, by Brion Gysin
8. LA’s Early Moderns, by Victoria Dailey and others
9. Point and Line to Plane, by Wassily Kandinsky
10. The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, by Tom Wolfe
Comment below other list recommendations you’d appreciate. Be safe everyone.
Follow Anthony on Instagram: @anthonyausgang
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NICE DOGGIE
Inspiration must have been in short supply the day in 2012 that Sue Williams started Dallas, her painting featured at this year’s Frieze art fair. Like most artists, Williams undoubtedly set out to create something unique, a painting for the ages, as masterpieces are often touted. But somewhere along the line it became, not the subject of a joyous collective experience, but confirmation of Williams’ onanistic creative process; her art fantasy apparently fodder for aesthetic masturbation. Consequently, if a Pollock drip painting can be called ejaculatory, then in the interest of gender equality this Williams painting is a gusher.
Sue Williams, Dallas, oil and acrylic on canvas, 60 x 60 in., 2012. Photo courtesy 303 Gallery Amid the painterly chaos of Dallas, the head of a man peers out through the drips and smears that, quite literally, deface him. Even so, he is recognizable as a typical Feminist presentation of the classic “Fifties Man” white male oppressor. His degradation is to be expected of course, for Williams’ “world of provocative sexual politics” demands a sacrifice from the patriarchy. Also, according to a 303 Gallery press release from 2010, “Williams (work) can illustrate a conclusive and all-encompassing conjuring of everything at once.” Which explains why the blend of text, crude coproid brown blobs, and abbreviated diagrams in Dallas is essentially an upside-down roadmap to nowhere. Still, in the face of such statelessness, Williams has, like Google Maps, helpfully included the names of specific locations such as Throgs Neck in the Bronx and the Barclay Center in Brooklyn. That, plus pointless verbiage like, “luxury, privacy and the magic of Disney,” confirms that a whole lot of everything can amount to nothing.
Photo by Anthony Ausgang Other than the incontrovertible fact that brushstrokes travel in a certain direction, Dallas seems directionless. Perhaps that is why Williams felt it necessary to include the image of a dog’s asshole; something had to take this piece somewhere. And as far as remarkable totems go, an anus is guaranteed, as this blog evidences, to garner comment. Although her painting is indisputably High Art (why else would it be at Frieze?) the use of an asshole as a major element reveals a weak attempt by Williams to appear an anti-aesthetic revolutionary. Regrettably for her, Low Brow Art is often similarly scatological, but work done in that genre is generally structured around a recognizable narrative. Within that paradigm, a dog’s asshole is critical in understanding specific pictorial storytelling. That’s not the case in Dallas, where the anus seems to be included, not as an element necessary to deciphering this painting, but as a device for making it stand out from many otherwise similar paintings by Williams. As such, the anus may be fake news, but it’s a brilliant tactic. Still that’s about it; Williams’ oeuvre already proves that she’s adept in parlaying offensive content into a lucrative art career. But repetitious use of lurid imagery does lessen its impact; perhaps that’s why most people examining Dallas at Frieze didn’t seem to care about the canine sphincter. But that’s to be expected; after all, opinions are like assholes, and every dog’s got one.
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FUNKO-DELIC
Andy Warhol predicted, “Someday, all department stores will become museums, and all museums will become department stores.” If that’s the case, then there’s a new museum in Hollywood that needs to be added to the list of L.A.’s tourist attractions. Funko, a company specializing in urban vinyl toys, bills itself as ”one of the leading creators and innovators of licensed pop culture products,” and in November of 2019, they opened their newest retail space on Hollywood Boulevard. Still, as obvious as the cash registers are, the uncognoscenti are excused for thinking they have arrived at a most excellent museum since the space is primarily designed to impress viewers with the monumentality of what appear to be Instagram-ready art installations. As part of Funko’s mission statement to “provide consumers tangible ways to take their fandom offline,” each different toy franchise features a life-size sculptural environment that encourages exploration; which of course reveals the shelves of merchandise. It’s crafty and remarkably similar to a museum, where one looks at unaffordable objects but can leave with a satisfyingly inexpensive facsimile.
Nightmare on Elm Street sales kiosk at Funko. Photograph by Anthony Ausgang The art critic Peter Schjeldahl has pointed out that museums are the secular equivalent of churches, which explains the gravity characteristic of a museum experience. There’s interface but no interaction, and not understanding a work of art’s purported significance puts the viewer in a difficult place. Because when an artist or singular work of art is called “important,” things have suddenly gotten serious, and that encourages the casual observer to look for an anchor of normalcy in a sea of art rhetoric. Unable to calculate value outside of the museum’s rarefied atmosphere, the search is not for meaning, but for meaninglessness and the refreshing relationship one can have with something of no importance. Which is the appeal of Xu Bing’s piece 1st Class, included in the LACMA exhibition The Allure of Matter: Material Art from China. Probably the most accessible piece in the show, Bing’s massive faux tiger skin rug made of 500,000 cigarettes owes its appeal to the fact that there’s no mystery involved, just a shared enjoyment based on everyone’s understanding of what constitutes both tigers and cigarettes. Unfortunately, explaining Bing’s underlying concept (that fanatical smoking in China is a result of U.S. commercial imperialism) would probably lessen most people’s enjoyment of the piece.
Xu Bing, 1st Class, mixed media. Photograph by Andy Kitchen Andy’s prophecy is a moot point now that a single location can serve as both a museum and a department store; witness the fully functional Louis Vuitton boutique included in Takashi Murakami’s 2007 exhibition at MOCA. The alchemical element that makes such a thing possible, is fun; the same fun that encouraged customers at the Murakami show to pay $300 over the price of similar items at Vuitton in Beverly Hills. So, the point of Funko isn’t so much that one will have a good time there; it’s that one will have an even better time if more money gets spent. Plus, the more spectacular the offline retail environment, the more online exposure Funko gets through its customer’s social media accounts. Check out the Harry Potter kiosk that features an IG-ready table at which one can be photographed with cartoonish figures of the movie’s three main characters. Which is probably more fun than standing under a 340-ton boulder with a selfie stick at LACMA.
Harry Potter sales kiosk at Funko. Photograph by Anthony Ausgang Funko, 6201 Hollywood Blvd Ste 100, Los Angeles, CA 90028, (213) 462-3600, https://www.funko.com/
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WHAT, MEME WORRY?
On June 19th, 2018, Tumblr user deadbefordeath posted a photograph of a white cat with a confused expression sitting in a chair in front of a plate of vegetables, titling the post “he no like vegetals.” According to the Literally Media database, the post gained over 120,000 likes and reblogs in one year, and the popular feline was eventually identified as a cat from Ottowa named Smudge. Meanwhile, a formidable reaction screen cap of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills cast members Taylor Armstrong and Kyle Richards was getting its own internet exposure and on May 1, 2019, Twitter user @MISSINGEGIRL fused the two photographs together. This amalgam was titled “These photos together is making me lose it” and the tweet gained over 78,900 retweets and 276,800 likes in two months. But on May 2nd, Twitter user @lc28__ made the first known meme based on the format, titling it “Me accusing my cat of cuddling with other people when I come home drunk after bottomless brunch.”
A fresh meme must contain an essential irony, which can vary from wry observations to volatile political incorrectness. Consequently, the Woman Yelling At Cat meme—which features the image of Armstrong and Smudge expressing differing opinions, also known as “object labeling” in the meme lexicon—took off. And, since an important attraction of a meme is that the viewer is able alter it in any way they choose, the Woman Yelling At Cat meme went viral on October 13th, 2019, when Facebook user KucingMenangid posted a remix video of it. After replacing Smudge with the feline Thurston Waffles , the post received more than 727,000 views, 25,000 shares, 12,000 reactions and 3,500 comments in a little over one week. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwMwvuGOsX8
This transmogrification into a four-second video delivered the meme to a wider audience; plus, Armstrong herself contributed greatly by her engagement with people who tag her in their social media posts. But after kapwing.com posted their Woman Yelling At Cat Meme Maker, the internet was instantly flooded with Armstrong and Smudge dank memes. And once the meme became an internationally recognized format for commentary of any kind, it became obvious that, in fact, each individual Woman Yelling At Cat meme was also obliquely making reference to every other Woman Yelling At Cat meme. In essence, it became meta-commentary, its apex evident in womanvscatmeme’s tweet titled, “I don’t understand these memes/Who gone tell her.”
With such cultural resonance, it was inevitable that the digital Woman Yelling At Cat meme would become the subject of traditional analog formats such as painting and drawing. Still, even as a legitimate contributor to the contemporary artistic zeitgeist, it’s doubtful that the meme will be in the Whitney Biennial anytime soon. Which is unfortunate, because internet memeology shares its cultural and psychic intrusions with Street Art; in fact, memes are basically graffiti on the Information Superhighway. But the main reason that galleries and museums will snub the Woman Yelling At Cat meme is that it introduces a rival 21st century art form with its own commercial network. And that’s something the Fine Art Establishment doesn’t want to see go viral.
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WAYS OF NOT SEEING
If, as John Berger writes, “Oil painting… is a celebration of private property”, then Street Art is the equally joyous appreciation of public property. This difference is due to the nature of the work and their contrasting environments: Graffiti beats the streets while “oil painting” luxuriates in museums. So, other than both being categorized as Art, there’s not that much similarity between the two; in fact, the difference is so great that entirely separate skill sets are required to properly experience them.
Interior, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, Netherlands The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam is one of Holland’s greatest tourist destinations and at certain hours, as crowded as the nearby Centraal railway station. Here, tour groups dedicated to the Myth of Van Gogh mix it up with individuals seeking a private audience with the artist. Meanwhile, new arrivals aggregate around them like an out-of-control assembly line, each person anticipating their own virtual moment with Vincent in Arles. Everyone appears dumbfounded, like the devout reaching the ultimate destination of a pilgrimage, their rosaries exchanged for earbuds. Unfortunately, this “bogus religiosity” as Berger describes it, requires unfettered observation so the line of faithful at each painting moves at a geologic pace. But that’s OK, since to really be appreciated, Van Gogh’s subjects and techniques require a pensive approach.
Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam,Netherlands Just across the Museumplein, Amsterdam’s MOCO museum recently hosted an unofficial show of work by the Street Artist Banksy. This contemporary art museum, “founded with the mission of attracting broader and younger audiences”, exhibits Pop Surrealism, Street Art, and works by a few “old masters” like Andy Warhol or his doppelganger, Elaine Sturtevant. MOCO is located in a 19th century mansion, so its galleries are small yet seem perfectly suited for hosting a crowd essentially the same size as the manageable coat check lines at the Van Gogh Museum. But even at those numbers, Banksy’s exhibition was denser and more uncomfortable than Van Gogh’s. People were colliding with each other constantly; plus, kids with backwards baseball hats and extra wide Sharpies aren’t going to apologize when someone’s crows-in-a-cornfield poster gets crunched. Worse than that, more than a few people waited to get up close and personal with a Banksy only to find out they were in the restroom line.
Banksy, Laugh Now But One Day We’ll Be In Charge, Spray paint and stencil on board, MOCO, Amsterdam I call the cause of all this aesthetic anguish Attention Surfeit Disorder, and it occurs when an art viewer deems a simple work of art worthy of the same extended investigation as a complex one. For example, MOCO’s version of the famous Banksy chimpanzee piece “Laugh Now, But One Day We’ll Be In Charge”, had more people lined up to gawk at it than Van Gogh’s sunflower painting. For a single stencil piece to garner that much attention is crazy; for a multiple of the same image, its certifiably insane. Banksy is a master of the static meme and what he scribes can be sussed out later; there’s no need for a lengthy on-the-spot evaluation. Graffiti’s economy of means demands economy of attention, so people are either going to get the message or not. And if they don’t, then they should heed that famous line used by London bobbies, “Move along, nothing to see here.”
Banksy, Sunflowers, Altered painting on canvas, MOCO, Amsterdam -
HEY MISTER, WANNA BUY A BANKSY?
In May this year, a Millennial identifying himself as the You Tuber Reckless Ben Schneider entered a Los Angeles gallery and told the art dealer there that he had a Banksy painting with him. The LA Art Dealer said he’d like to check it out, so Schneider pulled a painting of a banana from his backpack. He told the LA Art Dealer that in December 2018, Banksy had recruited an artist named Frizk to hang the banana painting in the Cincinnati Contemporary Arts Center on one of the Mamma Andersson: Memory Banks exhibition walls. After agreeing to the scheme, Frizk had his posse distract the guards at the CAC and the Banksy was quickly hung between two Andersson paintings. But the museum staff was on it, and the painting was removed after only a few minutes.
Photo courtesy Hyperallergic.com On January 1, 2019, Hyperallergic.com published the story, claiming that “the curious stunt in Ohio suggests that the international art prankster Banksy collaborated with a local artist.” In the same article, the CAC’s communication director, Joshua Mattie, is quoted as saying that the painting was “placed… in the lost and found area where it can be claimed by its owner.” Schneider told The LA Art Dealer that after he read the painting was essentially up for grabs, he decided to go to the CAC and identify himself as the owner of the Banksy. After presenting a counterfeit eBay auction receipt for five dollars, Schneider left with the painting.
http://picdeer.com/banksysbanana The LA Art Dealer eagerly agreed to help assess the authenticity of the painting; and at the current prices, who wouldn’t be interested in a loose Banksy? Fortunately, the painting’s originality could easily be confirmed by a department of Banksy’s Studio called Pest Control; unfortunately, Pest Control declared the painting and its story completely bogus. It is possible that Banksy would disavow his own pieces if there were too many for sale concurrently; but covering bullshit with more bullshit has a way of making the whole pile topple, and The LA Art Dealer wisely chose not to get involved further.
Photo courtesy Nathan Cartwright Counterfeit art is hardly specific to contemporary times. After the Greeks of the Hellenistic Age (4th-1st centuries BC) began collecting the art of previous stylistic periods, inauthentic work was soon being produced to keep up with demand. But what’s intriguing about Schneider is how he took advantage of the 21st century concept of “fake news” and utilized its associate confusion to his benefit. By publishing the article, Hyperallegic provided a base of believability that helped the story go viral, appearing on a slew of other news outlets and websites. Bingo, instant credibility! But even so, there’s a few questionable details. For example: it’s odd that Frizk never laid claim to the painting or tried to benefit from the association with Banksy. And, if you can trust a person as far as you can throw them, how far can you throw Schneider who admits that his part in the clusterfuck began with stealing the painting? Add the shadowy figure of Banksy to the mix and there’s more than enough cloudy confusion to make things seem perfectly clear to the right sucker. But what’s most 21st century is that when confronted with the denial from Pest Control, Schneider continued to identify the piece as a Banksy painting and began hauling it around like an errant lawn gnome. Now its been photographed in abandoned amusement parks, desert canyons, and even the American Ninja Warrior set; everywhere apparently, but an art gallery. #banksysbanana
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CURATING THE DECLINE OF THE AMERICAN EMPIRE
On July 4th, CNN’s website featured photographs of drawings done by several ten-year-old migrant children who had been separated from their parents by US Customs and Border Protection. After their release from CBP, the Catholic Charities Humanitarian Respite Center, to which the children had been relocated, asked them to depict their time in CBP custody. The children then made accurate drawings of their incarceration, complete with figures sleeping on the floor of the cages in which they lived and CBP authorities wearing hats. The drawings were then given to the American Academy of Pediatrics which brought them to the attention of the Smithsonian Museum of American History. As “the museum has a commitment to documenting the history of the United States as it unfolds,” the Smithsonian began considering the acquisition of the drawings for its collection.
Photo courtesy of CNN It’s ironic that the drawings were brought to the public’s attention on American Independence Day, a day that celebrates the liberation of a population oppressed by a foreign power. These children were brought by their parents to escape the unlivable conditions in their Central American countries; which would seem a desire for freedom on par with that of the original 13 English colonies in America. But instead of welcoming “the huddled masses yearning to breathe free” as is expressed on the Statue of Liberty, the CBP forcibly isolated the children who made these drawings, ensuring that in El Norte they would find not freedom, but another form of oppression. President Trump’s immigration policy favors skilled workers over families but makes little preparation what to do with the rejects after they get here. That can be viewed as either good or bad, but the fact remains that at ten years old, a child is essentially unemployable and, along with their most likely unskilled parents, has no chance of becoming a citizen.
Photo courtesy of CNN Which compounds the irony of the drawings; these children of negligible worth, even in their confinement and statelessness somehow manage to represent the American “rags to riches” fable. After all, to many artists living in this country, having their work acquired by any museum, let alone the Smithsonian, is a sure sign of success and acceptance and thus an acknowledgement of their skill. But if the Trump Administration’s definition of “skill” only applies to individuals considered valuable enough to pay taxes and be profitable for their employer, the artistic skills of these migrant children are worthless. Still, that isn’t surprising with an administration calling for complete termination of the National Endowment for the Arts.
Photo by John Moore Unfortunately, the situation in which these children find themselves is yet another example of the how American society values art above artists. Although these children will most likely be sent back to their country of origin, for the foreseeable future their drawings will be treated better than most humans on the planet. That in itself is unfortunate; but what’s most ironic about the Smithsonian’s acquisition of these drawings is that they will forever be valued not for their beauty, but for their representation of a particularly despicable chapter of American history.
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None Dare Call It Art: The Drawings of Serial Killer Samuel Little
Samuel Little is by all accounts a despicable human being. Convicted of the strangulation murders of three women, he has confessed to 90 killings between 1975 and 2005. FBI agents who interviewed him said Little remembered his victims and the killings in great detail, but he could provide no help with dates. To overcome this problem, Little gave them pictures of his victims that he had drawn from memory, mostly marginalized women who were involved in prostitution and addicted to drugs. As a result of his confession and these drawings, 50 cold-case murders have been solved.
Samuel Little, date, media, and dimensions unknown Had he not turned out to be a notable murderer, and instead just a harmless unknown man in a room like Henry Darger, Samuel Little’s drawings would be rightfully praised as the work of a naïve virtuoso. But the most remarkable quality of Little’s drawings is the confirmed accuracy of his portraits, drawn and colored with the unschooled appeal so prevalent in Folk Art. By his own admission, drawing is his preferred pastime, and as a result he can “draw anything.” But since he now spends most of his cell time replaying the killings in his mind, it is “his babies” that he draws.
Samuel Little, date, dimensions and media unknown Still, there’s an eerie liveliness to these portraits of women who are now known to be dead, and their smiling faces conflict with the screaming death they suffered. That’s the horror of these things, and yet the wonder as well. The fact that years after their murders, this man was able to draw recognizable portraits of his victims, is difficult to parse. Had these women passed through his life untouched, Little’s astounding ability would be called genius and not madness. Unfortunately, this accuracy could only have come from observation of his victims over a lengthy period of time, and under disturbingly violent circumstances. If that isn’t grotesque enough, consider that in a prison interview with Jillian Lauren, Little states, “I live in my mind now. With my babies. In my drawings.”
Denise Brothers, shown at left at age 15, was killed by Little in 1994, when she was 38. The serial killer John Wayne Gacy is probably the best-known murderer to make art; the paintings he made while incarcerated are sold and exhibited worldwide. But this success is based partly on kitsch appeal; most of his paintings are self-portraits of himself as Pogo the Clown, the costume and persona he adopted when performing at children’s parties. The financial proceeds that Gacy made from the initial sale of his paintings were given to families of his victims, and that utility arguably justifies calling his paintings art; after all, that is how they were promoted at the time and still are. The problem is that the word “art” effectively neutralizes the loathing for his paintings which should be preeminent. Art is an excuse for a lot of things; but cashing in on the suffering of the deceased isn’t one of them.
Collection of drawings bySamuel Little Unlike most drawings and paintings being made today, Little’s work serves a far greater purpose than mere wall decoration or the advancement of some subculture’s societal agenda. His drawings may have initially been made for his own perverse remembrance of the past, but now they serve to identify the people he brutally murdered, and it is this use that prohibits applying the word “art” to his drawings; very much the same way that a single-color canvas is considered art while a car painted an identical blue is not. And for critics and cultural analysts to call Little an artist is an honor he does not deserve; nor should “real” artists count him in their ranks. So, in these times, when Art has become the aegis under which so many meaningless things gain stature, it’s good to be reminded that some things cannot be called art; and remembering the dead should not be a spectator sport.
Samuel Little, detail of portrait -
Feminihilism
Feminism is an ideology that powers political and social movements dedicated to establishing gender equality between men and women. As such, it serves as inspiration for artistic exploration of the various issues involved in that process. First-generation feminist artists like the late Carolee Schneeman, rejected the male-dominated scene of the 1970s, refusing to be, in her words, “cunt mascots on the men’s art team.” Forty years later, the changes advocated by these pioneers have created a new generation of women artists who don’t identify as feminists. This attitude is perhaps best represented by the “women initiated” NGO, Code Pink, a “social justice movement” that encourages people of all genders to participate in its activities. The importance of the inclusion of men in such organizations cannot be downplayed, as it shows that many Millennial women believe the era of close-combat for gender equality is over. For like-minded women artists, this means that their starting point is no longer the difference between the sexes; in fact, male privilege doesn’t even chart as an issue. While emphasizing the obsolescence of binary sexual identities, Feminihilism simultaneously dictates the abnegation of any masculine influence on Millennial women artists.
Sofia Sinibaldi, Untitled, mixed media, 36 x 36 inches, 2019. Photo by Anthony Ausgang Considering today’s culture wars, any work of art done by a woman has societal implications. In AX, their two-person show at the Red Zone gallery, Natasha Romano and Sofia Sinibaldi neatly evidence an aesthetic allegiance to their gender. Both artists have unique approaches but the absence of sexual politics in their individual works confirms their commitments to a strictly feminine paradigm. Consequently, Sinibaldi’s sinuous wall sculptures are reminiscent of the blocked fallopian tubes symptomatic of an ectopic pregnancy, and the flood of red grounding Romano’s floor sculpture suggests menstruation and/or sexual violation. Still, the heart-shaped negative space she employs registers a modicum of romance, but there’s no indication whether that’s hopeful or ironic.
Natasha Romano, 1 2 3 red blond brunette anon screens, mixed media, 2019. Photo courtesy Natasha Romano As Millennials, both artists use contemporary vernacular when problem solving. So, it’s not surprising that Romano’s wall piece, 1 2 3 red blond brunette anon screens, addresses self-identity issues via the depiction of social media. Two of the figures are taking selfies but their faces are paradoxically obscured by masks, essentially promoting anonymity over individuality. The third figure, although she is communing with a computer, is isolated by her lack of a phone, putting her more in the role of a lurking observer than participant. However, maybe that duality is what appeals so strongly about the internet; playing both parts can have a heady appeal.
Natasha Romano, Diamond Headed Honey Snake, mixed media, 72 x 48 x 48 inches, 2019. Installation photo by Anthony Ausgang But the main piece in AX is Romano’s magnum opus, Diamond Headed Honey Snake, a mixed media floor sculpture that dominates the gallery. Describing herself on Instagram as “sculptress n garmentiste”, in this piece Romano makes smart use of the skills she gained as a seamstress assembling her clothing patterns from non-traditional fabrics. Consisting of small cairns, rattlesnake rattles, natural and synthetic materials, and lots of different dried red sludges, the sculpture is epically incomprehensible. But perhaps being psychically cast adrift by this “shock of the new” is the reaction Romano expects, because with her multi-faceted talents, she rewards scrutiny with devilish and bizarre details. In just one part of the sculpture, a flaccid snakeskin encrusted with wasp’s nests that ooze plastic is intertwined with sewn-together vinyl strips featuring figurative emoticon-style hieroglyphs. This accumulation, held aloft over the dry red tide by trestles that look like webs made by spiders on meth, disappears into a mysterious box from which the spill emanates. As a piece on its own, it’s impressive; as a component of the whole assemblage, it’s spectacular.
Natasha Romano, Diamond Headed Honey Snake, mixed media, 72 x 48 x 48 inches, 2019. Detail photo by Anthony Ausgang In terms of cultural progression, today’s art would not be possible without the efforts of previous generations. But whether or not contemporary artists actually owe any acknowledgement of that is debatable. After all, at this point do we still really need to thank 19th Century French Impressionists? The trick, as both artists show, is to update the message; perhaps that is honor enough.
Red Zone, 840 Chestnut Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90042-3041
Open by appointment (818) 524-8701
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Call me Oscar
There aren’t too many equalizers in today’s stratified society; in fact, one can say that the act of waiting is the only inconvenience that’s shared by everyone, rich and famous, or poor and anonymous. Consider a traffic jam on the Santa Monica Freeway; the CEO in the 2019 Porsche has to sit and smolder as much as the day laborer in a 1996 Toyota Corolla. But that’s where the kinship ends, because what separates the two is where the waiting happens; it’s obviously more comfortable in the high-end ride than a plebeian jalopy.
Rolex Greenroom, photo courtesy Rolex It’s not a great conceptual leap to apply this hierarchy to waiting rooms, specifically those known as “greenrooms”, where entertainers relax before and after their onstage appearances. Naturally, the higher the celebrity status of the occupants, the higher the comfort level provided to them. So, when the Oscars® began considering the design of the 2019 awards ceremony, it turned to the famous watch manufacturer Rolex™, a company that since 2016 has been responsible for the design of the most famous waiting room of all. According to Arnaud Boetsch, Rolex™ Director of Communication and Image, this year’s “Greenroom theme is a celebration of the underwater world, one that Rolex™ is seeking to help protect through its Perpetual Planet commitment.” Excuse me? As admirable as this “celebration” is, it’s hard to reconcile the so-called perpetual nature of the Rolex™ Greenroom with the fact that the entire structure was built for one event only, much like its movie set counterparts. Now the Oscars® are over, it’s a safe bet that the Rolex™ Greenroom is filling a dumpster in the basement of the Dolby™ Theatre. Apparently, Perpetuity ain’t what it used to be…
Rolex Greenroom, photo courtesy Rolex Yes, but what a Greenroom it was; expertly designed to give guests the illusion that they are in “a vessel looking out through portholes to a world governed by the denizens of the deep,” the room “offers a version of the sea as we imagine it: a mysterious world apart.” Which pretty much sums up the relationship between the TV audience and the equally “mysterious world apart” of the movie stars. After all, when you get right down to it, the Oscars® are fundamentally a moving-image version of Star™ Magazine; you just don’t have to wait in line at Ralphs™ to enjoy it. So, as the commoners on the couch at home root for their favorite film, the Elect get to wait it out in “furniture that evokes the soft shapes of waves and starfish.” Which is as it should be; but even in this room, designed to neither engage nor enrage, the celebrities in transit are needlessly offered coffee table books on beachcombing and distinctly non-Davy Jonesish flower arrangements. Ultimately, these tchotchkes clutter up a joyless space designed to be spectacular yet attract no attention; but that’s OK if you’re only worried about not blowing your lines onstage.
Rolex Greenroom, photo courtesy Rolex But what’s ultimately perplexing is why Rolex™ thought that their greenroom would have any effect at all on the despoiling of the planet’s oceans. In fact, it’s mind-numbing that they used environmental issues to promote their brand. Sure, Rolex™ watches were strapped to James Cameron’s deep-sea submersibles and made it to 40,000 feet deep, yet “kept perfect time and emerged from the water unscathed.” That’s great; once again, Mother Nature’s intentions are thwarted by human industry. But don’t worry about it, Ishmael; find Nemo, it’s time to hand over the award.
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Shot By Both Sides
The primary icon of Low Brow Art is also unfortunately one of the most corrupting and dangerous icons of mainstream culture. It should by all rights and agreement be stuck on the business end of a spear and left out to rot in the streets for the amusement of the proles. It’s a jumped-up turd with a coat of glossy varnish, a PVC ’32 Ford with a cruddy Japanese engine. It’s the odor of a garbage collector’s fart coming from a Chanel perfume bottle, and it’s all wrong like black and white porn. It’s the first thing you think about when you go to bed and the last thing you think of when you wake up. It’s the grinning head of Mickey Mouse.
There are those that rebel at the idea of dragging M.M. into the Low Brow fold, the field is far too shit pure and exclusive to accept some image that’s been branded on things like baby bibs and flavored lozenges. We are told that Lowbrow icons favor rusty, trashy environments, the kind of neighborhoods Mickey avoids these days as he limos from Burbank to Hollywood. They say that there is no missing link between Lowbrow and Disney because there is no link, period.
Bill Barminski – Mickey Mouse Gas Mask, 2011 Low Brow has been forced by cultural analysts to expand and accept genres such as No Brow, Post-Brow and, in the case of some aesthetic futurists, Brow Moderne. The sweating armpits and road grease blackened knuckles that used to be seen and smelt at opening receptions have left by the garage door, and the pile of empty beer cans that used to greet visitors is now a mound of half empty cans of Krylon surrounded by taggers wearing backward baseball hats. Post-Graf was not preceded by Graf any more than No Brow was defined relative to Low Brow. It just happened, get me? So even though the flaming skull of M.M. screaming in agony as it’s tortured for all eternity just kinda slipped in under the door, it’s still M.M. and his shit stinks in the gas station crapper as much as in the executive washroom upstairs. He’s Low Brow because he’s a ‘toon which gives him street cred, and High Brow because he’s Disney; and Disney makes you check your gun at the door. M.M. is a true Post-Modern tragic figure, co-opted, corrupted and shot by both sides.
At his genesis, M.M. was a funny little drawing of a common mammal; his image was based on observations of the real, natural world. Ub Iwerks’ and Walt Disney’s initial use of this filtered distance between object and image can be considered a Modernist maneuver. Lacking only the total acceptance of the public to complete the Modernist cycle, Disney utilized the new medium of film to convince people that his character was as real as the one scurrying across the kitchen floor. It worked to the point that in due course, they began to don beanies crowned with bogus cartoon mouse ears in an attempt to falsify reality by pulling a species bend and become the mouse.
Jeff Gillette, Mickey Slum Sphere, mixed media, photo courtesy La Luz de Jesus The universal acceptance of this icon becomes the catalyst for the next stage. In this “Pre-Post Modernism”, the hipster elite initiates a backlash of scorn and derision against the revered image and parody becomes a form of worship. Mickey’s legitimate children are forced to deal with his bastard relatives: Annette Funicello versus Mickey Rat in a Pop smackdown. At this time Post Modernism initiates a cultural free fall and all references, alliances and manifestos are rendered void. This aesthetic scorched earth policy levels the playing field, and claiming allegiance to any particular school of thought is useless.
So, Mickey Mouse himself becomes the principle reference point for further graphic exploration of what the Buddhists would call “mouseness”. It is no longer necessary to observe the actual mouse; it is enough to have an available design that is based on one. This abstraction of an abstraction creates artistic white noise and cultural feedback; smells like Post Modernism’s fuck you finger is way up the ass of High Brow Classicist Style for now. And what could be more Low Brow than that?
Artist unknown, 4 x 4 in. sticker -
FLUXUS ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
In many ways, opera is the high point of the Western classical music tradition. Originating as royal entertainment in Italy at the close of the 16th century, opera evolved to become fashionable throughout Europe. This remained the status quo until the early 20th century, when the development of motion pictures and changing public taste relegated opera to the domain of the art-conscious upper class. As such, it was prone to “cultural upgrading” and composers like Schoenberg introduced atonality and other variations. Such High Art innovations did more to confuse than clarify the position of opera in modern music, so by the latter part of the 20th century, it was clear opera needed to be modernized in a more popular way. Avant-Pop arbiters like Peter Sellars began staging operas in new ways, like his 1980 production of Don Giovanni, cast, costumed and presented as a blaxploitation film, complete with nude actors and heroin addicts. As it would turn out, once this thematic Pandora’s box was opened, every kind of bastardization of the artform became possible in the name of forward aesthetic progress.
John Cage, Europeras 1 & 2, Photo courtesy Craig T. Mathew / Los Angeles Philharmonic Not to be outdone by such wild musical youngbloods, the venerable composer John Cage decided to apply his personal brand of deconstruction to opera, and his 1987 Fluxus work Europeras 1 & 2 was the result. Currently directed by Yuval Sharon and staged in Culver City at Soundstage 23 in the Sony Pictures Studio, the production is hyped as “an opera of independent elements… determined by chance procedures.” So, although the orchestra was under strict directions to play “the actual instrumental parts in the literature”, Cage allowed the singers to belt out whatever aria they chose for as long as desired. Which basically means that the audience was subjected to a high-end clusterfuck of snippets of operatic arias, mixed and matched elaborate costumes, and non-existent stage direction, all of which was periodically interrupted by an overwhelmingly loud recording of Truckera, a tape of 101 layered fragments of European operas. None of the characters onstage related to one another, and even their accompanying props had nothing to do with their timeframe or identity; at one point, a nun with a surfboard stood at the edge of the stage, peering into the audience as though judging distant waves. Unfortunately, even in the Fluxus tradition such cheap laughs only fill ocular time and space until the next heresy, so this senselessness became disconcertingly boring after 90 minutes without pause. Perhaps in anticipation of this, the second segment of the opera promised two sections of supposedly refreshing silent, general inactivity. Even so, judging from the exodus during the intermission, an opportunity to hear a sample of Cage’s smash hit 4’33” wasn’t much of a motivator to stay.
Stories, Rachel Guettler in Room 14 at the Rendon Hotel, photo by Anthony Ausgang Meanwhile, in Downtown L.A., a far less self-aggrandizing manifestation of operatic disconnection was taking place. Directed by Ralph Ziman and staged at the under-renovation Rendon Hotel, Stories presents actors in separate rooms engaged in activities as equally unrelated to each other as those in Europeras 1 & 2. The difference between the two productions is that while Sharon defies the audience to find any narrative in Cage’s visual and sonic cacophony, Ziman encourages such speculation; in fact, figuring out what’s going on is the whole the point of the experience. It’s a great idea, but the lack of any unifying element other than location make it impossible to connect the separate elements. It also doesn’t help that the majority of the acts are obviously by non-actors subscribing to the myth that calling something Performance Art excuses lack of professionalism. Fortunately, there are exceptions: in room 14, opera singer Rachel Guettler successfully presents herself as, well, an opera singer, later duetting marvelously with baritone Kenneth Enlow on an outside roof; and in room 20, Johnny Cubert White convincingly natters away in his room like a tweaker in the beginning stages of a meth binge. But the relative success of Stories lies in its lack of pretentiousness; when the going gets Lowbrow, the Lowbrow get going.
Stories, Johnny Cubert White in Room 20 at the Rendon Hotel, photo by Anthony Ausgang Stories allegiance to its low roots ultimately makes it more interesting than Europeras’ claim of High Art, but it’s equally frustrating to experience. There are reasons that stage direction, plot, and developed talent are essential to calling an event opera or theatre. Without them it’s just like Humpty Dumpty, and no amount of deconstruction will ever put it together again.
Featured image of Rachel Guettler courtesy Andy Romanoff
Fluxus: Cage’s Europeras 1 & 2, Sony Pictures Studio, November 6, 10, 11, 2018
Stories, Rendon Hotel, November 9, 10, 11, 2018
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Cover Versions
Like many Pre-Millennial truths that were once irrefutable, the adage, “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is waning into obsolescence. After all, what is the utility of a book cover in the era of e-books that claim neither form nor substance? In his exhibition “Overcoming Optimism”, the artist Harland Miller obfuscates the issue further with prints of his paintings of vintage Penguin paperback front covers modified by what the artist assumes to be hilarious puns and helpful maxims for the iGeneration. The images that Miller has decided to paint are hardly demanding; in fact, they’re so visually and conceptually facile that the Ikon Ltd. press release resorts to claiming that “Pop Art, abstraction and figurative painting” were all involved in the creation of these “cover versions”. Classic Penguin paperbacks often sported covers by noted figurative artists such as Norman Thelwell and Margaret Belsky, but don’t look for any coy appropriations of their illustrated covers here as Miller doesn’t seem up to the challenge.
Harland Miller, I Am the One I’ve Been Waiting For, 2012, 49 1/8 x 39 3/8 inches, Silkscreen print, Edition of 50. Photo courtesy Ikon Ltd. Born in 1964, Miller is firmly a member of Generation X, but several pieces in this show replace his age group’s characteristic skepticism with Faux-Millennial egocentrism. In the piece, “I Am the One I’ve Been Waiting For,” Miller deftly uses the first-person singular to ungraciously introduce us to his psychic onanism. Meanwhile, the print, “Death, What’s in it for me?” evidences how the Grim Reaper’s ultimate threat has been neutralized by the Millennial belief that, while previous generations had to cheat Death to avoid it, all they have to do now is ignore it. It’s reassuring to know that, so long as men can breathe or take selfies, Death shall not brag thou wander’st in his shade. Still, it’s not clear if the appeal of this print is Miller’s arrogant questioning of Death’s function and how it affects his ego, or bravery the spectator hopes to osmose from such braggadocio.
Harland Miller, Death, What’s in it for me?, 2011, 37 13/16 x 26 inches, 10 color silkscreen print, Edition of 50. Photo courtesy Ikon Ltd. Other prints in the show deliver book titles that neither inspire nor intrigue after their moment of kitsch appeal fades. “This is Where Its Fuckin’ At,” may give the GPS coordinates to a hipster Nirvana, but such a claim is meaningless in a consumer society where just about every product makes the same assertion. “Blonde But Not Forgotten” is essentially a one liner that steals its laughs from other jokes, as is the stoneresque “There’s No Business like No Business.” Still, with titles like these, its a shame that the gallery doesn’t have Miller’s “critically acclaimed” books available as it would be interesting to see how long he is able to maintain this wordplay.
Harland Miller, This is Where Its Fuckin’ At, 2012, 56 1/2 x 43 1/4 inches, 15 color screenprint, Edition of 50. Photo courtesy Ikon Ltd. Maybe it doesn’t matter that these compositions are graphically derivative and inspirationally flat. Or that it’s a middle-aged man playing a Millennial game in an attempt to come across as a smarmy sage. What matters is that if one can’t judge a book by its cover, all that’s left to judge is a cover without its book.
Harland Miller, September 8 – November 3, 2018
Ikon Ltd., Bergamot, Gallery D3, 2525 Michigan Ave., Santa Monica, CA 90404
(310) 828-6629, http://ikonltd.com and http://instagram.com/ikonltd/
