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Tag: The Broad Museum
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This and That – and Taylor Mac
It’s been a tumultuous week in Los Angeles; and for a change, we can’t blame it entirely on the Putin-wannabe currently installed in The White House or his cronies and GOP enablers – notwithstanding the fact that he happened to blow into town this same week to pick a few pockets. As usual he was upstaged, which probably infuriates him; but then it’s not hard to upstage a would-be strongman who physically resembles a sack of cotton candy.
Straight off, we had the drama of a very public dismissal of a very popular public intellectual – and that is what distinguishes the dismissal of MoCA’s now-former Chief Curator Helen Molesworth from otherwise comparable dismissals. (In some ways this was the week of the public intellectual here in L.A.) News is beginning to filter out that complicates the initial view of MoCA director Philippe Vergne coming to a stand-off with his Chief Curator over conflicting curatorial agendas. In fact, the actuality may resonate pretty well with a chord of disillusioned sadness I was sounding still earlier in the week (well, around the time the Met announced James Levine would never be coming back to that locus of so many ecstatic moments at Lincoln Center – something particularly heartbreaking about that particular fall from grace). Should we be grateful this didn’t have much to do with sex? Or (apparently) gender?
Or did it? Another frustration here is that we really can’t get the complete story until we hear from Philippe and Helen both. Coming on the heels of the recent dust-up over MoCA’s recently canceled fund-raising gala after its designated guest-of-honor (Mark Grotjahn) bowed out (frustrating that many of us could have seen that one coming, but the MoCA powers-that-be (we have to assume that included several influential board members) embarked on their plan regardless), the timing was inauspicious to say the least. But what was most disheartening was that we – meaning the larger community of L.A. artists and the audience and commentariat who observe them and their work, who follow their careers, write and report on them and the cultural establishment that may or may not make room for them – felt we were losing a critical voice in this community and beyond that, the global art community.
There are many talented curators in Los Angeles; and there may be a number of curators scattered across the planet who can fill the top curatorial position at MoCA. But – as Philippe Vergne already knows – s/he won’t be Helen Molesworth. Molesworth has a singular voice and a singular vision; and in the three short years she’s been with the Museum, she’s managed to re-frame and recontextualize a large part of the conversation around contemporary art. Whether or not this was something radical or unexpected in L.A. is not really the point; and to some extent, her work here is neatly positioned on the same continuum of curatorial work she’s been doing since she was a curator at the Wexner Center in Columbus, Ohio. In some ways, her collaboration on the Black Mountain College show, Leap Before You Look gave us something of a preview as to how she might approach the programming of L.A.’s artists’ museum, and the conversation she wanted to build around it. In large part, this was a conversation that had already begun (I take some satisfaction that the magazine whose website this blog happens to occupy has had some hand in this). But Molesworth’s brilliant voice and committed and informed viewpoint gave it shape and cogency.
It’s been many years since most of us parked our copies of Greenberg and Alfred Barr’s old MoMA catalogues in the most inaccessible places in our bookcases; but it was Molesworth who effectively manifested a heterodox post-patriarchal (post-parochial really) cultural narrative with her fresh and invigorated re-installation of MoCA’s permanent collection. I loved that she wasn’t reticent about pushing a juxtaposition or configuration that might be viewed as idiosyncratic or slightly tendentious. (I’m thinking of a juxtaposition like Arshile Gorky and Alina Szapocznikow; there were others.) I’m sure there were any number of visitors, who might have had second – and successive – thoughts about one installation or another. And that was half the point – it’s so fresh, alive, now.
Then there was the Kerry James Marshall retrospective – a show that had an air of inevitability about it. But inevitable when exactly? It was Helen Molesworth who made the case for now – almost literally – turning the evidence to every angle of illumination and reflection, with precise observation, airtight logic, perspective, insight, great wit, more than a dash of humor, and elegance. Marshall’s painting is a very rhetorical art and Molesworth distilled every facet of it into an argument as seamless as a silken staircase. At the press preview, she delivered what was essentially a fully composed lecture as we moved through the show without a single note, as if she were improvising it on the spot (which I suppose is also possible). We looked where she told us to look and looked some more, laughed, and hung on every word. (I was ecstatic by the time she wrapped it up.)
But people are complicated. Sex is hugely complicating, whether we like to admit it or not. (Although that doesn’t appear to have been an issue in this instance.) Publicly charming people can be perfectly monstrous in certain circumstances (not even necessarily behind closed doors). Stardom goes to people’s heads. Limits are breached now, again, repeatedly; and before long they no longer exist. The cliché holds a kernel of truth: power can corrupt. Sufficiently empowered and enabled, perfectly intelligent people are capable of wreaking havoc in any number of different situations public and private. Every Body Wants to Rule the World. And perfectly intelligent people make mistakes, even stupid mistakes – it just happens. (Which is why we have to hear and heed the supporting players, the concerned neighbors, the advisors.) And no – this is not an argument for AI.
What’s sad is that it’s probably too late to salvage; when at some point – a year, two years ago – the concerned players might have taken a moment (or more) to sit down to coolly, comfortably discuss the situation and how to resolve or work around it. (I’m thinking that this may be where money/funding/budgets also comes into play. Okay there’s that – but the trustees should just pony it up.) It should go without saying, but – people need to listen.
I’m trying to be okay with this – even though it’s been a difficult week with so many venerable heads on the block. The good news is that Helen Molesworth is not going away – she’s going to continue curating, writing, and lecturing, and generally being the fabulous public intellectual she’s been for some time. Better to eat the world than to rule it. (At least that’s what I think Susan Sontag might have said.)
So on Wednesday evening, I went to the second in the Broad’s series of Cross-Hatched concert events organized in conjunction with the Jasper Johns exhibition I wrote about (at some length as you may recall) in my last post. This concert, like the last, was inspired by John Cage – who, along with Merce Cunningham, was a very close friend of Johns – and also, by one of the best of his ‘cross-hatching’ works, Usuyuki, which in turn was inspired by time Johns spent in Japan. (‘Usuyuki’ means ‘light snow.’) The featured pianist was Adam Tendler, and he was remarkably versatile; really much more than simply a pianist, though that would have been more than sufficient – he was superb. In addition to the music – which in its miniature, frequently quasi-pentatonic encapsulations managed to trace an entire musical evolutionary line, from Debussy and Ravel through Satie, to the work of Cage and others – it was a performance of gesture, movement, small actions, noise, and random events (how random we only really found out after the performance was finished).
The performance was held in the foyer/lobby of the museum, less elegant than the Oculus room (which may be one of the most elegant salon-like spaces in the city), but more spacious and more expansive generally. It was particularly appropriate to this recital in that it brought the music and movement performed within the space in contact with the exterior (an extension of the natural worlds conjured by the music) – a built environment, and dark; but lit by streetlights, light spilling from the museum (and adjacent structures), and vehicle headlights. The tall glass windows seemed to rotate against the concrete walls as the lights of large vehicles moved down Grand Avenue. Cage(d) in a kaleidoscope.
Praying for rain on this cool night (which came!), it was sublime to listen to Tendler perform Cage’s Haiku (I through V, plus an unnumbered one and a second version of Haiku I), which were like bagatelles, not necessarily minimalist, wrought out of exactly the sort of fleeting natural event that inspired Usuyuki. Tendler paid due reverence in turn to the sun with Toru Takemitsu’s Corona (1962) (a five-movement work that begins with a ‘study’ for “Vibration” and closes with “Conversation”). There was also music by Toshi Ichiyanagi. Although there was music for prepared piano (Electronic Music for Piano, 1964 – truly fascinating) my companion and I vaguely hoped that there might be music for both the piano and a toy piano – which was there and quite visible. There wasn’t; but the toy piano was featured in one of the Fluxus performance pieces Tendler performed before closing with his last two Cage pieces (the last of which was accompanied by video of Merce Cunningham’s Second Hand, which was screened on the Broad’s concrete walls). For Dragging Suite (by Nam June Paik),Tendler actually dragged the piano, with several dolls clinging to its legs, all the way out to the glass walls of the foyer. (I took a moment to regress to age 3, and took to those toy keys myself – a moment that was recorded for Instagram.)
What comes down must go up – isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? I’m talking about public intellectuals again – and make no mistake about it, Taylor Mac is a public intellectual (which may actually be his only flaw as a performer – but what a performer!) On Thursday evening, I was privileged to witness the apotheosis of this Exterminating Angel of America. (And yes – it was a bit like that, since this was a party you weren’t going to be leaving for quite a while.)
There’s a certain kind of performance art I’ve occasionally characterized as failed theatre or failed theatrical revue. A 24-Decade History of Popular Music is nothing remotely like that – for starters simply because it’s pretty spectacular theatre. But – and it’s Taylor Mac who actually raises this question – is it theatre? Straight answer: yes, of course – but it’s a very special kind of theatre; and also a whole lot more. In a way, to get some perspective on it, you really have to go back to drag cabaret. (Yes, there was once such a thing; and there probably still is.) Or maybe just cabaret. Oh and yes, I mean that Cabaret, too. (And judy is very open about that level of ambition – or at least judy was on Thursday evening.) It’s a world evoked cinematically by filmmakers like Billy Wilder and Bob Fosse (Taylor Mac’s stage persona is practically a fusion of Shirley MacLaine’s Charity Hope Valentine and Marlene Dietrich’s Erika von Schlütto. The cabaret element has to do with the audience. This is far more theatrical than cabaret – really it’s a species of theatrical follies, if the Folies Bergères could be pitched to a level of grandeur beyond the most grandiose imagining – with the merest dash of psychedelic queer funk by way of legendary troupes like the Cockettes and the Angels of Light. But even from a big stage a few hundred yards away, Taylor Mac works the audience as if s/he were Marlene/Erika among the American soldiers and black marketeer Berliners at the Lorelei (and how gay is that?). It didn’t take more than a couple of songs before s/he had the entire audience in the palm of judy’s hand (quite a feat, given everything judy and judy’s ‘dandy minions’ were occupied with up there – the costume changes and adjustments alone are pretty miraculous). It didn’t hurt that Mac had a fantastic band – really a small orchestra – backing him up, under the direction of Matt Ray. I’m not sure Ray is quite the pianist Friedrich Hollander was for Marlene, but he’ll do – and he’s also a genius arranger – a critical factor in the delivery of this sometimes arcane material.
That description obviously would not include standard hymns like “Amazing Grace,” – or for that matter, “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” for which Mac was essentially using his own body as the reference point. But bringing allegorical material like “The Apple Tree” (if that was actually the song’s title) to musical and theatrical life was something of a trick; yet Mac, his musicians and minions managed to get that tree up and in bloom and to place a colonial/revolutionary ‘Adam’ and ‘Eve’ beneath boughs – or the umbrella of Mac’s Machine Dazzle engineered headdress, whichever offered more shade. It was at this point that we made ourselves comfortable with the audience-participation aspect of the program, as the dandy minions distributed actual edible apples to the audience – fully intended for consumption; and I soon found myself biting into that apple handed to me in the dark. If I had my doubts about making it through a six hour theatrical performance, they began to dissolve here (though I was compelled to return to the lobby some minutes afterward to dispose of my apple core). There were several other points, when an opaque window-shaped screen descended for a costume change that also offered opportune moments to take care of business, theatrical or personal.
Apples naturally gave way to hard cider – drinking songs – as Mac noted that finding fresh unpolluted drinking water was not always a straightforward proposition, which encouraged the colonists to turn to alcoholic libations, which in turn would eventually lead to movements both religious sectarian and political to discourage public drinking (or at least drunkenness) or prohibit it altogether. The drinking songs were scarcely underway when a sea of bonnetted women (and probably a few men) – a full temperance choir – stormed the stage, where Mac welcomed them. And this is where I began to see sparks of genius. Enter the chorus – or choruses, plural; enter the gadflies; enter (and exit) the villains – but actually Mac would handle that all by himself, because s/he would sing us the villains – not exactly acting them out – not when s/he’s Lady Liberty or the Lady Eve, Ma Kettle or Dolly Levi – but drawing the audience’s attention to their looming shadows. I was about to say ‘hanging’ shadows – and those dark spirits may be there, too. To take it beyond a theatrical revue, you have to have a contending force – or two, or twenty. Of course audience participation would not only be encouraged, but required. (I usually find these exhortations highly resistible; but you would have seen me munching on my apple, leaning on my neighbor in the next seat over, waving my arm in the air, and rowing away in my imaginary canoe.) Not to discount the stage, which I thought was perfect in its transparently imperfect way – but Mac must have the entire theatre as judy’s stage – orchestra, balcony, and aisles. (And as long as Mac is contemplating Hollywood, let’s just make it one big soundstage. Put the second unit in the balcony.)
The other way of looking at it is (again revisiting drag cabaret – or simply ‘diva’ cabaret along the lines of Marlene’s “Lorelei”) the notion of working a theatre as if it were a club or cabaret. This has also been done – at least in reverse. Consider the christening of the Roxy in West Hollywood – by way of The Rocky Horror Show (before it actually hit the big screen), with that ‘sweet transvestite’ “from traaaaaannnnnnnnn – sexual – Transylvani-AAAAAHHHHAAAAAA” officiating. Tim Curry actually entered from the back of the house, making his way through the center of the club to the stage, depositing clouds of glitter with every step he took (our hands practically touched as he passed my table). The idea really isn’t so far off – the American – I mean Transylvanian (transsexual?) – dream; the homecoming (or more precisely, the home we can never return to, the home no longer there, that can never be the same).
Or the home we wouldn’t recognize – then or now—because it represented a part of America we might not have a clue about – the America(s) forever scarred by slavery, exploitation, violence, poverty and ignorance. As Mac crescendoed a kind of sea chantey to a rousing close, with half the audience joining him in spirit to raise a ship’s sails and take to a seaport’s streets in search of – well, no – as it turned out, not exactly just any girl in any port, Mac called an abrupt halt to the applause that had just begun, and quickly filled in the backdrop – that the girl the sailors would have been seeking out would have been black, would in fact have been a slave, and so entirely vulnerable and helpless to fend them off, whether singly or in a gang-rape. The ultimate, horrifying implications of such an incident were immediately clear, and the audience momentarily hushed. Such material might also be considered “community-building,” Mac explained in a concise American history re-write – just ‘not the communities we might have in mind’; and the dark reality of the ‘sundown town’ suddenly loomed before us.
Half a century or so ago, the political economist, Harry Magdoff, introduced me and most of my peers to the way British-turned-American colonialism during the 17th through 19th centuries paved the way for American imperialism in the 20th. We were getting a similar education here – with a kind of Foucault-by-way-of-Deleuze gloss (and maybe some third-wave feminists, too): that the “hetero-normative” attitudes that played out across the culture might have political implications, and that colonialism and its subsidiary practices of exploitation – political, cultural, economic, personal and sexual – might not only represent an unforeseen consequence, but actually be mutually reinforcing.
I confess I was one of the people who ‘cheated’ and lifted my black sleeping mask. There was no way I was going to take my eyes off this dazzling performer for almost an hour. But I have to say those who kept them on were well stimulated – with flowers, bits of fruit (mostly grapes) and the audience members in the seats around them. Mac threatened to “shame” us if we cheated; but as he also frequently reminded us throughout the show, “we can do this because we call it performance art.” He hardly needed to repeat himself – and in any case, I’m not even sure I agree. He could “do this” because it worked theatrically. For myself, as a de facto participant in the festivities, I felt similarly permitted.
And so the week of the public intellectual reached its glorious climax – ably assisted by genius designer, Machine Dazzle (the costumes are themselves a kind of conceptual art), and Mac’s terrific stage orchestra. The second half of Mac’s 24-decade History continues this evening, with the 20th and 21st century finale Saturday night; and if I haven’t made it clear already – Surrender Dorothies! to the anticipated six-hour captivity. You’re free to come and go regardless – but mostly you’ll be staying. It’s (Living) theatre, follies, club or cabaret, and ‘late night double-feature picture show’ – but what it ends up feeling like is one of the best parties that’s ever held you willingly captive.
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Something Resembling Meaning: Revisiting Jasper Johns
It was interesting to walk through the Jasper Johns exhibition, Something Resembling Truth, only a couple of days after my first look at Mark Bradford’s new paintings at Hauser & Wirth. Bradford’s paintings marked something of a departure for him – continuing to move steadily away from the grid-like mappings that were once seemingly a foundational element to his work, and towards an almost centrifugal style of composition – ever more richly layered and textured, spatially and almost temporally complex – they hold the viewer’s attention and pull us right in into their vortices. Even the titles hinted at the fresh narrative charge and density of some of these paintings. You felt a roller-coaster tug as your eye followed (and fell into) some of the more vivid, primary passages; and – well, we weren’t in Kansas anymore….
And what, we might ask, would that have to do with Jasper Johns? Not necessarily all that much – though a friend of mine saw echoes of Johns’ more colorful and tightly meshed ‘between bed and clock’ cross-hatch paintings in a few of Bradford’s still more tightly wound, thickly (and colorfully) embedded whirlwind passages. Although both share some affinity for cartographic approaches and strategies, the common ground between the two artists amounts to nothing less than consciousness itself. For all his cool, his emotional disengagement, and will to neutralize or complicate the gestural or more expressive passages in any given work, Johns is fairly transparent about his process – the role of hand, brush, color/palette, device and external objects or references incorporated into the work. That we may still find an element of mystery in some of these works of almost methodical de-mystification is a sublime irony. There’s as much modesty as ambition to the way both artists approach the mapping of consciousness. With Johns especially, we’re made acutely aware of how time impinges upon the artist’s domain. There’s a kind of internal geo-positioning at work in Johns’ art that always returns us to the locus of its germination – the studio. (Bradford in turn seems to check the impulse toward infinite extension with a kind of internal deconstruction.)
The story (his own) about Johns dreaming himself painting an American flag and, upon awakening the next morning, assembling his materials and painting that iconic painting, long ago entered the folklore of contemporary art history. To this day, I’m not sure if I really believe it. It might have been an American flag he saw in that dream; but, by Johns’ own words, it was a dream. Dream images may bear some resemblance to the corresponding objects in waking life – but as often as not, they indicate a phenomenon at some remove from the corresponding physical actuality. Revisiting these paintings – and I don’t mean simply the white or gray or secondary inversions (e.g., green and orange), I can’t help but think that this ‘dream image’ references not only the commonplace object (though in this instance, one with considerable political baggage), but an underlying restatement of its spirit and inspiration. Moreover, Johns’ process (or what we know of it) is fairly deliberative. Although a facile and prolific draughtsman, Johns does not arrive at his chosen subjects and motives randomly.
As a literal representation, Johns is ‘painting over’ the American flag, effectively neutralizing its symbolic values, painting them out. It’s also something of an existential inquiry: how are those values arrived at, constructed? There is also the matter of its design scheme – its compartmentalization (or for that matter any flag’s design: the rectangular convention, the color blocks, one perhaps more dominant, in alternately vertical or horizontal orientation, discreet national symbolic insignia), its colors, its striping. (And of course, the U.S. flag’s design and creation carries its own baggage of history and legend.)
Setting to one side the American mythology, Johns is compartmentalizing, too. This is a kind of landscape – ground (and foreground), horizon line or lines – always shifting with the changing light, and star-filled sky (or at least that corner we’re claiming of it). Call it a landscape fit for the nascent Television Age (or the Kefauver hearings? – recalling that Johns is a transplant from South Carolina; New York is still fresh for him). The flags are still something to see – possibly because they have bled off some of their iconic power as art historical legacies. We can take a moment to appreciate what Johns made of those stripes with a mix of newsprint and encaustic – its dramatic materiality. It’s already an exaggerated kind of mark-making. He’s tearing it up a bit – these are turbulent fields. The ‘expression’ is effectively contained. ‘Gesture?’ – we’re silently prodded. ‘You mean the flag isn’t enough?’
The ‘dreamwork’ here amounts to a kind of actualization – a very different kind of ‘action painting’ – engaging the subject not through its image but through the thing itself, merging subject with object; moving still further away from depiction to deconstruction. Simultaneous with effectively painting over the flag, he dramatizes its materiality, shredding the surface (or certainly the newspaper and encaustic that merge with its pigments), as if to complicate and interrogate its valuation color bar by color bar. No artist is entirely free from history; and however cool or detached he might be professionally, Johns is no exception. The beginning of the Television Age also marked a new consciousness of the country’s precarious social fabric and its complicated and frequently corrupt political culture. Johns career begins at a moment when the entire American culture is examining its values.
This is not to call Johns’ work political in a conventional sense, but simply to underscore its resonance with both New York School painting and art-making and the Zeitgeist at large. Everywhere in his early work, Johns is examining valuation and the tools and devices we use to shape, construct and translate it. (It could almost be called a ‘cross-examination’: consider the early “Construction With Toy Piano of 1954” (not in this show) in which Johns places his object ‘mapping’ beneath a 12-key toy piano keyboard – especially interesting in that the value progression here encompasses tonality – but deliberately complicates pitch intervals by stenciling numbers over them (a fragmented seven-note scale – presumably omitting half-tones).) It has been remarked (and by Johns himself) that Johns sought subjects/motives from among objects or signs that went essentially unnoticed, whose conventional meaning was immediately grasped and accepted without question. That is certainly part of it: how better to take the measure of a culture’s values? But I think Johns moves rapidly from that initial impulse to a much more deliberative process.
Johns enjoys a certain notoriety for his reticence about discussing his work or process. But whether we examine the work thematically or chronologically, it’s hard to see why it’s much of an issue. He’s fairly straightforward about it: to paint over (or wash over – his dense pencil/graphite washes take on the quality of a rubbing); to interrogate value by means of virtually mathematical operation – addition, subtraction, multiplication, even (less successfully) division; neutralizing gesture and ‘expression’ to expose and define meaning – or ‘something resembling’ it. Naturally he is drawn almost immediately to the domain of symbolic meaning and the systems devised to organize it. He’s fascinated with the notion of their simultaneous arbitrariness and internal logic – and subjects them to the arbitrariness and logic of his own contrapuntal method. The Roman alphabet and Arabic decimal order are variously gridded and compressed. A ‘transparent’ “0 through 9” may be both muddled and disordered (not unlike that toy piano keyboard). Which asserts primacy? – the ‘3’, the ‘5’, ‘1’, ‘4’ or ‘9’? It’s just a hunch on my part – although I think there has been some discussion of it in critical or academic discussion of his work – but I’ve always thought some of this (relatively early) work indirectly influenced by Joseph Cornell and his “Medici Slot Machines.”
How better to neutralize gesture or expression than by machine-processing it? This isn’t exactly the direction Johns is taking his process – the hand is always in evidence, however restrained. But it’s hardly accidental that not long after these variously chromatic, painted-over, gray-washed, and stenciled arrays, he begins to trace or actually insert tools and assorted ‘devices’. At the same time, Johns seems intent upon differentiating some of these devices, tools (accessories? – and still later, ‘souvenirs’) from the stuff of ‘collage’ – consistent with his painting-over/making-over process. These are extensions – a repertoire Johns eventually extends to his personal anatomy (e.g., “Watchman,” 1964); or still earlier, moving beyond the notional ‘rubbing’ to an imprint of his own skin (e.g., “Skin With O’Hara Poem,” 1963-64 – there are several iterations of this subject, but this lithograph is one of the most moving – and who said Johns was never emotional?). Up against the limits of time, Johns seems to be geo-positioning – fixing the moment squarely in his studio. More than any other mechanical bit encompassed by this painter’s ‘toolbox,’ the hinge seems most crucial. It’s also noteworthy that – hinges, hooks, rulers, stretchers or plaster casts notwithstanding – Johns resists calling any of these works ‘combines.’ I don’t think it’s accidental that it was around this time that Johns and Robert Rauschenberg split (though I believe they continued for some time to collaborate on their display advertising business).
For Johns, every subject is a device – an activation or intervention in a meta-morphological field of phenomena or objects variously freighted or depleted of meaning or significance. In this occasionally arbitrary universe, there’s really nothing arbitrary about Johns’ seizing upon targets, or more specifically, the ‘bullseye’ target – a departure from the rectilinearity of the subjects/devices that coincide with or immediately precede them. (One might consider the various celebratory decorative trimmings that are extensions of flags and pennants – e.g., the swags and bunting draped everywhere in national holiday observations.) Beyond its shape, its primary color scheme and discrete concentric zones circling the bullseye, it’s a device that can be extended axially or otherwise in any number of directions. It’s a Norse shield; it’s the eye itself; you may ignore it, but not if you’re aiming at it – and what exactly are we aiming at? We’re presented with an entirely different order of progression here; it’s not something we can relate to passively; and there’s an entire history to it, too – a mythology, if you will.
This is what brings us back to Johns – and a style, technique and vision that, notwithstanding his stylistic, painterly, and proto-Conceptual antecedents (Duchamp principal among them), might just as easily be compared to the zero-degree prose and drama of writers like Gide and Beckett. Micro-mapping his consciousness on the broadest platform (even within the confines of his studio), Johns pulls the viewer to a place underlying our apprehensions, expectations, and implied consent – the embedded mythologies that inform or effectively neutralize our perception and/or relationship to the subject. Johns dredges this up in a moment of extended duration. I thought the show’s title managed to sum up this aspect of Johns’ work rather succinctly (though I’m not completely sure that’s what they were aiming for). It’s not about a ‘truth’ tested, or subjected to analysis or established by proof; it’s about something we give implicit consent to. As in (for the kids out there) ‘this is becoming a thing’ – a new reality – although I’m not sure even this exactly does justice to Johns’ process. And it’s not as if Johns never contradicts himself or complicates the work in a direction that’s ultimately counter-productive. (We see this more often as Johns moves through his career – accumulating not merely his own dreams and ‘souvenirs’, but the cultural baggage of an international art star, seemingly taking stock of his influences and antecedents, addressing the art historical canon.) No one can salvage a “False Start” the way Johns can, but there’s no way to finesse a false finish.
With the bullseye target, Johns goes one better than ‘squaring’ the circle. Holding it stationary, he adds the array of ‘faces’ – eyes hidden (the implicit blindfold, in a sense; sharing the single ‘eye’ of the target itself), with the optional reveal (Johns varies the hinged panel that opens to the faces, or separate panels for each slot – as he does with a second iteration that breaks down the decoy/identity into discrete body parts including a face that just barely includes the eyes, as well as an ear, both hand and foot, even phallus. It’s a ‘gesture’ deconstructed and rationalized. It’s a signing by the senses – sight, sound, touch; even broaching the notion of a copulation – and what else is shooting a bull’s eye after all? (I don’t think it’s accidental that even more than his flags, the targets were widely publicized and reproduced in the years immediately following their execution and well into the 1960s.) In the meantime, we also see Johns ‘neutralizing’ the expressive brush stroke somewhat more aggressively. The muddling of applications – whether in (mostly primary) colors or grays, blacks and whites becomes bolder, almost explosive, replete with drips that feel comparatively baroque.
Johns was already deep into his evisceration of linguistic and cultural conventions and value assignments by way of his muddled primaries and secondaries and contradictory stencilings; and, beyond the matter of ‘devices’, presumably focused on tools and extensions (I tend to think of it as Johns’ groundwork for a poetics and rhetoric), when it is said that Rauschenberg presented him with a simple map – the kind handed out to elementary school students, suitable for coloring. I can accept this a few decades after the fact only because it seems increasingly clear that Johns has not been unconscious of addressing his own mythology right alongside the embedded cultural mythologies of his most seminal work. (‘When the fact becomes legend….’ etc.) Still I have to believe Johns would have eventually arrived at this ultimate cultural/political ‘painting over’ at some point after his flags. Could there have been a more arbitrary ‘overlay’ than the political boundaries of the western United States? Johns has at this with some gusto. I’ve always loved the fact that he includes some of the Mexican states and Canadian provinces. (e.g., Chihuahua; Saskatchewan); and the adjacent bodies of water are always at least as important as the landmass. (Or at least that’s what the painting on the canvas tells us: for someone as intent upon neutralizing the expressive brush, Johns has a way of inviting the viewer in for a closer look. It’s not for nothing he returns to Frank O’Hara (effectively sectioning a ‘flag’ into a hinged ‘book’ for “In Memory of My Feelings—Frank O’Hara” – this in 1961, the same year as his first “Map”). There are two in this show, including MoCA’s beautiful greiged-out specimen from 1962 that once belonged to Marcia Weisman. There is also a second O’Hara tribute – this one, a lithograph of the original charcoal “Skin,” with an uncommonly elegiac poem (“Skin with O’Hara poem,” 1965). “Manifest Destiny”? O’Hara captures more than a little of where Johns may be headed (along with the rest of us!).
: : :
in a season of wit
it is all demolished
or made fragrant
sputnik is only the word for “traveling
companion
here on earth
at 16 you weigh 145 pounds and at 36
the shirts change, endless processions
but they are all neck 14 sleeve 33
and holes appear and are filled
the same holes anonymous filler
no more conversion, no more conversation
the sand inevitably seeks the eye
and it is the same eye
Johns is personal before he is political; but for all his patented reserve, he’s alive to experience outside the studio. He almost certainly craves it. But there’s also some distrust there. (Consider if you will, “Liar,” from 1961 – not the only iteration of this subject (de/vice?) I believe.) The devices come back to the studio – which he’s not afraid to characterize as a “Fool’s House” (1962 – in which the broom seems to do double duty as a kind of pendulum). The studio is where he can set them to work in ‘off-label’ applications, if you will – the off-label operations that plot some part of his consciousness.
Johns has a way of making us feel the passage of time. We alternately swing and suspend ourselves in many of these works. As he is becoming famous during the 1960s, we see evidence of his encounters with other artists (who will soon enjoy their own fame), notably including Warhol. He’s more transparent about his preoccupations and strategies – though he calculatedly avoids attempts at ‘valuation.’ Johns shows them to us not so much as fungible ‘devices’, but – on the same continuum with his targets – as ‘decoys.’ We’re compelled to keep looking, but prompted to quickly move on. There is a period in the late 1960s when he seems to lose his ‘voice’ (a concept he clearly understood, though Samuel Beckett, among other writers, gave him access to a literary voice he seems to have recognized as an analogue of his own), and falls back on his now classic subjects and devices. Johns is awkwardly placed in relation to the Pop movement that has already swept the art world – considered a progenitor, yet unlikely to tap into any of its endless stock of commercial and mass media imagery. If anything, Johns seems to retreat still further from the mass-cultural image, his focus shifting to the interstitial. He might easily have worked in the appropriated interstices of such images; but little of this material comes back to his studio. I can only speculate here, but there are a number of deterrent factors that work against Pop influencing or redirecting his practice. Part of is simply the sense that once returned to the world as a finished artwork, its ‘hidden noise’ (if I can borrow a Duchampian metaphor) will be exposed and its broadcast, mass-reproduced commodified actuality returned to the mass-commercial domain from which it was plucked. Obviously this worked for Warhol, and Lichtenstein to some extent. They’re addressing mythologies, too – but typically mythologies that are already commodified if not culturally metastasized. The other problem is Johns’ avoidance of the figure. In the Johns-ian universe, the figure is either a shadow or a decoy. It’s quite a few years before Johns takes up this problem (not incidentally also addressing issues of transaction and commerce).
It’s around this time that Johns takes up the flagstone wall that will become one of his stock motives in the next decade; and not long thereafter, he came across the cross-hatching device that has figured into so much of his work ever since. It’s hard to say whether he came across the cross-hatching device before or after his encounter with the Edvard Munch self-portrait “Between the Clock and the Bed.” (It’s almost as if Johns uses the motif to address the problem of portraiture, only to dispense with the portrait altogether.) This becomes a dominant motif in Johns’ work over the decades since he first makes reference to it. It lacks the iconicity of his previous work; but then Johns is always looking for a way to subvert the iconic. The cross-hatching becomes infinitely elastic in his hands – variously pitched, rotated, inscribed and faceted, lozenged, crystallized and embroidered; with palettes ranging from primaries to secondaries or still more chromatic; or rendered in black-and-white, grisaille or greige. At their richest and most animated, they seem almost to dance – or at least move. Johns’ homage to Duchamp’s formidably armored ‘Nude’ (or the inaccessible ‘Bride’ – a work Johns has frequently obsessed over)?
At a certain point (the 1980s), Johns finally returns to the figure. He might well argue that he never left it; and it’s not as if body parts, or references to individuated identity are entirely missing from his work up to this point. But around this time Johns is locating his own zero-ground – really the groundwork of modernism: not just shadowing Duchamp (and he clearly adores Duchamp’s ‘dust’ drawings, his post-Cubist proto-conceptual pseudo-mechanical drawing and painting), but returning to (all but tracing) Cezanne, Picasso, revisiting Barnett Newman, alternately excavating techniques and devices from the art historical canon, and referencing his own as if they were mere footnotes. Cross-hatching elides into the faux-bois of late Cubism (and even trompe l’oeil, which seems faintly ridiculous). A photograph transfer of Leo Castelli is foregrounded (but jigsawed as if pieced from a puzzle), along with a postcard-type print of the Leonardo “Mona Lisa” (and so labeled) – an homage to Duchamp, but also plainly a joke. Some of this work takes on the quality of a puzzle. We have come a long way from the device-subjects of his early works to something inescapably personal.
Instead of ‘complicating’ the painting, Johns is at this point simply making complicated paintings. He also has to be aware that they don’t ‘scan’ quite as easily as his device-subjects; and moving forward between the 1980s and 1990s, the subjects (which seem to range from deepest sense memory to vague apprehensions of preordained disaster) appear somewhat more organized. In a sense, he has moved from one interstitial mythology to another – not so much his own mythology, but a larger mythology that enfolds and envelops him. Finished appearance to one side, in so much of this work he is not compartmentalizing so much as unpacking; ‘pasting up’ rather than painting over. His souvenirs are devices and vice-versa. In his series “Seasons” (all four of which are assembled in the Broad’s show), he makes explicit his ‘deep dive’ into the past, his ‘full circle’ return to ‘devices’ and landmarks that plotted the course of consciousness. In a later untitled work, a blueprint of a childhood home is overlaid almost as an architectural element. The work is as flat as ever; but it’s as if Johns invokes depth as an overshadowing past which must inevitably return to the surface.
‘Between clock and bed,’ he locates rope and ladder, classic vessels (and the silhouettes traced by their moldings, flags (and Castelli – the man who showed them to the world) and (again from Picasso), reference to a fallen Icarus – a cautionary tale no less timely now than when it was first recorded. The mythologies are multiple here. ‘Values,’ per se, are not neutralized, but rather presented neutrally. If those vessels and silhouettes represent a kind of ‘grail’ for Johns, we understand that it is imposed on no one else. ‘Truth’ is not a singularity in Johns’ domain; neither is he asking for the viewer’s consent. Hence my ambivalence about the reference to ‘truth’ in the show’s title. Certainly Johns aims for a ‘flicker of grace’ in his work; but the thing that ‘resembles truth’ is that unnameable thing that persists and survives the seasons of shadow. Johns presumes only to show us what is important to him. To salvage meaning and grace at a moment when both seem to be under daily assault is achievement enough – and well worth revisiting.
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My Favorite Nazi
They gaze at us with supreme confidence. They are gods after all, aren’t they? Or leaders certainly – leaders of men. That is to say, soldiers – and they are all men, though anatomical details beyond the head are concealed beneath those often strikingly well-tailored uniforms. Not a Leni Riefenstahl or even Ilse Koch in the bunch. This is a man’s world, defined by patriarchy, pecking order or chain of command, duty, tribute, loyalty, order of battle, war, victory, defeat, spoils, and spilled blood.
Or equally strikingly, they are not gods at all. A few of them are almost pedestrian in their ordinariness; and a few others – seemingly surprised or bewildered to be here; unguarded, vulnerable, transparently not cut out for such a role – clearly don’t belong here at all. Which makes us all the more delighted to see them in this line-up.
They condescend to a sidelong glance, ready to look away in a split second, dismissing us with the offhanded contempt that falls upon anyone beneath their station. They smile suavely, arrogantly, sometimes charmingly. They sneer with contempt or scowl contemptuously. They stare, squint, survey, surmise, inspect, glare, cast chilling eyes. They variously disarm us, signal grim, murderous intent, knock the wind from us, or silence us into mute incomprehension.
‘What did you do in the War, Daddy?’ Can it be told? Why Daddy fell in love with many of his fellow daddies; and you can hardly blame him. Right beside (or more likely beneath) those Alexandrine (or Norse or Vulcan) gods were the earnest, callow, unaffected (or disaffected) if not innocent, beguiling and comical cut-up faces of the boys and young men who served beneath the steel-eyed commanders.
Most of the faces here belong to known stars, which sets up a dialogue of casting psychology. It’s not always easy to predict which stars make the most fearsome or truly convincing Nazis. Omar Sharif, dark and Egyptian, does a pretty good job of it here. You wouldn’t want to cross him in an SS uniform. By and large, the most convincing specimens are not especially blond or ‘Aryan’-looking – though some of the blond(er) stars are English, which seems to be a built-in handicap. (There are exceptions of course, e.g., Ralph Fiennes.) You’re almost guaranteed to fall in love with an English Nazi – or at least have a giggle. Some of them are simply wrong. Jean-Paul Belmondo is perfectly ridiculous in the role – Inspector Clouseau in SS guise. Speaking of whom, Peter Sellers is also here – for all practical purposes auditioning his look in Being There. But for something undefinably American, some of the Americans approximate the look with unusual success. Reagan was not bad as a Nazi. (Obviously already on his way to becoming the Republican he eventually ended up.)
The casting dialogue extends to the comparison or contrast with their actual lives; also the twists and turns of the picture-making business itself. You might assume Robert Ryan would be an amazing Nazi – and he is. But he’s actually playing an American impersonating one in the film from which the portrait here is clipped; and in real life, he bore no resemblance whatever to some of the psychotically vicious characters he played on screen. (Off film locations and soundstages, he was a devoted civil rights activist throughout his career.) Then there are those who we know can play it as hard and tough as it gets, who somehow convey just the faintest glimmer of vulnerability. (Consider, e.g., Lee Marvin.) It’s called acting; and that’s why they’re stars.
Contrary to what The Broad Museum’s website text claims, Piotr Uklański’s The Nazis tells no stories. We, the viewers, supply the stories – and there can be thousands of them for each given shot. You might want to call them portraits; and some of them satisfy such criteria. They’re certainly not merely the stuff of 8×10 publicity or casting shots (though a few of them have probably made it to such press packets and agent’s portfolios). Some of them are so disarming, they might almost pass for candid shots. (Who needs a gun?) Instead, they are actually movie stills. Not stories – but moments, single (possibly cropped) shots, some more emblematic than others.
Amid all the darks and shadows of such stories (and we understand them as frequently grim, terrifying, soul-destroying), there are inevitably moments of light, of relief, recovery or refreshment, even humor and humanity – or at least the quality of being ‘humane.’ Can there be such a thing as a fascism with ‘a human face’? – as was once debated so earnestly amongst left-leaning intellectuals about its supposed antipode, communism.. Well yes: it’s called humanity. The most terrifying species of predator that ever tortured this planet is not without its charms, however dubious and always variable. The irony is that most seemingly ‘human’ of qualities is what gives the lie to the fascist mask that defers or defaults without deliberation to blind authority or obedience.
Most of the stills here are moments taken some distance, mental or physical or both, from battle – though still within the general theatre of war – as distinguished from the theatre of violence that seems to be a permanent and well-fetishized accessory to war (the torture chambers of military, fanatical insurgents, renegade occupation jailers, secret police forces and intelligence agencies everywhere, the violent punishments and public executions of various rebel and insurgent armies, the parades of prisoners of war, etc.). These moments are outstanding for their relative lack of theatricality, though they are not without glamour.
Fascism has never been dependent upon theatre. Its fundamental elements – authoritarianism, nationalism, and, on a basic psychological level, the authoritarian personality itself – are as common as dust. It doesn’t even really satisfy the criteria of a legitimate political ideology. As ersatz ideology, it’s as strained and impoverished as its art. The construction and propagation of fascism as a framework (it can never be a foundation, per se) for governance, statecraft or national identity, however, takes a great deal of theatre.
What distinguishes these movie stills, the movies they’re culled from, the great actors who impersonated these characters who happen to be written as Nazis, as well as the writers, directors and other film artists who created these spectacles, is their mastery of story. Fascist art is never about telling stories, but about creating legends and myths (albeit myths without much ‘mythos’). Denying psychology (or at least psychological complexity) altogether, and with plot reduced to its most linear rudiments, story scarcely exists in this domain except as the most depleted cultural expression. But then that’s the problem with fascism and what we loosely call fascist art: it’s not about enriching, enlarging or expanding (or for that matter ‘conserving’ or preserving) a civilization, but about razing it to its foundations.
Its theatre is similarly depleted, though its staging may be daunting in its spectacular scale. However expansive the stage, the frame and field of focus feel strained and constricted. It’s about creating a focus for a new reality and the gods created for it. For all its emphasis on spectacle, it doesn’t have to be particularly sophisticated, though. A one-ring circus will suffice – smoke, sawdust, bright lights and mirrors. One ‘Big Star’ under a Super-Trouper will do as long as the star lives and breathes the Olivier mantra with every breath he takes on stage: ‘Look at me. Look at me. Look at me….’ (And maybe off-stage, too….) The theatrical compact here (in distinct opposition to the social compact) is not suspension of disbelief, but surrender of all belief except what is invested in the star-performer. In lieu of the catharsis achieved in the best classic tragedy what is offered is the possibility of abnegation through delirium, a kind of submission viewed as ultimate attainment. (The alignment of American fascism with ‘evangelical’ Christian zealots is no accident.)
The question of what fires an audience for such spectacle, such submission, is one many of us have been asking for the last year or so – and are likely to be asking through the next several months of government by ‘shock and awe.’ But there are a thousand stories for each ‘face in the crowd’ and it only takes a moment for anyone of them to blink.
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Karen Finley’s “The Jackie Look”
There are probably as many words written about the ‘Jackie look’ by now as there are actual images documenting it. A quick scan of just a few of these images taken over the roughly 40 years of her public life reveals quite a range: the young equestrienne, the insouciant debutante, the post-collegiate ‘career girl’ – and ‘inquiring photographer’ (as her employer, the Washington Star, dubbed her), the fashionable but dutiful young political wife, the glamourous (but always ‘appropriate’) First Lady, the First Widow morphed into international jet-setter, and finally the Onassis and post-Onassis years, which elevated her to a level of glamour and celebrity unprecedented in cultural history.
Just for the record, Karen Finley brought a variation that became something of a staple for Jackie between the mid- to late-1970s and the very early 1990s: big, but not exactly ‘bouffant’ hair, with a bit of wave and curl (call it ‘post-Kenneth’); de rigueur over-sized sunglasses, but these with squarish frames in red; longish tailored jacket or light overcoat, slightly regimental cut, double-breasted, over long flared trousers. Finley’s jacket was black with black satin lapels, a funereal touch appropriate to Finley’s themes. The pants were white – conceivably a nod to the Onassis years of Skorpios and Mediterranean pleasure ports not long behind her then (or perhaps to L.A.’s post-global warming permanent summer?). If the glamour seems tamped down, bear in mind these were years of fresh widowhood for Onassis – settling into a new private and professional life as an editor (Viking at first) and public-spirited New Yorker.
Having established the frame – a clear silhouette for her medium, Finley was free to move on to the real subject of her performance, which might be summed up as, the ‘trauma of the received gaze.’ Except that it was so much more than just that – there are multiple levels of trauma in operation here – which worked both for and against the coherence of the performance as a whole. Finley slammed it to the audience early in the performance. The ‘Jackie look(s)’ is not simply self-defined or adapted, but imposed by the context of circumstances, conventions, language (consistent with Broad guest curator and U.C. Riverside English professor, Jennifer Doyle’s “Tip of Her Tongue” theme), and the culture itself. In other words, the ‘Jackie looks’ were (and are) our own – nor would they necessarily be reciprocated or in any way ‘returned.’ The extent to which Jacqueline Onassis herself internalized this ‘look,’ this aesthetic self-definition, remains open to debate.
But there is also a significant cultural (as well as political) rupture that predates this transitional Jackie – marked by her first widowhood: the assassination of President John F. Kennedy – a double trauma played out in public space. The assassination and its aftermath marked a watershed cultural moment – the culmination of an evolutionary stage of mass media and a new media consciousness. Finley homes in on both the iconic Zapruder 8-mm footage and its contemporary transmogrifications and (more hilariously) commodification. Not only are the horrific moments of carnage and panic continuously replayed; but the entire location is repurposed for un-self-consciously celebratory events and re-branded as if it were a new design house or cultural institution.
Finley presents her “Jackie” (we each have our own) as her own synthesis – a cocktail of Jackies to loosen mind and tongue across a far-ranging field: the trauma of the reenacted events, the trauma of repetition (we see her cavorting in front of the Warhol “Twenty Jackies” before making her entrance), and the compulsive viewing of trauma; the traumas of cultural appropriation, commodification, cannibalization (she makes mincemeat of eBay merchandising of Kennedy memorabilia and the Dealey Plaza Sixth Floor Museum) – the ‘organization’ of trauma (as she phrases it); the trauma of the gazes imposed upon her, the commodification of her own persona and celebrity; the trauma of sealing herself off from it; the trauma of communicating across the gulf of implied but mutually proscribed understandings.
Finley does her own little dance of repetition over the events in Dallas, taking in slights large and small – from the red (as opposed to Texas-yellow) roses presented to her at Love Field, to the pestering about her blood-stained pink Chanel suit. Other potential slights to her ego are easily forgiven (as they were pretty much in her actual life). She ‘loves’ Marilyn – though Finley gives her love a Warhol-ironic gloss. At one point, Finley put down her notes (and Perrier) and actually started to dance to footage of the great disco star, Sylvester (“You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)”), enlisting selected audience members to join her in a Studio 54 moment (reflecting the post-Onassis period of her life that really did take her to a still higher plateau of celebrity).
She might have brought the performance to a close right there – the Sylvester interlude might have worked as a coda. Certainly there was more ground to cover – Finley’s subject here is vast: cultural violence complicating and complicated by social and psychological violence. But drawing out a discussion that at various turns veered sharply into theoretical excursus while compressing it dramatically would challenge the most brilliant philosophers and playwrights/actors alike. Finley frequently turned to written notes in the waning minutes of a performance that threatened to become a lecture — stretching her audience’s patience to the breaking point. (Even her voice modulated from Jackie’s signature husky-whisper girls school voice to her own, to a kind of movie-trailer ‘in a world where…’ baritone goddess voice.) As always, Finley was at her best letting her ‘primal’ voice take center-stage. At one point, she takes a maternal defense of one of her cubs – defending Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg’s casual insertion of ‘you knows’ into interview responses – and builds it into a raging cultural indictment: the casual ‘you know’ swelling into “You – Know! You. No!”
There was another show or two here. (Maybe a couple of different lectures, too – I was beginning to half-expect a question-answer section by the performance’s end.) There’s a lot we don’t know here. That Onassis was to some extent restrained, even restricted behind those big black bubble glasses – by ‘the gaze’ – is pretty clear. It’s also clear that Onassis willfully and skillfully steered that gaze (however she may have been put off by its ‘re-marketing’ — e.g., by paparazzi like Ron Galella). She was thoroughly conscious of the image she was projecting and assiduously crafted and edited it from the time of Kennedy’s presidential campaign. Her obsessive control of ‘the narrative,’ from the “Camelot” White House she charged T. H. White with manufacturing, to her control over the JFK legacy, to her own post-Onassis transformations, practically created a new model of public relations.
The timeline of famous Jackie portraits, news photos and snapshots that preceded Finley’s actual performance was an implicit acknowledgment of this power. Finley opens the performance against the newsreel of President Kennedy’s opening remarks at a press conference for his French state visit: “I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, and I’ve enjoyed it.” Only six months after Kennedy takes office, ‘Jackie’ is already as important as ‘Jack’ in this new media equation. It is the beginning of a new kind of fame and celebrity, and a portent of power couples to come, from Liz and Dick to Yoko and John to Hillary and Bill. Finley’s Jackie Look raises far more questions than it can possibly answer. If celebrity imposes its own kind of trauma, and we can assume all trauma has a dissociative power, we might ask whether celebrity can be viewed as an index of a still more profound cultural trauma.
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Making the “Un-Private” Public – and Urban
In many ways, Monday evening’s “Un-Private Collection” panel/conversation at Disney Hall, featuring The Broad Museum’s principal architect, Elizabeth Diller, of the Diller, Scofidio + Renfro firm of architects, and moderated by the distinguished architecture critic, Paul Goldberger, was the capstone of the series – certainly to date, and possibly for some time to come, assuming the series continues in some form over the next few years. “Un-Private” might well describe the Broad Art Foundation’s ‘art practice’ over most of its life up until The Broad Museum’s debut: ‘private,’ but functioning as a quasi-public/institutional ‘lending library’ with some limited public access. Diller was joined by Eli Broad, seated next to her in the center, and flanked on her left by the Broad’s Director, Joanne Heyler.
The Broad/DSR’s problem was two-fold – the second half of it essentially self-imposed by Eli Broad upon himself, in keeping with his ambitions not just for his Museum, but for the Bunker Hill neighborhood and the downtown area generally. The first problem was to exteriorize functions that had been distinctly ‘interior’; to make public what had previously functioned as a discreetly functioning private lending institution. The second was to contextualize it within a distinctly urban public space and, not incidentally, augment that space’s importance and vibrancy. The jury may still be out as to whether that second goal will actually be achieved; but Paul Goldberger noted that a hotdog cart had recently staked claim to a patch of sidewalk outside the Museum, which in New York street terms, was something of an endorsement of its viability as a locus of urban activity. So far the demand for admission tickets has been almost overwhelming (fully booked through January); and attendance is at capacity.
Diller was originally surprised that her firm was invited to submit a proposal to the Broad team. “We thought we had absolutely no chance.” She summed up the principal challenges. “One was Eli. The others were architectural.” She characterized Eli’s secondary agenda in much broader terms, as an “intention to urbanize downtown L.A.” – not necessarily easy to do with what might have been conceived as a storage facility. It was the first aspect she dealt with, by “attack[ing that functional problem] head on” – to “make the storage facility the center of the building.” Another problem was its high-profile street site – its closest neighbor being, Frank Gehry’s glamourous Walt Disney Concert Hall. Goldberger (whose biography of Frank Gehry was recently released) commented, “You can’t fight with it; you won’t win.” Diller’s approach was to work with the specific configuration of the site – in contrast to Disney Hall’s dazzling and sometimes reflective surfaces, making it “more modest, not as exuberant;” “much more about absorbing light,” which was consistent with the practical objective of bringing light and people into the building. (It felt just a bit ironic to be listening to this discussion from Disney Hall.)
Diller, along with Goldberger and Heyler, then went on to discuss the way that light would be filtered into the building – through the construction of its honeycombed ‘veil,’ taking advantage of its 45 degrees off true-north orientation and creating idiosyncratic views and perspectives from behind its windows, along with a full acre of column free space on the third floor. All took some satisfaction at the contrast between the ‘drama’ of the entrance and the escalator up and a coexisting conviviality and serenity at the third floor. “I hope you never do anything crazy up there,” said Diller.
Diller, whose practice almost up until the time of the firm’s 2003 Whitney Museum retrospective had been largely conceptual, was even more surprised to have been ultimately selected. She noted, though, that she and Broad had met at the retrospective – which also took place at the same time work had begun on the firm’s first museum, Boston’s ICA. Heyler, in turn, has now shepherded three museum projects to completion, having been involved previously with both the Renzo Piano BCAM project at LACMA and the Zaha Hadid-designed Eli and Edythe Broad Museum at Michigan State University.
The audience had to be struck at the conviviality and serenity that seemed to rule on stage at Disney Hall. Diller gave full credit to Eli for having “imagined it in his brain,” to begin with; but the process of designing and building the Museum was surely harrowing. Diller and Broad locked horns only briefly at the very end, but not entirely in jest. Asked what they might have done differently, Eli responded, “Well, it was a bit over budget….” Diller shot back, “I wish you’d dialed up the budget a bit.”
Watching Diller and Heyler alongside Broad, and bearing in mind the Hadid-designed museum at MSU, I couldn’t help thinking about another woman’s pertinent advice—now a catch-phrase: Lean In. Broad certainly imagined and enabled this vision; but Diller and Heyler (along with a small army of designers and builders) were charged with executing it. It was exhilarating to bear witness to this acknowledgment of an achievement that was clearly as much their own as Eli Broad’s.