On Friday my bus got in 2 agonizingly long hours late, so I didn't have time to hit up William Kentridge at Marian Goodman or de Kooning at the Midtown Pace (but that is up through July 11th, so we'll see if I can't make it back in time...). I did get to MoMA (also fo' free) to see the German Expressionism show and a little taste of Cy Twombly sculpture. The German Expressionism show was really great. It confirmed 2 things, primarily: first, that reproductions are for shit (Kirchner's Street, Dresden contains blindingly vibrant orange, pink and acid green, which you would never know unless you are punched in the face by it upon entering the exhibition. In case my word choice is making my position unclear, I fully endorse being punched in the face by it--it's an enlightening experience); secondly, that the German Expressionists were all a bunch of creeps, and I adore them for it. Otto Dix especially. There is an entire wall of his drawings, and my only regret is not being taller so that I could examine the topmost row, which contains the most revolting image of a rotting, wormy skull I have ever glimpsed from below and wished I could stare directly in the eye. Also, I melted in front of a Schiele drawing, as is customary--it was a really simple sketch of a nude prostitute (natch), but her entire body consisted of maybe 3 lines--soul-wrenchingly elegant.
I was really excited about seeing some Cy Twombly sculptures. As you may know from looking at older posts, I'm a fan of his paintings, so the idea of seeing what he does in three dimensions was enticing to say the least. I always get this perverse kick out of seeing some unexpected aspect of an artist's practice--their sketchbook, drawings, anything that acts as a gateway into their mind during their process. There were only seven sculptures in the installation, which was kind of disappointing at first, but it ended up being exactly the kind of intimate glimpse I'd wanted.
Saturday started at the Met. Standing in a line that stretched through Cyprus and Mesopotamia, waiting to see "Savage Beauty", the Alexander McQueen show, was a surreal and mentally straining 30+ minutes of my life. I was basically seeing the show because my friend really wanted to see it, and I was happy to go along. There was also an element of morbid curiosity--I was skeptical, expecting to have a Rococo-level internal struggle about it. Let's see...how do I even begin to explain this...I have very mixed feelings about the seductiveness of opulence in art. I mean, who doesn't want to indulge in the maximum limits of pleasure and decadence? The catch is that indulgence seems to carry with it this element of social irresponsibility, ignorance, lack of deeper thought/ investigation, and I personally think there's a dangerous trap in endorsing the notion that unmitigated pleasure and beauty are what art is for or about. Plus, there was an unsettling level of consumerist energy in the air--standing on line, waiting to be funneled into the rooms that would contain our taste of consumable Culture for the day. But that's more of a treatise on the institutionalization of art than anything--the fashion aspect was just an extra ingredient that made me hyper-sensitive to the systems already at work. That said, I was completely blown away by the show. Everything was exquisite--curatorially and physically. The crafting of the atmosphere was really well done, and the intricate detail and careful craftsmanship that clearly went into each garment is something I couldn't help but admire and respect. I found myself identifying with Alexander McQueen--quotes by him were peppered throughout, interspersed among the labels for the pieces. That was a nice touch--it really gave a sense of his goals and mindset, which made him more relatable as an artist with a vision. My skepticism would make the occasional doubtful noise whenever there was some overarching thematic vein regarding beauty, the defiance of traditional beauty, beauty coming from within, etc. The fact is that he used the fashion industry as his medium. The fashion industry is not one concerned with inner beauty. I'm not really in the mood to get into a diatribe on body image right now, I just feel the need to assert my lack of patience for individuals who like to pretend that they're the exception within the larger machine.
After Alexander McQueen, I wandered next door to the relatively neglected Richard Serra drawing retrospective. I had a similar level of giddiness about seeing Richard Serra's drawings as I'd had about seeing Cy Twombly's sculptures, and I was not remotely disappointed. I was mesmerized the entire time. I was thrilled to look at his sketchbooks, and to read his list of verbs (which I transcribed into my own sketchbook, so that they could mingle with mine). I bought the exhibition catalog for good measure, hoping to figure out how the hell he made those deliciously textural oil stick pieces.
Richard Serra's "Verb List Compilation: Actions to Relate to Oneself"
[1967-1968]
It's really strange to go through and compare them with my words. His are so sculpturally oriented/ practical by comparison. I should compile mine into a cohesive list...[1967-1968]
Anyway, after the Met, it was pouring rain outside, so we took a cab down to Chelsea and darned our rain-ready attire. First on the list was Donald Judd at David Zwirner, which was the perfect palate cleanser in a way. Austere, definitely. But I love Minimalism's uncanny ability to focus everything back to the bare essentials (form, color, material, line, space)
There was a surprise Sol Lewitt show at Paula Cooper right next door to Keith Haring at Gladstone. I saw both. Maybe I shouldn't be talking about them in the same paragraph--it places too much pressure on each of them...
OK, so Sol Lewitt at Paula Cooper: I only popped in for a minute because I was on a pretty tight schedule, but it was a classic Sol Lewitt project--the direction was written in the upper right corner of the wall (something like, 'all variations of 2 curved lines in a square') and the variations were methodically listed in corresponding drawings below. I appreciate Sol Lewitt. I feel like we probably have more in common than I think we do.
Keith Haring was a favorite of the day. There were three mural-sized drawings that the press release explained were "created in conjunction with a series of Bill T. Jones performances held in 1982 at The Kitchen...Executed in real time during Jones' dance performances--functioning as active set pieces with the sound of Haring's brushstrokes serving as the only audio accompaniment". My favorite thing about the show though was the display of selections from his early sketchbooks, which included notes, puns, and a whole series of drawings through which he tried to discern the best place in New York to draw penises. I wrote down something that made me feel in good company, mentally. It's like a geometry proof for art-making:
"Composition is defined by form • form is defined by boundaries • boundaries are defined by relationships • relationships are defined by isolated forms • isolated forms are defined by the relationships between boundaries • the relationships between boundaries is realized by composition • composition is realized by isolation • isolation is defined by association • association is realized by observation • observation defines composition • composition is defined by boundaries • boundaries are defined by limitations • limitations are defined by relationships between isolated forms • relationships between isolated forms existing within limitations and realizing boundaries defined by observation defines composition • composition is realized by association/ observation within given limitations/ boundaries"Next was Jack Smith at the other Gladstone, a really excellent suggestion from one of my professors. My favorite parts were the audio piece that greeted you at the entrance: a diatribe against the institutionalization/ commodification of art, and a text/audio/video piece by A.L. Steiner that underscored Jack Smith's aggressive vision for a more radical world.
--Keith Haring, 2/5/79
Kippenberger at Luhring Augustine made me wish I could have seen the pieces in their original context.
Richard Tuttle at Pace was kind of a let-down actually, in an obscure way that I can't quite articulate. I think I hyped Richard Tuttle up too much in my head and then it wasn’t the work I wanted to see…Maybe if I’d spent more time with the pieces. I did really appreciate the varied textures/materials/colors going on, and the vibe of the show was good--very invitational.
Li Songsong at the other Pace was pretty awesome—it reminded me of what I love about paint, which is something I think I’ve needed to be reminded of lately, so I was happy to have that.
By the time I got to see Louise Bourgeois' fabric works at Cheim & Read, I was running kind of late, so I don’t feel like I gave enough attention/ energy to it. They were mostly smaller pieces with a very quiet presence about them (maybe because they're made of fabric), except for one in the back that had a more violent energy--it was a dark gourd-shaped object being punctured by many sewing pins. I liked that one.
I definitely rushed through Robert Mapplethorpe's “50 Americans” at Sean Kelly. I was stressed about possibly missing my bus. I was aware of thinking about how devastatingly hot Lisa Lyon is, and that the show itself was kind of a cool concept…that’s about it.
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