The Magician

When I was a child I had a recurrent dream. I must have been very young, because I remember still feeling that adults were very big and I was very small. I don't recall much of the dream only that the adults in it used to appear with hugely distorted proportions–pin-sized heads on normal-sized, torsos swinging colossal arms around. I can clearly remember the perspective from which I viewed them as well; I was always looking up at them, as if from a bed, and they, in turn, seemed to peer down at me. I don’t recall being afraid, but I don’t think that I was amused either, just terribly confused at the “grownups'” very apparent disfiguration that no one other than myself appeared to notice.

When I discovered Louise Bonnet (b. 1970, Geneva) and her paintings, I was at first thoroughly charmed by them. I had been wandering through an art fair for the better part of the day and was beginning to feel “art sick”. Namely, I was hot, hungry, feeling completely overstimulated by the barrage of images and completely underwhelmed by their quality, and I was getting very, very bored. Simply put, I was thisclose to calling it quits. However, a booth bearing a single painting of Bonnet’s caught my eye. The painting, The Magician (2017), depicts a figure with comically overlarge and crazily unbalanced features, shrouded by a curtain of their own hair, stretching a piece of rope between two fingers. The image is fairly simplistic, but as I spent more time with it the veil of the painting’s humor began to fall away; behind it I found a representation of those same feelings I experienced in my childhood dreams. I felt neither fear nor amusement, horror nor entertainment, but prudent recognition of something I barely recognized myself. This is the space in which I believe art’s very essence lies, in the ability to speak to you or to a condition or to an experience in ways where speech falls short. The messaging behind an artwork does not itself need to be enlightening in order to succeed, it need only to speak to its viewer in a manner that could otherwise not be communicated.

Louise Bonnet, The Pros, 2016, Oil on canvas | Image courtesy of Nino Mier Gallery

Louise Bonnet, Bubbly Water, 2016, Oil on canvas | Image courtesy of Nino Mier Gallery

Louise Bonnet, The Slap, 2016, Oil on canvas | Image courtesy of Nino Mier Gallery

Bonnet currently shows with Nino Mier Gallery in LA where an exhibition of her new work opens March 24.

Once upon a time. . .

 . . I was kicked out of MoMA.

For those of you not familiar, the acronym MoMA stands for one of New York’s most revered contemporary art museums, the Museum of Modern Art. MoMA is truly one of the foremost institutions for contemporary art past, present, and future. It is home to one of the world’s most impressive permanent collections and to many, many exhibitions known for pushing boundaries, for championing artists, and for provoking thought and discussion. It’s also one of New York’s most crowded, suffocating, tourist-rife (I know, tourists make the world go ‘round, I know), blockbuster museums–in every sense of the word, does anyone remember their Tim Burton exhibition from a few years back?–in the world. As such, excursions to the museum must be carefully planned and strategized in order to maximize experience and minimize frustration. It is sometimes exhausting.

The Museum of Modern Art, 53rd street entrance | Image courtesy of MoMA

So, once upon a time I was kicked out.

Back when I was attending graduate school at the Sotheby’s Institute of Art we spent some time exploring artist intention. When an artist creates something, no matter how conceptual or polished or ambiguous, most, if not all artists, have an objective, an intention, as to how that piece is to be experienced. Some artists are very specific: “this painting is meant to evoke a feeling of awe, an experience of confusion, a sensation reminiscent of post-war America in South Dakota at 6:17pm.” Other artists prefer to leave interpretation entirely to their viewers, “there is no specific meaning attached to this piece, other than what you, a singular entity, experience of it.”

In December of 2009, Mexican artist Gabriel Orozco, opened his first career-long retrospective at MoMA, no small feat. A solo exhibition at MoMA is a testament to an artist’s success, firmly cementing their place within the history of art. It is a platinum record, a spot on the New York Times’ bestseller list, an olympic gold medal. Orozco’s work varies widely, from sculpture and performative work, to painting and found object assembly. His self-titled exhibition included the sculpture Mobile Matrix (2006), a real skeleton of a massive gray whale, excavated from Guerrero Negro in Baja, California, which he then covered over in thousands of concentric penciled circles. The exhibition also included manipulated currency, plane tickets, envelopes and more embellished with gold leaf and egg tempera. It included found objects representing readymade sculpture.

Gabriel Orozco, Empty Shoebox, 1993, Installation view | Image courtesy of MoMA

One such readymade, Empty Shoebox (1993), is simply that. A plain, white, unadorned and unlabeled shoebox, sitting in its lid, open and on the floor. Perhaps the exhibition’s most innocuous object, the shoebox provoked more simultaneous ire and admiration than any other piece in the show. MoMA is not a free museum, it charges admission, and nothing enrages people more than the belief that they have paid for something that did not deliver, or perhaps, did not exist in the first place. Something that is unchallenging, in effect, something that is ordinary. I understand, I too have been “victim” to artwork and exhibitions that appear to me to be an utter waste; a waste of time, resources, and ultimately attention. I have walked out of shows wondering what it was I was supposed to come away with, wondering what the actual point was.

Before I had learned anything about Orozco and his work, I likely would have felt the same bewilderment and disappointment at this unremarkable object placed within a context that insists all of its objects are extraordinary. In studying Orozco, I came to understand that the object, this shoebox, was not the actual artwork. The shoebox served as a vehicle for the concept of the artwork. On view here in Orozco’s retrospective is his concept, which is to say that the shoebox is not art, in and of itself. The shoebox serves to highlight the tension between viewed and viewer. We often walk into galleries and museums expecting to see ancient artifacts encased in glass, so precious that even a breath from our pedestrian mouths might serve to destroy the piece ever after. The shoebox is exactly that ancient artifact’s opposite. In fact, in a number of lectures given and conversations had, Orozco has stated that the shoebox’s purpose is to create confusion, to be picked up and puzzled over, to be moved, to be kicked across the room, to be ignored. Its rather obvious placement in a gallery in MoMA makes it impossible to ignore–really, what the hell is that thing doing there, is this a joke?

This is all very well and good, but to get to the point, I kicked the shoebox.

As a kid I was taught the “One Finger Rule”. My parents assumed that if I touched something with one finger I could not break it. When we went to museums or other people’s homes or stores, any place a kid could cause destruction, my sister and I would be sternly informed that the “One Finger Rule” was in effect and if we disobeyed, we would suffer consequences. Needless to say, I often disobeyed. Fast forward many years later, I still disobey. I am an adult with a very serious touching-that-thing-there-in-front-of-me-that-I-should-not-touch problem. I am the reason that museums and galleries employ those implacable, immovable guards. I should point out that I am well aware of the damage that can be caused by touching–chemical reactions caused by the oils of a fingerprint, microscopic shifts in pigment caused by a deliberate breath of air, aura removed by my brazen refusal to give the artwork its space–and of course, I care. My career in the art world has also taught me how to flout the rules safely (if, indeed, such a thing can exist). I know better, but I know how to do it right.

Back to the shoebox.

Gabriel Orozco, Empty Shoebox, 1993, Cardboard shoebox | Image courtesy of MoMA

I read the transcript of one of those lectures Orozco had given in which he specifically tells his viewers to physically interact with his shoebox. In effect, Orozco had given me explicit permission to kick his shoebox. Walking into the exhibition and spying the shoebox felt like coming across an old familiar friend. “Shoebox! How are you?! It’s so great to see you!” I looked around the gallery for the usual “Do not Touch” signs and found that there were none. I tapped a guard on the shoulder and asked him if I might touch the shoebox and was instructed to, “read the sign”. I told him that there were no signs and asked him again. He again informed me to read the sign, which I again told him I could find no trace of. I asked him a third time if I could please touch the shoebox–by this point, his reluctance to answer the question should really have been answer enough for me, but I was being disagreeable and I admit it–and he did not answer me at all. I took this as my cue. I stepped back. I wound up. I soundly booted the box across the room. The aforementioned security guard appeared at my side and grabbed my upper arm and yanked me away from the box. He radioed to his other security guards, whom I assume radioed their superiors, while squeezing my arm and scolding me. I was indignant. “But I know that that is how the artist wants me to interact with his piece. SIR, I know this is what I’m supposed to do.” At this point, my entire class and several curious bystanders surrounded me and the flock of guards who were all furiously and alternately yelling at me and at each other. A classmate of mine, a former lawyer, began to try to defend me and my basic human rights by shouting legalese on top of the already rapidly escalating situation.

My story has already run much longer than it should have. I got carried away. Clearly, I got carried away–I was physically removed from the gallery and then from the museum by two security guards who each held one of my arms and unceremoniously escorted me outside. And that, friends, is how I got kicked out of out MoMA for “touching” the art.

Claes Oldenburg

I learned today that legendary sculptor, Claes Oldenburg, famous for his irreverence, his ability to subvert the mundane and elevate it, is an alumni of my high school. So is Nancy Reagan, by the way–I find the timing, like many moments in my life terribly, conveniently, coincidental.

I try to spend time each month wandering around New York's gallery neighborhoods to remain engaged with the goings on within, to scout for shows and talents that surprise me, to find artwork that speaks. Typically, I do not set an itinerary, I have no set plans, no specific places to be, I often happen on things, which is honestly the way I like to do things best.

Last week I happened upon Claes Oldenburg's Shelf Life at Pace Gallery. . . I know, I know, blockbuster artist, blockbuster gallery, how can one happen upon it, but I tend to keep my distance from blockbusters because I find that they offer little in the way of surprise. And I was surprised–surprised by how much I enjoyed the show and by the nostalgia that Oldenburg's shelf-sized assemblages awoke within me.

California Hallway, c. 1940 | Courtesy the Art Institute of Chicago

Growing up in Chicago I was fortunate to have had access to some of the world's foremost cultural institutions; chief among them the Art Institute of Chicago, which I insisted on visiting not because of the quality of the artwork therein, nor the importance of their private collection, but because of the Thorne Miniature Rooms. Hidden away by the educational resources room and the bathrooms is a collection of 68 miniature rooms built and decorated to represent a series of different interiors of homes from the Western world. 

The Thorne rooms kept me enthralled, no matter how many times I had been to see them, no matter how many minutes or hours I spent in their presence. I admit they still do today. I can recall pressing my nose to the glass behind which they were displayed to try and see into corners and behind doors, I could spend an entire day imagining the worlds contained within those tiny rooms–many of which are scarcely bigger than a foot in a half in any direction. 

Claes Oldenburg, Shelf Life Number 10, detail

I felt twinges of that old curiosity walking through Oldenburg's Shelf Life. I delighted in the cameos made by some of his most famous piece–a mini version of his iconic Floor Burger, a minute and sketched version of the apple core sculpture that lives at San Francisco's Museum of Modern Art, a palm-sized, monochrome homage to the slice of blueberry pie that once sat on New York's Metropolitan Museum's roof. I was thrilled by their presence, a direct reference to the power of nostalgia as a tool to reach out and touch viewers through the vehicle of personal experience. Not unlike a paintbrush, or a blob of clay, nostalgia is a media unto itself that is powerful enough to connect viewers of all hearts and minds. It sounds crazy; how does a piece of crumpled up paper made to resemble a hamburger make one feel nostalgic for childhood? I answer that it does not, not the object itself, not the paper, not the hamburger, no, but the unit as a whole. Oldenburg's venture into the small-scale, in opposition to his career-long exploration of the monumental, could be too referential to his past work to stand on its own. I believe however, that that is where Oldenburg's "genius" lies, in taking that chance, and in speaking to my 8 year old self, using the smallest of gestures.

Claes Oldenburg, Shelf Life Number 11, 2016-2017 | Mixed media, 20 x 29 x 12 inches

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy. For it says no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me there's something stronger–something better, pushing right back.

Albert Camus

The light from my teeth in my mouth. . .

Feliz dia de los Muertos

. . . a pumpkin's story

Matthew Brandt, "Lakes and Reservoirs"

Matthew Brandt is equal parts documentary and landscape photographer. What sets him apart from his ilk is his printing process, in which he soaks his large-format, C-prints in the waters of the lakes that form his subject matter. While the photographs of the subjects could easily replicated, the transient nature of the lakes, their chemical makeup, the presence of various biological life-forms, ensure that Brandt's photographs are as unique and elegant as the waters from which they draw their composition. The resultant body of work is dreamy, spectacularly flawed, and dynamic. They make me dream of summers spent on Lake Michigan, and I become nostalgic for those impossibly long days and electric nights.

Matthew Brandt, Shasta Lake CA 4, 2009

Matthew Brandt, Fall Creek Lake OR 4, 2009

Matthew Brandt, Lake Hollywood CA 3, 2008

* all images courtesy of the artist, Matthew Brandt's portfolio can be found HERE

About Love

There is something to be said for finding people with whom you can share your whole heart. Those people in whom you believe you've found your heart's equal, its match. Love can help you to see colors you hadn't seen before. Can bring the light back into your days. Love can show you the very best parts of you. Love can take better care of you than you can take care of you.

On this rainy Monday, I wanted to take a moment to remember the love that fills my heart and my days. It's in my morning cup of coffee, in hundreds of text messages from the most far-flung corners of the country, it sits on my chest and purrs to me, it breathes next to me in my bed. Love can be so easily forgotten, taken for granted, but isn't it also true that love can save the world?

Among the most recognizable images of art's long history–among the Mona Lisa, the Balloon Dog, Starry Nights–is Robert Indiana's monumental LOVE sculpture. My experience of it has been both in New York on one of the city's busiest corners and in Middlebury, Vermont where it sits by a pond and contemplates its reflection. Two more diametrically different locations could not be found, yet the message remains as impactful no matter where the piece is. In Middlebury, the piece helps to remind that love is real and tangible, a force larger than man, weightier than despair. In New York, a city alternately described as "oppressed", "frantic", "lonely" and "unforgettable", "intoxicating", "magical", Indiana's LOVE, again stands to remind those who pass to pause, take a moment to breathe, and remember to love. "Remember!" it urges us.

"Remember!"

Pygmalion and Galatea

One fine day, Pygmalion carved the statue of a woman of unparalleled beauty. She looked so gentle and divine that he could not take his eyes off the statue. The spell the lifeless woman cast on him was too much to resist and he desired her for his wife. Countless were the nights and days he spent staring upon his creation… What had been cold ivory turned soft and warm and Pygmalion stood back in amazement as his beloved figurine came into life, smiling at him and speaking words of admiration for her creator.

Water Double v. 1

The first thing that struck me about Roni Horn's Water Doubles was the near total silence that blanketed them. The stillness of the room and the stillness it seemed to require of its viewers. The atmosphere was reverential, as if I had happened upon ancient artifacts or hallowed talismans. The barrel-like Water Doubles cast a preternatural glow in an otherwise darkened room, they seemed to vibrate at a frequency just above hearing.

I hadn't bothered to read any of the accompanying exhibition materials so for a moment the illusion was complete. I was unsure whether or not the barrels held water or a clever facsimile as their name seemed to indicate. 

I have an almost irrepressible urge to touch. I always have. True story: touching the artwork has gotten me kicked out of MoMA (more on that later). So, encountering Horn's Water Doubles was an exercise in extreme and painful self-restraint. I felt an actual ache within me to tap the containers to see if the surface would move. The exhibition's environment (and the two guards assigned to yell at people like me) was such though that I had to subdue the impulse. I did, however, allow myself to lightly blow across the Double's "oculus" to see if I might disturb the surface. It did not.

Water or not, the forms themselves, simultaneously delicate and monumental, ethereal and wholly physical, spoke to the character of water itself, and the way we perceive it. I once read that one cubic foot of water weighs 62.5 pounds. The Water Doubles recalled the memory of watching the East river, loosed from its banks, as Hurricane Sandy surged through lower Manhattan and onto 14th street. At the time, the sight struck very real terror into me. The water no longer flowed in an orderly fashion from north to south, it was alive, behaving of its own accord, and roamed free. It poured itself wherever it pleased, flooding not only my apartment building's basement and first floor but those of thousands of other buildings, parks, enclosures, and shopping centers.

The comparison of that memory and my current experience of Horn's gorgeous receptacles was staggering. Akin to the experience of encountering a lion in the wild and a tame cat in a home. I was deeply aware of the havoc these silent giants could wreak if allowed to escape their confines. An awareness that awakened within me a distinct and palpable awe. Roni Horn indeed captured elements of the wild and of the tame, and in the process, imagined the sublime.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

Virginia Wolf