Edward Teller, (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
In early February I began quoting short reviews that Donald Judd wrote for Arts Magazine in the late 50's and early 60's that were eventually compiled (February 13, 2006) with some explanation of context and my attraction to the writing. Certainly, Judd's writing could be terse and his judgments harsh, but what I found attractive was his dense use of form and language and his willingness to say what he thinks. I thought it was a useful example; the New Yorker magazine does something similar each issue: paragraph-sized reviews say a fair amount in few words, the difference being from Judd's that the judgments aren't typically as severe, and instead are a little less decisive and more open-ended. Many of the essays I have written in the past year have been well over one thousand words, many approaching two thousand or more. I wondered if I could effectively write in a shorter form, and write about more exhibits.
On February 18 I made the rounds of the downtown San Francisco galleries. Quite often, this is an experience that leaves me feeling dissatisfied because it seems to me much of the art misses its mark. At the same time, I think I usually have a pretty decent ability to look into work and see what mark it is supposed to hit, to see what someone is honestly trying to get at. I assume that, for the most part, just about every artist has some honest intention, even if the artist can't articulate it, or the intention is barely apparent, and even if the art doesn't work- otherwise, why bother? So I thought, "Why not write about that?"
With Judd in mind I walked the SF galleries, and as I looked I began to wonder what would happen if I removed any filters I have, or as much as I could, and simply said what comes to mind about the art, and also about the places where it's shown, the milieu. Isn't that as much a part of the art? Contemporary art is a minefield of judgments and nuance, earnestness and sleight of hand, attempts to fly and splat landings. Is the artist sincere or ironic? Does skill matter or doesn't it? Does a body of work in a show have to look like a product line or not? What is the place of craft and care these days? What is the appeal of photography? Does drawing matter? Are certain forms of art dead and gone? What are my biases considering my generation, my education, my background, my art, my day job, the number of hours I have in a week? What exactly is the thickness and vulnerability of the membrane between what I think art's purpose is and it's place in the commercial world? What are the contradictions regarding art's purpose in a commercial setting? What comes first, form or theory? Why are there so many artists? Why is there so much photography and drawing that looks to me like illustration? What is the effect of an attractive gallery's interior over one less attractive? How does the friendliness of staff or the gallerist affect judgment? If I'm hoping to show at a gallery will I pull my punches? Don't I really just want to be friends?
I wondered: what if I consciously remove the filter that can make for manners, and kindness, and wanting to say something nice, and just let myself write, let myself say whatever came to mind? What if I shot from the hip, went with my gut, wrote from impulsive first impressions and memory? What could I have to say after seeing over twenty shows within three and a half hours or so? What if I wrote about what I saw with no chance to go back and look again, or perhaps even to look that closely to begin with? What if I deliberately avoided being easily positive, or a cheerleader, or failed to see the effort in someone's work? What if I just didn't care if people judged me for the way I thought of the art I saw?
It is curious to me that, for the most part, this review format led me to some quite negative writing, sometimes hard and dismissive, other times flip and dishy. I'm not entirely sure what to make of this. Certainly, it has something to do with the art I viewed, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think it has to do with a general unhappiness with what I see in commercial galleries. Perhaps it has to do with an unhappiness with the whole enterprise. Perhaps it has to do with an unhappiness with myself (even though I swore off writing about myself personally in a weblog many years or so ago). Maybe I just felt like reveling in a little dirt.
Or maybe, it's all just a little arbitrary. Maybe it's simply too easy to go one way or another. Does it really matter? What if, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all? What if I rewrote my reviews and gave them a little nicer spin? There's a good way to blow one's credibility, if it isn't already gone after all this curmudgeonliness.
Below are the reviews, before and after. On the left is the original review I wrote, and on the write is a cleaned-up, nicer review.
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Exhibits seen that I did not write about: Heather Marx- Michael Arcega: Getting Mid-Evil, February 2, 2006 – March 11 Rena Bransten- Matthias Hoch, Ari Marcopolous, January 19 - February 25 Takada- Laura Paulini, February 18-March 28 Newmark- Contemporary European Abstraction, January 31 - March 25 John Berggruen- Selected Works, January 7 - February 25 | |||
Washington Gubernatorial Election, 2004, (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
History of Portugal (1777-1834) (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
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Read a post from 20060228 for explanation and context.
Médecins Sans Frontières (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
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Read a post from 20060228 for explanation and context.
Flag of Mexico (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
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Read a post from 20060228 for explanation and context.
History of Merit Badges (Boy Scouts of America) (*), 2006, HTML, 340 x 220 pixels
Written for NYFA Current, February 2006:
Introducing... Joe McKay
Joe McKay’s extremely diverse body of work includes live color mixing sessions to approximate a fading sun; screenings of accidental videos made with digital cameras; and the website Prereview, where he reviews movies that haven’t yet come out. As versatile conceptually as he is materially, what drives McKay’s work is social interaction—his pieces usually require viewer interactivity to make them fully come to life. Here, Oakland-based artist and weblogger Chris Ashley introduces the media art of Joe McKay. Over the course of five evenings last fall, in a field behind Joe McKay’s studio at the eastern edge of the San Francisco Bay, small groups gathered to watch him paint the sunset. During the first night only a few people were present, but word got out and the crowds grew for successive presentations of Sunset Solitaire. Facing west, McKay manipulated a small controller box with three sliding switches, one each for red, green, and blue. Connected to a laptop and running the Director program, the box enabled him to mix horizontal bands of color. The resulting image was projected onto a free-standing building in the field, all under a darkening sky. The audience watched as McKay attempted to match his digitally painted sunset, mixed live, to the real sunset as it slowly and quietly transitioned from blue to orange to fiery pink before finally fading to indigo. Appearing side-by-side, the actual and projected sunsets sometimes merged and sometimes remained jarringly distinct. An exhilarating meeting of pastoral and technological was found in the wonder and pleasure of watching a gorgeous sunset in the company of others, and the fugitive illusionism achieved when McKay’s simulated sky momentarily matched the real one to produce a seamless vista was awe-inspiring. Even documented as a 30-minute DVD, the work contains startling moments when the blend of elements from the natural and digital worlds is hypnotic and truly sublime.
Sunset Solitaire references computer games, of course, in this case one played by an individual and watched by others, but there are a range of other associations. The Hudson River School painters and Mark Rothko’s glowing rectangles readily come to mind, as do the evocatively nostalgic memories of drive-in movies (for those of a certain age) or less anxious manifestations of ’60s light shows (for those of another certain age). While presenting Sunset Solitaire McKay becomes a deejay who mixes color rather than sound. There is a sleight of hand at work when he matches the fading sun’s color exactly; an effect that’s pure trompe l’oeil. One might think of Vasari’s anecdote about Giotto painting a fly on one of Cimabue’s paintings, which the older master tried to shoo away, or of Alexander the Great's horse neighing in recognition at the portrait painted by Apelles. McKay calls Sunset Solitaire an "intervention" rather than a performance. Perhaps this is because he responds to different environmental conditions that can’t be reliably replicated each time he presents the piece. Or perhaps it is because it is the viewer who usually performs interactively with his installations. No matter the label, Sunset Solitaire exhibits a complex layering of characteristics common in much of McKay’s recent art. McKay grew up near the City of London, Ontario, and lived and worked in New York for ten years before moving to San Francisco in 2004. His exhibition record includes many solo works as well as collaborations with San Francisco artist Kristin Lucas and Toronto artist Sally McKay, his sister. In his recent work McKay uses computers other equipment as sculptural components and recontextualizes video and game imagery in unexpected ways. A piece of technology might be exploited for purposes other than that for which it was originally designed or because it was badly designed to begin with. In some works, elements of relatively “new” technology—a computer tower, a monitor, or the carriage from a printer—look old and obsolete, rejected and falling apart. In some of McKay’s recent Kinetic Computer Sculptures, images appear and actions occur peripherally, like in a new untitled work in his studio where a projected figure on a wall is briefly glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye but promptly disappears when one looks back at it. Another kinetic sculpture with the working title Search and Rescue is best described by McKay: “…a computer-driven motor with LED attached is illuminating the insides of an opened Mac tower. A monitor lying on its side displays an image of the computer and light from above, capturing the erratic motion of the motor, as if there was an overhead camera. On the monitor, however, the motor and light rotate faster than the “real” motor inside the computer. This discontinuity is a clue to the fact that there is no camera, and adds to the tension in the piece.” Splayed out on the floor as if unceremoniously—even violently—dumped and forgotten, it’s easy to experience a surprisingly emotional reaction to the traumatized equipment, which is deepened by the subsequent sense of invasive and poorly synchronized surveillance and the viewer’s inability to completely explain what is happening. Operating at the edges of what we think this consumer technology should and should not do, McKay’s art leads us into the gap between expectation and evidence, challenging the viewer to consider what one sees and how the technology works. But unlike the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain, McKay has thrown the curtain away and places the apparatus of his works before us without concealing his tricks.
The audience’s shared experience of Sunset Solitaire is more passive in comparison to the active audience involvement that is key to much of McKay’s other work. Audio Pong, which McKay calls an “audience participation performance duet,” is a remake of Pong, one of the earliest video games, although McKay’s version is controlled by microphones instead of joysticks; the louder the player talks, the higher their paddle goes. The Color Game engages two players using slider switches who try to match colors projected in increasingly complex patters. Big Ups is a site-specific installation encouraging players to jump on an electronic doormat to propel the image of a ball as high as possible on a TV monitor; one’s reward is a larger and heavier ball. In these works, just as in Sunset Solitaire, interaction and a shared social experience are McKay’s goals. The viewer is engaged not just to see the work, but to also make it happen. Technology is often blamed for the alienation of people from their work and from each other, but McKay employs it as a poetic means to initiate human interaction—with one’s senses and with one another. Chris Ashley is an artist and educator who also writes about art. He has recently exhibited at Gallery Siano, Philadelphia, and at Landesgalerie/Landesmuseum in Linz, Austria. He will show at 1708 Gallery in Richmond, VA, in May 2006. Recent talks include panels at the New Museum of Contemporary Art and -empyre-. Images of his art, including his four-year weblog project using HTML to make images, and more writings are at http://chrisashley.net. He lives in Oakland, CA.For more information on Joe McKay, visit:
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I can't be the only one seeing the connections here. And I think these connections go deeper than the surface-- image, pattern, rhythm, intricacy, directness; I think there is something more social and political at work, though more overt in Jacob Lawrence, and more abstract but definitely present in Thomas Nozkowski. Maybe I can find time later to say more about this.
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Read a post from 20060228 for explanation and context.