Titus O.

Apologies in advance to all of you many folks who’ve apparently paid $75,000 for the honor of owning a fresh Santiago Carbonell from his exhibition at Gerald Peters. You’re not going to like what I have to say here.

First off – question buying art that has computer sticky-label price tags on the wall next to it, adorned with red dots next to the ones sold. I mean really, how much more tacky can you get? Well…just look a few inches to the left, at the paintings. To paraphrase Spinal Tap, “none more tacky.” No mistake: do I think the guy can seductively push around some oil paint? Absolutely. Do I think its easy to see why he’s selling in the high five figures? Sure. Do I think the work merits the gas it took me to drive to the gallery? Not really.

P.T. Barnum is credited with that oft-quoted quip about suckers, and the average Hank Hill wandering into most galleries or museums sees ample proof of the truth of it. Maybe part of critic’s job is to try to make some sense of the chaos, lend rhyme and reason in an age when it’s hard to not to throw up your hands and just say “Anything goes! If you can get money for it, good on ya, mate.”

Actually, I do say that. God bless capitalism! But let the buyer beware. Carbonell occupies a cul-de-sac of irrelevance just a few streets removed from the likes of Thomas Kinkade, “Painter of Light (TM.)” He parades out a nifty bag of old-mastery techniques and weighty pseudo-religious themes, sure to drive the crowds to ecstatically cry out “My kid sure can’t do that!,” thereby efficiently inoculating the art from any taint of that scourge called modernism.

The large scale seems also geared to impress, with their cinematic compositions, hazy as if with soft-lense effects. Large heads of young women are depicted in biblical shawls, their fist-sized, doe-y eyes clear limpid pools of neo-Catholic, existential post-coital wonder. Not to mention they’re mostly hot, and mostly naked (and oddly all very, very pale.) Look, he’s even painted their moles, veins, and b-acne! WOW! Now that’s post-modern.

Just to make sure that you know he’s informed of art since Bougereau, he daringly throws some blood red paint on a couple of those glass-y surfaces. One of them is of a sexy babe portentously displaying a stigmatized hand, bathed in Abstract Impressionist blood. Senselessly, the wound itself is sculpted on the surface, and looks suspiciously like, um…female genitalia. I hope the buyer of that one has a sense of humor. On other canvases, he adds foot-tall text across their surfaces. I couldn’t read the Greek, but the English ones read “Feel” and “Pray.” Not necessarily bad advice, but in this context it made the images look like Christian rock record covers.

It’s easy to make facile arguments for the profundity of his allegories, the ties to Caravaggio or Raphael, and the gallery and catalog essayists gushingly do so. Only, they forget to mention Playboy, who’s influence seems even more obvious. It’s really just so much pretentious, sentimental, soft-porn hoo ha. His moves are all obvious, ponderous and phony. There are indeed fascinating, contemporary realist figurative painters that matter – Lucien Freud is their godfather, and their ranks include Jenny Saville and John Currin. Carbonell’s work is mired in utter inconsequence, no matter the prices, and the triumphant declarations of its self-interested pushers are just so many illusory garments of a naked emperor.

October ushered in yet another Open House in Marfa, co-hosted by the Judd and Chinati foundations, the two primary organizations devoted to maintaining artist Donald Judd’s work and vision. Despite annually increasing crowds that now more than double the town’s population, I found it overall the most satisfying and well coordinated of the few I’ve attended.

 

 

“Antidote”: this is the word that arose recently viewing the excellent, even revelatory, “Declaring Space” exhibit at the Ft. Worth Modern. It also summed up the weekend, finding myself once again immersed in the gesamkunstwerk that Judd left as his legacy. His significance, never disputed, is becoming apparent as years pass in surprising and unexpected ways, his methods perhaps delineating approaches through, past, or around the current market/fashion driven atmosphere of the millennial art world.

 

At times it can seem as if the prophet Warhol has eclipsed the sun itself, his shadow looming over all, popular and fine art culture alike. Nowhere does this seem more true than in the DFW metroplex, where the welcome boom in gallery activity has often appeared especially commerical, safe, neat, and maddeningly tasteful. At times one almost forgets there was another way, driven by an entirely different set of impulses. Perhaps this latter approach is on the ascendant, in no small part due to events in Marfa. An anticipated, inevitable art market crash wouldn’t hurt matters either.

 

There were two illuminating keynote discussions on Saturday afternoon. The first, “Across Art and Architecture,” was a conversation between African-born British architect David Adjaye ; American artist Andrea Zittel ; and curator Trevor Smith . Surprisingly for a man generally thought so adamently Apollonian, the shared point of interest among them boiled down to Judd’s remarkablly passionate intimacy: with the nuances of perception, with the physical craft of material objects, and his engaged, living relationship with terrestrial existence at all levels. One needed to look no further than the array of extraordinary examples close at hand. Tours of his myriad private studios, residences, and of course the permanently installed works continually unveil layers of insight and subtlety, even (or especially) after repeated visits.

 

There is a living artist featured each year, with a carefully curated installation of artwork to last until the next summer, and an appearance during the Open House. Recently they’ve included Judd contemporaries like John Chamberlain and Robert Irwin. This year, I was enormously pleased with the opportunity to become more familiar with sculptor David Rabinowitch and his work. As a massive thunderstorm broke outside, his discussion with critic Kenneth Baker was a clash of styles – Baker’s questions were more often simply abstruse assertions of his own understanding, often met with pugnacious Rabinowitch replies like, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” “That’s totally irrelevant;” “I don’t find that interesting;” or simply “You’re completely wrong.” However, rather than just ending up a confrontation of egos, when Baker hit the nail (as he did on occasion,) the artist readily concurred. The highlight came near the end, when an audience member finally asked what should have been the first question – could Rabinowitch please just discuss what he is doing in the work, rather than what Baker presumed was happening? The following explanation of the early works on view at the Chinati Foundation was the most engaging part of the talk.

 

Called “Fluid Sheet Constructions,” these sculptures, made of whole sheets of galvanized sheet metal folded and rolled and bolted together into almost infinite variety, were first conceived in the early 1960′s when Rabinowitch was in his early twenties, and many have never been fully realized until now. Not really objects or ideas, resisting any reference to figure or gesture, they demonstrate a virtuosic comprehension of the elements of sculpture from a pivotal moment in the past, throw into relief aspects of his later work, and finally appear now completely fresh and timelessly engaged. The most important thing about this art is that it is about real-time, phenomenological perception, available independent of historical context or conceptual understanding – though a cursory comprehension of these factors can help open the work up.

 

If the 80′s and 90′s saw much of Minimalism’s impact diminished by the prevalent attitudes and approaches of the Post-Modern moment, we have clearly moved into another era. The seriousness, rigor, and criticality of Donald Judd and his contemporaries seem especially ripe for reappraisal, signaling to us almost like a lighthouse beacon, cast about in this ocean of overpriced, fashionably decadent art fueled more by gimmick than grace, and at the whim of market speculators who wouldn’t know a Michael Heizer from a hole in the ground.

 

Speaking of grace, anticipating the appearance of musical guests Sonic Youth Saturday night, I had the song “Hey Joni” going through my head for two days prior. For the uninitiated, that song kicks off the second record of their classic 1988 double album Daydream Nation, considered by some (myself included) to be the finest rock record of all time. In a weekend full of synchronicities, I pulled up right in front of the packed venue and stepped out of my rental Corolla at the very moment they lit into that very tune. They proceeded to play all of the subsequent ones in order. Bliss ensued. A spoken interlude from the middle of “Hey Joni” (updated by Lee Ranaldo for the occasion) jubilantly and poetically summed up certain of my feelings walking away from the weekend, reminded by the works of these great makers of things to just be here now, in the spacious perceptual present:

 

forget the future
these times are such a mess
tune out the past, and just say yes

it’s 1963
it’s 1964
it’s 1957
it’s 2006

put it all behind you
now it’s all behind you

Kenny Goss kicks off his transformation from commercial gallery impresario to non-profit foundation with “A Tribute to Tracey Emin,” an admirable little Whitman’s sampler of the renowned British artist’s oeuvre. After spending the last couple years on a global spending spree, snatching up top-dollar works while the market soars, Goss now begins the process of getting North Texans to care. And really, they should.

Perhaps aspiring to the ranks of the other great area collector couples, Goss and partner/pop mega-star George Michael hope to distinguish their collection with its singular focus: recent art by British artists. Starting with Emin, in a few weeks they will follow with new work by Damien Hirst, recently unveiled in Los Angeles and given enormous press for its exorbitant prices ($99 mil. for a diamond encrusted skull, anyone?)

Decidedly more modest in scale and scope, Emin’s work is unabashedly romantic – almost embarrassingly so. “There’s a Lot of Money in Chairs” (1994,) is a signature early piece: a grandmotherly arm chair embroidered with a quilt-like patchwork of letters and text fragments. Quotes sewn upon it are cloyingly sincere, and run along the lines of: “to have the power to forgive is the greatest power of all – and because of this I forgive myself.” A more recent video shows a lonely dog, wandering lost and unwanted in grainy, moody Super 8.

Emin is a notorious bad girl in England, appearing on the BBC tanked and belligerent, shrouded in a perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke, and wildly flaunting her tortured sexuality like a blunt knife. Her art gained clout by revealing the duplicitous nature of that weapon, one that seemed to cut its wielder most deeply. It was the sculptural equivalent of looking into your crazy sister’s diary, and it struck a nerve, rocketing Emin to super-stardom in England, in a way fine art could never do here.

Even in this age, a visual artist must possess above all a sense of presentation and design — how to craft objects and environments that capture sensibilities, encapsulating the personal for wider consumption. At first glance, Emin’s work might seem especially raw, with shaky camera holds and choppy edits in the videos, rampant misspellings and reversed letters in the text pieces, and the scribbley nature of her mark making in the drawings.

But you can’t escape the calculated nature of all the gentle brutality. She’s claimed in interviews to be dyslexic, and doesn’t intentionally misspell. But I couldn’t help but notice in her “…Chairs” that there are many long pieces of text neatly and flawlessly written. When you are cutting out letters and sewing them together to form words, or you’re producing a monoprint that is going to be sold for in the five-figures, its not as if you don’t have the time to figure out which way the ‘r’ goes.

Her work has grown increasingly tasteful and sweet as time has gone on, even as her spellings gotten “worse.” For instance, you’re greeted at the door here with a neon sign of a glowing pink heart wrapped the around the blue words, “George loves Kenny.” I don’t always completely buy her “I’m damaged goods – love me – I hate you” shtick, but one’s own inner adolescent girl tells you not to dismiss neon slogans like “Keep Me Safe” too quickly, to try to drop the post-modern irony for just a sec.

Ironically enough, I like the virtuosic designer-ly aspect of it all best, the very thing that throws the work’s self-declared sincerity most into question; her sexual drawings are even almost a sort-of 21^st equivalent to Gustave Klimt’s. At the very least, much of this stuff would make for great $1000 Tracey Emin trademark t-shirts, or emo band record covers.

On May 19 and 20, the first annual CADD Art Fair will herald the next step in Dallas’ bid in becoming an actual art destination – a more engaged producer, rather than simple consumer, of culture and its products. In just the last two years, we have witnessed the development of two artist residencies (La Reunion and the demise/immanent re-launch of a UTD effort,) the breaking ground for One Arts Plaza, the Rachofsky/Rose/Hoffman bequest to the DMA, and enough galleries opening that Dallas now has at least four semi-distinct arts “districts.” Judging solely from national, even international, press coverage, you’d be led to think (as a recent panel of art professionals in town discussed,) that Dallas might just be “the next New York.”

Alright, alright, let’s not get carried away. Even Los Angeles, arguably the most vital art scene in the US, is struggling to get the public interested in its dozens of new galleries. That said, the prospects in North Texas are nonetheless exciting for the art-engaged. Fitfully birthed over the last 12 months, the Contemporary Art Dealers of Dallas, or CADD, comprises 13 of the most significant galleries in town. They will celebrate the inauguration with a two-day art fair.

For the uninitiated, “art fair” in this context describes a relatively recent phenomenon in which a cadre of galleries band together to take over some large commercial venue and more along the lines of gun, car, boat or home shows, create a 2 or 3 day frenzy of art-feeding that would put a ravenous school of sharks to shame. Not to mention the parties. The most infamous, the Armory Fair in New York, recently rang up about $85 million in sales. When you consider that others, including fairs in London, Basel, Miami, LA, and elsewhere, do nearly as well, you can see how the face of art-as-business has changed.

With significantly more modest ambitions, CADD is still going about things geared to impress, with a well-designed website, gallery catalog, and an exclusive “invitation only” membership that distinguishes it from its 22 year-old cousin, DADA (Dallas Art Dealers Association.) While everyone in both camps is diplomatically downplaying any sense of rivalry, it’s clear that the galleries who formed CADD (most of them former DADA members, with a few remaining in both) wished to distinguish themselves from the sort of commercial/craft outlets that comprise the bulk of DADA’s gallery membership. There are many relative levels of art out there; as distinct, for instance, as chef Stephen Pyles is from Col. Sanders is from your Aunt Enid. The large number of non-profit, college, and museum spaces in DADA further muddles its intent. For some, CADD is a logical clarification, and evolution.

 The CADD Art Fair will just include the original member galleries this year, with the possibility open in future for participants from around Texas, and beyond. Managing to garner sponsorship from the Rachofsky’s, One Arts Plaza, John Eagle, and Neiman Marcus, among others, indicates that CADD aren’t the only ones who think they may be on to something. It should be an exciting chance to see the heaviest hitters in town roll out their best and brightest to dazzle and win us over, exhibiting to expectant scene watchers nationwide what DFW has to offer. In a significant leap of faith, the dealers are putting out the call. Now, it will be up to the public in north Texas to respond, demonstrating whether they’re ready to be the next international art destination, voting with their attendance and, CADD members hope, their open wallets.   

After Dark: that’s the title and operative premise of Haruki Murakami’s riveting new novel — if you can even really call it that. Written almost more like a film treatment, and no longer than some short stories, it manages to find subtle exploratory permutations in this most tried (tired?) of forms, feeling as contemporary as the latest Apple gadget release. It almost defines a new form – call it “postmodern metaphysical sci-fi horror pop noir.” It’s an unwieldy phrase trying to encapsulate Murakami’s breathtaking ability to cut across genres.

Taking place in the few hours between midnight and dawn during a neon and fluorescent-lit Tokyo night, the story revolves around nerdy 19 year-old Mari Asai’s insomniac adventures away from her suburban home and bed. She unwittingly becomes swept up in the seedier workings of the city’s underground, by morning finding herself with a “love hotel” manager as new friend; an unsettling awareness of lurking violence that rends lives; reconciliation with a mysteriously comatose Sleeping Beauty of a sister; and maybe even a boyfriend, one who’s badly in need of a hair brush.

The peculiar shifting narrator of this alternative night world is us; a collective “we” that includes the reader. Its mise-en-scene is depicted with cinematic clarity, often even describing the motions of an invisible camera, one that chooses its shots as if willed by the author’s keen understanding of what we ourselves would most desire to see, and know. That narrative drive here is understood to be irrevocably shaped by film. David Lynch would love this book, and was maybe an inspiration, as perhaps were the gothic horror “Ring” movies.

Often evoking science fiction, in “After Dark” we confront a 21^st century world that, unembellished, already is sci-fi. A character’s reference to the movie “Blade Runner” comes long after that visual is visceral. But rather than focus his generous gift for precise description on gizmos and cybergear, Murakami concentrates instead on the non-silicon – the menu at Denny’s, crows, trash, pencils, tacky hotel rooms, books, vinyl jazz records, and what seems like the triumph of dairy products in a country that didn’t eat them until relatively recently. Yogurt, eggs, and milk in particular, are oddly embedded in every plot twist, another peculiarity from this master of quirk, grounding us and the story in the familiarly mundane.

Which is helpful, as the story’s real subject feels so expansive, uncanny, and metaphysically enraptured. But where a western author might paint this world in terms of good and evil, Murakami is able to remain seemingly comfortable, serene even, finding beauty and solace in a world described again and again as unpredictable, extreme, and deeply, unfathomably mysterious; a world devoid of black and white, but rather painted in 10,000 shades of gray.

Instead of responding to this apparent tumult with anything resembling existential despair, a deep, one might say almost Buddhistic, sense of compassion and morality emanates from the characters themselves, and from the author, who gives us an interpenetrating, synchronistic world where innocence survives loss and inhumanity; where at least some bad men who do bad things feel the uncomfortable pangs of conscience, and for whom retribution looms; and where creativity, curiosity, love, and a bemused sense of purpose, not technological materialism or fear, are the most indomitable of forces.