8.07.2011

Assimilating the heterogeneous phallocracy – lemme’ hear your war cry!


Amy Sillman wrote a piece, “AbEx and Disco Balls; In defense of Abstract Expressionism 2,” for the Summer 2011 issue of Art Forum (caveat: the editors at Art Forum may have chopped this thing to hell, but in any case she was solicited for her unique/individual thoughts because of her position within the art world so I can’t imagine too much was bastardized from her original manuscript). Art Forum is a magazine that typically solicits artists, curators, collectors, critics, directors, actors and a general assortment of scencesters to contribute articles for print. In this summer’s collection the topic was the legacy of Abstract Expressionism. Most contributions are the typical art world polish and rub that we’ve come to expect, but Sillman’s piece caught my eye. Amy Sillman is a painter (sic.), great painter (this writer’s humble opinion), her work sits in the awkward zone between expressing a forthright joy for painting and all the manual duty that that entails as well as making a sarcastic comment about art, art history, and the art world in general. Experiencing the work amounts to either, complete submission to the paintings for their faith in color and form and her snarky little asides to the world in which they hang, or oh cool, I like blue too.  

“AbEx and Disco Balls” is not a good piece of writing but it does begin to suggest a few interesting ideas. The main argument she proposes is that the underlying ideology of AbEx (expression, the primal scream, man only within himself,  “…working from their innermost intuitive feelings…”) was vulgar and it took two generations, Susan Sontag with her Notes on Camp, and something she calls the “new-style dandy” who loves camp and therefore vulgarity to finally adopt AbEx. But this dandy, adopting and therefore adapting AbEx, was/is uniquely positioned to take and leave whatever parts of the historical movement he/she wants. In Sillman’s view the main things taken away from AbEx are the material qualities, where those qualities speak to the formal concerns of an artist, specifically the young artist looking for a way in which to begin a painting practice without being bogged down by the romance and dogma of AbEx. This is all quite obvious and uninteresting – what is interesting is Sillman’s marriage of this procedure with “LGBTQQ (lesbian, gay, bi, transgender, queer and questioning)” artists. Her argument almost falls flat on its face. Most of the article consists of clunky statements with MFA grade type lingo punched in, to which I can only assume is some sort self-consciousness (i.e.  “Foucauldian materialist-discursive practice, connected to the “bodies, functions, physiological processes, sensations and pleasures…,” “…the gender vicissitudes of AbEx..,” “AbEx was ripe for double detournement.”), leading the reader to assume she feels her position is only legitimate/defensible by implementing and randomly distributing references to theory. The problem isn’t that she using the vocab incorrectly, she’ not, but that Sillman feels the need to throw these referents out there at all.

Sillman kinda succeeds and only does so once you’ve read the article twice. She takes too much time leading up to her actual point and all the information beforehand almost seems irrelevant.  In between the jargon droppings Sillman slips in some autobiographic gems, that belie her use of the upper crust lingo in the first place, (i.e. “ we knew what we liked…something to be looked at, cut up, and used as material, like punk music or underground movies or other sloppy, enthusiastic things made by a lineage of do-it-yourselfers and refuseniks with a youthful combination of awareness and naïveté.”) These, from what I assume, are mostly direct anecdotes from the artist herself and ring truer than the other statements in the piece. The topper that seals the deal, her finishing move, comes at the bitter end of the article. Sillman was giving a lecture at a university, a self-described content-driven program, and to fuck with the institution she decided to focus her talk on the more formal elements of her work;

…the people who loved my formalist rap were the guys who had gone the furthest in their own personal lives to make specific changes to their own forms. We were both committed to an idea of the inseparability of form and content, and we were working with their interactions, their malleability; if you could change one side, you could change the other.


The guys she refers to are some bearded guys who she later discovered were transgendered men. This event is the crux of her entire piece and she mentions it at the end like some kind of real world proof to back up the theory she quotes. The problem here is that Sillman is making a fairly large claim about homosexuality and procedures of making and her best proof, her most defensible position comes from her real life, but she buries that behind the claims of others and their dense language. There are moments where Sillman tips her hand when describing her own work, “performing a critique of a critique,” or “even the risk of actual delight – no undoing but redoing, if from and oblique angle.” In these moments we see her true feelings and can’t help but feel disappointed – and the disappointment is two fold. (1) The idea that the construction of the self, someone running against the status quo must mettle themselves to the world and then that personal history informs a certain formal predilection when art making happens (which is a fantastic way of beginning to look at a persons work in terms of their life and tribulations, this idea adds a very real context for the decisions and outcomes of an individuals practice – but it never gets investigated by Sillman, she just makes the proposition) and (2) Sillman’s own practice, as she would say, thrives on the “tactile and material. To touch it is to know it,” and I feel more of that hokey forthrightness is all the more convincing (yet she refuses to be direct, giving little snippets but consistently falling back on canonical white men’s words (which is the whole problem to begin with!)).

It is very uncool to stand behind/up for something by yourself, and if not uncool then down right career suicide (in any field), because how can you defend yourself with only yourself? This would be the problem that leads Sillman to try and defend her case with proofs and theories outside of her own position. But, in truth, her case is made when she speaks from her position and her experience, how could one refute that? More importantly why is that not enough? Even more importantly why is that not enough for her? (The work is the evidence.)

Amy Sillman is a damn good artist, and she has great ideas but when she feels beholding to some status quo her ideas are sequestered to the same rote art writing that’s (mostly) too easy to ignore and eventually reduced to fluff. 

7.19.2011

Chain Letter - you got it (we're just not there yet)


Man in a grey shirt & boots (MG): “Consider him at work and excited by his project. His first practical step is retrospective.  He has to turn back to an already existing set made up of tools and materials to consider and reconsider what it contains and, finally, and above all, to engage in a sort of dialogue with it, and before choosing between them to index the possible answers which the whole can offer to his problem. He integrates all the heterogeneous objects of which his treasury is composed to discover what each could ‘signify’ and so contribute to the definition of a set which has yet to materialize.”

Man in a v-neck & tennis shoes (MV): What’s up with this?

(MG): Claude Levi-Strauss “The Savage Mind,” 1962.

(MV): My pants don’t say that. The benefits of non-fiction, eh?

(MG): Fuck the Chain Letter. Who cares about a thousand nameless artists?

(MV): Eat the sculpture like a loose turd – down your throat. These kids are crazy dear.

(MG): They’re simpletons. Everyone eats shit. Some pretend it’s cake.

(MV): It’s all about the texture. Chris told me it was a fuck show in there.

(MG): I don’t know what it’s all about anymore. Artists were walking out of the gallery with their work at the end of the opening. It was a show of weakness and internet culture. Totally decadent. I don’t consider myself a purist by any means, but jesus man, I think the gallerist was ready to pull his dreads out. Fuck!

(MV): Anonymity breeds a self-conscious confidence for those who feel unable to speak directly in person. It feels like liberty but in actuality, the immature personality engaged in this sophomoric grandstanding, only reassures the self as a victim, separate and beholden to the system in which they perform their insecure theater. The manifesto is scrawled on the bathroom wall and facebook! – The internet in real life – pissing on the sidewalk and laughing at bums. I live here; wanna visit? No one cares and no one’s looking; do what you will. Leaving messages in chalk and the morning dew will wash it all away - but hell, at least the stains make for a colorful gutter.

7.06.2011

Sweet on the Pill (The Devil has our Lunch)


Aristotle stated that one is not truly human until one laughs - laughter being the expression of a soul. He supposed an infant to be soulless up to that point. Usually a newborn laughs within the first couple months of life - I’m told I didn’t laugh until I was three-years old. 

6.01.2011

It's not what's written in the diary that's humiliating; it's the spelling errors.


I was with Allen the other day and we took in a show. He's a poet of sorts, an interesting guy, who likes to get around. He says things and when I challenge him he gets very romantic about objects. Going on and on with very big words he declared the inherent animism of material speaks to the hand of the artist - consuming him as he consumes it. I asked him to prove it. We went downtown to see a nice show of butter sculptures. Allen asked to whom these objects might belong and the door bunny said the fat man. I asked her why he's the fat man and she told me he can't stop licking his fingers. Allen's got a keen sense.

5.09.2011

From the Green Coast and Paris Underground



It's expensive to drink, eat, and sleep in Paris if you choose to pay. We'd been in town only four hours before we committed our first crime. Paris can be done on the cheap if you got quick hands and fast legs. The trick is when you run away, and someone's yelling, just call back "Merci!" Wear a few layers so as you cut up, down and thru the streets, avoiding the waiters and bakers you just stiffed, you can shed one shirt for the other - ball it up and hide it in you hand. Bold colors work best - and hats. Hats to put on after you jump from your beautiful terrace seat. Everyone told me that the french are rude - I didn't experience any of that, I thought that they were a friendly and generous people. I recommend making the trip if you can. Everything and everyone is beautiful - but you can skip the Louvre - it's overrated.

4.14.2011

Soft edges, or I don't live today (maybe tomorrow)



Terry Jones is stuck in my butt. Like right up in there, and he hurts. I find him and then I gotta pick him out and that hurts even worse. He’s always showing up at the worst times too. My doctor has no advice other than to suggest that I not go anywhere near a cable news camera or I risk a serious infection of asshole. I guess I should clarify; Terry Jones, as in The Terry Jones (the psychopathic pastor from Florida) is not in my butt. I’ve just named the dirty little wads of TP that get caught up there after him (sorta’ like little prayers I can crush down the drain with my heel). Even if you’re dumb enough to agree with his “anit-islamic” sentiment – the limp prick still burned a book! When did that become a good idea? Yet, Terry Jones is effective – and what I mean to say is that Terry Jones inspired me a great deal. I’ve had a vision. A vision of America, the United States, the greatest country God could imagine, (whatever flavor of crazy you prefer), as my butt - America as a giant butt. You see, there’s the left and the right, both fairly benign when taken alone, but where the two shall meet things get a little dirty; this cleavage of darkness, crevasse of reason, black hole, has destroyed all sanity and intelligent discourse. Most of us reside somewhere on the rolling expanse of either hemisphere bordering this great valley, but as science has proven a positive cannot exist without its negative. Where these two regions of ideology are supple and full of interesting ideas, a mighty fault line divides the pair where they meet, and typically nothing you’d really want to hold onto comes out of there. The big problem is that certain individuals live there in the valley and spew idiocy like napalm–we all get burned. You already know about Terry, but Palin has a ranch, Jon Kyl just moved in along with Limbaugh, Reagan is buried there, Bush kept a summer home, and I’ve heard rumors that Obama is looking for a time share.  Suffice it to say it’s been very difficult getting clean – these phonies hang in there, and hypocrisy is sticky. I’m leaving for Europe in the morning and I’ll admit it – I don’t know if I should defect or wax.

3.27.2011

A Life of Radiant Desperation


Men of boys or some reference; Ishmael, or Salinger’s rebel if you prefer (at what age did you read it ‘cause it matters). We are these things. I’m some kind of ignorant infant in a swarm of older boys holding to me to rules of a game I didn’t know I was playing. There’s time on the clock and I have no choice but to run the ball down the field. So sad. I would like to speak to people as they deserve it, but that’s a foul.  I would like to live, or imagine myself to live, without contradicting myself but it’s an obvious prerequisite to get on the field. I can see men on the tv! Men in holes bringing out black gold - sensitive stoicism. I think I can score some points here. We must succumb to the rules of our game. One rule: complete and impenetrable devotion to the ironic duplicity of the game – replacing religious tyranny with democratic ultra violence. Benefit the youth by sacrificing their bodies, and the elders will reflect (and audience is entertained).  The teams’ been on the field a long time and I can hear some string music; just one musician, very small and far away in the distance – this tune is for all the whiners. You never grow up and if you think you did you failed.  Read this – players quit everyday, but not mine. I’m sorry for apologizing for your loss, because I don’t get it, it’s not my loss. I’m sorry for mine when it comes, and you won’t get it. We never will. I’m just getting into the second quarter, and coach hasn’t made his speech yet and I got nothing to go on, so I think the best thing to do is hustle. We play through, and our game gets better or it doesn’t. The field gets bigger and the players faster, but I’m getting help - I’m playing in the ref’s blind spot.