Lunar Follies (11 page)

SEA OF TRANQUILLITY

Three clarinets, attached bell to mouthpiece, bell to mouthpiece, bell to mouthpiece, make what might be thought of as a fairly long “tube,” glistening black, decorated with what the catalogue is pleased to call, incorrectly, “silver filigree.” The tube leans against an off-white wall. Title: “These Silvery Things Are Valves Like.” Nothing else appears to be in the gallery, save for an attentive guard, in an (but of course!) “ill-fitting” uniform that could “use the services” (but of course!) of a dry cleaner. We say: “He’s his usual
gracious
self!” We say: “He didn’t even bother to come to his own farewell party!” We say: “How we gonna give ‘im his gift?” The guard examines the clarinets/tube and it becomes clear that he is, or may be, an integral part of the exhibit, like he’s
art. We
say: “He’s probly
part
of the exhibit, like, art!” We say: “As far as I’m concerned, he can go piss up a rope! Look at that ill-fitting uniform on him, Jesus.” The catalogue suggests that the artist who created this majestic piece rarely interacts with his colleagues, but is aloof, disturbingly private, and, in matters aesthetic, his usual
gracious
self. He is a practicing poet, and also the reluctant spokesman for those who love life, laugh over a bottle of good Cabernet, feel that nature is extremely important to all human intercourse as long as it stays out of the driveway, and
attend their own farewell parties.
Alternative titles for the piece, culled from the visitors’ book that rests on a lectern at the gallery entrance, are: “Breaking Up of Our Summer Concert,” “Orchestra en Plein Vent,” “A New Year Contraband Ball at Vicksburg,” “Dos a Dos or Rumpti Iddity Ido,” and “Sporting a Toe.” “And they ask why,” a woman, rumored to be the department chairman—and who looks like a bag of rags tied in the middle—says,
“he
makes the big monkey!” A quick check of the monthly-meeting minutes notes that she may have actually said, “the big money,” although there are some who argue for the fey, “the bug money.” The clamor increases as the academics and their guests await the free box lunches and the mineral water, but the clarinet installation restores silence. For once.

STRAIGHT WALL

A long flat slab of the finest marble from the celebrated although by now wholly exhausted quarries of the small Tuscany village of Sfogliatelle is balanced, on one edge, elegantly if precariously, atop a volume of dead poems of some local notoriety. Their floating vocables urge new ways of seeing if not reading, of reading if not seeing, or of thinking a little if neither reading nor seeing. So the placard above the receptionist’s desk states: said placard and desk depend from the saccade-like nervousness and twitchiness of the slab’s darker side. Bolted to the slab are magazines that feature some of the finest writers of our time, but not, thank God, all of them. Many of them are in collaboration on contemporary thoughts: “The Future of the Village”; “Frozen Custard Rediscovered”; “How a Tough Street Kid Became an Oscar Contender”; and many others. Their prose, which is refreshingly irreverent, is the norm. The magazines have been sprayed with a faux-gold lacquer which has then been “sown,” while still wet, with cigarette stubs, ashtrays, insects, a small Burundi vase, a report detailing the bad news for an unknown yet beloved person as to his incurable disease, or, perhaps, diseases (the report is in the demotic Greek spoken by Weehawken diner owners), many excellent words from here there and everywhere, a sepia-tone photograph of a small glade in Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx, smeared with what may be brown paint, Fox’s U-Bet chocolate syrup, or excrement, and a glob of a truly ghastly
crème de cervelle,
once served to a Princeton alumnus on the occasion of his life. A small rectangle of stiff white cardboard is stapled to the wall and reads: DON’T BELIEVE THE POOR. The slab lists slightly to one side and is bathed in the soft light that is, so we have been told many and many a time, the hallmark of New England summers. A cheerful video loop reveals a smiling youth gesturing toward what he says, or, rather, shouts, is San Francisco. “WHAT WEATHER!” is a phrase that he repeats over and over again. The slab turns occasionally, somewhat like a
scena ductilis.
But only at certain hours, and not so anyone would notice. Then there is the music that happenstance, as it will, directs, jingle jingle jingle. And all is rendered in a brilliant Lydian translation.

THEOPHILUS

Just opened: At the Kangol-Polo Galleries: You won’t go far wrong with this judiciously selected, and soberly, but not stuffily authoritative exhibition of what has recently come to be called “ingenuous” art, or, occasionally, “crippled” art. The show goes a long way toward sorting out the lines and planes, not to mention the arcs and tangents, large circles and even complex rhomboids of influences, affiliations, and imitative procedures to be discerned within this difficult, often misunderstood, and, at times, hopelessly muddled school. Everything is placed simply, even puritanically, in the galleries’ spacious rooms, and the whole takes up, quite comfortably, the entire second floor of what was once a SoHo firetrap. The works are arranged in shrewd juxtapositions and canny alliances, so as to allow the viewer to discover how these iconoclastic fringe artists and artisans and their art and artisan products play off each other. The great Rube Chang, for instance, and Marco “the magnificent” Globus present three semi-collaborative works (“Blue Asters and Paperback,” “Edward Van de Fugger, Christian,” and “Lieutenant Chip Mainwaring Abusing Himself”), which remind one of the early red-clay-and-torn-denim “cut-downs” made by George, “the soupreem master of magikk,” in his Lake Jango garage, as well as the “moron collages” that were discovered a decade ago in a corncrib on Jubal Chamborizee’s property. (Chamborizee, also known as Lord Chimborazo or Sir Henry Cotopaxi, was the acknowledged master of sooty-cob annealing, a painstaking process whose subtlest techniques died with him.) Ruth Billbew’s “The Beast from the Stygian Deeps,” “Larry’s Bony Wife, Martha,” and “Ants at a Picnic: Study in Black and Egg Yolk,” are clearly in the same early-ingenuous mode as Duwayne Bushelle, Bushelle Edwards, Mac Brontus and his humming raccoons (Brontus’s droll designation for those who selflessly assist him in his crush-and-burn operations); and her “Vomit in the Doorway,” perhaps the central iconic image of all postwar ingenuous art, and an acknowledged focus for contemporary studies of painterly surfaces, especially in the work of Katz, Thiebaud, and, not surprisingly, Warhol, reminds the most jaded gallery-goer of how sublime the “cripples” can be. The powerful construct, “Leventy-Seven,” by Duke Charlotte La Bushe, startles anew in its position of majestic prominence in a small gallery off the main corridor, as it gestures toward, illumines, and shrewdly “explains” its immediate successors in the fiendishly difficult heavenly-glaze procedure, “Uniform and Chips, with Pastor,” by Whitfield Wamp, “Weightlifters at Prayer,” Fincher Leroy Ellerbing’s last known work, and “Jesus Destroying Pornography,” by an anonymous member of the Southern Baptist Corsairs. The catalogue, informative and entertaining, by the exhibition’s curator, Stanford MacArthur, informs and entertains, indeed, yet helps us to remember that which it is dangerous, much like history and current events, to forget; that art is, at its most sublime, simple, decent, and, as one delighted visitor to Kangol-Polo was overheard to say, “easy on the eyes.”

TSIOLKOVSKY

“Three (or so) segments of a work in complex progress …”

“… but the myth of the frontier has consistently engaged the disarmingly irreverent sophistication of the modern multi-lens camera, of course. Earlier works, like the focus of the interplay as seen in the presentation of the scrims usually associated with the pinhole camera, the nonchalant stance, the thematic array, and the variously colored fluorescents, confront the secondary myth of the iconic cross-cultural artist, as prefigured in the many seminal and provocative essays by a group of distinguished contributing editors, published in the
Contemporary Camera Obscura.
‘The nearest star,’ to adduce a well-known remark of the anonymous Gnostic followers of Blake, ‘is much too near,’ profoundly encapsulates the varied philosophies of shared visual interests and loosely Hegelian theoretical vistas, many of them here on display as a group for the first time, allowing students and scholars to spend hours, rather than the usual hurried moments, with objects commonly associated with the tenaciously unyielding subjects herein deployed in ‘ur’-constructions that take as their unifying and irreversible (although subject, always, to aporia) theme the images that are, paradoxically, vital yet moribund. Whereas mechanical tools, e.g., the hammer, the adze, the wood plane, the nathan, the ripsaw, and the blotter, project and valorize the images in the early films of Wynton Marsalis, inescapable filtering of new and little-known earlier works by now-lost ‘outsider’ cinematographers, as presented in varied locations within North American public spaces throughout the fifties and sixties, contradict a haze of pioneering techniques which can transform such mundane instruments into dazzling media installations that relentlessly transgress the cherished Germanic motifs which inoculate, or, conversely, are inoculated by, surprising Baudelairean
correspondances;
for example, via the imagery of Callahan, Atget, and Adams, cultural
topoi,
so to speak, that have delighted and outraged the ‘mouse in the dynamo,’ as Bartley Scott put it some years ago, as well, too, as influencing those cinéastes and plasticists who pioneered the fevered pyrotechnics and mysterious and ineradicable film captions that have come to be viewed, with much justification, as harbingers of pure process, emblematic clips heavy with metaphor, and short but multi-layered arguments, not to mention a vertiginous, motile linear perspective and the labile interfaces contemporaneously labeled as ‘technovideo interventions,’ despite their static modes within …”

—Kelli Dawn Tsiolkovsky

Kelli Dawn Tsiolkovsky writes the “Arts, Dining, and Cinema” column for the
West Village Edge,
and is also the author of
Brooklyn! Economy for Epicures,
and the forthcoming novel,
Andy Warhol Was a Virgin
(Whitlow / St. Martin’s).

TYCHO

A photograph in the corner of the apartment, cloudy, dark, difficult to make out: In a room filled with haze, a woman in a low chair, her face in her hand in a familiar female posture, weeping—again, familiarly—bitterly. She weeps for Buddy, her dead son, killed at the age of sixteen in a fall from the parallel bars that at one time graced, God knows why (perhaps to kill Buddy) every public high-school gym in New York. “My Buddy,” she whispers, bitterly weeping. Life, despite its vaunted pleasures, can be monstrous and ruthless, utterly without pity or solace, despite sunsets and cool forests. The days are long since he died, long. The room’s haze seems to thin or lighten, but then it is again precisely as it was, so it probably never changed at all. (As if a photograph could show such changes!) She thinks about her son all through the day, the days, every day, her obsession is said to be “unhealthy,” an “unhealthy obsession.” So much for assistance from friends and providers of assistance. The world, and we know exactly what “the world” is, prefers that everybody rid oneself of anything that might even hint at “unhealthy obsession,” no matter the form it may take. It wants everybody to fall in! dress right dress! ready front! cover! You girls gon’ soldier or you’ll be doin’ close-order
all
night! No room for obsessions here, of any sort, that’s what “the world” wants. But she misses his voice, she misses the touch of his hand. Maybe she’ll come out of this funk, this depression, this despair, and become, once again, a valuable, contributing member of society, with a great deal, oh, a
great deal
to give to same. In the meantime, while society waits, Buddy, her sweet, handsome, funny Buddy, nobody quite so true, is dead; and, although, as a good Catholic, she knows that he must be in heaven with God and all His angels, he’s not here. He’s not
here!
She thinks about him all through the day. But now, wait, we discover that this is a photograph of—what?—a man shielding his eyes from the sunlight that enters the small room through a worn, almost transparent, window shade. He is thinking about something, but what? He is thinking about the woman whose photograph he is gazing at, holding it at an angle, away from the glare of the sun. She is in a low chair, bitterly weeping. He has looked at the photograph every day for months, an “unhealthy obsession.”

WALTHER

Touchdown!: Mayhem for a New Millennium

Fifty years of gridiron history, the glamour, anguish, pain, and courage of this “equivalent to war,” as Buster Walter, dean of football writers, put it, the exhibition brought to us with the generous assistance of the Texas Petroleum Products Alliance.

The compelling photographs of the exhibition include classic images, both historical and contemporary, of the adipose guardbacker, blustering backender, cute tackleback, demanding quarterend, egregious endtackle, flouncing puntdrifter, grotesque quarterguard, hallucinatory crawling back, incendiary nosebacker, jejeune endnoser, knuckle-headed walkback, lascivious endpunter, moronic tackleguard, newfangled halfnose, otiose comingback, precious going-back, queenly tackleblitzer, resistant outback, sincere ball-toucher, triumphant pushnoser, underpaid shortflagger, visionary quartercatcher, wonderful widecenter, xenophobic backshover, yawning openguard, and zenlike jingotackle. Sincere thanks for gracious permission to reproduce their likenesses to Jambo Pierce, Biff Caldwell, Z. Z. Steeples, Derkone Motherwell, Carl Bracciole, El-Hashishe Thompson, Merlon Brown, Lucky Reno, El ’Rode Washington, Ziggy Imbriale, and Calderotte Saunders.

[Proceeds from admissions and sales of souvenirs and memorabilia to go to the Citizens’ Committee to Build TEXPROL Stadium: “The People’s Place, The People’s Pride.”]