Christopher Wool
Luhring Augustine
531 West 24th Street
New York City
212 206 9100
May 9 to June 21, 2008
By CATHY NAN QUINLAN
Christopher Wool Untitled 2007
enamel on linen, 126 x 96 inches
Courtesy Luhring Augustine
An exhibition of untitled, unnumbered works, with no easily describable individual characteristics, necessarily limits critical discussion. Roberta Smith (in the May 30 issue of the New York Times) came up with an admirable way to single out one work for praise by identifying it as the more “densely composed central painting in the second gallery.” Following the limitations no doubt intentionally imposed by the artist, this review will discuss the group of paintings as a whole and also leave the silkscreen prints for another day.
All of the paintings – and they are discernibly different – are equally successful, stylish and attractive. They are made by spray painting black loopy lines that drip along the bottom edge. The lines are then partly rubbed off with a cloth soaked in paint thinner. As can be noted from the direction of the drips, the canvas is then turned upside down or sideways and the process is repeated, but not too many times; the painting is kept fresh and spontaneous. Removing unwanted lines in order to rework, refine or change directions entirely is a normal part of painting and drawing, but that is not what is happening here. The incomplete washing motions are used to spread color onto unsprayed areas of the canvas, for effect and as an end in itself . It doesn’t signal any lack of confidence or any renewed attempt to do the same thing better. To complete the description, which could also be used as instructions, the corners are left almost untouched and since the black paint thinned has warm tones, the corners look a little blue.
With this artist, one can assume that in so far as it is possible, everything about this show is intentional: the drips, the corners, the lack of identifying titles. Gesture, however, can never be completely intentional (can it?) and so the viewer might attempt a psychological reading. Something, though, whether the revolving of the canvas or the briefness of the painter’s involvement with it, thwarts this approach as well.
If an encounter with a painting might be clumsily compared to a conversation, these works are like a chance meeting on the sidewalk with an acquaintance: upbeat, amusing and short, ending with the promise to get together soon. Not like the heart-to heart with Milton Resnick a few blocks away which was sustained, upsetting at times, varied from sympathy to empathy and resonated long after. Leaving aside the awkward metaphor of a conversation, a more direct question arises of how long a painting should take to make. What is the ratio of sustained concentration on the part of the painter to the time a viewer might spend (over time) looking a painting? The size of the painting and the size of the production run, a term that does seem appropriate in this case, also figure into this equation. It’s so hard to keep a discussion of quality out of a discussion of art—even conceptual art, as this no doubt is.
Nobody really wants to see painting die even if they are actively engaged in shooting it, strangling it, or even stuffing it and so, many have leapt upon the idea that a kind of life support can be fashioned for it by confinement to the small area of being “about itself”. That way, we can visit the invalid in the hospital occasionally and reminisce about brighter days and be pretty sure that we will not be touched or deeply moved in any new way.
The initially unintended and therefore surprising conclusion to these meditations on the paintings of Christopher Wool is a feeling of gratitude. Perhaps he can keep painting alive long enough for someone to find a cure.
