Thursday, November 25th, 2004

Susan Rothenberg at Sperone Westwater

s”Susan Rothenberg, Drawings 1974-2004″ through through 18 December, 2004
at Sperone Westwater, 415 West 13 Street, New York

A version of this article first appeared in the New York Sun, November 25, 2004

Susan Rothenberg Untitled 1974 masking tape on wax coated paper, 12 x 16 inches
Susan Rothenberg, Untitled 1974 masking tape on wax coated paper, 12 x 16 inches
Susan Rothenberg Untitled 1974 cellophane tape and graphite on wax coated paper , 14 x 17 1/4 inches
Susan Rothenberg, Untitled 1974 cellophane tape and graphite on wax coated paper , 14 x 17 1/4 inches

Susan Rothenberg’s champions have a problem which mere casual admirers like myself can easily avoid.  To us, she is a capable, sensitive expressionist animalier, out of sync with the general conceptual trend, though in harmony with the romantic underbelly of 1980s taste, which was the decade of her meteoric rise to international attention.  To full-blown champions, however, her messily materialist and sparingly imagistic style has to be mediated by theoretical explanations.  Perhaps this is because she enjoyed, from early in her career, such institutional and critical support.  It might even be marriage to the non plus ultra new media artist Bruce Nauman that demands such intellectual somersaults to disprove the evidence of the eye and make her conceptually cool.

She has always appealed widely while persuing an independent path.  The conservative critic Hilton Kramer was among the first to express approval of her work, while she was a darling of the avantgarde pre-Mr. Nauman.  This dual appeal derives, I’d suggest, from a dynamic contradiction at the heart of her aesthetic: The essential Rothenberg is at once tentative and defiant.  There is a raw, rugged, no-nonsense quality to her imagery of fauna and figures, and yet, despite its directness, an agitated, tentative, exploratory, nervous touch militates against closure.  Fixity and flow are Ms. Rothenberg’s yin and yang, constantly primed.

Robert Storr, in his catalogue introduction,  works hard to make sense of her untimely working procedures.  Recalling the Abstract Expressionists, she is an artist who searches for her image.  The journey is registered as emphatically as the destination.  But febrile brushiness aside, she is no expressionist: “as forceful as they generally are, her gestures are explorations rather than ejaculations,” he writes.

Rough, rushed application, in other words, is more her means to fix form than to convey emotion.  This despite a range of affinities with expressionist and existentialist artists like Cy Twombly, Antoni Tàpies, the German neo-expressionists A.R. Penck and Georg Baselitz, even, in the scribbly graphites on paper in the early 1980s, Giacometti.  Her most recent works on paper are also her most painterly, appealing in palette, mood and composition to late Philip Guston and late Bonnard. In the eyes of some, of course, a knowingly nervous hand and a compulsive need to show correction are sure signs of mannerism.  And yet, her genius is to convey a sense of genuine search and connection: sincere but not sentimental.

The animal with which Ms. Rothenberg is primarily associated is the horse: You could say she is the Stubbs of postmodernism.  But where Stubbs was revolutionary for the extent to which he worked from direct observation and anatomical precision, Ms. Rothenberg treads a tenuous line between emblem and representation.  The earliest horse drawings oscillate between reductive abstraction, such as her untitled work in masking tape on wax coated paper from 1974 which recalls Theo Van Doesburg’s didactic sequence of progressively abstract cows, and a much freer, more lyrical, albeit forcibly awkward naturalism of other drawings of the same time.  A series of watercolors pushes the contradictory tendencies towards the iconic and the lifelike: these manage to recall at one and the same time the bison at Lascaux and the erotic watercolors of Joseph Beuys.

Seen together, this range of imagery, marking a personal journey between abstraction and empathy, seems like an internalized recapitulation of mankind’s prehistoric gropings to capture the world in images.  The caves at Lascaux are layered with the earlier naturalism of the paleolithic and the later schematism of the neolithic, a counterintuitive stylistic evolution, albeit spread over millenia, that has intrigued athropologists because children seem to develop in the opposite direction, from stick figures to fleshed-out bodies. It undoubtedly lends significant charge to Ms. Rothenberg’s endeavors to feel that she is re-inventing the wheel, so to speak, of representation.  Her creations are ever poised between the *idea* of horse and the living, breathing thing itself.

A striking sequence of horses from 1976-77 that commands a wall in this retrospective brings to mind the serial motion photographs made by Eadweard Muybridge almost a century earlier. This association points to a subtle layering of values in Ms. Rothenberg’s project, which seems at once atavistic and avantgarde: that her own gracefully awkward, knowingly primitive renderings of the horse link to positivist explorations of equinine motion and yet at the same time come out of a sense of crisis in representation, a need to grapple with images without submitting to conventional realism.

Susan Rothenberg Untitled 1990 pastel and conte crayon on paper, 19 x 26 1/4 inches
Susan Rothenberg, Untitled 1990 pastel and conte crayon on paper, 19 x 26 1/4 inches

The sense of drawing as coaxing the image into being pervades not only this exhibition but all of Ms. Rothenberg’s work, including her paintings.  Her graphics, in turn, are often painterly, as reliant on texture and surface as on line.

The human form makes a dramatic entry in the 1980s with crude, creepy, faces, masks, and human limbs, often playing upon a sense of the grotesque.  The faces collide with tools or are penetrated by strange projectiles. By the late 1980s, however, there is a renewed tenderness with a series exploring dance.  Ms Rothenberg had trained as a dancer and appeared in Joan Jonas’s performance, “Jones Beach Piece,” (1970).

The dance drawings of 1990 push to a new extreme the tension, in Ms. Rothenberg, between awkwardness and fluency: a figure arching backwards in excruciating yoga pose is conjured in an agitated scratchy hand; a lovingly nervous, fibrous outline describes a couple, joined as siamese twins, dancing upon the page.  And dance may be the vital clue as to why Ms. Rothenberg’s drawings look so much more like a sculptor’s than a painter’s—the sense of a lived-in body in specific space.  One of the most persistent qualities of her figuration is the way it is simultaneously volumetric and flattened-out, a very sculptural concern.