March 20, 2009 at the National Academy Museum and School of Fine Arts, New York

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Michael Brenson, Carol Diehl, and David Ebony joined David Cohen to review Kamrooz Aram at Perry Rubinstein, Siah Armajani at Max Protetch, Alfredo Jaar at Galerie Lelong, and Susan Rothenberg at Sperone Westwater.

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Diana Al-Hadid’s menacing, heavily worked, baroque structures take arrested hubris as their theme. In three large sculptures, powerful in impact and ambition alike, a wall installation and supporting drawings, once-soaring, elaborately engineered towers are rendered as ruins, whether slowly decaying in fragments or caught in a moment of catastrophic meltdown. Her evocations of destruction and decomposure generate rich surfaces as well as unsettling contemplations of the demise of powerful systems.

The artist has been hooked on towers for several years now, involved in what can be taken as a reverse Watts Towers syndrome — instead of transforming found, non-art materials to create an aspirational edifice, Ms. Al-Hadid deploys considerable artistry to depict with a literalist intensity state of the art, fabricated structures in a frozen instant of failure.

The formal and intellectual sources for these intriguing, ambitious objects lie in medieval architecture, the Bible, and astro and nuclear physics. The labyrinth on the floor of Chartres Cathedral and Breughel’s Tower of Babel, are cited, along with the research project to find “the god particle” in the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, which gives the show its scientific title.

Viewing toppled towers at this time of the year, however, raises the specter of September 11, 2001, as an assault on western notions of strength and progress. As a young Arab-American (she was born in Aleppo, Syria, in 1981, and raised in Cleveland, Ohio) Ms. Al-Hadid inescapably folds her own identity into such a reading of her work.

Of the four sculptures, the simplest is possibly the most affecting: “The Tower of Infinite Problems” (all 2008), filling Perry Rubenstein’s project space on West 24th Street with claustrophobic effect, is a fractured spire lain on its side. The intestines of the tower show that it is structured around a polygon and fabricated from honeycomb-like mesh, itself one of nature’s most complex labyrinths. What should be guarantors of strength have unraveled with the tower. Partial retention of its ordering shape is rendered all the more pathetic once supine.

A version of this review first appeared in the New York Sun under the heading “Frozen Instants of Failure” on Thursday, September 18, 2008

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Perry Rubenstein Gallery
New York City
212-627-8000

January 10 to February 16, 2008

In the process that Ernst Gombrich dubbed “making and matching” the painter makes a naturalistic picture by gradually matching his representation to the visual world. Speaking, analogously, of “successive approximation” this show presents five artists who in stages achieve some desired degree of accuracy in their problem-solving. In Gombrich’s favorite eras, there were immensely productive links between science and visual art. Uccello and Piero della Francesca drew essentially upon the new Renaissance developments in perspective. And Constable and his contemporaries were fascinated with optics. But nowadays most visual artists are more interested in exploring the implications of mathematics or the sciences, which they understand very subjectively, than in making truthful representations.

In Tauba Auerbach’s video Telephone (2007) a phrase is whispered from person to person around in a small circle, so that it is transformed by the time it comes back to the starting point. Following the subtitles, you see the stages in which the original words change, with only traces of their original sense preserved. And her The Answer/Wasn’t Here (Anagram VII) (2007) writes out those words in varied colors running left to right, then right to left from top to bottom. Mike Quinn’s March Mad Addition Descent (2007) shows 31 framed panels about New York Times’ coverage of basketball, with these collages climbing up the wall in a graceful arc, as if mapping the trajectory of a ball heading towards the hoop. Like the athletes whose feats he chronicles, Quinn thus shows the pleasures and fatigue of pursuing an obsession. Robin Rhode’s Untitled, Bottles (2005) is a ten minute, nine second video showing him drawing bottles on a wall. He’s dressed informally, drawing freehand and working outdoors, but his meticulous procedure has obvious affinities with those involved in the creation of sinopia, the fresco underdrawings of Renaissance masters. So too, does his Shell Drawing 2 (2007), an all-over image, made employing a shell with charcoal and spray paint on paper. These young artists are joined by two grand senior figures: Sol Lewitt, whose Pyramide MH 13 (1991) approximates that ideal shape, and Daniel Buren, whose Peinture Acrylique Blanche sur tissu raye blanc et vert (1972) applies acrylic on a white and green striped canvas.

Too often group exhibitions, especially those that mix together young artists and famous figures, fail to reveal elective affinities. This tight small show, however, revealed that these nine very different looking works of art all shared a genuine concern with successive approximation. And in doing that, it also displayed the totally unexpected relationship of these contemporary works of art with the traditions of old master painting. Just as Cimbue and Constable, whose images are so different, do making and matching, so for Auerbach, Buren, LeWitt, Quinn and Rhode one act of making follows another, to quote from the gallery handout, “until the unknown becomes known, until the work reveals itself.” Gombrich was very often criticized for his lack of sympathy with contemporary art. How fascinating, then, to see that what he identified as this mainline European tradition continues. With one interesting change: none of the five artists in exhibition create naturalistic images. Where earlier painters used successive approximation to make figurative images, Auerbach, Buren, LeWitt, Quinn and Rhode are interested in what might be called the poetry of visual problem solving.

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Katy Grannan: Another woman who died in her sleep
Greenberg Van Doren until February 16
730 Fifth Avenue at 57th Street, 212-445-0444

Lina Bertucci: Women in the Tattoo Subculture
Perry Rubinstein until January 5
534 West 24 Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues, 212-627-8000

There is a pervasive ambivalence in Katy Grannan’s portraits: the gaze that returns the viewer’s is a mix of coyness and exhibitionism. The images themselves oscillate between similar extremes, building a visceral sense of the present through precision while succumbing to a remoteness that results from theatricality.

She has two shows up in New York right now, which together with a show at San Francisco’s Fraenkel Gallery constitute a body of work she calls “The Westerns.” This East Coast-born and -educated artist moved to the Bay Area in 2005: a unifying theme of “The Westerns” is the particularity of Californian light, which, in her hands, is intense and dispassionate.

Her Salon 94 presentation features a pair of middle-aged transsexuals, Gail and Dale, while Greenberg Van Doren presents a single protagonist — a younger, woman named Nicole, photographed in gutsy, flamboyant poses over an extended period of time.

Ms. Grannan finds her sitters through ads in local papers, and clearly seeks out people who are itching to share what they imagine others will view as a peculiarity — often sexual — that expresses something vital to their sense of self. Yet, at the same time, Ms. Grannan has an uncanny knack for capturing moments of doubt, cracks in a mask of defiance. Once you get used to the fact that these are big photos of odd people in forlorn places, the real subject that emerges is the negative space between individual and type, introspection and performance.

These photographs are big, typically printed at 40-by-50 inches, but their scale is complex. Through radical simplification of composition and meticulous capture of detail, they have a cinematic intimacy—that is to say, at once up close and enveloping.

In “Gail and Dale, Pacifica” (this series is all from 2007), the friends are caught between introspection and camera-awareness. Gail, a redhead, is looking down with her hand on Dale’s shoulder. Dale’s vacant gaze hovers at a middle distance. She has white hair; they both wear white dresses, and the sand, sea and sky behind them are bleached, all of which gives an abstract, ethereal glow to the image. But the camera manages to pick out highly literal specifics of texture and tone  such as dress fabric or creases of skin. .

In “Dale, Southampton Avenue,” Dale is nude, lying on an unmade bed and casting a long shadow against a cream-colored wall. The pose recalls Goya’s “Majas” in its langor, mixing voluptuousness and indifference. A worn, somewhat frumpy body tells the tale of a struggle to find inner femininity, her hands and face still burdened by masculinity. Transsexuals are perfect subjects for Ms. Grannan as they are caught between states.  Even “post op,” being oneself entails acts of defiance against nature and nurture.

Just when tolerance and technology allow a person born male to transform him/herself into a woman, women of different ages have found boyish ways to be feminine. Dale and Gail are at an age when women sometimes adopt the Senator Clinton approach of short hair and trouser suits, yet these two subjects are compelled by circumstance to cling to anachronistic trappings of the feminine with flowing dresses and PreRaphaelite locks that only serve to reinforce their biological origins.

A common problem among older transsexuals is economic marginalization — they lost the jobs they had as men and spent their savings on surgery — and thus they cannot afford to dress with feminine distinction. The photographs of Gail emphasize this tragi-comic twist in their frumpy vulnerability. This is the odd thing about Ms. Grannan: despite deliberation and composition, these photographs feel like an unsentimental version of the realities of their sitters’ lived experience. In comparison, Nan Goldin’s seemingly snapshot, diaristic, “real” photographs have the glamor of “La Cage aux folles” or “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.”

Coming to the uptown show from Gail and Dale you might have had to ask the receptionist — as this viewer did — whether Nicole, too, is a transsexual. While biologically feminine, she is no Nicole Kidman. Ms. Grannan’s merciless lense captures every bump and bruise, sunburn and freckle, stretch mark and body hair, on this slightly butch, working-class young woman.

In contrast to the Gail and Dale series, in which the camera sometimes seems to spy on the lives of the protagonists, the Nicole photographs project a more overt, performative collaboration between model and artist. Nicole lolls in a pin-up pose in “Crissy Field Parking Lot (II), (this series all 2006) and in a Madonna-like stretch in its pendant, “Crissy Field Parking Lot (I).” She strikes a body-builder’s pose in “Sunnydale Ave, (I),” looks like she is about to give birth in “Potrero Hill,” and, in “(Afternoon II), Lombard Street,” crouched at the top of a bed wearing heels, a skimpy dress and a white wig, seems to mimic a Cindy Sherman self-portrait photograph in the extremity of her grimace and pose.

In her camp scramble for odd types Ms. Grannan has drawn comparisons with Diane Arbus. One critic named her the “legitimate heir,” an honor she lives up to in “Gail and Dale (Best Friends), Point Lobos” where the pair face each other in matching twin outfits. But these shows, with their mix of theatricality and literalness, beg comparison less with other photographers than with two painters: Lucian Freud and Edward Hopper.

Hopper because of the lonely isolation of figures in washed-out, banal yet observed surroundings (sparse and tawdry) that — in a kind of cruel visual democracy — receive fastidiously equal attention. Mr. Freud comes to mind particularly in the Nicole pictures because of the way forced poses sit uncomfortably with a resigned sense of physicality. Working with a medium-format camera and slow exposures, Ms. Grannan brings out a kind of anxious boredom familiar in sitter’s expressions in a Freud painting from the long hours of posing and his exacting way of painting.

This stretching of time is of the essence in Ms. Grannan. The sitters try to express themselves when they dress up or down and strike their pose, but in fact, it is in the lag between the attainment of persona and sinking back into a literal, physical self that bathos seeps in.  The sitters do their utmost to project difference[end italics], but actually what comes across is a duller humanism, that we are all just people in time and space.

Ornament is crime, according to the Austrian architectural theorist Adolf Loos.  Two culturally prevalent forms of ornamentation that bear out this stricture, arguably, are graffiti and tattoos. But much as they violate the purity, respectively, of buildings and bodies, these ornamental systems have deep roots and cult followings as popular forms of artistic expression.

Lina Bertucci traveled to tattoo conventions around the world making portraits of women between the ages of 19 and 59 (mostly closer to the first figure) sporting wildly adventurous body decorations. Her photographs are likely to engender reactions of fascination and repugnance, sometimes in the same viewer. On show at Perry Rubinstein Gallery, they are also fabulous images: crisp, clean, and resonant. Tinged with voyeurism, and unabashedly “arty” in their adopted poses and settings, they nonetheless attain a documentary precision, a coolness that allows the individuality of their sitters to come through while capturing the ambivalent emotions surrounding the practice of making one’s skin the permanent support of an ornamental decoration.

The prevalent facial expression is somewhere between defiance and resignation.  There is little evidence of humor or delight on these women’s faces, although whether that was on the instruction of the photographer or reflects the general mood of heavily tattooed women is open to conjecture.

“Kerstin, 24, Drama Student / Works in Vintage Shop” (2007) brilliantly captures the central paradox of making permanent a transient taste. The young woman sports an array of tattoos — pinups, Japonism, nautical motifs — on her chest, arms, and right thigh. She wears a Victorian-style bathing suit which is itself decorated in anchors and bathing suits. The wall behind her has a dense black and white floral wallpaper and there is an animal pattern on the ground. The attire and furnishings represent rich, strong tastes that will be outgrown and replaced as they loose their luster, humor, novelty. The tattoos, however, which are all the more tacky and ephemeral, are there for “good.”

“Deborah, 45, Assembler in Machine Shop” (2007) has a finely drawn fan on her back and around her waist and buttock, intricate tattoos representing garters that, on her right leg, hold up an elaborate, gaudy “stocking”. Her flesh is beginning to sag, and with it her bold design. Were she a painting, it would be time to restretch the canvas.

Many of these tattoos are extraordinary in their artistry, wit and imagination, but more extraordinary is the decision to subject the body to a layer of decoration that can hardly be removed. However their moods or outlooks on life might change, the bearers can never strip down beyond the taste or whim of an extreme moment’s ornamental decision.

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JESPER JUST: It Will All End In Tears
Perry Rubenstein Gallery

A version of this article appeared in the New York Sun, October 19, 2006

Swiss-born, Dusseldorf-based artist Beat Streuli rose to prominence in the early 1990s for his work in color photography and video. Mr. Streuli’s abiding theme is the candid portrayal of sophisticated strangers who move about in far-flung, cosmopolitan cities. His distinctive portfolios ingeniously combine contemporary modes of urban advertising and photographic portraiture with traditions of street photography. Mr. Streuli’s strong international record of museum exhibitions and major architectural commissions attests to a widespread interest in increasingly sensitive subjects such the changing demographics of the public sphere and personal privacy within it. But his work is also at home in intimate gallery spaces, such as Murray Guy Gallery.

“Bruxelles Midi” (2006), as installed there, consists of two related projects in still imagery and video. The sun-drenched pedestrians featured in the work passed through a predominantly immigrant Muslim neighborhood of Brussels, Belgium sometime in 2005 (presumably at mid-day, as “midi” means noon.) The almost full-figure, larger than life-size portraits are rendered with great clarity in a shallow depth of field. The 40-foot-long installation, comprised of inkjet prints on paper, wraps around most of the south gallery. The gallery describes the medium as “photographic wallpaper.” True enough, the printed panels are unframed and glued directly to the gallery walls.

If this frieze-like crowd advancing toward the viewer recalls mass media images of sports figures or runway models, that impression may be due to Mr. Streuli’s telephoto lens. A photo-journalist’s use of a telephoto lens within a predominantly Muslim community could evoke strong reactions; but even the artistic use of such equipment implies commentary on surveillance practices in contemporary society. Like a photo-journalist, Mr. Streuli comments upon the photographer’s potential to witness, interpret, and even shape actual events at the time of the shoot. Yet these are not documentary images tied to time and place, but rather artistic images that mimic documentary forms. The artist’s editing of this project was consistent with his work in Sydney, Bangkok, and other cities, as viewers familiar with his previous projects will immediately recognize. Mr. Streuli’s method is to make repeated visits to a specific location in a city and shoot, from a discrete distance, people who pass in front of his fixed camera. From these multiple shoots, he edits a portfolio. He has said that he tends to depict youngish, often stylish urbanites. They often appear as isolated figures set within strong contrasts of light and shadow, shallow focus, and intense color.

A three-screen video projection, “Porte de Flandre” (2006), is projected on three walls of the north gallery. For this project, video cameras fitted with telephoto lenses were trained on a Brussels tram stop. Pedestrians linger, then disappear. The camera never moves, and as its focus remains fixed upon the human subjects, the motion of cars and trucks introduces soft-edged sliding screens behind and in front of them. At times, these shapes are allowed create full-frame abstract compositions. Traffic sounds and sirens are occasionally interspersed with snippets of pop music, and sometimes with complete silence. One may not immediately notice that time has been slowed down in the video projection, or that fade-overs and other types of cinematic transitions were introduced. The play of movement often seems to flow from one wall to another. A deft coordination of editorial and aesthetic artifice belies the apparent spontaneity of “Porte de Flandre.”

Three horizontally formatted color prints measuring about 23” x 33” showcase Mr. Streuli’s skill as a portraitist. In one of them, a beautiful young woman in crisp white clothing stands in brilliant sunlight, casting a doubtful glance outside the frame. She appears to be almost spot-lit against deep shadows tinged with red; her head and shoulders anchor the vertical axis of the image. Behind her, a vivid green bar races horizontally between two other figures whose vague torsos are barely distinguishable. Mr. Streuli’s emphasis on the urban individual who is unaware of the camera has been compared to Walker Evans’s famous series of subway riders. At the same time, his preference for stylish individuals isolated within the picture plane brings to mind portraitists such as Richard Avedon and Irving Penn. Mr. Streuli confers a kind of celebrity status on the 21st century figure of Anonymous.

At first glance, the oeuvres of Beat Streuli and the acclaimed Danish artist Jesper Just could hardly be more different. Yet, like Mr. Streuli, Mr. Just has established rather exact stylistic parameters for his single-themed practice. That theme, intergenerational love between two men, is one that he works out in short cinematic projects of great invention. The medium is identified as anamorphic 35-mm, and Mr. Just ’s  richly-layered films are presented in darkened galleries fitted for large-screen film projection.

Mr. Just’s films to date have always featured two protagonists, one a young adult (consistenly performed by the actor Johannes Lilleøre) and the other an older man. How much older varies, but always at least 20 years. “It Will All End in Tears” (2006), now on view at Perry Rubenstein Gallery, is a trilogy whose sections are titled “A Little Fall of Rain,” set in a misty botanical garden; “And Dreaming is Nursed in Darkness,” set in a dimly-lit wood-paneled courtroom; and “It Will All End in Tears,” set on a rooftop overlooking the Manhattan skyline at night while fireworks burst above the city. The trilogy features a team of supporting characters who are a performance group known as the Finnish Screaming Men’s Choir. In the first part of the trilogy, they play the part of leering onlookers when the protagonists first meet; in the second, they portray shouting jurors; by the third, their ominous presence has created such tension that a sense of relief combines with alarm as they leap off the roof in one final, stiff gesture. Their dramatic function is reminiscent of the chorus in ancient greek tragedy, and gives “It will All End in Tears” a poignant edginess.

Mr. Just is known for making films about films. He employs cinematic conventions from multiple eras to explore the male psyche — to mold it into new forms, in a sense — while challenging masculine stereotypes. Through his exacting vision as artist, editor, and director of the films’ surreal vignettes, his and his actors’ combined powers unfold together in a memorable tangle of truth and artifice. Although Mr. Just works exclusively with male performers and masculine themes, his films may contribute to a new archetype for the collective unconscious, whose gender is indeterminate.

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Mary Boone Gallery, New York NY
April 28 – June 24, 2006

Michael Werner Gallery, New York NY
April 27 – June 14, 2006

In Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism (1951) Erwin Panofsky argues that the builders of Gothic churches did not need to read scholastic philosophy in order to adopt a similar worldview, for “they were exposed to the Scholastic point of view in innumerable other ways….” Very often art too reflects the period style of its supporting culture. By displaying Judd’s art on the twentieth and twenty-first floors in midtown Manhattan, in rooms with large windows on all four sides of the building, Christie’s allows us to see how his sculptures and wall pieces mirror the architecture of America. Look from his boxes and stacks to the windows of the nearby skyscrapers, or compare his corner piece linking two panels with a black pipe and his wood blocks with horizontal and vertical lines to the banal architectural structures outside the gallery. In the city at large, as in Judd’s art, regular geometric divisions are omnipresent. He reconstructs our urban environments, making aesthetic the city’s basic visual vocabulary. It was instructive to walk from Renzo Piano’s newly opened reconstruction of the Morgan Library and Museum a few blocks uptown to Christie’s. The new steel-and-glass pavilions at the entrance, thrust into the older Renaissance-style palazzo designed by Charles McKim, bear a striking resemblance to Judd’s boxes. Christie’s most generous gift to the public (April 3 – May 9, 2006), the highest display of art I have yet visited, and one of the best, effectively presented Judd’s vision.

James Lee Byars’s “The Rest is Silence” was dispersed amongst gallery spaces of three New York dealers. And so when you traveled from Michael Werner uptown down to the Chelsea galleries of Mary Boone and Perry Rubenstein, it was natural to reflect upon the relationship of Byars’s art to its urban setting. The front room at Michael Werner was filled by The Angel (1989), 125 spheres of thin clear glass fabricated by a Murano glassblower, set in gracious curves. And there were two untitled drawings, an early one in Japanese ink that resembles Richard Serra’s later oilstick art on paper, and a late Byars gold design on Japanese paper. The Rubenstein show included the absolutely baffling Self-Portrait(1959), a wooden totem-like form; the granite Untitled (Tantric Figure) (1960); four gilded marble sculptures (1987/1995), figures which raise questions about death and philosophy;Untitled (American Flag) from “Two Presidents,” a relic from a 1974 performance; and The Sun (1990), 360 pieces of marble installed to form a circle, and centered so that you cannot walk entirely around it. At the entrance to Mary Boone was The Conscience (1985), a gilded wood and glass case containing a tiny golden sphere. The enormous Concave Figure (1994), five units of Thassos marble, was in the main gallery; and then The Spinning Oracle of Delphi (1986), a gigantic golden vessel you can look into, filled the back room. Unlike Judd, Byars did not have a signature style, but rather made objects that invoked a presence once associated with sacred art. When you approach a crucifix or Buddhist temple sculpture, you come to things that stand apart from everyday practical life. The sacred thus exists within a separate world, physically close to, but distinct from, the space in which we live and work. When Arthur Danto distinguishes between the physical object constituting Andy Warhol’s Brillo Box (1964) and the actual work of art, he secularizes this very traditional way of thinking.

Judd had a lot to say about the problems of the American art world–he was a famous polemicist. To my way of thinking, however, the ultimate limitations of his analysis are inadvertently revealed in his statement reprinted in Christie’s generously luxurious catalogue: “My work … was not made to be property … It is not on the market, not for sale….” But that, of course, is what has happened. That the auction proceeds will support the Judd Foundation, a good cause, does not undercut the problems here. Judd wanted his art to stand outside the culture, but that was not possible–how could it be? Artistic materialists like Judd believe that everything can be made explicit. Religious cultures, by contrast, think that the causal order can sometimes be suspended. They believe that the causally inexplicable intervention of the sacred within our world, which we may call grace or (along with Danto) transfiguration, makes possible spiritual experience and what historically is often associated with it, namely art. Judd’s very American art, in which everything can be revealed, because ultimately nothing remains to be concealed, expresses the worldview of a secular materialist society. Byars comes as it were from another place.

I better understood The Angel after seeing Carl Andre’s familiar floor plates magnificently installed in the back gallery at Paula Cooper (April 1-29, 2006). In this large, mostly empty space you can get to the far wall without treading on the sculpture. But many people choose to walk on the sculpture, whether because it is on the floor or because it is composed of industrial materials or, perhaps, as an expression of hostility. By contrast, The Angel really demands to be protected. However critical Andre and Judd were of art world politics, the style of these pragmatic materialists was at one with the working philosophy of present-day American corporate society. The art of Andre and Judd is relatively easy for Americans to understand, for it expresses our everyday style of living. Byars remains baffling. In his treatise The Shape of Ancient Thought: Comparative Studies in Greek and Indian Philosophies (2002) Thomas McEvilley acknowledges the support of his friend Byars, “who for several years cherished a copy of the manuscript … which he carried about with him in two large shopping bags” (the book does not otherwise mention Byars). McEvilley claims that Greek and Indian philosophy, so seemingly different, are in fact deeply interconnected. Any “absolute dichotomy … between the Greek and the Indian needs to be reconsidered. It seems to have too much of that desire of the West to define itself by demarcating itself off from the East.” I can think of no better characterization of Byars’s unlocatable and yet pioneering “multicultural” art.

This article first appeard in print in art US, issue 14, July – September 2006

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Joe Fyfe, Andrea Scott, and Roberta Smith joined David Cohen to review Gilbert and George at Lehmann Maupin and at Sonnabend, Jesper Jest at Perry Rubenstein, Richard Tuttle at the Drawing Centre and Sarah McEneaney at Gallery Schlesinger.

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