2006 Art Year in Review

At this time of year, many publications put together their ’10 Best’ or ‘100 Best’ or ‘Best of…’ lists for your consumption. Here at FTM, our simian researchers have put together their personal highlights and revelations of the past year, in no particular order:

Edward Hopper at Whitney—The show consisted of the Whitney’s own collection, plus other major pieces culled from elsewhere (Nighthawks from the Art Institute of Chicago being the most notable). Although I find him a bit tedious and he shows remarkable lack of competence in drawing living faces, Hopper’s paintings capture the mood of American landscape better than most others. While the quiet alienation of most well known pieces is familiar, I was pleasantly surprised by a small room of New England seascapes, mostly set in Maine. In paintings no larger than 16” on a side, he captures a frothy sea crashing against the rocky shore with a minimal number of roughly hewn smudges. The application of paint is pure expressionism, colors are disciplined and subdued, and the total effect is stunning. Bravo Straightedge Eddie, I did not know you had it in you!

Egyptian art—Not contemporary by any stretch of the word, but since FTM paid a visit to the land of the Nile this past January, it will be included in this year’s list. Even the usual traveler itinerary is enough for a lifetime highlight reel from this place. What left the most profound impression was not the scale of the temples and pyramids but the confidence and skill of the Egyptian sculptors. I was particularly moved by one sculpture of a seated pharaoh at the Luxor Museum. Aside from its perfect state (carved from a dark gray stone around 3400 years ago) of preservation, I noticed a small but perceptible smile on the subject’s face. His eyes were wide open, and his lips were tucked in on their corners and turned every slightly upward. Standing before me was not some idol, or relic of a monolithic culture, or even a creation of god-like space aliens, but a man, perfectly and gloriously rendered in stone. And his expression said: “I’ve made it. I have achieved immortality. Thank you for your visit.” I had to agree with him. Thanks for waiting for me to come by all these years.

Armory show—In March of every year (or the past few years anyways) the art world embarks on an orgy of sales and promotion at the Armory Show in NYC. It is not held at an armory, and never was. It began as a small fair at the Gramercy Hotel in the late 90’s and moved to the piers on the west side as it got too large for its old location. I don’t know why it’s called the Armory show, as there are actually a few armories left in New York which they certainly could have used for the Armory show. But they didn’t. The only explanation of the name could be the reference to THE armory show, the one which brought modern art to the US in 1912. Its most famous piece was Duchamp’s ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’, and since the contemporary art world worships regularly at the temple of Duchamp, with daily supplications and an occasional virgin sacrifice, it is quite appropriate to name an art fair after the art fair which inspired countless subsequent art fairs. Hence, the Armory Show.

As for the art, not too many specifics jump out. Most if it was pretty good. It was clever, resulting in an occasional chuckle. Most of it looked like it could fit over the couch or in the hallway. A lot could be carried away under your arm. I recall some rather skilled Chinese painters making silly and somewhat ugly paintings—rosy cheeked Maoists doing crazy contortions. I thought it was a waste of talent. The most consistent thing about the show was the presence of Matt Dillon. Mr. Dillon, with a small entourage (a petite, well dressed female, and an unidentified man) walked through the entire fair at roughly the same pace I did. Occasionally he was one gallery in front of me, and other times I walked in on him looking over some piece or other. Although he was clearly in a buying mood, his opinion of the selection at hand alternated between “What the fuck?” and “I don’t get it.” expressed in a lovely south Brooklyn dialect. Finally, as we were getting to the last galleries (after about 3 hours of walking and looking) he found what he wanted: an Yves Klein print of a woman’s torso. Mr. Klein coated a naked woman with his favorite color (dark blue) and pressed her against a piece of printmaking paper. The result was elegant, yet erotic. Matt Dillon was ecstatic. “Finally, something I like!” he exclaimed. After inquiring about the price, he turned with disgust to his entourage:
“They want seven hundred thousand dollars for that thing! Can you fuckin’ believe it?!”
Yes Mr. Dillon, you can believe it. Yves Klein’s position in the art world was analogous to yours in Hollywood: middle of the road popularity, provocative, a bit outrageous. His pricing reflects the fame he gained from throwing himself out a few windows, and his premature death (from cancer unfortunately). I recommend you also should throw yourself out the window to cement your place in the pantheon of American cinema. Soon.

Chelsea—The standards in Chelsea were the same this year as the last: everything should be original, large, perfectly crafted, beautiful and completely useless. Extras points if you turn something useful and transform it into something useless. Double extra points if it references one of the modern masters.

Everyone in on the top of their game: Ellsworth Kelly making great Ellsworth Kellys, Robert Ryman excellent Rymans, Alex Katz making great Alex Katzs’ etc. etc. Even the younger artists are all systematic and deliberate in their work.

The feeling I get when visiting all the galleries is that everyone seems to be (pardon the baseball metaphor) bunting, moving the runners along; with no one swinging for the fences. Perhaps it is all the apocryphal hedge fund managers whose tastes the dealers and artists anticipate, but I recall little in Chelsea which is challenging, provocative or difficult. Instead, art has become the ultimate luxury object, an object which properly represents wealth and power of its beholders. The situation is somewhat reminiscent of the Paris Salon during the 1850’s: a world of talented and ultimately conservative artists, with self imposed standards and limitations, catering to the tastes of a newly risen bourgeois.

There was one painting which stood out during my recent forays to Chelsea-- It was a late Warhol exhibited at Gagosian’s new space (the show was called ‘Cast of a Cold Eye’). The piece was a giant white on white repeated silkscreen of Mona Lisa (in two rows of perhaps 20 impressions each), with dimensions of each silkscreen twice the size of DaVinci’s original. Somehow that painting represented the ethos of Warhol, his ultimate fate and the art of painting in general. He likened himself to a toiler in paint, covering acres of canvas with a barely perceptible image of one of history’s great paintings, made by a man who (in contrast to Andy) produced only a handful of paintings. The white on white of the silkscreen reeks of death and disappearance, only labor’s evidence remains. Here was Warhol as a worker-artist, doing what needs to be done, covering the surface which needs to be covered, driven only by ghosts of past masters and needs whose original motivations were lost. It was sad, moving and beautiful.

Mexican Art—In addition to Egypt, FTM visited some ancient sites of our southern neighbor-the Mayan ruins around Palenque, as well as the Aztec and predecessor sites around Mexico City. If the Egyptians were sculptors, the Mexicans were chiselers. Much of the carving was primitive and blocky. Only the Mayan production stood out—the best of it was in carved plaster.

As for more recent Mexican art—the Diego Rivera’s, Frida Kahlos etc. etc.—most of it was colorful, sculptural in its rendering and somewhat naïve. The drama of common life in Mexico seems to be its overarching narrative. We are blessed with such fine neighbors.

American Dad & Family Guy (FOX, Sunday nights)—Not strictly ‘Art’ these two animated sitcoms get the zeitgeist of this country better than anything. Roughly modeled on The Simpsons, these shows present a reality in which all priests are pedophiles, all politicians corrupt, all evangelical Christians are hypocrites, all businessmen are exploitative liars and all liberals should be viciously mugged. They capture the materially abundant yet dissonant world which we really inhabit. In some ways, the animated format of these programs allows for an unabridged reality—sneakers made by three fingered Indonesian children, terrorists plotting attacks and mundane tasks of suburban families are simultaneously and frenetically presented. Watching them is like turning the moral of the “Emperor’s New Clothes” on its head: The emperor is naked, and we really like his wardrobe. We have to like the wardrobe, because it is ours too.

Netflix—I never like to be a corporate shill, but over the last year I have fallen in love with Netflix. My cinematic diet has been top notch because of it: the classics, the film school favorites (Fellini, Godard, Tarkovsky, Scorsese), and the cream of recent cinema’s crop arrive at my house several times a week.

The best thing about Netfix is that when another cinephile recommends a film, you can instantly add it to your cue. It can lead to great discoveries of never-before-heard-of films. One such film was I am Cuba, in Spanish, badly dubbed into Russian with English subtitles. Gorgeous film, with the most sympathetic portrayal of Communists you will ever see.

Of course, I am still recommending everyone see The Battle of Algiers. It has the most incredible street riot sequences of any film, fiction or documentary. The drama is heart pounding, and the lead character, a French cop played by Jean Martin reminds me of Alan Alda’s character from M*A*S*H.

Whitney Biennial –The last few biennials have been entertaining affairs—sometimes feeling more like celebrations of a clever and beautiful art audience rather than surveys of recent domestic production. This year’s was surprisingly challenging. It featured removed walls, quirky outsider art and really pathetic rough hewn installations. I felt at times like Matt Dillon at the Armory Show (“What the fuck?”, “I don’t get it.”) My mind still burns by one particular installation: in a bare smallish room are the traces of setting up an installation—a ladder, half painted walls, a piece of drywall in the center, and a swatch of grey carpet on the floor. All lit by a bare light bulb. Nothing essentially. Why is it there? I am still pondering.