by Jerome du Bois, with Catherine King
We're feeling magnanimous on this day of victory for freedom and the sovereign individual; we can exhale, then take a deep breath . . .
Okay, not that magnanimous. Time to kick some more ass.
On October 22, I published a strongly critical piece about so-called conceptual artist Ryan McNamara and his big photomontage "Angry Americans." In it, I fisk him up, I fisk him down, I fisk him all around de town. [Catherine says, "I'm glad you put in so-called."] And what do I get for my efforts?
On the morning of October 27, I received an email from maknuhmeruh-at-hotmail.com. No subject line, sender Ryan McNamara. Message:
I love you.
Well, who doesn't, but that's not the point. I raised serious issues about anger, self-control, 9/11, and self-reflection. And though I don't care to engage in any kind of dialogue with this person, and won't, his response disappointed me.
On the evening of October 27, I received an email from samuelkidd-at-hotmail.com. No subject line, sender David Velasco.
Aha! I thought. Here we go. This man, a NYC movie location scout, and McNamara's lover / partner, wrote a long, pomo-jargon-filled defense of his guy's piece being jerked from the ASU art exhibition "Democracy in America." I expected similar logorrhea here, and opened the email. Message:
I love you.
Okay, boys, go back to your toys, the grown-ups need to talk.
And I put them out of my mind and went back to compiling examples of horrible recent [so-called -- C.King] art for an upcoming piece on The Rebarb. Here's one: Truly ugly art sculptures from last month in New York City, where both McNamara and Velasco live. Warning: For readers with strong stomachs, I quote liberally from Holland Cotter's NYT (October 15, 2004) review, at ATM Gallery, of some kinetic sculptures by a cretin named Peter Caine:
Given the sweetish art [!] tiptoeing around Chelsea, it is hard to imagine Peter Caine's recklessly raunchy, stereotype-baiting work ever turning up there . . .
The first of them [the sculptures], in the front room, is a sci-fi tableau of Wookie-like creatures, black-skinned but covered with white fleece and set in an arctic landscape, their heads swiveling this way and that. It serves as an introduction to "Every Cop's Fantasy," in which a cartoon version of a black man wearing a polic badge is being sexually assaulted by a bald white police-punk of uncertain gender. A third piece, right behind it, depicts former President Ronald Reagan as a big baby with an Arnold Schwarzenegger torso, pumping iron and soiling his diapers. . .
. . . Altogether, though, it is definitely its own unsweet thing: the visual version of a moral tantrum, abrupt, loud and apparently spontaneous, but with its theatrical shock effects carefully prepared.
That's almost it, except these sociopaths are far from moral, and do not want to be. Still, a well-crafted last sentence, Cotter, an almost-perfect description of "Angry Americans." [Catherine scornfully scoffs, "But none of it is art!" And she's right.]
Two days later, on October 29, I received an email from marykhaos-at-hotmail.com. Subject line: you, always, you. Sender, Mary Kay Zeeb. Who dat? Message: same as the other two. Crap. So I googled her, and lo and behold! a familiar stale wind of mediocrity blew in -- Kathleen Vanesian's New Times review of last year's local-yokel show youstilldrawlikeagirl, "curated" by Sherrie Medina:
Another performance artist ["Translation: five-sided comedian." -- C.King], Mary Kay Zeeb, took more than conceptual risks in Droppings ("I don't draw," the artist admits, -- ["Can any of these clowns draw?" Catherine wants to know] -- "but I'm really good at drawing people out"). During a visit to New York, she left photocopies of her own headshot in random places in Manhattan, printed with the invitation to "draw on me and return to me." To date, four people have responded, and one explained that it was against his upbringing to mar or deface photos of people, though his heavy scrawling on the back of Zeeb's photo ended up embossing her face. Ryan McNamara, a native Phoenician now living and working in New York City, collaborated with unknowing bar patrons who dared to illegally dance with him in several bars there (legally speaking, dudes can't dance in Big Apple dives without getting a ticket), creating "Excuse Me While I Bump Your Holster With My Illegal Dancing." McNamara had strategically placed gun targets on the floor, which became randomly scuffed and "drawn" upon as the artist and participating cohorts boogied away.
All of these people except Velasco come from the Herberger School out at ASU. This is the caliber of the . . . work that "earns" degrees.
[Catherine reminds me: "Tell them about Spiak's dumbass show."] Back in 2000, John Spiak "curated" something called Nooks & Crannies out at Nelson Fine Arts Center. Check out Ryan McNamara's contribution, copy written by coyboy Spiak:
What would it be like to be a young, emerging artist from Arizona moving to New York to try to make a start of it in the Big Apple? Recently relocated Phoenix artist Ryan McNamara is about to find out and he is going to share his experiences with you. Through this ever-evolving work, McNamara's space will change weekly upon the arrival, via US Postal Service, of an object of discovery and adventure (whether one of illumination, realization, confusion or disenchantment) from his new East Coast home. Each of McNamara's chosen pieces will be accompanied by a didactic text panel written by the artist providing insight into the meaning and relevance of his latest urban archeological finds.
Again, this is all ASU. Now, it just so happens that Vanesian's article carries a very revealing and unintentionally hilarious account of her dustup with Sherrie Medina:
Several years ago, I was soundly excoriated in the pages of this newspaper by a seriously disaffected letter writer from the arts community. [This is Sherrie Medina she's talking about.] She was incensed about a review I wrote concerning a downtown art gallery event that I found less than, shall we say, aesthetically enriching. In fact, she stated -- and I quote -- "[t]he art criticism in this town is pathetic, boring and childish." I suspect her charge included my art criticism, since elsewhere in the letter she specifically mentioned me by name.
According to the enraged writer, ". . . the art of writing for publications such as New Times . . . is to assist in the public's experience with the art and to help them understand where they can have these art experiences. . . . I challenge the art critics in this town to grow up and really support the arts, not tell us what they think is good or bad art."
["Translation: WAAAAAH!" -- Catherine King.]
Medina teaches out at that dolorous place, where she presumably assures her charges that she's out in the world preaching unconditional acceptance of art school graduates. [Catherine say, "Over my dead keyboard." Ditto from me.]
We have been challenging all local artists, critics, collectors, curators, and gallerists to grow up and really create some art, not the manure we've been describing for oh, so long. The stories we could tell --
-- Wait, what's this? On Saturday afternoon, October 30, another email from McNamara, exactly the same as all the others.
Nothing on Sunday, October 31. ["Maybe they're working on their Halloween costumes," Catherine speculates. "This is that same Belgian gallery that carried all those screaming kids." Belgium: what a shithole. -- JdB]
On Monday morning, November 1, we received another email from M.K. Zeeb, same message. Idiots.
Yesterday, Election Day [YES! Congratulations, Mr. President], November 2, we received another email from Ryan McNamara, same message. This is now officially submental.
Dean Mills must be very proud of his graduates.
Posted by Jerome at November 3, 2004 11:42 AM | TrackBack