The Armory Show: Theme 1

This past week was ridiculously crazy with all the art fairs, but if you get into a rhythm you can really enjoy yourself and see a lot of good (or forgettable) art. I was only able to see part of the Armory this year due to the fact that I had multiple other plans and was then derailed by the necessities of living: the ever pesky activities of doing laundry and grocery shopping.

The Armory this year was all about volume. In order to turn a profit in a post–stock market crash economy, galleries displayed many smaller, less expensive works, that if I had a job that paid a bit more, I might theoretically be able to afford. (Recently my coworkers and I have suggested, jokingly, that we pool our resources, buy art and rotate it around our offices. We would also be willing to give tours, do loans, and create didactic material. Basically we want to crowd-finance art purchases.) If I were an art consultant I would really have helped collectors clean up with some choice work...but alas.

There is no absolutely no way to characterize the entire show, but it can be fruitful to pick out individual works or to identify subtrends observable in hundreds of art booths. Trends can be useful for multiple reasons: they can indicate the kinds of themes that

are of interest to galleries, and possibly buyers, or they can potentially reveal thematic psychological, societal undercurrents (if one believes in the art to signify beyond itself, which I do. Art as symptom, one co-constructed by multiple parties). One such trend seemed to be art that was related to the idea of shallowness. Work after work created the illusion of depth, but to a limited degree. Far reaching, illusionistic, penetrating vistas have long departed most of the contemporary art in (at least) New York art galleries. And in fact it is well known that this trend toward flatness began around the 1860s, if not before. It was then that depth began to be eschewed for a focus on the picture plane, most famously in the paintings of Manet [Check out this interesting take on one of Edouard Manet's paintings]. This trajectory came to culmination in the work of the Greenbergian modernist painters of the 1940s and 50s. Since then, painting has greatly lost its prominence, though it never has died, nor should it in my opinion. In the Armory, what was fascinating about many works was that they seemed to have returned to the idea of painting, and of the idea of slight depth, but in other mediums.

German artist Herbert Hamak's 2009 resin and pigment works S. T. H1137N and S. T. H1139N (notably on canvas) that seem like blocks of ice, their depths unfathomable when viewed head on, but obvious when viewed from the side. Their obvious lack of depth revealed from any oblique angle is somewhat countered by the sense of murky depths when approaching the work head-on. A slight commentary perhaps on the ways in which viewpoint can seriously alter perception. Comparisons to Roni Horn's blocks of glass are formally relevant, but Horn's works are more about the clarity of the material (glass), the singularity of the material as weighty sculpture, and their allusiveness to clear waters. Hamak's, meanwhile, seem to be rooted in the relationship of other material to painting. Even their small size roots them on the wall, though the orientation of one of the works on display at the Armory jutted so far out into the field of vision that it could neither easily be termed painting or relief, but rather wall-sculpture. Hamak's use of resin is a method of suspending pigment, to focus on the color itself, rather than of the interaction between the two. Still, the resin serves to blunt the pigment's vibrancy, creating a matte quality that blunts the metaphorical connotations of clear sightedness.

Peter Zimmermann's works (e.g., Bud, 2008), made of epoxy resin on canvas, look like colorful oil slicks, with one layer slightly overlying the next. Although joyful in their vibrancy, there is a slightly menacing quality to these works. Based on real-world images, Zimmermann lowers the melting point of abstraction. No Morris Louis or Helen Frankenthaler reinforcing the idea of paint on canvas, in these works the epoxy denies the canvas base on which it lies. Reminiscent of high gloss car paint, these works could be conceived as inadvertent cautionary statements to the nations that valorize oil. But that is perhaps going to far. What is certain is that there is a fetishistic quality to Zimmermann's work that sucks you in, just like the rainbow colors on a oil slick. The most apropos comparison would be to Lynda Benglis's poured colored latex, whose rejection of the canvas altogether took the idea of painting off the support. But whereas Benglis's works have unfortunately not physically withstood the effects of time (many of the works unfortunately now look dirty), Zimmermann's are all timeless perfection. He has transformed Benglis's floor spills into controlled pictures abstracted from reality. In this he has ties to Gerhard Richter and his effacing of underlying images, though without Richter's obsessive attention to all kinds of images and also without Richter's cutting critique or inquiry into representation. Although I admit that I very much like Zimmerman's work, it is enticing, I feel its twisting of the legacy of Benglis's floor pieces, which deliberately flouted location (made in whatever studio she could find), material (latex was a slightly unusual material at this time) and the idea of the vertical painting (floor pieces) is dubious.The colors slide too easily over one another, creating ever-so-slight shadows that wash away thought.

Meanwhile, Dias & Riedweg's work Each thing his place. Another place, another thing (2009), a grid of nine photographs, each showing a similar division of two shelves of suitcases gives just enough depth to give the slight illusion of being actual shelves set into the wall. The display clearly references Andy Warhol's critique (or celebration, depending on your viewpoint) of consumerism in his Campbell's soup can and Brillo box series and the use of photography plays on the idea of whether photography can really index reality (a common usage for photography). Here this effect is used to fool the eye to a heightened degree, almost negating itself as photography and presenting itself as reality. The breaks between the photographs are almost unnoticeable, as the eye at first reads them merely as spaces in the lines of objects. These breaks can perhaps be read as the devices that reveal the way in which a visual logic of capitalism has become so embedded in our mode of seeing, that we literally

don't see the cracks in the reality or the representation. Most significant for this work is the identity of the items: suitcases, things in which people put their possessions to take them along with them. Just as we store and take with us objects, we store and take with us our modes of seeing. The shallowness here serves as a mimic for the lack of depth in object display and our mechanisms of interpretation.

Finally, Joris van de Moorte. (A quick caveat. This work may not actually be by Van de Moorte. The name was written at the bottom of the wall on which this piece was hung, but it may have referred to another work on display. Unfortunately for the gallerist, such methods of fixing object with artist can easily be misunderstood. If someone knows who did this, please let me know. The work has affinities to the Hamak sculptures, and at first glance appears to be

either glass behind glass or some kind of illuminated resin. Upon closer inspection it appears to be tarp--a cheap disposable material used for anything from gardening to trash bags. By framing it and illuminating it from behind, the artist has elevated this detritus to icon--something that shows only itself. By mounting it behind glass, it is coded as precious or t least worthy of protection. The slight depth allowing it maintain its three-dimensionality. In all, the character of slight depth seemed to be something of interest to various artists throughout the show, allowing them to explore variations of this term's meaning, allowing them to work in-between or among mediums, and promoting an examination of modes of viewing.

Skin Fruit?

The other night I attended the opening of Skin Fruit: Selections from the Dakis Joannou Collection, curated by Jeff Koons, on view at the New Museum of Contemporary Art (Hell, Yes!). Having heard terribly negative things flitting about on Twitter (second-hand of course, via my friend. Statements made on Twitter have a tendency to ring as truisms, unfortunately before the fact), I was looking forward to a good showing of terrible art. And indeed some of it is quite awful. But much of it is not awful at all. The problem with this show is that it has a leveling effect on the art displayed, reducing everything to a base (and basic) level.

As not-too-subtly alluded to by the exhibition title, Skin Fruit is about sex and sensuality, and well, let's just come right out and say it: poo. If there is something that could possibly be construed as abject or morbid, it is. But whereas the New Museum's Unmonumental had a similar quality and feel to it (for example, both shows include(d) the work of Urs Fischer), there the work was decidedly UN-monumental, whereas here, monumentality and garishness appear to be mandatory. There are a few understated works throughout the museum, but they are unfortunately overshadowed. "There is supposed to be a lot of genitalia in this show," my friend warned me as I sighted a half-naked alien boy by Takashi Murakami (not a bad work in and of itself, and actually quite a surprise for me and my conception of Murakami's art). "Not that there's anything wrong with that," I hear my inner Seinfeld tell me. But an apropos warning it was.

Sometimes the references to the sexual are well done. The issue is really that it seems as if Koons has selected each work for its connection to a kind of transgressiveness, abjectness, or dirtiness that does not do credit to all of the individual artists' projects. A Cindy Sherman (1992, I believe) in which a mud-covered Sherman's head becomes the left (sinister) eye of another face, simultaneously converts her face into a vulva; her mouth, with bared teeth, the vagina dentata; and a wound on her arm the "wound" of the female's genitals. This work could easily be slotted into a history of the abject (a traditional reading of these Sherman works), but, importantly, Sherman does not picture any nether-regions whatsoever. Her exploration of the way in which bodies are coded and read as sensual conflates vision with a kind of rape. The mud that covers her face codes her as abject, but it also protects her, blocking vision and serving as a second skin.

Kiki Smith's works, of which there are several on view, are unfortunately placed in the context of other works that make them seem to be mostly about the profane and demonic. While Smith is certainly interested in the way in which people (mostly women) can portrayed as evil, she is definitely extremely interested in the holy nature of the human body in pain. Smith's work is also generally talked about in terms of her relationship to the abject, for example, her long bronze unrolled intestine is quite obviously a reference to a line of shit, but in transforming this trace of the body into bronze, she memorializes it and turns it into a relic. The latter essential elements of Smith's work are somewhat lost in this exhibition. Similarly, the fact that a Smith work of a woman crouching on a wall with her hair hanging down is partially about the ways in which women have been treated or positioned as evil (see her Lilith work), is obscured by placing it near a truly gigantic Roberto Cuoghi sculpture of an Assyrian demon that, at least according to the wall label, is partially to be seen as a representation of the end of American dominance.

Unsurprisingly works by John Bock, Nathalie Djurberg, and Paul McCarthy (and surprisingly even Paul Chan) also seem to have all been selected by Koons for their connections to the abject and/or orgiastic sexuality. And the numerous Chris Ofilis? Just google "Chris Ofili" and "Sensation" and you'll figure out how his talented artist unfortunately is made to fit in (although to Koons's credit, he has also selected multiple blue paintings by Ofili that cannot be connected to that famous scatalogical controversy).

It's not that Koons's selection is de facto poor. Koons (and his obsessive attention to detail) is an artist I respect for his focus on machinic craft and the idea of compulsion. Koons has indeed isolated an important nasty undercurrent in much art in this show. His own exploration of the kitsch nature of 18th-century Rococo sexual tropes shows that he is interested in the transformation of this theme through time. The problem resides in how the theme comes to define the works, setting them up as illustrative examples. They fit too neatly into the framework, which anchors them instead of encouraging them to reveal their nuances.

Nevertheless, some works in particular transcend the show's stifling contextual box. Christiana Soulou has a striking series of delicate drawings that gently explores the connections between bodies, clothing, and dance. Smith's Untitled (Skin), with its metal repeated squares with their skin impressions, is a touching riposte to her father's Minimalism. Meanwhile, David Altmejd is represented by Giant. Although Altmejd's work is generally strong, this work seems outlandish. I cannot however decide if it is truly terrible or sheer genius: its styrofoam, mirrored, glittered form is crawling with stuffed squirrels. Altmejd is often discussed in terms of his creation of a fantastical otherworld in either the distant past or the far future in which there are only remnants of now long-gone civilizations. Here the squirrels serve up a dash of humor, undercutting the seriousness of the decaying (again abject) quality of the figure.

One piece that stood out as particularly fascinating was Pawel Althamer's Schedule of the Crucifix (2005). For this piece, people who have volunteered periodically go behind a small screen, change clothes into the vestments that many people might associate with Jesus (a loincloth and crown of thorns) and climb up onto a crucifix, held up by some straps and their own muscles, and and seated on a bicycle seat (hidden when the people are seated). The volunteers are supposed to stay in the position of Christ on the cross as long as they can, and then descend. Looking up at this piece, I immediately thought it was a lifesize wax sculpture, a kind of easy, kitsch representation of a venerable religious tradition. However, then I saw the figure twitch and adjusted my interpretation: it had to be a strange animatronic plastic figure, in which Jesus was moved by hidden machines and computer processing chips; a literal deus ex machina. "Decidedly creepy," I thought. But then I realized it was a real person. Someone living. Breathing. Having difficulty holding the pose, his muscles had begun to move involuntarily. This touching performance humbly makes each person the figure of God on Earth. Living, flesh. The miracle that was promised and finally made real. The descent and reascent of different people ennobles the individual and brings to life something that many cynical New Yorkers (and beyond) often easily dismiss as myth. No simple laudation of Christianity or mysticism, Althamer's work asks the viewer to empathize with another human being--not one specific human being, but each singular one--and to think of him or herself as both suffering and divine.