Carolyn Faden

This Saturday, La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela's Dream House: Sound and Light Environment opens for its 20th year at the MELA Foundation in Tribeca. Three years ago I wrote about my experience entering the Dream House for the first time here.

So I went to Armory Arts Week! And it was lovely! I saw so many great things that it’s almost impossible to decide what to post about…so I’ve decided to take the easy way out, and make a list of five favorite things that I saw...

1. Chowaiki & Co.’s booth, “Girls, Girls, Girls” at the Armory:

  This was probably one of my favorite booths in the Armory Modern—chock full of paintings, portraits and photographs of women. Not to mention some of Tom Wesselmann’s steel sculptures. The display also appealed to the de Kooning maniac in me, with a drawing by the artist. And also had some Cindy Sherman photos, perhaps playing off the popularity of her current retrospective at the MoMA.

2. Claire Shegog’s Busby Berkeley Sculptures (Aureus Contemporary) at Scope:

When I first saw these, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Gunther Uecker’s nail sculptures (which are currently on view at the Neue Galerie). I absolutely loved the hypnotic effect of the colorful circles. But when I looked closer, I saw that each protrusion on Shegog’s circular mirrors was in fact, a small figurine. When I learned that these were tributes to the late choreographer Busby Berkeley (who directed bird's eye dance sequences), I loved the works even more.

3. Tom LaDuke’s Surrender (Angles Gallery) at the Armory:

  Can you see it? Do you see the reference?

 Manet’s Bar at the Folies-Bergere!

I loved LaDuke's painting so much. Especially the way the thick globs of paint point out some of the most striking aspects of Manet’s bar—the bottles on the bar, the waitress’s attire, the woman in the orange gloves, the bowl of oranges. For someone who can be a bit of an impressionism-junky, this work was a complete thrill.

4. Farideh Lashai’s Rabbit in Wonderland (Leila Heller Gallery) at the Armory:

 It really is unfortunate that I don’t have a photo of this work…but I’m not even sure the piece could be accurately represented on camera. Lashai’s “Rabbit in Wonderland” is this hybrid of original painting and projected video. The Iranian artist projects a video of a cartoon bunny and a man walking onto a white and green abstracted canvas. The effect was really mesmerizing and beautiful.

5. Alinka Echeverria’s The Road to Tepeyac (EB&Flow) at Volta NY:

I saw this photo series while I was looking at another booth and literally ran ahead to get a closer look. Echeverria pictures show the backs of pilgrims traveling to Tepeyac in Mexico to pay homage to Our Lady of Guadalupe. The artist places the figures against a white background, focusing the viewer’s attention on the peoples’ bright, religious regalia. The photos are colorful and vibrant, but also extremely touching.

A friend’s father asked me the other night what I thought of Maurizio Cattelan’s retrospective at the Guggenheim. I remember my response being delayed, unintelligible and unenthusiastic--probably containing many “ehs” and “ums.” Not because I didn’t know what to say, but perhaps because to be honest, I still don’t really know what I think.

Under the influence of recently reading Roberta Smith’s eye-roll/review of Cattelan’s final show before his alleged retirement from the art world, I went into the exhibition expecting to be bored. Yeah, yeah, I get it…this retrospective isn’t a retrospective. You’re critiquing the concept of such supposedly ridiculous museum-mandated institutions…blah, blah. Okay, Mr. Cattelan, you’re hanging all your best artwork by the ceiling of the Gugg to point out that your oeuvre is both a triumph (the centerpiece of one of the most famous museums in the world) and a chore (hung up like dirty laundry to dry).

All these motives seemed immediately apparent (perhaps too apparent?). And it’s fairly easy to understand the merits of displaying artwork hung and crucified. Unlike other, more historical retrospectives, such as de Kooning at the MoMA (I know…I talk about de Kooning too much), Cattelan’s massive installation allows him to show and manipulate his work any way he wants--after all, it is an entirely new piece of work. He murders his darlings--changing the way they were originally displayed and tying them up like dead carcasses. His veristic plastic sculptures aren’t fastened to white museum walls and arranged by curators who might aim to present a chronological or thematic examination of his career. Instead, they are hoisted up towards the Gugg’s glass ceiling in a conglomeration of over 20 years of artistic experience. Pieces that were designed for specific settings, many of which are most effective when incorporated into an environment--such as Untitled (2001) (where a wax and plastic Cattelan peers through a hole in the floor)--dangle in self-contained cubes. La Nona Ora (1999), perhaps Cattelan’s most famous work, which was displayed in the Warsaw Gallery in 1999 amidst shattered glass, loses some of its resonance. Those unfamiliar with the original context of Cattelan’s work may get lost in the midst of his giant, career-spanning mobile.

Since Paula Modersohn-Becker’s death in 1907, the term “monumental” has been employed by scholars and curators to define the way in which the artist depicts the human form. Gustav Pauli first defined Modersohn-Becker’s work as “monumental” in his 1919 monograph. In her formative English-language monograph of 1979, Gillian Perry describes the artist’s females as “monumental mothers.” In more recent scholarship, the concept of monumentality in Modersohn-Becker’s art has been associated with the way in which she exhibits the figure of the mother as heroic and iconic. Scholars like Diane Radycki and Anne Higonnet draw upon the socio-economic and political environment in which the artist lived to purport that Modersohn-Becker’s intention was to render a grand, iconic image of motherhood.

Within the course of scholarship on the artist, the word “monumental” has become a loaded term—used to evangelize the importance of the artist’s work in Pauli’s case, to define her subject-matter, or to draw issues of motherhood and gender equality into conversations about the artist’s intent. In my thesis I aim to reevaluate this concept of monumentality by considering the ways in which Modersohn-Becker arrived at her mode of depicting the female form. By focusing on the role of ancient sculpture in the artist’s development, I will attempt to reconsider what makes the artist’s work so monumental on a purely formal basis. In doing so, it becomes apparent that the monumentality of Modersohn-Becker’s work does not only reflect the possibilities behind the artist’s intent to offer icons of motherhood, but instead, in a more literal sense, the nature through which Modersohn-Becker reaches a markedly more geometric and sculptural mode of representation.

The other day I was going through some of the many, many books taking over my bookshelf and I came across an interesting find--a decrepit exhibition catalog that was given to me years ago by an old friend of my mother’s. I was immediately intrigued by the catalog, entitled, “Blam!: The Explosion of Pop, Minimalism and Performance 1958-1964.” In rereading it, I came upon an interesting section written by John G. Hanhardt on American independent cinema in the early ‘60s. On one page, I caught a glimpse of a still from Robert Frank and Alfred Leslie’s 1959 film, Pull My Daisy. Suddenly I remembered--I had meant to write a blog post on Frank’s films months ago!

Directed by Robert Frank, Pull My Daisy has an intensely photographic feel. The long, close-up shots of different parts of the scenery, people’s faces and various objects Frank uses in the film are evocative of his own photographs. Despite the cinematic and occasional staged-looking scenes, the film also has an aura of impromptu spontaneity. And many of the scenes appear improvised even though they were carefully planned and rehearsed.

In Hanhardt’s essay (from the long lost exhibition catalog), Lithuanian filmmaker Jonas Mekas is quoted saying Pull My Daisy “…breaths an immediacy that the cinema of today vitally needs if it is to be a living and contemporary art.” This immediacy is something that I loved the first time I saw the film. Pull My Daisy is narrated by Jack Kerouac and includes the likes of Gregory Corso, Peter Orlovsky, and Allen Ginsberg--who play Beat poets that may be loosely base on their own personalities. After watching Pull My Daisy, you feel as if you’ve been given direct insight into the lives and routines of these now-legendary poets.

The first half of the film is comprised of footage of Ginsberg and Corso talking and smoking in a Lower East Side apartment. Later, they’re accompanied by Milo (played by Larry Rivers) and Milo’s wife (played by the actress Delphine Seyrig) who have a bishop and his family over for dinner. During the course of the meal, Ginsberg, Corso, and Orlovsky ask the bishop a series of questions about religion, Buddhism, and the holiness of life. The humorous scene's flow, rhythm and subject matter are all evocative of Ginsberg’s magnum opus, Howl. (There is frequent repetition of the word “holy" and at one point, Ginsberg even asks the bishop if baseball is holy). The film contains this fantastic fusion of poets and artists who were up-and-coming during the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. It captures a moment in time when artistic greats were in the process of developing their crafts.

Another splendid film of Frank’s is 1963’s William Buys a Parrot. This short clip, running at 2 minutes, is playful and colorful, with close-up shots of William Burroughs and a parrot he is supposedly trying to purchase. The shots have a photographic quality reminiscent of those in Pull My Daisy. And the artful close-ups Frank uses to zoom in on the bouncing parrot and on Burroughs add to the comedy of the clip. Like 1959's Pull My Daisy, Frank's (much) shorter film is rife with an effortless sense of humor and wit. The short film is available for online viewing here.

It is not often that a painter—or anyone else for that matter—can directly address a dead artist. It is probably even more rare that, if given the chance, that same painter would harangue the deceased with a laundry list of complaints about his work. During a reading at the Friedrich Petzel Gallery on October 6, Nicola Tyson did just that—performing letters she had written to the master painters of modernity. Pablo Picasso, Francis Bacon, and Edouard Manet bore most of Tyson’s feminist brunt—which dismissed their works as “boring” and unimportant. “Dear Bacon,” one letter begins, “I’m getting so weary of how often my work is compared to yours!” Tyson’s complaint is valid. She is frequently compared to the Irish painter because of their shared British citizenship and similarly imaginative figurative works. Despite constant comparisons with Bacon’s dark, existentialist creations, Tyson has her own arresting visual style—evident in a display of her work at the Friedrich Petzel Gallery from September 8 to November 5.

Tyson’s large, vibrant works depict groups of anthropomorphic, fantastical figures in bombastic hues and blur the line between artful accident and inventive choice. In Self-Portrait With Friend, Tyson uses segments of orange, red and green to create an attenuated, faceless creature on the left. Tyson assembles an imaginative vision of herself on the right, with large swatches of fleshy pinks and reds. Tyson’s paint application—in delineated segments and divisions, as seen in this self-portrait—seems calculated and methodical, giving the figures an explicit and defined form. But a close look at the paintings suggests a sketchy, spontaneous quality. While geometric scraps of color construct the patchwork figure on the left, free-flowing sketch work is visible behind layers of paint. Tyson sketches her fictive creatures first in rapid preparatory drawings, which are then scaled to canvas size. Afterwards, she creates the figures using segments of bright color—bringing the creatures from the recesses of her mind into conscious space.

A formative artist with work in the collection of museums like the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney and the Tate Gallery, Tyson was born in London in 1960. She graduated from St. Martin’s School of Art in 1989 and went on to have a solo show at the Kunsthalle Zurich in 1998. She has been included in numerous group shows in London and abroad at the Museum of Modern Art in Chicago, Tate Modern, PS1 and Whitechapel Gallery. Most recently, in 2010, Tyson was nominated for the prestigious Charles Wollaston Award from the Royal Academy. 

Within her developed and decisive body of work, there are elements of Bacon-like figuration. Figure Creeping, for example, does recall the stooped and huddled mass of flesh in Bacon’s Crucifixion. Tyson’s figure is confined to some sort of architectural room or space—with a diagonal line indicating perspective and intersecting the figure. Like in Bacon’s 1962 painting, the body parts in Figure Creeping cannot be clearly distinguished but figurative aspects remain—like the protruding fleshy stumps that serve as the legs on Tyson’s figure.

But although Tyson’s contorted figures relate to Bacon’s work in the way she combines the corporeal and the imaginative, they are inherently different. Tyson takes her creations and thrusts them into a world of bright, vibrant color. Where Bacon’s flesh-like beasts reside in an internal mortuary, Tyson’s creatures belong in a circus. They are bathed in teals and purples, often wearing apparel resembling that of a clown’s. In Two Figures Touching, Tyson positions the figures in front of a bright orange and green background. A purple monster on the right has flesh-toned, spindly legs and wears a blue and orange striped tunic. A green swatch of color shields the left figure’s eyes and mouth, as if it is wearing a mask. The masked individual wears a bright teal shirt and pants that are checkered with orange, blue, pink and green circles.

The dynamism of these works relies heavily on this carnivalesque use of color. But the tension between her characters endows the works with an energetic life. In Two Figures Touching, for example, the title belies the work’s content. The figures are anticipating contact, with one figure’s purple arm extending toward the other figure’s shoulder. In Two Figures on Orange, Tyson depicts the anxiety of the voyeur. The figure in the foreground faces a female creature, perhaps staring at the woman’s long, skinny, green-and-pink legs. In the foreground, the person’s hand is round and bulbous, looking like a clenched fist and hinting at the possibility of violence. Although Self-Portrait with Friend portrays two creatures that seem to coexist peacefully, the bottom-heavy figure is about to sit on a rail-thin stool that may or may not hold her weight. Tyson establishes an awkward sense of suspense by showing her fictional self in this tense, liminal state.

Tyson’s new sculpture, at an adjacent Friedrich Petzel gallery, lacks all that her paintings possess in terms of tension and suspense. The small, white works take on avian forms and are constructed from plain, white modeling clay. The sculptures appear stagnant when compared with Two Figures Touching or Two Figures on Orange. For one, Tyson’s remarkable use of color is obviously absent. But even in terms of form alone, Tyson’s sculpted birds look more like discarded organic matter than invented monsters. Unlike the captivating stance of Figure Creeping, Weak Swan rests complacently with its neck facing downward. In Veiled Bird, although the beak protrudes upwards, the rest of the body is loosely piled upon itself like excess toothpaste squirt from a tube. While Tyson’s sculptures are mediocre in comparison to her paintings, they exhibit her desire to experiment with different media and push her own artistic boundaries.

The work of Emer Gillespie proves that tired adage that art is life and life can make for truly beautiful art. The Irish photographer, who received her Masters in Photography from the London College of Communications in 2009, captures scenes of her own life in her colourful photographs. Gillespie’s daughter, Laoisha, is her favorite subject and self-admitted muse—even inspiring Gillespie’s most recent project, Picture You, Picture Me, which is made up of touching diptychs portraying the mother-daughter duo. This past summer, her work was exhibited at the Foley Gallery as part of the 2011 Summer Show Project, Altered States. More recently, Gillespie was able to display her work on her home turf in a solo-show at the RúaRed Gallery in Dublin. Gillespie’s photos are poignant without being cloyingly sweet, encapsulating and elevating the art of the everyday.  In an e-mail interview with Gillespie in October, we discussed her artistic process, putting her personal life on camera, and what projects are in the works. 

Carolyn Faden: You have your Masters in Photography from the London College of Communications. How does an educational background in photography affect how you approach your artwork? 

Emer Gillespie: My degree is actually in Fine Art and Textile Design, so for me attaining my MA in Photography was a massive learning curve. I think during an MA you delve deeper into the theoretical structure of your project work and analyse your practice in greater detail.

CF: How did you decide you wanted to pursue photography?

EG: During my degree shows it became more and more apparent that Photography was taking over! For my honours degree show it was mainly photography and I wove the projection screens for the video work. I think I knew then where my passion lay and so I moved to England from Ireland to pursue a postgrad in Photography.

CF: How would you define your artistic process? Is it a process? Is it something that involves meticulous planning or is it more spontaneous?

EG: It’s a mixture if both. I think you can kill your creativity when you plan too much, but you also need an initial idea that excites you, that you can’t wait to explore. Sometimes you begin at one point and along the way you discover something that grabs you and pulls you down another more exciting direction. That’s what happened with the project Picture You, Picture Me. It evolved from Laoisha asking to take a picture of me first before I took a photo of her. Gradually all these double portraits started appearing and my attention started to focus on that. These images were exciting me more than the project I was working on and still continue to excite me when I take out the camera for one of our sessions.

CF: Many of your photos are of your daughter. Would you say she is your favorite subject?

EG: She is my muse. I was a single parent (not a lone parent) from when she was one.  I think this created a special bond between us and generally she is pretty magical. She is my guilty pleasure and I adore shooting her, but I think I need to take a break from shooting her… people will think I’m obsessed!

CF: Many of your photos provide viewers with a glimpse into your life. What is the relationship between your art and your personal life?

EG: Cheesy as it may sound, but life is art and for me my life and my relationships inspire my work. I find some of the simplest things around me truly beautiful, and get excited by mundane subjects. It can be quite surreal focussing on your own personal life to produce a body of work, but also quite exciting and informative.

CF: You frequently use diptychs in your work—such as in “Two Homes” and “Picture You, Picture Me.” Why do you choose to present some of your photos in pairs?

EG: I enjoy the narrative that evolves from pairing images. Placing one image beside another can change its meaning completely where you’re asking the viewer to think a little more about the images and the relationship between them.  It’s also project specific though. Coincidently my last two major projects worked because they were in diptych format, but it’s not something that I would pigeonhole all future projects into necessarily if it didn’t suit.

CF: What kind of camera do you use? Do you have a favorite camera or type of film?

EG: I generally shoot medium format; 6x7. I use the Mamiya 7 and the Mamiya RB67. I love the RB as it’s what I shoot Picture You, Picture Me on and adore peering into the viewfinder and seeing an image I’m excited by. I generally go for punchy colour film and so have shot most of my work on Porta VC, until they replaced it with straight Portra. I still have some VC though, which will be carefully used!

CF: What are some of your photographic inspirations--whether they be other photographers, artists or films? What informs your work?

EG: Inspiration can come in all forms. Conversations, news articles, Family, random images on the internet, flyers… I love all art forms and try to visit as many gallery and art festivals as possible, my favourite being the Venice Biennale. I think it is important as an artist to stay informed and be inspired by others work. Artists that inspire me include William Eggleston (the father of colour!), Sophie Calle, Tierney Gearon, Julie Blackmon, Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, Takashi Yasumura, Louise Bourgeois, Fischli & Weiss… I could go on and on!

CF: Since you started pursuing photography professionally, have you noticed any changes or shifts in your artwork?

EG: There is massive difference in my work I think from when I was in art college to now. I have grown as an artist from changing mediums to theoretically researching for project work more

CF: Do you have any exhibitions or projects that you are currently working on?

EG: I have been totally engrossed in preparing for a solo show in Dublin, Ireland that just opened a couple of weeks ago entitled Home Naratives. Laoisha and I got the camera back out and created more work for Picture You, Picture Me which was really great. It’s the first time I have shown the entire body of work which was nerve wrecking, but thoroughly enjoyable. Two Homes was also up installed in the corner of the gallery, as it has been before. The installation of two homes is important to me for people to understand the project visually. It’s the first solo show of my work in Ireland for a few years, so I was delighted to be able to bring the new work back home.

I also exhibit with a group of photographers up in London called Shifting Perspectives, so I plan on making new work for an exhibition with them next year. All the photographers in the group have a child with Downs Syndrome so the work generally promotes awareness.

The Sculptor/Toymaker/Satirist Randy Regier has taken over the lower level of Jim Kempner Fine Art and invited visitors to park their spaceships and shop for 1950’s plastic playthings. The solo-show, which ends on December 23, is titled H. Maxwell Fisher’s Underground Toy Emporium and Spaceship Parking and looks more like a toy store than an art gallery.

Regier’s plastic figurines, robots and other trinkets sit on shelves and hang from racks, prompting viewers to touch and handle the creations. Regier models each work after toys he discovers at yard sales and thrift stores, creating handmade packages complete with custom painted, retro-style artwork that recalls the early 20th century—before everything was stamped with “Made in China.” A large metal rocket, also constructed by Regier, sits in the gallery’s front courtyard and accompanies his imagined underground toy store. The show, Regier’s first in New York City, embodies the balance of humor, fantasy and kitsch that is characteristic of much of the artist’s work.

According to the show’s press release, the collection of objects at Jim Kempner is the “remaining estate” of H. Maxwell Fisher, a “visionary toy shopkeeper and pioneer amateur space aeronaut.” At the entrance to the downstairs toyshop, a framed newspaper cutout tells the story of Regier’s imagined H. Maxwell Fisher. The artist’s first big-time, New York gallery show creates an unusual environment for viewers. The artwork is framed as artifacts of a fictional character living in a fictional world. And in H. Maxwell Fisher’s Underground Toy Emporium and Spaceship Parking, handling and playing with the objects from this world is all part of the art.

When I first saw visitors touching and handling Regier’s creations, my initial instinct was to call out for the gallery attendant. “This is art, people,” I was inclined to think, “touching is just not allowed!” But Regier’s work encourages an experience where touching is not only crucial, but encouraged. “Go ahead, play with me,” his sculptures seem to say. The work’s setup drives this point home—with opened boxes displaying their contents on bright turquoise wooden shelves and tiny figurines attached to cardboard packages, dangling from old-fashioned metal racks.

New Dog by Shytee-Dae—part toy, part sculpture, part joke—hangs from one of the racks. In this clever work, a spotted plastic dog is held to a piece of cardboard packaging with plastic ties. It is fastened to the background image—which shows a frightened man—in such a way so the small dog figurine looks like it is actually attacking the man. Above the scene, big white letters on a red background proclaim “NEW DOG” and a sour-pussed jack in the box holds up the “S” in the fake brand name, “Shytee-Dae,” like a sad spokesperson. Several of these packaged dogs hang from one of the metal racks, hinting at themes of mass-production, consumer culture and commodity. The show attempts to create a space of both playful engagement and institutional critique. “Look!” the artwork screams. “I’m fun and I’m commenting on how art can be mass-produced, bought and sold!” But there’s a big gap between the explicit humor of Regier’s work and the foggier, embedded meanings.

In an interview with the Portland Phoenix in 2009, Reiger said that to him, art is a way of playing. “When I speak of art, I don’t think of it as an object, painting, sculpture,” he said. “For me, Art is a verb, an action.” The artist statement on Regier’s website quotes the literary critic Walter Benjamin, who said toys provide a link between children, their culture and their nation. Presumably then, Regier’s work is supposed to allow us to play like children. And in doing so, give us an opportunity to more deeply connect with our own culture and history. While his playthings grabbed my attention, I’m not sure if they gave me a deeper understanding of my socio-political-historical situation, or just a few laughs.

Before Regier began pursuing a career as an artist, he grew up in the Midwest and worked in auto-repairs and antique toy restoration. Regier was always interested in discovering and unearthing fascinating objects. As a child he would bury things and dig them back up, much like how he continues to discover toy parts to incorporate in his work. In his early 30’s, Regier began searching for something outside his backyard. When he was 33, after being plagued by years of depression during his 20’s, he woke up and saw a neon sign reading, “Kansas.” Feeling hopeless about his future, he decided it was a message from the gods and relocated to Wichita with his wife. A year later, he enrolled in a 3D design class and began his college career at age 34.

After getting his BA in sculpture from Kansas State in 2003, Regier went on to acquire his MFA in Studio Arts from the Maine College of Art. Since then, Regier’s work has been shown throughout the country. In 2008, his installation, Wish You Were Here—a large, shiny abandoned spacecraft—was included in the Bonnaroo Music Festival in Tennessee, where festival goers relaxed and reclined on the green machinery. That same year, Impending Future Bus, a metallic, mint-green toy bus with all-black passengers, was part of a traveling exhibition called Black Is, Black Ain’t. This race-centered show stopped at the Renaissance Society at the University of Chicago and the Museum of Contemporary Art in Detroit. As part of the exhibition, Regier shared space with artists like Glenn Ligon, David Levinthal, Paul D’Amato and Rodney McMillian. More recently, his work was included in the inaugural deCordova Biennial—which exhibits artwork from leading figures in New England’s contemporary art scene. Among some of Regier’s other works, Spacecraft—the life-size space pod that is part of Regier’s New York debut—was included in the 2010 show.  

Spacecraft is just about big enough to fit one person. A replica fuel engine is attached to the large orb and the whole thing is painted a vibrant, gleaming green. It is the stuff of ‘50s B-movies, appearing more like a film-prop than a piece of sculpture. Although I encountered Spacecraft in the courtyard of the swanky Chelsea gallery, I expected actors in tacky, plastic spaceman costumes to come from behind the neglected craft waving silvery ray guns. Rounded glass windows emerge from the one-person pod, much like on a submarine. On the back of the pretend engine, silver and orange poles and rods stick out. Regier, drawing upon his past in auto-repair, constructs mock fuel jets from car exhausts. Although the giant pod is by far the biggest creation included in Regier’s “toy emporium,” it is not the most memorable. Despite the fact that the ship may be the proverbial centerpiece of the show, up in the gallery’s courtyard, away from Regier’s other, more engaging works, it acts like part of the scenery. Spacecraft looks too much like a background prop to garner much attention or contemplation.

The imaginary craft also lacks the delightful humor in Regier’s smaller toys and figurines. These objects playfully riff on the irony of Post-War Americana. In replica toy boxes, action figures named “John Manshaft” appear in various contexts and poses—always in their underwear. In John Manshaft: Run in Suit Action, the package shows the figure’s name in turquoise with an image of a man in a suit running away. The picture looks like a comic book version of a Robert Longo—with the man’s body contorted and his suit and hair askew. But in keeping with the old timey-toy feel, the man’s image is accompanied by dotted lines like on a paper doll. Inside the box, a crude plastic figurine in nothing but underwear and black socks is positioned in the same running pose.

Another package boasts, “Victory at the Alamo!” and inside a dark-skinned, mustached figure stands in his tighty-whities and jet black socks—which, according to the entertaining package, are “Hand-painted socks!” A Mexican flag and mini-pistol rest near the next-to-naked figurine, perhaps alluding to some vague, greater political commentary. But in Regier’s toys, the artist’s jokes are more obvious than his social or political criticisms. The delicate balance of humor and critique—vital for successful satire—is missing.

Unlike some of the contemporary art world’s top pranksters (like Maurizio Cattelan, for example), Regier waffles between the comical and the critical—leaving room for his work to be interpreted as mere farce. On the vivid aquamarine shelves in the lower gallery, numbers of the “Manshaft” figures are accompanied by something called a Blazing Model Sun. The package, with instructions to “Fill with gas and light,” elicited laughter from some gallery-visitors. But after getting a good giggle, the same visitors quickly moved on, looking for another laugh. The packages and plastic figures are funny first and thought-provoking later, if at all.

Nothing’s better than the original, or so the saying goes. Perhaps we have that maxim to thank for saving the viewing public from any contemporary versions of Citizen Kane or Shakespeare rewrites. Regardless, we live in an age where the “remake” is everywhere—plots of movies, books and television shows seem to constantly be recycled, repurposed and reinterpreted. With this in mind, the artwork of Kristopher Benedict, which was on view September 7 to October 23rd at the Sue Scott Gallery, raises questions on the value of returning to something, refashioning it and (hopefully) making it one’s own.

One of the largest paintings in the show is a pastel rendition of a scene from the 2001 film Vanilla Sky—which is a remake of the Spanish-language film, Abre Los Ojos. Benedict’s canvas, then, muddled with strokes of baby blues and pinks, comments on the number of times we see the same image, watch the same film, or get drawn to the same story. Despite this interesting concept, there is a sense of disappointing déjà vu surrounding much of Benedict’s work. But the paintings are not underwhelmingly familiar because their subject matter is taken from online search engines. Rather, the way Benedict renders each work is, ironically, nothing new.

Just as television and movie producers return to the same plot lines over and over again, Benedict’s paintings seem to use tried and true modes of quasi-abstraction. Most of Benedict’s recycled images emerge from an assemblage of shapes and color, often in hues that are somehow both bright and muddied. In Yoga Figure, for instance, a woman with arms stretched upwards fuses with the turquoise background, her profile subtlety delineated by purple and white brushstrokes. Daubs of green and blue paint obscure her buttocks and torso. Similar daubs serve as a haphazard frame for the loosely outlined couple in Figures Holding Hands. Despite these techniques, the artist’s concept behind the paintings is still the most interesting thing about them.

In my senior thesis class, my professor frequently assures her students that despite the fortress of books we'll build for ourselves at the library, the hundreds of dollars spent on photocopying, the hours of neck-crippling research, there's a way to endure. "Remember why you chose this topic--remember what originally spoke to you," she advises. And in the past three weeks, under the weight of a backpack filled with 400-page art books, it became difficult to recall why I'd even wanted to undertake a yearlong project on a little-known northern German painter who's untimely death took place in a secluded North German artist colony called Worpswede.

But just when the curtain of self-doubt seems to drop, screaming "HOLY MOLY WHY DID YOU AGREE TO THIS?", there's a light at the end of the tunnel--a glimpse into something that reminds you why all the reading, writing and back aches are worth it.

Before I started seriously researching this project, Paula Modersohn-Becker was just a painter I'd learned about briefly in class who's brightly colored self portraits intrigued me. Since reading articles upon articles on the artist, I've learned that there's much more to her work than the interesting way she delineates space, color and female flesh. 

With her Self Portrait on My Sixth Wedding Day, May 25, 1906, the artist painted the first female naked self-portrait in the history of art (Stamm). Now, in the age of woman artists' blatant self assertion of sexuality (see Tracey Emin, for example), Modersohn-Becker's depiction of herself seems tame. There she stands, in front of a yellow/green pastiche border, holding a seemingly pregnant belly--a clean, white cloth covering her pubic area. She looks at the viewer directly, naked from the waist up but not completely stripped of feminine dress. Her hair's pinned up and a single strand of amber beads hangs between her breasts. 

Her hands seem large, meaty, almost masculine as they hold her protruding belly. Here, she draws upon conventional modes of self promotion used by artists for hundreds of years--much like those used in Albrecht Durer's powerful self-portrait from 1500. But when you learn more about the context of this painting, you realize Modersohn-becker is doing so much more.

At the time she completed this self-portrait, she had recently separated from her husband, Otto Modersohn, by stealing away in the night on his birthday. She fled for Paris, in the hopes of accomplishing her artistic goals in a town that, at the time, was unarguably the center of the art world. With her and Modersohn estranged, it is unlikely Modersohn-Becker would have been with child at the time of this painting. So by depicting herself with a distended belly, she's taking artistic liberty with how she presents herself to the world--much like the liberties she takes with paint and form in depicting the pregnant female form.  

In her essay, "Making Babies, Painting Bodies," Anne Higonnet states that "if Cezanne made us see the matter of an apple exist in real space as we never had before, because of its translation into representation, Modersohn-Becker did the same to something rather more important than an apple." Just as Modersohn-Becker opens the viewer's eyes to seeing the pregnant form in a new way, with her 1906 self-portrait, Modersohn-Becker, thrusts a new view of the female artist into the history of art. 

With the second week of September underway, Fall is almost here! Aside from ushering in some fabulous exhibitions, the season also marks the official starting point of my senior thesis project--which I'm doing on the German artist, Paula Modersohn-Becker.

This means while I'll still be going to shows and (hopefully) writing about them here, I'll probably also begin posting about my ongoing research. As part of the project, I've started a Twitter where I'll update on what scholars and writers have had to say about Modersohn-Becker's work and legacy--@MalweibBecker.

Why "Malweib Becker?" What in god's name is a "Malweib?" In his discussion of Modersohn-Becker's  tumultuous friendship with the legendary poet Rainer Maria Rilke, Eric Torgersen uses the pejorative German term which can be loosely translated as "painter broad." Torgersen states that although "[t]here is no good English translation for Malweib, the thoroughly pejorative term of the day for the stereotype of the female would-be artist; there were caricatures--unattractive, man-hungry, and ridiculous..." Perhaps the term evolved as a German response to the emerging "New Woman" during this time period.

In a letter to her parents, Clara Westhoff, Modersohn-Becker's closest female confidant (and Rilke's eventual wife), claims that she has become a "Malweib...a true-blue emancipated fin-de-siecle woman;" seemingly accepting the derogatory term and perhaps even embracing it as a mark of artistic and personal fulfillment.

Although Modersohn-Becker was not as politically interested as Westhoff, often making remarks against emerging feminist ideology, she often struggled as a female artist--a "painter broad" in a world largely dominated by men. In the years before her sudden death in 1907, she left her family, living independently for extended periods in Paris to pursue her artistic ambitions. She too became a "Malweib" in a sense--if we think of Westhoff's empowering interpretation of the word. Modersohn-Becker was able to be independent and emancipated in ways that would not have been possible for a female artist before the 19th and 20th centuries. The word, although derogatory, embodies a litany of concepts and ideas that are integral to framing the life of Paula Modersohn-Becker. Among other things, it reflects emerging social changes beginning with a new century, the subsequent animosity towards increasingly autonomous women, and efforts on the part of female artists such as Modersohn-Becker.

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