The Observer, March 18, 2005
Volume XXXVII, Issue 21
Art vs. obscenity debate rages at NYC's Armory Show
Galleries are bulging at the seams, bursting with more crap than art. It seems that art these days is being broken down into two discernible categories: utility art and pornography. Marcel Duchamp would be pleased (remember that French urinal?). Of course, so would Ron Jeremy. It seems that these shows attract a certain crowd.
Featuring 162 galleries, representing 39 cities worldwide, The Armory Show attracts over 40,000 wild-haired cultured visitors per year to New York City. As mayor MichaelBloomberg writes in his welcoming letter, "Galleries will showcase the very best and most innovative art found throughout the world, and New York City's residents and visitors will have the opportunity to experience the amazing world of contemporary art."
While whole-heartedly true, it stands to reason that the greater majority of artists and their oeuvre are unheard of or sometimes even vilified. The art vs. obscenity debate continues to create stirrings in the audience, with such famous artists as Robert Mapplethorpe and Andres Serrano exhibiting photographs and writings. However, since Mapplethorpe died of AIDS years ago, it seems unfitting that the "International Fair of New Art" bring back such high-profile controversial art.
The outfits are visceral, the languages are spoken in tongues, and the smell seems to be a loganberry-kiwi. Artists, punks, freaks, geeks, and weirdoes walk the lanes. I fit into one of the latter categories, wearing an effeminate messenger bag, hoisting a thick camera lens, and snapping at every opportunity I find. The gallery owners send over a cock-eyed impregnated look. Are they annoyed by my incessant picture taking, or is it the reek of booze at 2 p.m.? Forget the atmosphere, let's talk about the art.
One artist begs her audience to wonder how much she is being paid to hold her hand out of a thick white wall holding a lit light-bulb. Maybe if she hadn't stuck a giant vagina on the opposing gallery wall, I might have summed up the intractable courage to be able to go talk to her. I did, however, breathe on her bare arm to evoke a twitch and hence deduce her mortal characteristics (with only the arm visible, would I have to yell through the wall to ask?)
Walking down Pier 90 in mid-town Manhattan, the paintings and photography are sometimes intensely sexual and exceedingly furious. Does loud art become good art? An artist has to stick out, and with the end of the art narrative either approaching or having blown us by, there is no more uniqueness left than in taking styles of previous movements and blending them together, usually resulting in a bloody mess.
Are the exhibitors or sponsors looking for a higher-profile show by generating the most press, whether favorable or not, simply to bring in more visitors, and hence more money? By George, I think we've got it. Art is being geared by its bottom-line. Obscenities, such as the red-light neon glow of a 15-foot sign that shouts "HOLY" and 'F--K', seem meaningless and trite prima facie, but evoke a whole different meaning when we hear the artist's response.
So I decided to meander down to the artist's station, zigzagging in between docile bohemians and slick-haired collectors. I approached the artist, a young lady by the name of Mona, in the Andrew Kreps Gallery of New York. I asked her about her neon-argon billboard, its significance, and her influences behind the work. And you know what? She apparently is aware of my epiphany, citing the "behemoth of advertising moguls shoving one consumer driven culture after another down our throats." She goes on to categorize her art as revolutionary, pitting the artists against the machine.
Well done, Ms. Mona, but what I'm wondering is how can you afford your futon sofa on which you sleep at night (or rather, most likely, mid-to-late-afternoon) with only the machine/man to pay for your livelihood. Contradiction or not, the show seems to be a success, as it brings in over $50 million annually, and generates a buzz that reaches artist-hungry cities such as San Francisco, Tokyo, and even Cleveland. Maybe next time I'll take a page out of Duchamp's book and turn my winter shovel into a place to stay for four days and three nights.
