Everything I shot from Wednesday to Sunday is here.

FIRST COURSE: The Armory Show

I registered as press in advance for this and showed up about ten minutes after the press conference to pick up my badge. I briefly glanced at Pier 92, where they only show dead artists, or at least which consists primarily of resale by historical, museum-level galleries. While there’s much more interest in the first market of Pier 94, the historical gap is small.
Example:

Juan Genoves, Transcurso, 2006 detail. From the press balcony this looked like a photograph but it’s really thick impasto.

As press, I have exchanged my attention and goodwill for privileged access, and operate as free publicity for the show. But as a cultural consumer advocate in the attention economy, I now consider anyone non-VIP who pays for access to be a Sucker. If you have a blog or anything I recommend you write yourself an assignment letter or just register on their site and get in free.

Maybe my research-fu is weak but I cannot find an image of how the pier is laid out. It’s basically a T. I started on the right arm of the T and methodically went down the rows. Because there are an odd number of rows on the staff of the T you can end up redundantly walking along it this way (and thereby seeing the featured Berlin part twice), so it’s best to do the arms by row and the pier over the water in a zig zag with a little overlap in the middle. It’s easy to get distracted by something on the other side and overwalk. With the white lights and walls everywhere, my eyes got much tireder than my feet. One thing I found I ended up doing was lingering in a corner staring at a piece I found completely uninteresting, just to rest.

I felt I was coming into this one with preferences different from ones I would have other years or even other days. Some of my arbitrary rules, and why:
1. Galleries that are basically retail shops for pop art stars (Hirst, for example) aren’t worth discussing.
2. I’m sick of contempt for the audience and easy cultural critique. True, just because the economy’s down doesn’t mean artists should make collector-friendly work, but conceptual laziness just means you have nothing intellectually complex to talk about. It looks like some idiot has scammed the gallery and that’s just business.
3. I’m paying particular attention to class issues as well as ethnic politics. While the Armory is aggressively post- and inter-national, it began as an American exodus for the European avante-garde. Without contemporaneity entrenched in the Obama Era we’re just looking at aesthetic balloons.
4. Things that are difficult to transport or install are interesting. Animatronics, performances, digital media.
5. But contrary to (4), things obviously marketed towards a particular part of the market - either museums or collectors - aren’t as interesting as those that really work just for the Armory. It’s like admiring mall displays. I’m looking for what is essentially intimate public art without the effects of public funding.
6. Every year I am less and less inclined to like something just because it resembles my own field, figurative painting. There’s a lot of figurative painting that’s done either photographically or non-representationally that is to be considered more as conceptual.
7. Things that would appeal to people with no art background and anything that disregards the whole modernist project hold a certain fascination, if only because I find myself so willing to dismiss them. This also goes for “bourgeouis” or “kitsch” work aimed at a theoretical market solely about interior decorating. Many critics overlook this work because it’s boring, and it does take up the bulk of the show, but it’s the sanctuary for the many many artists who just want to make beauty. Escapism is practical.
8. I like computers and science. And environmental issues. Grids, numbers, language: these are things I look at because they’re not something I can do well. HOWEVER. I am, if not a dogmatic technophile, at least an anti-Luddite, and will dismiss anything that’s simply critical of technology/modernity/”synthetic”.
9. Unless it’s something new by a favorite, I’m not looking at things I’ve seen before, either at Basel or at last year’s Armory. There are actually repeat pieces, which looks like it would be embarrassing or at least appears lazy. It could be argued that the galleries are standing behind their investments but it’s a waste of time to a spectator.
10. I am not looking at other art blogs and I am trying to see things other art blogs don’t before I read them.

Ultimately it’s just what caught my eye, which has an average sort of attention bandwidth, and VIKI’s camera.

What struck me in particular yesterday was the sort of economy simplified by postcolonialist Ngugi as the rich stealing from the rich. Or rather, most galleries are investments by rich people who consider themselves smart enough to try to find the few stupid rich people, or to catch the rich in moments of irrationality. Hence the free flow of champagne for handpicked VIPs. I can barely speculate on what percentage of art sales are gallery to gallery. At the super blue chip level there’s little to firmly connect particular artists to particular galleries besides geography, and even that’s irrelevent when the fairs, especially in an art hub like NYC, consist of the fattest international ambassadors.

Lets look at pretty pictures now.

Okay, Ian Davis does these awesome wide-angle landscapes full of identical figures, commentaries on industrial science, but I can’t find the new ones he had up and the picture didn’t come through. Look out for “hubris” and “skeptics”.

I ran into Jack Tilton, and had a look at Roberts & Tilton, his L.A. branch, which had some Kehinde Wiley (who may have stepped on me) and Titus Kaphar, who deconstructs canvases to comment on race history:

“Nip tuck” (or “Lillian Dandridge”?), 2009, Crumpled canvas oil painting.

Markus Schinwald, Carola, 2009. 22×18cm oil on canvas. 19th century style portraits of cyborgs are a good direction (and many were made in the 19th century already)

Also at Yvon Lambert was one of those “difficult to reproduce” near-conceptual museum pieces by Zilvinas Kempinas, Serpentine, consisting of magnetic tape blown in a corner by a fan.

This is interesting because apart from context it’s illustration or at least kind of gross pedophiliac erotic art. It reminds me of Gravity’s Rainbow a bit. I apparently didn’t photo the attribution - if you know it, say it.

Muntean/Rosenblum: another of these paintings entrenched in photography, but there’s something about the children/escalator imagery and the discouragement of connection between photo and caption that has a poetic kick for me.

You know what? Because I’ve been just taking photos of labels (when they were there, because they weren’t always) to attribute, I may as well use those. Let’s try that.

It is a photo of a moon landing with the astronauts made black.
No, that method doesn’t really work.

The galleries that featured shows of individual artists seemed to be very proud of doing this - it was something they could afford to do, selflessly. It definitely paid off in attention to have an immersive, consistent space. A prime example is Adam McEwan’s “I Am Curious Yellow” installation at Nicole Klagsburn, which consisted of a series in only white and yellow, including blowups of Soviet German buttons, swastikas, and large prints of an article about an Olympic runner’s alleged gender fraud.

Peter Liversidge got a bright little room with two installations (”Come On In” of handpainted dice, and “little by little” neon) including the proposals for those installations.

The preponderance of high-hung neon was nicely deflated by a Japanese artist’s smashed neon sign near the ground.

I always like what Mizuma has, but if there’s a message to take from this show it’s that Orientalism doesn’t even work any more.

My bandwidth was shutting down in protest and I started favoring one-liners. I chatted with the Andrew Kreps assistant working under a painting consisting only of the words “tiny little microscopes” for a few minutes as a kind of high-stress palate cleanser. Kreps also featured a pro-choice piece by Andrea Bowers, consisting of a pre-Roe v. Wade letter from a shudderingly oppressed woman who had no idea where to get an abortion to a sympathetic (or maybe not) organization.

English mega-gallery White Cube featured this life-size bronze of a trans man by Marc Quinn.

What I find interesting about Benjamin Edwards (”Solo”, 2010 and already sold) is that 3-d is already, especially if done right, far beyond the glitchy emptiness he foregrounds.

Limning the differences between him and Justin Faunce is a quick exercise.

SCHNELL.

I love David Schnell very much.

I wonder if the title “world map of genreal hazards” is intentional. I rather like “genreal” better than “general” or “natural”. I don’t know who did the Scrooge McDuck but it’s excellently posed for this photo op.

South African galleries felt especially strong this year. This taxidermied farcegory had a live band playing incidental music that I saw VIPs covering their ears for.

I think that’s about all I can salvage. I don’t want to declare a judgment on the show overall, because it’s a lot of different galleries trying a lot of different tactics, and sometimes the good parts are just good and the bad parts are really interesting. I’ll do further posts on the many other venues that have sprouted up this week. There are qualitative comparisons to be made, and I’d rather not debate context or content.

Oh yeah. I nearly forgot Reid Seifer’s Forget perfume booth. They had spray, for forgetting. It didn’t work.

SECOND COURSE:Scope

I went to their offices first by accident instead of the Lincoln Center tent.
It turned out an hour was enough to go through the whole thing, though. The gallerists were friendlier but unlike its Miami incarnation this one did not provide free food and drink. Given the freebie culture of NYC, calorie constraint was wise - there probably wouldn’t be enough security personnel even with well-behaved, informed crowds.
That’s part of the sense I get of New York art conventions and fairs as consisting much more of people doing business than art tourists. Art tourism is a theme of a lot of the art, but in this city, that theme is a commodity rather than meta-commentary.

Are you imagining this? Doesn’t it taste great? David Stein’s absurd books, at Eleanor Harwood from SFO, give me an opportunity to mention the weirdness of SCOPE’s corporate identity, and the political paradoxes of art. People’s Revolution, Kelly Cutron’s PR and Marketing firm, arranged SCOPE’s VIP list and opening reception. There are multiple reality shows involving these people.

The entangling of leftist politics into the corporate intentions of a field about and for the rich is morally dizzying. The deliberate imagery of appropriation, the complications of the extraordinary inequality created by an abundance of artists of all different qualities of ignorance, layered into multiple generations of terrifying people and movements and strategies, is enough to make me wonder where I even got the principles I seem to have, and how best to shut them up so I can think about this more like the emergent poly-consciousness it has already become.

Bad boy scout making noises.

THIRD COURSE: Verge

It’s young and cheap and unlikely to rise to the prominence of the one-word fairs it tries desperately to emulate. Its problems are exacerbated by being held in a midtown hotel, which does not exactly have the best lighting. There are bottlenecks in the doors of the hotel rooms. Rather than adapting to the context and the claims of these smaller fairs to embrace “emerging” and “overlooked” art, this one resembled a particularly cramped craft market.

I left a terrific opening of sculptures by Sudarshan Shetty at Jack Tilton Gallery on the Upper East Side to go to this thing. I probably shouldn’t have - Steve needed me and Jack serves food. I was hungry. Verge in the Dylan Hotel was above Benjamin Steak House and the flesh made me crazy.

There seemed to be a lot of little Japanese outfits at Verge. There was at least a comfortable middle-class feel to the thing - watching Alex at Mighty Tanaka made opening a little art-selling business look fun.

Van Uxem projects, at first glance, was a sparse and intimate vanity project, but in retrospect, Heather’s was the best use of the hotel setting, and the least commercially desperate. She projected an abstract mouthlike video on a screen beside sex toys coated in wax. On the other side of the screen, of course, she sat exhausted while her son tried to sleep and strangers walked through looking uncomfortable.

Whereas Rebecca Leyche’s Vagina Doorknobs (exactly what they sound like) were slightly deflated by their sales pitch label.

FOURTH COURSE: Pulse

Rumor is this is the best fair. It was probably worth ditching both works. Tonight’s theme: Cybernetics.

Bill Smith Magnetically stabilized, air driven, computer interfaced, chaotic emu egg pendulum, 2010. Water, vacuum formed poly carbonate, carbon graphite rod, aluminum, stainless steel, brass, wood, clay, one emu egg, pumps.
Another reason to love PPOW. They just seem to show good artists. Bill was there and very nice, very able to deal with my chaotic conversation.

Erik Thor Sandberg at Conner Contemporary.
I think what people mean about Pulse being good is that, to be cliche, it has a large proportion of art that speaks for itself.

Here’s what I came for, at the invite of the superhumanly gregarious Charlie James, who runs a damn fine gallery in L.A.’s Chinatown.

William Powhida and Jade Townsend, ABMB Shantytown, 2010, 40×60 graphite on paper
Bill Powhida is art’s snarky political cartoonist. He’ll probably unseat and replace Koons (unless we’re really post-Oedipal, and I don’t think so). He’s been working incredibly hard this year, and I don’t know why he’s not the only art anyone buys. More on this when I get to the weekend’s dessert, #class - its strength is that it’s such a relief from all the other stuff, especially the less thorough institutional critique.
Detail: “Have you seen all these grad students coming out of this giant fucking hole?”

Walter Robinson, Safe, 2009, mixed media

ALICIA ROSS. Motherboard_7 (Sacred_Profane), cross-stitch on cotton & pearled needles, 40 x 90 in, 2008
Thank you, Black and White gallery, for either reminding me or introducing me to one of those artists that makes me envious. My mission has already been fulfilled.

Shane Hope, atom_name_wildcard, 2009. These prints are made from images generated using ridiculously complicated 3-d visualization software that uses biological data. Shane Hope is a posthuman from the current future. I’d already seen his stuff because Winkleman is hosting what I like to call dessert (see Part The Sixth).

Who did the hypervirtual photo that’s on the cover of Lethem’s Chronic City? Scott Peterman, that’s who.

Laurie Hogan, Myth and Empire, oil on canvas, 2010, 48″x60″ (Koplin Del Rio in L.A.)

DESSERT:

Sunday was to be the day I caught up with the last few shows. What I missed, in order of regretting missing it:
INDEPENDENT (in the X Project / former D.I.A. building)(Art Fag City comments)
The Art Show
PooL
Volta
Red Dot, Korean, some panel on art blogging, wev.

Fountain was like a sideshow consisting of all the desperate, sad parts of the art world that all artists should be warned is what they may look like. I don’t think it was just the old dock it was in. Even the few things I saw there that I liked look embarassing in retrospect.

So I ended up in #class, an experimental project by Jen Dalton and Bill Powhida at Winkleman Gallery. It’s ongoing with seminars proposed by various artists for the next few weeks and I highly recommend going there. It is fun. It is said that the classroom, particularly in teaching art, is a utopian assertion, and yes, I have a bit of an academic fetish, but this is mine. Dalton and Powhida have already captured my cynic’s heart, their institutional critique / Marxy-Feministy drawings (where drawings mean mostly-penciled rants, lists, and charts), seperately, are especially refreshing amongst the art fairs. This kind of inside joke doesn’t work without placing itself inside its butt. If all art was like this we’d get tired of it. But still.

There was a truly involving conversation on art, school, and economics on the green board walls in chalk that made me wish I could remember more of the smart things I’ve said, and also that I could be in school forever (but also remember I shouldn’t teach). Drawings are on silent auction and bidding involves an application form.
I gave a hasty interview to “social media expert”/attention economist and former finance guy Zac Cohen. We happened by during Open Gaming, and I ended up sucking at Catan with Jen Dalton’s husband and friends. Everyone’s kids were there. Powhida showed up midway through with some story about leaving a laptop at a strip club. It was one of the happiest hours of my life. I don’t think I could have gorged on any more fairs.

I’m made nervous that everyone else there had day jobs, but better-paying ones than mine.

This shit is bananas. S-H-I-T.

These pictures show unresolved adolescent issues: sexual self-hatred, inability to unite sexual feelings with any sort of deeper feelings, irresolvable disconnection between intellect and body, disgust in being attached to the male sex, with its sexual crimes committed on women and child. But this immature grotesquerie is treated with formal sophistication. In some of the pictures, a unique stylistic language carries a subconscious influence from great paintings of the past. Other images borrow directly from Rococo and Pre-Raphaelite masters. Compositional ideas are derived from daydreams and enhanced by historical allusion. Pelepko’s voice is unique while entering into a dialogue with art history on the failure of transcendence from carnality.

In short, Isaac hates pooping.

The big room at Tribes has been transformed into a giant same-sex octopus-on-woman tentacle rape scene with quotes from the classics of the Western art canon.

More pictures are on their way.

Courting, 58inx36in, oil on canvas, 2009, 3000.00

Premature Arrival, 36in x46in, oil on canvas, 2009, 2000.00

too much other, 72in by 41 in, oil on canvas, 2009, 4000.00

Feminine Liberation, 46in x72in, oil on masonite, 2009,4000.00

Mans nothing, men opening a door.

Muse orgy, 72inx40in, graphite on paper. 2009, 1000.00

Cartoony Sexy and Violency, pencil on paper, 1000.00

Female Octopus Raping Female Humans 2010, 2000.00

Note: This piece was written after traveling to Sierra Leone in February of 2008, and is based on the story of a woman I had the great pleasure of meeting.
–
Bo,1980, her shop was the place to be. A cold Star beer on a hot day. Sweat dripping down the sides of the bottle creating a pool on the table in front of you, Ma’s Batique fabrics lining the walls. A shirt of hers you wear because above all else, she was a true businesswoman and she knew how to sell her product. All the Peace Corps volunteers came in to relax and take a few hours away from responsibility. Ma welcomed them with open arms.
“I haven’t seen your face for a long time now, you owe me, how about buying one of my new bags? I made it myself, genuine palm leaves, feel it.”
“No thanks Ma, just a Star today. They are beautiful though.”
“I’ll give you a good price, but only because you’re one of my favorites.” You laugh.
“No thanks Ma, just the beer.”
“Fine, fine, so how things out in the village? Met any nice Sierra Leonean boys? We have the best men here you know.” You laugh again.
“No Ma, no luck with the men, how are you doing?”
“You know, taking care of Pa, running the shop, same business. Thank goodness for you Peace Corps, you keep this place running. Of course, business would be even better if you bought one of these bags.” A smile as she walks away to retrieve your beer. She comes back and places the beer on the table. You take a sip of the cool liquid that has become a true friend. A little semblance of home in this far off land.
Ma Bode’s has become a home away from home, a place where you are sure to run into a fellow volunteer on one of your days off, a break from the solitude of the village, the solitude that comes from being the only one of your kind for miles around. Your relationships with the villagers are wonderful; you truly cherish them, yet they have never been outside of Sierra Leone, let alone the region. They have no concept of where you come from, and while for a time this is insignificant, you start to realize that there is a barrier between you because of it. There is a large part of you that they will never connect with and never be able to understand. Ma Bode’s is a safe haven, a break from the new reality of your existence where you can reconnect with a small part of your society and culture.
“Ma, tell me, how long have you owned the shop?”
“This building has been in my family for generations. It was my father’s father’s and his father’s before that. It has always been my home and always will be my home. It’s all I’ll have left when Pa goes. It’s certainly plenty with all of you in it all the time.”
–
October 1998, Bo, The doors are locked, the windows covered, the shop is shut down. Peace Corps left when the fighting began, business stopped. No one went out for a beer anymore, not after the rebels set up their headquarters in the city. The streets were deserted, everyone stayed inside. Ma slept upstairs with her daughter and grand children. It had been a few months and she continued to pray every day that they wouldn’t come. Most of the other shops had been looted and burned in continuous efforts of meaningless destruction; somehow she had been spared. At night she was awakened by the slightest creaking of the house, terrified of who or what it might be. Afraid for the lives of her loved ones. Her husband had passed away before the war and she was left to take care of everyone as she always had.
The night her luck wore out.
There was a great pounding on the door. Pounding and shouting “OPEN UP OR WE”LL BURN YOUR HOUSE DOWN!!!” She begins to tremble; the children start to cry. “Into the attic. NOW!” They obey without a word. She closes the door behind them to the protests of her daughters. “No, Ma, stay with us! They will leave!” She doesn’t listen. She will not lose her house and her family with it. She breathes deeply and slowly walks down the stairs towards the pounding on the door.
She starts with the top lock and works her way down. First, second, third… click. She turns the door handle and slowly opens. Before her stand 4 young rebel soldiers, rifles in their hands, eyes blood shot from whatever combination of cocaine and gunpowder runs through their veins. They are nothing but boys, young teenage boys younger than her own sons. She stands before them, a woman of 50, plain features, no more that 5 foot 2”. Hands worn from years of making textiles, her only advantage a silent resilience to their power.
“Step aside, it’s time to watch your house burn!” She looks at them. “No you will not”, she says calmly. The leader of the group points his rifle at her head. “Step aside woman!” She looks him straight in the eye, and does not move. They stand this way for what seems like hours. The boy begins to laugh at the woman’s stubbornness. “Ok”, he says finally, “we have to get something out of you.” He looks around at his companions with a sideways grin and turns his attention back to her.
“Either we burn your house down or you let each of us have sex with you. What’s it gonna be?”
Her face does not change. Slowly she opens her mouth to speak.
“You will not burn my house down.”
The leader looks at her and they all begin to laugh as Ma Bode slowly backs away from the doorway and they let themselves in.
–
August 2004, the war has come to an end and recovery slowly grips the nation. Ma Bode sits on her chair in front of the fan. She hears the bell jingle as someone walks in downstairs. She slowly lifts herself off the chair and saunters down the stairs.
You walk in and ask the boy behind the bar, “Is Ma Bode around?” As you hear the slow deliberate footsteps you turn to see the woman you once knew. She has aged a great deal, streaks of gray line her hair and she looks back at you with tired eyes as she smiles.
“Ma, it’s so good to see you, I don’t know if you remember me, I was here with the Peace Corps in 1980.”
“Of course”, she says, “I remember all of you Peace Corps. It’s about time we got you back in Sierra Leone, business is not so good. What can I get you, a beer, a bag, some shirts maybe? Have a seat, I will show you what I have.”
You sit obligingly as she goes to gather her bounty. You ask the bar man for a Star. He says they are out, but he will run across the street and get one for you. Before you have the time to tell him not to trouble himself he is out the door and Ma is back with bags of Batiques and hand woven goods. She starts to lay them out on the table, and you know there is no way you are walking out of the shop empty handed. You turn your attention back to the woman in front of you.
“Ma, I’m so glad you are Ok, I was worried the shop was destroyed when the rebels came to Bo. We came back to help with the reconstruction effort. After seeing so much devastation, it is such a relief that you and the shop are still here.”
She stops fiddling with her fabrics and looks up at you.
“This building has been in my family for generations”, she says, “I could not let them burn it down”.

Where: Tribes Gallery. 285 E 3rd St btwn Ave C &D.

Tel: 212 674 8262

Isaac Pelepko trained at the New York Academy of Art and Art Students’ League.
He exhibits grotesque paintings and drawings satirizing romance and Romanticism. Like Currin, Pelepko uses careful classical rendering to induce quease and revulsion from visual stimulation. His Romantic series is a perverse narrative of man, woman, and horse.
His new series features Euclidean spaces overpopulated with anatomically exaggerated figures performing absurd dramas.

For More Info: Janet Bruesselbach, janet@bruesselbach.com