Lady Gaga Before the Mirror

Many a time the mirror imprisons them and holds them firmly. Fascinated they stand in front. They are absorbed, separated from reality and alone with their dearest vice, vanity.

—Rrose Sélavy (aka Marcel Duchamp), “Men Before the Mirror”

Though I’ve long since stopped tuning into MTV’s Video Music Awards, when someone told me that Lady Gaga opened this year’s show with the introduction of a male alter-ego named Jo, I was curious enough to call up the clip on the internet. Sure enough, there (s)he was, sporting a black pompadour and a bound chest. Jo’s eight-minute performance included a five-minute monologue about—who else?—Lady Gaga; Jo played the part of the spurned lover, smoking furiously and beating his chest.

In her recent MTV promo, Lady Gaga (née Stefani Germanotta) says: “I really believe that art is this huge lie … we sing it and we dance and we dress it every day, and me and my friends all hope that someday we tell it enough that it becomes true.” With its black-and-white palette and close-ups of musicians, one can almost be forgiven for forgetting that the spot is an advertisement for something so crude and commercial as the Video Music Awards. Lady Gaga would like to be more than just a pop star; she sees herself and has encouraged others to see her as something of a performance artist. (By invoking her “friends” in the MTV spot, she even suggests the existence of an avant-garde coterie à la the New York School.) By donning the mantle of Art (note the capital 'A'), she has gained permission to do things and to say things that other popular performers would not do or say—their careers could not survive it. Though her audiences often appear embarrassed for her—this was surely the case at Sunday’s VMA’s—she survives to sing another song because she is vested with the authority of the Artist.

This is a clever trick, and she is not alone in deploying it. In the name of Art, James Franco has deigned to educate the masses about the distinction between high and low cultures: how wonderfully postmodern it is to see a “serious” actor play an artist on “General Hospital”! Lady Gaga and James Franco are not content to be mere artists; that is, talented performers in their respective fields. Their narcissism compels them to seek—and if they don’t find, to invent—ever more and elaborate ways to display themselves. It is fitting that Lady Gaga’s most recent incarnation (after all, Lady Gaga is herself an invention) is the lover of Lady Gaga.

For all of their supposed melding of high and low, art and life, what saves these performers is precisely the persistence of these distinctions. Lady Gaga says that she longs for the dissolution of boundaries between art and life, but her career depends on that boundary remaining fixed.

East Coast, West Coast

In the course of my research here in Los Angeles, I came across a recorded interview of the California-based artist Craig Kauffman. He and the interviewer discussed cultural differences between the East and West Coasts. They agreed, having each spent time in New York, that Los Angeles has more of a "body culture;" New Yorkers put more emphasis on intellect, and, moreover, New Yorkers are suspicious of the West Coast’s failure to do so. Kauffman noted that some conceptual artists of the Eastern persuasion who taught in LA even considered health consciousness fascistic. These kinds of New York vs. Los Angeles conversations are inevitably reductive. (In 1969, Robert Smithson and Nancy Holt made a video called "East Coast, West Coast," which played off precisely these stereotypes.) It’s also likely that New Yorkers have themselves become more attuned to health in the twenty-five years that have elapsed between that interview and the present.

Nevertheless, I have been impressed by the seriousness with which UCLA students attack their workouts at the campus gym, which I have been visiting with, perhaps, insufficient regularity. They do things like jump extremely high to clear boxes in the gym’s open-air courtyard; climb on a rock wall; play volleyball in volleyball-playing gear (like the kind of stuff Gabrielle Reece used to wear); and lift very, very heavy weights. It seems to be paying off, as some of these kids look like they stepped straight out of a tabloid "Best Beach Bodies" issue (not that I’ve ever seen one of those; not even in a waiting room). When I was in college in Philadelphia, almost everyone I knew went to the gym sometimes, but it was really a chore and it seemed clear that they weren’t aiming for the kinds of results I’ve seen here. Still, I won’t extrapolate from my limited experience. Instead, I’ve compiled a list of fairly random Los Angeles anecdotes and observations; you can draw your own conclusions:

•  Angelenos are very friendly. But one nice lady I spoke to on my daily trip to the local frozen yogurt place was surprised to learn from me that when someone falls on the street in New York, people immediately come to their aid. She surmised that in LA people would be too concerned about lawsuits.

•  People ride their bikes on the sidewalks.

•  There’s a movie theater that has couches instead of chairs. And a real live person introduces the film.

•  The buses function fairly well and are populated by mostly normal people. Even so, people here are embarrassed to catch the bus, a bus driver informed me.

 •  Almost every Coffee Bean has outdoor seating.

•  This weekend, I watched one person after another arrive for a party in an apartment building, pass right by the conspicuous buzzer box, try the door, and upon discovering that it was locked, throw their proverbial hands in the air.

•  The police will shut down a relatively tame party at 11:30pm on a Friday night if they get a noise complaint; and if they can figure out how to get into the building.

What if Starbucks Were Art?

At the last Whitney Biennial, my friend and I were approached by a security guard in a curtained gallery where photos and a film by Babette Mangolte were on view. The encounter—which involved the heavily accented guard telling us about his family and requesting that a man with a professional-looking camera take our picture together—had us convinced that we had been involved in some kind of relational art; so much so that when we found out from someone with inside knowledge of the biennial that this was not the case, we were astonished. "Relational aesthetics," like Happenings in the late 1950s and '60s, aren't content to let viewers peruse art at their leisure, but rather draw them into interactive situations. I skipped Tino Sehgal’s already-legendary exhibition at the Guggenheim last year for precisely this reason. I don’t like to perform, and I didn’t want to engage in conversations with strangers in an emptied museum. I considered going on several occasions, but the idea filled me with dread. To me, this is like the adult version of being picked as a "volunteer" at a magic show. Despite my aversion to this kind of art (Just leave me alone with my thoughts!), this morning, as I was picking up my grande nonfat chai latte, it seemed to offer one possible answer to the question (and don't ask me where this came from): If Starbucks were art, what kind of art would it be?

It is a plain, stucco and glass structure whose only distinguishing characteristic is a large, green, lettered sign reading “Starbucks Coffee.” Upon entering the environment, the viewer first encounters a soundtrack of bossa nova and the hissing sound of milk being steamed vigorously. Olfactory sensations soon follow and the viewer realizes that she is in a convincing simulation of a coffee shop. The décor contributes to the verisimilitude of the installation: round café tables with wooden chairs; taupe walls with dark wood wainscoting; artwork about coffee; and plush armchairs clustered in a corner.

Most of the approximately twelve to fifteen tables are occupied by lone patrons on laptop computers. A line has formed at the long counter on the far side of the room. The counter is festooned with seemingly random found objects: granola bars, CDs, breath mints, and the like. With this nod to the impulse purchase, the quaint coffee shop betrays its affinities with such emporia of mass consumption as the supermarket and the gas station. The illusion slowly begins to unravel.

The viewer notices a television monitor with an image of one of the CDs she has seen on the counter. It is preceded by the words, “You are listening to …”. Perhaps this is not a coffee shop after all, but one of those old timey record stores. Could this explain why the patrons are all wearing headphones? If at first she thought the headphones were a commentary on the alienation wrought by personal computers and social media, now she begins to wonder whether this is not, in fact, one of those relational art situations. Is the monitor a prompt? Is she meant to ask one of the customers wearing headphones what he is listening to?

Emboldened by years of museum and gallery visits, she decides to take the risk. She approaches a young man at a corner table who is in the process of tagging himself in a photo. 

“Excuse me,” she says. “What are you listening to?”

“I’m so glad someone finally asked,” he responds, removing his headphones. He invites her to sit down and a conversation ensues.

Dispatch from LA: Getty and LACMA and Brenda, Oh My!

For the past few days, I’ve been commuting to the Getty Center—by bus, of course, since I’m a real New Yorker (yeah, I know that Houston isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas; and I never tell a cab driver where I’m going until I’m inside the cab*—of course, he’ll still kick me out if I say I’m going to Brooklyn). The route passes the west gate of Bel Air, which looks exactly as you would expect if you’ve ever watched any of the gazillion TV shows or movies about wealthy people (or lucky hookers) in Los Angeles. Being … the age that I am … the first show that comes to my mind is one that was set only a few miles away—Beverly Hills, 90210—the original, of course.

I distinctly recall sneaking a few of those early, Brenda-era episodes in, since no responsible parent would allow their eleven or twelve year-old to watch that smut. The episode I remember best is when Kelly’s mother MC’s the mother-daughter fashion show high on cocaine. When I discovered about a year ago that SOAPnet (a television channel you’ve probably never heard of) re-runs episodes of 90210 in the afternoons, it seemed appropriate that the first episode I should catch was that very one.

I’ve watched a few episodes since then and what surprises me isn’t how tame the show is by today’s standards—though this is true—nor how dated the clothing and hairstyles are—and you know they are!—but how earnest it is. Almost every episode has a lesson, like a children’s book that teaches kids to share. Remember when Donna bombed the SAT’s? That was when we discovered that she had a learning disability (lesson: people with learning disabilities are not stupid). Or when we found out that Andrea lied about her residence so that she could attend West Beverly High (lesson: poor people don’t have equal access to good schools)? How about Brenda’s breast cancer scare (monthly breast exams, ladies)? Or when Scott accidentally killed himself with his father’s gun (guns aren't toys; and for god's sake, parents, put them where your kids won't find them)? And of course, Kelly’s mom, high on cocaine, ruining the mother-daughter fashion show, and Kelly’s life (don’t do drugs, especially if you’re old).

I’ve never seen the new 90210, and I surprised myself by not becoming addicted to Gossip Girl, but I’ll surmise that morality plays don’t feature prominently in their story arcs. In fact, twenty years on, such things seem positively quaint. We don’t like our shows pedantic. Viewers are much savvier today than they were twenty, and certainly thirty or forty years ago. I find it difficult to sit through any television show that still uses a laugh track, and the pseudo-documentary style of The Office, Parks and Recreation, and Modern Family is quickly becoming formulaic. Then it will be on to the next thing. Beverly Hills, 90210 is like a time capsule—and the most surprising discovery inside is that kids once allowed their mindless entertainment to teach them things (or to try to).

* If you got this reference, you're a real New Yorker.

The Wonderful World of Art

Recently, I visited the Museum of Arts and Design at Columbus Circle. (You may remember the museum's controversial transformation of Edward Durell Stone’s 1964 “Lollipop Building” a few years back.) I admit with some shame that this was my first time at the museum. The impetus for my visit was an exhibit called Otherworldly: Optical Delusions and Small Realities. The show is fantastic—literally. Michael McMillen’s The Studio (2004), Charles Matton’s Bibliotheque avec un souvenir d’Anna (2004), and Matt Collishaw’s zoetrope, Garden of Unearthly Delights (2009), are pure magic, while other artists let the viewer peek behind the curtain, so to speak, by juxtaposing models with the photos taken from them. Notable among the latter are Frank Kunert’s hilarious and disturbing Office Nap (2010) and Menu à Deux (2009).

Part of the enjoyment of these objects is the wonder of it all—wonder not only at the optical tricks that they play, but also at the ingenuity, patience, and skill demanded by works of such tiny perfection. We are in the world of the artisan, and there is satisfaction in a thing well-made.

It seems to me that it is, at least in part, this satisfaction that has made television shows like “Project Runway” and “Top Chef” immensely popular. The interpersonal drama is there, of course, but the real drama is in the process of designing and cooking, conceptualizing something and executing it successfully. Interestingly, Bravo’s foray into the art world with “Work of Art: The Next Great Artist,” has been far less successful. The show, which premiered in June 2010 and supposedly has been renewed for a second season, is, like its fashion and food forebears, task- and deadline-oriented.

This blog suggests that the boundary between art and entertainment is blurring, and yet, I was taken aback by “Work of Art” and its glib treatment of artistic discourse. Romantic notions of the isolated artist working in his (always his) studio have been passé since the 1960s, but a televised art competition was too much for me. To be sure, some of the artists possessed formidable skills, and there was some fun in watching them fabricate their works, but the enjoyment ended there. (Tellingly, the show relied heavily on interpersonal conflict to generate interest.) Though art and fashion circulate in the same luxury marketplace, art is distinguished by a certain kind of excess, something above and beyond its materials ... isn't it?

Postscript, 7/22:

What is art, anyway? The Oakland Museum of California's art gallery asks precisely this in something called the "Is It Art? Lounge." Viewers are asked to choose on a touch screen which of three cups is art. The best (and bravest) part of this exercise is that the screen tells you whether you're right, as determined by the staff of the museum. Elsewhere in the lounge you can vote by ballot (see image at right). This is the kind of populist thing (featured throughout the Oakland Museum's galleries) that you either love or hate. Me, I'm still deciding; the execution is pretty winning.

Aleph, Bet, Gimmel, Daled, Hey!

Natalie Portman may be a glamorous, Oscar-winning movie star, but to a certain group of people, she represents a different ideal. I’m referring of course to Jewish men, for whom Portman is the Holy Grail (an imperfect analogy, I know): a Jewish woman beautiful enough to put the Scandinavian shiksas of their dreams to shame; smart enough to challenge the prodigious intelligence their mothers have always told them they possess; and seemingly accessible despite all of this, at least until recently.

Edward Hopper, Wallace Berman, 1964

News has surfaced from no less reliable a source than “reports from Israel” that Portman has named her newborn son Aleph. The name, which is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and has vaguely mystical overtones, is just about what we have come to expect from celebrity parents. I have always been confounded by the arrogance—or perhaps it’s insecurity—that compels famous people to saddle their children with names that will garner them more attention than they can already expect to attract. Nevertheless, it has never really bothered me. Until now.

I’m not a Jewish man, but Portman is letting me down. First, “No Strings Attached,” now this. In an effort to reconcile my idealized version of Natalie Portman with the conventional celebrity she is turning out to be, I have decided to treat her gesture as an homage to the late, great California assemblage artist Wallace Berman, who wore a motorcycle helmet emblazoned with an aleph, as captured by Dennis Hopper. Berman, who didn’t necessarily understand Hebrew but was drawn to the Kabbalah, included Hebrew letters, especially the aleph, in much of his work.

Hats off to Natalie Portman for being as cool as Jewish men the world over have always known her to be.

Wallace Berman, Untitled, 1964

Something Ventured, Something Lost—The Whitney's Next Move

The windows at the Whitney Museum of American Art on 75^th and Madison Avenue are spectacular. Glimpsed only rarely amid the largely uninterrupted surfaces of Marcel Breuer’s forty-five year old building, they sometimes strike me as more interesting than the art itself.

This is not the case at the current Lyonel Feininger exhibition, which tracks the American Bauhaus master’s work from his cartooning days at the Chicago Sunday Tribune to the Manhattan streetscapes he painted following his long European sojourn. Feininger is best known as the creator of the woodcut print that graced the cover of the Bauhaus’s founding manifesto. His choice of a Gothic cathedral communicated the school's desire to integrate "fine" and "applied" arts. To this end, each student was taught by both an artist and a master craftsman. By the time the Bauhaus moved from Weimar to Dessau in 1925, a new generation of teachers, expert in both artistry and craftsmanship, had been trained.

Lyonel Feininger, Cathedral of Socialism, 1919

Among the new generation of Bauhaus masters in Dessau was Marcel Breuer, who was in charge of the furniture workshop. (Seeing Feininger’s work in Breuer’s galleries feels like a reunion of the two Bauhaus masters, each of whom eventually settled in New York.) The move to Dessau was accompanied by the construction of a new campus, designed by Bauhaus founder Walter Gropius, and a shift to a more modern aesthetic. This is especially apparent in the Bauhaus publications, with their advertising-inspired typography and layouts, and in the designs and paintings of the Hungarian artist Laszlo Moholy-Nagy. Moholy-Nagy joined the Bauhaus as a teacher in 1923, following a period in Berlin during which he encountered the brand of (politically watered-down) Constructivism imported from Soviet Russia by El Lissitzky. Moholy-Nagy’s Glass Architecture paintings, with their overlapping planes of color and interplay of transparency and opacity, owe a heavy debt to Lissitzky’s Proun paintings, which were well-known in the early 1920s. (Lest anyone doubt El's utopian bona fides, Proun is an acronym which translates as “Project for the Affirmation of the New”.)

El Lissitzky, Proun GK, 1922-23

Marcel Breuer’s windows at the Whitney resemble nothing so much as a Proun painting come to life. Even more than Lissitzky’s famed Proun Room of 1923, which projected the Proun into three-dimensions, Breuer’s windows exploit the architectural potential of these works and the utopian ideas they illustrated. Trapezoids set into the walls at angles, they seem to move simultaneously toward and away from you, acting as dynamic counterpoints to the artworks that surround them. When a window is covered with a white scrim, as is often the case (to mitigate the impact of sunlight on the art, one presumes), the effect is even more startling. The trapezoid glows like something out of James Turrell’s playbook. When blacked out to facilitate the exhibition of video works, the effect is very different, looking for all the world like Kazimir Malevich’s Black Square made flesh. (Malevich’s work and teachings prompted Lissitzky’s Prouns.)

The Whitney will be leaving its Breuer building in 2015 for more spacious, Renzo Piano-designed digs in the meatpacking district. The groundbreaking ceremony took place in May. This will come as a relief to those—and there are many of them—who dislike the Whitney’s current home. In November 2010, the New York Times’s Christopher Gray called it “ornery and menacing,” saying “it may be New York’s most bellicose work of architecture.” It would be premature to say that I will miss Breuer’s building—even after the museum moves its collection, it is unlikely that they will unload it. The fact remains, however, that I enjoy it. The Whitney is a pleasant place to visit, despite—or maybe because of—its too-small size (far too small for the Whitney’s collection and ambitions).

At the groundbreaking ceremony, the museum’s director, Adam Weinberg, described the new Whitney as “aspirational.” Like the tourists drawn to the neighborhood’s luxury retailers, perhaps? According to a video posted on the Whitney’s website featuring detailed renderings of Piano’s building as it will appear in 2015, the new Whitney, situated at the southern entrance to the High Line park, will invite the neighborhood in. This is a far cry from Breuer’s fortress-like building, located in an equally wealthy, though decidedly less “hip” enclave. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I have always liked Breuer’s building—it feels placeless. While this is an often-heard criticism of postwar modernist architecture, I have to admit to rather enjoying it in this case. The Upper East Side can be a forbidding place, and the Whitney feels like an oasis. By contrast, the new Whitney will blend seamlessly with the shiny glass storefronts and towers that are coming to define the meatpacking district and adjacent Chelsea. To be sure, it will be a treat to see more of the Whitney’s collection, but something wonderful will be lost in the process.

Postscript:

Cory Arcangel convinced the Whitney to suspend its prohibition of photography for viewers of his current “Pro Tools” exhibition. I thought I would take advantage by photographing the windows for this blog entry. After taking the picture seen here, I was informed (rather abruptly) by a security guard that photography of the windows is prohibited. Confused, I approached another, less agitated guard, to inquire about this strange policy which would allow me to take pictures of the art, but not the windows. People try to take pictures of the windows all the time, he told me, and it is not permitted—he couldn't tell me why (for more on the fraught position of museum and art gallery security guards, see Security Check). Disappointed, and a little embarrassed, I slinked away, wondering whether Arcangel realized how partial his victory had been.









 Sign at the entrance to Cory Arcangel's exhibition