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Patti Smith
Robert Miller Gallery
By Ola
Manana
To the casual observer, it would seem that poet rebel-rocker
turned visual artist, Patti Smith’s show at the Robert
Miller Gallery was designed to attract as little attention
as possible. Like the non-sound of a pin dropped onto a carpet,
these photographs demand an absorbent contemplative silence,
a rare achievement for contemporary art.
Smith’s music placed her on the map in 1975 with her
break through record, Horses. Since then she has produced
other acclaimed work in poetry and music. Less known for her
visual art, this show makes you wonder why her collective
contributions are not generally considered as a whole; the
music informs the silence. There are different kinds of silences,
however. In one photograph Smith explores the silence beneath
the hand of God. In GOD’S HAND, ROME, (2005) a detail
of the hand of God appears huge, in marble, on the left side
of the photograph. Beneath it, a somewhat defaced sphinx maintains
its upward gaze. The juxtaposition between a sphinx that would
certainly have been known in Egypt as having divine authority,
and God, in the Roman depiction, is notable because the two
elements are there. God appears to be somewhat bigger, the
sphinx is on guard, an injured sentinel who has spent inestimable
hours watching.
The title of the show offers a clue as to what Smith is doing
in this work. In reference to the ideas of Pythagoras, the
legendary philosopher/mathematician, the focus is placed upon
the journey, or the space between two points. The journey
that Smith takes in her photographs documents points on an
endless pilgrimage, some which seem like endings, but carry
over to the next. She documents the graves of Brancusi and
Blake, and other fetishistic items: John Keat’s bed,
or Rimbaud’s silverware. Simultaneously stark and warm,
these photographs are like love letters to the dead. Many
of them use archaic means (gelatin silver prints) to document
archaic objects, but move beyond documentary photographs into
the realm of fine art. While she does not forget to visit
the tomb of Caesar Agustus, which is absolutely still, that
stillness is duplicated in like manner in the photograph BALL
AT ST.CLAIRE SHORES, (2006). The focus of the photograph,
what appears to be a small plastic ball is suspended in a
wave, frozen in perfect symmetry in the middle of the page.
In the photographic drawing MY STEED IS OLD from 2006, there
appears the phrase “My steed is old, said the innkeeper,
but not as old as the rainbow,” The photograph shows
an aging white horse, who’s jaw reaches over the wooden
plank of his corral and rests on it. The word Steed is well
put. This isn’t merely a horse, a charger or a stud;
it is a rescuer. He has not been defeated because he is stuck
in a cage, he has succeeded because he has moved beyond the
point where physical movement matters. He is a point on the
continuum. The rainbow is the continuum, a future dream that
is completely unattainable because it keeps slipping into
the present. In another photograph of a white horse Smith
reverses this concept. WINGED HORSE-THE PALACE OF MUSIC, BARCELONA,
takes an absolutely still, solid mass, a sculptural element
in a building, and gives it the visual weightlessness of a
cloud of white smoke. At the same time appears to be charging
down from the sky. Smith balances the finality of death with
the possibility of change.
“You have come/the door is open/you will not find me/
you will find my love.”1
In TRAVELER’S BED, (2006) Smith creates a sculpture
of a bed that seems to appear as if out of a dream. The bed
frame is made to look exactly like a middle- eastern stretcher.
Photographs of sick and wounded, from places such as Qana,
near disaster sites depict exact replicas of this design.
Two planks protrude out of either end for transport. This
is not a sleeping bag, or a cot. The trip that is being taken
is either a trip to the hospital or to the morgue. It rests
on the floor and an ordinary white sheet rests on it, somehow
deflecting the crudeness of the wood. It has lightness, because
it is crumpled and almost seems to float above the bumpy mattress.
But upon closer inspection, it is obviously a poem. The carefully
inscribed wavy handwriting covers the seams, and otherwise
forms distinct geometrical shapes. The accumulation of notes
taken during a long journey is written all over it; constellations
form. The sheet, taken with Smith during her journeys, is
a literary achievement as well as an element of sculpture.
The words drawn in very ordered patterns intermittently slip
into chaos. Next to the bed is a tray with grain, which appears
to have been tampered with. Like the Egyptian funerary ritual
of placing grain in proximity to the dead, for the presumed
afterlife, it is an offering for those who have gone before
us, as well as to nurture the suffering.
This is a very understated body of work, it reveals itself
through contemplation. The trick is not merely finding the
stone scroll. The journey of Pythagoras involves deciphering
it.
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This Article
Jonas Mekas
Maya Stendhal Gallery
By Ola Manana
Revered as the father of American avant-garde cinema, Jonas
Mekas stands out, not only for his films, but also for his
role in helping to make experimental avant-garde films accessible
to the public. As one of the founders of the Anthology Film
Archives, the converted art movie house in Lower Manhattan,
he has also helped other filmmaker have their work shown for
some 35 years.
This show at the Maya Stendahl Gallery, however, focuses
on Mekas’ own films. Curated by co-owner Harry Stendahl,
the exhibition utilizes ten large flat screen TVs and two
projectors that play Mekas’ films in loops, simultaneously.
The films playing all at once creates a randomly chaotic atmosphere,
similar to the effect of the distinctive jump-cut editing
process that Mekas is known for.
Mekas is not interested in telling a chronological story,
instead he stitches together imagery like a musician would
construct a musical score, using a variety of notes. This
cerebral rhythmic editing process is evident in the film,
Phil Glass Plays for Ralph Steiner’s Mechanical Principles
at AFA. (2000). In this film, the silhouette of Glass playing
a grand piano is set against the background of Steiner’s
film, a montage of close-ups of dials turning and gears shifting.
As Glass subtly rocks back and forth he in effect creates
visual counterpoint with the objects moving on the screen.
The cohesiveness of this piece is all about time, and it succeeds
by transporting the viewer almost instantly into another space.
In Salvador Dali at Work, (1964) the viewer is transported
into an afternoon in Dali-land. A fuzzy close-up of Dali in
profile crashes onto the screen. He appears later wearing
a Mona Lisa sandwich board, is then joined by a friend who
twitches a lot, and we see him again with a fetching young
blonde, who seems indifferent to being bound up with rope
like a ball of twine. Then, it appears that Dali comes across
some whip cream which he squirts onto the young lady’s
forearm and continues frosting her whole body like a cake.
The yard is littered with “empties” and a chair
covered with whip cream. This non-plot, as it were, is compelling
not only for its historical value of the characters but for
the panache with which it was carried out.
In Destruction of the Berlin Wall, (1990) Mekas documents
the event by filming a crane snatching up the graffiti enhanced
sections of concrete and dropping them in a cloud of dust
onto a pile. The vulnerability of the wall, in the grip of
the machine’s great claw is amplified by the small amount
of time it takes to move each piece. Mekas captured the exact
moment in which the Berlin Wall became like a useless piece
of paper, crumpled and tossed into the garbage, a happening
which combined with stunning images and the precise hour of
the day needed no commentary.
By departing from traditional narrative film structure, Mekas
artfully crafts sequences which appear to be on their own
time, imbuing scenes with a dream-like quality. His uncanny
knack for being in the right place at the right time is critical
to all of his films; sometimes it involves a famous event,
like the Lennon/Ono “Bed-In For Peace” or it could
be just filming a dog running down the street, Mekas is there
immortalizing the image. In The Song of Central Park, (1966)
a wonderful sequence of out of focus, high contrast park visitors
is smattered onto the screen in short edits, creating an animated
pattern which feels like abstract painting. He films tourists
with cameras, pretty girls bopping, swirls of fiery autumn
leaves, then, the camera stops for a moment on the place where
a tree meets the ground, lingers, and moves on.
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This Article
Art Basel Week
in Miami
In The First Person
By Rachel Hoffman
Continuing our new series of first-person accounts
of art world events, as told from the perspective of individual
artists, “In The First Person” presents this second
installment of Rachel Hoffman’s diary narrative of Art
Basel Week. The idea is to cut through the flood of pre-packaged
press offerings, and discuss the events on a more human scale,
one voice at a time.
5. 12. 06
I watch the traffic pouring into Miami Beach
from the balcony of a high-rise condominium on a little island
on Biscayne Bay. In just one day, Art Basel Miami Beach 2006
will open. Although the work that I do as a performance artist
is not connected to this fair, the term “Art Basel”
has become synonymous with the start of the art season in
Miami. People say “Art Basel Week,” when they
mean everything under the sun. Soon a storm of celebrity art
collectors, dealers, curators, writers, artists, and all sorts
of fancy people from all over the world will electrify Miami
with more of everything, everywhere.
I am going to spend the night with my friend
Lamia Endara. She is a beautiful Egyptian born curator and
photographer who lives and works in Miami. From her bedroom
window, I feel like I am floating in a tiny glass flying saucer
above the city.
Lamia and I are preparing our own projects, and planning itineraries
for things we would like to see in the next few days. As we
work, she prepares her favorite drink made with a deep red
pomegranate liqueur. I sip it slowly, talking calmly and for
a moment I imagine myself as the goddess Demeter, freshly
emerging from the underworld; maybe it was the elevator ride
up to this glass cocoon in the sky.
6. 12. 06
The next day I’m having another sweet
red drink, this time delivered by a bartender with thick curly
black hair while relaxing on the front porch of a hotel on
Ocean Drive. My hectic performance schedule begins tomorrow.
I have been sewing a costume made of gold fabric for almost
two months; my hands are aching and I’ve stuck myself
with the sewing needle so many times that tiny spots of blood
have soaked into my costume. It is not noticeable, but it
is really there. Sometimes I think that the small doses of
physical pain help to alleviate anxiety and sadness. I prick
myself again and again, continuing this repetitive stitching
and poking while I think.
Earlier today, I attended the opening of Art
Basel’s “Art Positions” with Kari Snyder,
a Miami based photographer, and my friend, Lamia, who is also
a photographer. We really liked a video by the South African
artist, Robin Rhode, that was shown at the Rubenstein Gallery.
It was packed inside, but eventually we worked our way to
a comfortable viewing position and stood mesmerized for quite
a while. Lutz Bacher’s distressed black and white images
of famous politicians and entertainers, printed with funny
wisecrack captions, also caught my attention. This work was
at the Taxter & Spengemann Gallery. My favorite piece
here is a luscious image of Marilyn Monroe, with a made up
caption declaring, “Go Fuck Yourself.”
After spending quite a bit of time looking at
art, we hung out at the beach to watch the singer, Peaches,
perform with her band; but I was too distracted watching the
crowd to fully appreciate the music.
6. 12. 06
Today I got through my first performance; clad
in my hand-stitched Venus Girdle, an absurd body sculpture
based on the myth of Venus’s seductive undergarment.
The idea of magical lingerie capable of rendering a woman
totally irresistible amuses me immensely. My interpretation
of this garment looks like something between a ballet tutu
and a Venus flytrap. I enjoy the idea of having something
carnivorous on my crotch. During the performance I painted
myself in pink war paint while doing a playful belly dance.
Although I consider this performance to be a love ritual,
a homage to the goddess, I find something aggressive in the
whole process of adornment and seduction. I’m often
driven by instinct, and sometimes that makes me feel helpless
and out of control; but it can also be fun and a little dangerous.
Afterwards, I manage to clean off enough of
the costume make-up to attend another art fair Professional
Preview. This time it’s at one of the countless hotel
art fairs that have sprouted up in the vicinity of the Miami
Beach Convention Center, where Art Basel takes place. These
hotel fairs are really crowded, and It’s difficult to
move through the hallways.
I stop to visit an exhibitor, Erika Schneider
of Bleu Acier, Inc., to see how things look in her room, and
to say hello. She published a beautiful edition of one of
my performance stills. She seems very busy, so I decide to
check out the other rooms and to also visit another nearby
hotel fair. There are several such art fairs within walking
distance; each with catchy names like “Flow” or
“Bridge”. Some are simply named after the hotel
they’re located in as in “Aqua” at the Aqua
Hotel. Still, others have more focus and history. For example,
further down the beach, across Ocean Drive, the “DiVA”
art fair was showing work that focuses on digital video art.
This fair, by the way, was held in shipping containers arranged
like a small village directly on the beach. There was even
a “mobile art gallery” called “Shore / Cohen
Mobile Gallery” making the rounds in a white truck that
would park near the bigger art fairs and tap into the foot
traffic. This was later that night though, when I went to
the Scope-Miami fair in Wynwood. Their truck was parked across
from the big line waiting to get into Scope.
Wynwood is just a quick trip from Miami Beach
if you have a car, but I’ve heard it takes forever if
you have to rely on shuttles or taxis; I drive. This is where
all the new galleries are located. It’s also where the
the larger “booth fairs” set up shop. Scope-Miami,
which used to be a hotel fair, is probably the best known
of these; but there is also one called “Pulse”
and a new photo fair called, “Photo Miami” which
made it’s debut. The gallery, Edge Zones, also held
a fair featuring local artists. This is where I am scheduled
to do another performance. There is also a fair called “NADA”
which, though not really in Wynwood, seems nearby if you’re
driving.
At Scope, I take some notes, and I am drawn
to the colorful and dreamlike sculptures by Kirsten Krüger
called “Grief” at the booth of Umtrieb- Galerie
für aktuelle Kunst. The gallerist is very friendly. I
say a few words to him in German. He seems surprised. I tell
him that my father was born in Munich. When he says, “Was
machst Dein Vater?”, I feel sad. I want to tell him
that my father has died, but suddenly I have forgotten how
to speak German. The language makes me feel cold, and I realize
that I cannot say it in English either. I think of the title
of the installation which all of the sudden fits so well,
and then of my father. I feel overwhelmed and lonely. The
conversation goes on for a few moments, and then I decide
to leave.
Lamia spots me walking from the booth. She senses
my sadness and wraps me next to her in her scarf. We are feeling
cold, so we bundle together as we walk to her car.
8. 12. 06
Today is much cooler and I am not dressed appropriately.
I am wearing a bright and short yellow vintage dress. I now
feel shy about it. I decide to hide behind a large pair of
sunglasses. As I walk down Lincoln Road with a stack of magazines
in my hands, wind gusts blow through the thin fabric of my
delicate cotton frock. I shiver. This cloudy weather depresses
me.
Today my friend Kalup Linzy, an artist who shows
at the Taxter & Spengemann Gallery, arrives from New York.
His videos are also being shown at the Sagamore Hotel in South
Beach, which is known for having an art focus. While I wait
for his arrival, I decide to visit some more art fairs, but
all of the walking and looking wears me out. After a while,
I decide to go back to my place to work on my costume some
more, and maybe even take a nap. I begin to think that I just
won’t have the energy to go out tonight, despite so
much happening.
At around 10 p.m. Kalup and Lamia both start
calling me. They talk me into going out for a while so I throw
my yellow baby doll dress on, with a pair of high heels and
some red lip gloss. Slutty.
Kalup invites us to a party hosted by the art
collectors Al Giolio and Paul Bernstein. We drive around for
a while looking for the address. When we finally arrive, I
am really impressed by the super-cool collection. Of course
my favorite pieces are Kalup’s hilarious yet powerful
videos, “Ride to da Club” and “Lollypop”.
Laughter is so powerful. After we order screwdrivers and talk
for a while, I go over alone to watch the videos again and
again. All of the doors and windows here are open. We can
look out at the water. I feel really happy. I love visiting
galleries and museums, but there is nothing quite like experiencing
art in a living space, as a real collection. Art collections
are cool because they say a lot about the collectors. I once
heard a collector say that he usually buys the work that he
is able to respond to on an emotional level. He says he cannot
explain it, but that it’s very much like falling in
love. I cannot know for sure, but this seems to be true also
of Al and Paul. Now I feel like a hopeless romantic.
9. 12. 06
Today is the roughest day yet. Months of preparation have
gone into the next dissolving hours, when I will unveil my
latest persona, “Lady Danger”. She wears another
Venus Girdle of sorts. This one is adorned with gold spikes
inspired by Josephine Baker’s famous banana skirt, but
with a silly tiger head on the crotch. It has a set of teeth
that appear slightly human, with molars. A tiger print tail
sprouts from the back with a red and pink satin scorpion stinger
on the tip. I am told that this looks like a sex toy, but
I pretend to be too innocent to confirm the observation. After
the performance in South Beach I go back to Wynwood to the
Zones Fair in the Edge Zones gallery space, where I coax Lady
Danger into one more performance for the night.
10. 12. 06
I’m on a hammock that’s tied between
two palm trees, having a drink. It’s near the outdoor
bar at the Raleigh Hotel. This is a popular place to spend
Sunday evenings for locals in Miami. A friend has been feeding
me chocolate and champagne. We move on to red wine. I have
to skip dinner again, the drinks make me start to feel sleepy.
When I stand up, my high heels sink into the
sand and my hair is windblown and tousled from being on the
hammock. A man who looks to be in his mid- fifties with silver
hair approaches me. He tells me that I look kind of mermaidish
with my pale skin, dark hair and red lips. I tell him that
he is just imagining things because we are only a few steps
from the ocean. He argues with me about that for a moment,
and then I give in; I tell him that I am indeed possessed
by a water spirit.
My cell phone rings. Thank god. It’s my friend Kalup
asking me to meet him and a super-cool painter at Kehinde
Wiley’s Fish Fry at the Raleigh Hotel. What a remarkable
coincidence! I am already at the Raleigh. I look over and
I see a group of familiar faces, artist friends of Kalup that
I met over the summer when I was in New York. Jeffrey Deitch
is there, so I guess this must be a big art thing.
I wander over to a table where I’m invited
to share a bottle of champagne, Kalup comes over and I offer
him a glass. He asks me to join the party, introducing me
to new people: SunTek Chung, Derrick Adams, Kambui Olujimi,
Shaun Leonardo, Kianga Ford, Mickalene Thomas, Hank Willis
Thomas, Wangechi Mutu, and Iona Rozeal Brown.
SunTek Chung takes photos as we drink and laugh in the comfortable
tents at the Raleigh. I find that I don’t have much
to say. My voice is scratchy. I am still exhausted from yesterday’s
performances. The party begins to wind down and most of the
group piles into a silver convertible. The rest of us go to
the Marlin on Collins Drive. I have one more drink, then decide
to say goodnight.
Walking down the beach trying to collect my
thoughts, I feel sort of sad that Art Basel 2006 is over.
But next month there’s Art Miami 2007, which promises
another round of parties and VIP events to keep the art momentum
going, albeit on a much more intimate scale.
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