The Highly Opinionated Newsletter XVII
Galleries at 57th Street Prowling the galleries around 57th Street served only to reinforce my sense of the paltry nature of much of what passes for art this century. I began at Janis Gallery, where stepping off the elevator, the first thing I encountered was a frightening electric-blue spongelike fungus shape clinging to the wall. I was taken aback. Stunned would be too mild too describe my reaction. I glanced quickly around the premises and saw that no names were attached to any of the work. Putting aside for the moment the crazy idea that no artist cared to be associated with anything on display, I went up to the desk to ask for a title list. "Most of our customers recognize these artists without needing a list," the woman in charge icily informed me. I was utterly undeterred. "Sometimes I just like to know what the title is," I parried back. She dismissively handed me the list on condition that I would promise to return it. Unable to think of anything better to do with it anyway, I promised. Numbered list in hand, I thought I would check out the work, only to discover that they were unnumbered. An inquiry to a young man working in the gallery elicited the information that he didn't know any more than I did. Together, we tried to figure out a probable order. It really didn't matter. Nothing was as horrific as the blue spongelike fungus by Yves Klein, but nothing was much better, either. Several small Giacometti drawings did exert an accustomed spell. A Brancusi oval entitled Prometheus looked like all his other ovals given other titles like Muse or Woman Sleeping or Child. The usual array of abstractions were looking tired and familiar and also rather hackneyed. By the time I got to the DuChamp urinal, pointless though it was, it was looking pretty good. In fact, it seemed like the high point of this selection. In such company, a little wit goes a long way. Edwin Dickinson at Babcock - Drawings of nudes had authority as well as delicacy. Landscapes were introspective in quality, muted in color. Easy to look at, easy to forget. Eric Fischl at Mary Boone - These eerie and erotically charged paintings stay in your mind because of an unlikely combination. They are bad as well as weird. Ellsworh Kelly at Sheehan - With sheet after sheet of nothing more than a single color, this artist's work appears monotonous, repetitious, and just plain boring. Works at O'Hara and at Goodman - Twentieth century work begins to be too assaultive and aggressive to spend much time with. A childish Basquiat that would be embarrassing anywhere seems even more so on a gallery wall. Botero's blimplike women are creatures you want to flee from as soon as you can. A Matta is filled with unpleasant looming shapes. I had never seen an ugly Brancusi, but here it was - a gouache, poorly painted and ugly, too. Et cetera.
Gentle Indignation |