The Highly Opinionated Newsletter XVVolume 2
Rauschenberg at the Guggenheim There is nothing the least self-effacing about any of Rauschenberg's art. Everything happens on a grandiose scale. Or bigger. Everything says notice me. And people do. People are pouring in to do just that. It's exactly the art they want. And exactly the art they deserve. It's art as extravaganza. It's encyclopedic in scope. Rauschenberg deals in visual overload. Too much of a good thing or too much of a bad thing. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that there be too much. Material is so unexpected that we soon expect anything. Like a kind of successor to pop art and op art, this is prop art. There are ladders and crates, doors and mirrors. Lights, glass and metal. Fabric and sneakers. Pails, chains and tire treads. There are also objects straight from the mortuary. Like dead birds and a goat. About the only thing that's lacking is the proverbial kitchen sink. But Rauschenberg wouldn't deign to use anything so hackneyed. He likes to surprise. And he does. Unfortunately, so many surprises become tedious. Rauschenberg combines his unusual materials in idiosyncratic ways. He frequently contrasts them with transfers appropriated from traditional art. The traditional art adds a much needed touch of class. And of beauty. Yes. Occasionally, amid the hurly burly, a touch of beauty emerges. It can emerge through color or through texture. Sometimes through shape and image. The work in the 50's begins on a somewhat small and experimental scale. There is a rawness and a deliberate ugliness. But soon the work gets more ambitious. And larger. Then, despite an attempt to do otherwise, it becomes suave. Every layout is unerringly designed. Facility turns decidedly facile. There is an emphasis on puns. As in Pneumonia Lisa 1982 and Able Was I Ere I Saw Elba 1985. The art becomes self-referential. Cleverness is its own subject. The artist may not tire of such wit and ingenuity. But we do. Ironically, then, the cumulative effect of this huge show is mind-numbing. Mental gymnastics start to wear thin. Visual counterparts do not sustain interest. An art of such banality shows the banality of such art. It all gets to seem too full of sound and fury. And to signify nothing much.
Gentle Indignation |