Hideous Subway Monster

Posted on May 24, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

bins

February 6, 1992

Poor Klinger called last night. He has some sort of rash or pox on his face. He said it’s so bad that he can’t go out in public. Since he’s a broke-assed actor, he has to use the free clinic. When he rode the subway to the clinic, nobody sat near him even though the car was pretty crowded. On his second trip to the clinic, it had gotten so bad that he wrapped his head in a scarf and wore sunglasses. He should’ve taken some pictures.

He’s not in any physical pain but I guess looking like a hideous monster is its own form of pain. I was going to visit and bring him chicken soup from the deli and a paper bag with eyeholes but decided he wouldn’t see the humor in it. Now, all of a sudden, he’s concerned with the healthcare issue in America. If you heard him describe the way he looks you’d laugh. I hope there’s no scarring.

I saw Maureen on Saturday. She spent the day saying terrible things about herself. She told me she has recurring dreams where someone dumps a vase of water over her head in front of a group of people and some other variations on public humiliation. Who can love someone who thinks so little of herself?

At the end of the evening she tried to kiss me. Yet another in an unending series of uncomfortable partings. She’s tried to kiss me on more than one occasion. I don’t return her affection so she’ll wait a couple of weeks and try again. Does she think I’ll suddenly have a change of heart? When I go to kiss someone and am rejected, I rarely return for a second round of punishment. Perhaps she’s too young and hasn’t learned that very useful lesson yet. Sometimes, friendship is all there is, and all there’s ever going to be.

Last night, I was lying in bed half reading The Andy Warhol Diaries and half waiting for the phone to ring. I’d left messages for Ann and Candace and I was waiting to hear from Christina, who should be back from Vermont by now. My phone never rang. Before I went to sleep I picked up the receiver to see if it still had a dial tone. It did.

I was thinking about how married people never have to go through this. They don’t spend time waiting for the phone to ring. I think it’s one of those lifestyle trade-offs once you get married. (No rush.) I won’t have to stare at the phone, which might be kind of nice. On the other hand, I won’t be able to dance around the apartment in my underwear to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation, play with myself while watching TV or stick my finger in the peanut butter jar. But I won’t have to lie in bed and wait for the phone to ring.

Speaking of marriage…Poor DeeDee. She’s going through a terrible divorce. She’s so nice. I feel awful for her. I’d rather stare at a phone that doesn’t ring than go through what she’s going through. Don’t trust Brazilian men! She joined us for dinner on Friday night. When divorce is in the room, the air changes. It can lead to long, uncomfortable silences.

As I predicted, we ate at an overpriced, overhyped restaurant and although I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it, I had a nice time. I had the duck in orange sauce with wild rice. Scrumptious. If I’d been home I’d have grabbed that bad boy with my bare hands, ripped it apart and shoved it in my stupid face. Orange sauce dripping off my chin and wild rice stuck to my cheeks. Since I was in a tablecloth joint, I used a fork and knife. A butter knife. Very ineffectual. When the waiter came to remove my plate I looked down and saw meat still on the bones. I almost wept. Everyone else ordered fish and didn’t seem to struggle with feeding themselves. I think they enjoyed watching me wrestle my fatty, delicious duck. Dinner + a show for them.

We killed a couple bottles of wine. It’s nice sitting at table in a fancy Manhattan restaurant with five people I’m comfortable with. I didn’t have to worry about putting on airs. They know I’m from nowhere, and going nowhere. And they don’t judge me for it. What a relief! DeeDee didn’t have any fun. She didn’t necessarily have a bad time, but you can tell she’s been drained of her usual effervescence. Her hair is long now. She’s pretty. Julie accidentally asked how the renovations on the house were going. Everyone knows that’s the third rail.

Art Auction Addendum

Two more from the May Contemporary Art auction at Christie’s

Just look at her. Sexy. Dangerous. The kind of woman who’d eat me for breakfast and use my sadness to pick her teeth. I’d hang her in a back room and wouldn’t share her with ANYBODY. Not even you.

Richard Prince
Runaway Nurse
Estimate: $7,000,000 – $10,000,000
Sold for: $9,685,000

On the other hand…

Robert Gober
Urinal
Estimate: $2,000,000 – $3,000,000
Sold for: $1,445,000

I want to meet the man (because you KNOW a man bought this) who paid $1.4M for a urinal that DOESN’T FLUSH.

The spring art auctions: money amok

Posted on May 16, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

112

It’s the time of the season when we turn our beer-soaked attentions towards the modern art world and gaze, in dumbfounded disbelief, at what hedge fund princes, Russian oligarchs and Sheiks of Araby spend on what they are assured by gallery owners and auction houses to be Beautiful and Important objects d’art.

This spring’s Impressionist and Modern Art auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s were fairly staid affairs. There were no earth-quaking pieces that set me all aquiver. That’s happened, you know! I’ve turned corners and have been confronted with canvases that looked alive to me. That didn’t happen this time.

I’m going to start with the piece that’s likely to insult the most number of people. There was a WARNING posted outside the small gallery where this was displayed that some people might find the content upsetting.

A dark room with a spotlight trained on a small sculpture of a kneeling man/boy. What could possibly be so offensive about that, you might wonder?

A visitor knelled beside him for perspective.

Walk around to the front of the sculpture and all is revealed.

Maurizio Cattelan
Him
wax, human hair, suit, polyester resin and pigment
Estimate: $10,000,000 – $15,000,000
Sold for $17,189,000

Oh. That guy. You can see how this might meet with some disfavor. There was a guard posted and only a few people were allowed in at a time. Part of the reason it sold for above the high estimate is that Maurizio Cattelan is The Hot Shit right now. He’s about to install a working 18-karat, solid-gold toilet in the bathroom of the Guggenheim. I’m going to poop in it. I am!

This following piece is more playful and easier to digest. I’ve seen these before and actually think I could put one in the corner of my living room and enjoy it. It’s suspended in sodium chloride reagent and distilled water.

Jeff Koons
One Ball Total Equilibrium Tank (Spalding Dr. J Silver Series)
Estimate on Request
Sold for $15,285,000

I didn’t like Jeff Koons for a long while but I became so exhausted with hating stuff that I decided to give in and enjoy it. Plus, it does this cool refraction trick when you look at it from an angle.

Look at this lovely Monet. If you’re familiar with his work, you might be wondering about its unusual dimensions. You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.

Claude Monet
Le bassin aux nymphéas
Estimate: $25,000,000 – $35,000,000
Sold for $27,045,000

This is only half the painting. An unscrupulous dealer divided the canvas sometime before 1944 because, you know, two painting sell for more than one. This is the right half. The left half is in the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. I think they should’ve bought it and hung it next to its missing half.

If the Tel Aviv Museum of art couldn’t come up with $27M for the other half of their Monet, perhaps they could’ve coughed-up $2M for this gigantic stick of butter:

Robert Gober
Untitled
Estimate: $1,500,000 – $2,500,000
Sold for $2,285,000

I can’t stand Robert Gober. What a fake What a charlatan. It’s crap like this that turns contemporary art into a punchline.

This might prove to be divisive but I like Francis Bacon. Art is so subjective (although not subjective enough to qualify a giant stick of butter legitimate art). These are self-portrait studies. Wouldn’t it be awesome if you met him and his face was all smeared like that?

Francis Bacon
Two Studies for a Self-Portrait
Estimate: $22,000,000 – $30,000,000
Sold for: $34,970,000

I usually save my harshest barbs for Jean-Michel Basquiat. He passed his scribbles and half-baked canvases off as finished work. They’re lazy affairs. And aside from that, his dreams came true and he threw it away on drugs. What a stupid ass. But I finally, after all these years, found a piece of his to admire in this gigantic canvas. He rarely worked this big. You’ve got to grudgingly hand it to him on this one. I intentionally waited until that lady walked in the frame for perspective.

Jean-Michel Basquiat
Untitled
Estimate on Request
Sold for $57,285,000

There was a shocking dearth of Rothkos offered for sale. These auctions typically feature a few juicy pieces. This season, we only had this one and another smaller piece to choose from. This is another painting I think I could live with, although I’d have to buy a much bigger house to accommodate it.

Mark Rothko
No. 17
Estimate: $30,000,000 – $40,000,000
Sold for $32,645,000

I took this group shot and realized that, individually, they’re interesting enough but if you bought ALL THREE and displayed them just as you see here, you’d really have something to drive the neighbors insane with envy.

Roy Lichtenstein
Sunrise
Estimate: $300,000 – $400,000
Sold for $418,000

Andy Warhol
Campbell’s Tomato Juice Box
Estimate: $300,000 – $400,000
Did Not Sell

Keith Harring
Untitled
Estimate: $450,000 – $650,000
Sold for $745,000

When I walked into the gallery I was instantly drawn to the pile of white objects on the floor. From a distance, you really couldn’t tell what they were.

Christian Marclay
Boneyard
Estimate: $600,000 – $800,000
Sold for $550,000

In memoriam:

[Brrring] the phone rang and she said
“Whoever’s calling can’t be as cute as you”
Right then and there I knew I was through

“The Ballad of Dorothy Parker”
Prince

Damien Hirst is another guy who raises a lot of rankles but I find some of it clever enough. People seem particularly bothered by the raw cruelty of raising butterflies in order to use their wings for paintings, but they’re quite beautiful. If you saw this in person you might have a change of heart.

Damien Hirst
Psalm 46: Deus noster refugium
Butterflies and household gloss on canvas
Estimate: $80,000 – $120,000
Sold for $161,000

I’ve got more that’ll make you grind your molars to dust and question the direction contemporary art, not to mention all of humanity, is taking but I’m pushing 1,000 words and I don’t want to break my own Cardinal Rule of Blogging so I’ll leave you with these; one I like and one that deserves scorn heaped upon it. I leave it to you to decide which is which.

Jeff Koons
Smooth Egg with Bow (Magenta/Violet)
Estimate: $7,000,000 – $10,000,000
Sold for $7,445,000

Cady Noland
Chicken in a Basket
Twenty-seven elements, wire basket, rubber chicken, boxes, bottle, flags, baster, bungee and beer cans
Estimate: $350,000 – $450,000
Sold for $305,000

Potpourri!

Posted on May 5, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

102

14-Year Old Daughter was Confirmed by the Catholic Church. For the uninitiated, Confirmation is a spiritual rite-of-passage. A sacrament. It’s kind of like a Bat Mitzvah, I think. Actually, I’m not quite sure what a Bat Mitzvah is.

At Confirmation, you receive seven gifts from the Holy Spirit:

Knowledge
Fortitude

(So far, so good.)

Understanding
Piety
Counsel

(Not bad. Keep going.)

Wisdom
Fear of the Lord

HOLD IT. Back up one. What do they mean Fear of the Lord? Does He really want us cowering in fear? Wouldn’t ‘Love of the Lord’ be psychologically healthier? It sounds like yet another Catholic beat-down to me. They should change that last one to ‘Fear of the Church.’ That’d be more accurate.

Not-so-fun Fact: In the Pledge of Allegiance, the phrase, “under God,” was tacked on in 1954 as a response to the Communist scare. Idiots.

* * * * *

Manhattan skyscrapers are loaded to the teeth with over-sized lobby art. There are some nice pieces by Roy Lichtenstein and Frank Stella. The murals in Rockefeller Center are spectacular. But there’s one piece that isn’t about aesthetics. Can you guess what this is?

I’m not claiming it’s visually appealing. It isn’t. It’s visually appalling. I pretty much hate all forms of graffiti. But this is important.

These are five sections of the Berlin Wall. Remember that one, old timers? I don’t know who trucked these things all the way to NYC—they must weigh tons—but I like them. I remember when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989 there were people down on Wall Street selling what they claimed were pieces of the wall. This side faced West Berlin.

The East Berlin side tells you everything you need to know about what it must have been like to live there.

Fun fact: The femme fatal in the first James Bond novel, Casino Royale, was Vesper Lynd. That was Ian Fleming’s playful take on West Berlin.

bins

January 2, 1992

For Christmas, Colleen gave me a book about people throughout history who’ve kept journals. I don’t know what made me think doing this was so special. You walk around thinking you’re one in a million but the truth is you’re a dime a dozen.

Kat and I exchanged gifts. She put a catalog of worldwide timeshare properties in my lap and said, “Pick one and I’ll send you.” I got her bamboo windchimes.

I felt terrible and tried to tell her I couldn’t possibly accept. I told her it was an unwarranted, undeserved and overly-extravagant gift. I phoned Marshall and he called me a fucking idiot and said to pick the place the furthest away. Preferably on the other side of the planet.

Oh, she also handed me a beautiful, professionally wrapped box and inside was a great Ralph Lauren tie and an evergreen cotton/linen pullover sweater. She said she really likes her windchimes and can’t wait to hang them. I got the 8:00 train back to the city.

There’s a terrible exhibit at the Whitney right now. A lot of cold, soulless, hyper-modern garbage, if you ask me. This was the only piece that had some humor. These are Gary Simmons’ gold-plated basketball shoes.

Yes, real gold. Of COURSE it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know if it’s supposed to. It’s playful.

I think those markings running up the wall are the measurements from a Branncok Device. Someone had to point that out to me. I’m not that clever.

Tiger.

Would I? Wood Eye!

Posted on March 5, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

A respite from tales of cockroach infestations and unrequited love. Instead, here are two gallery hops. You can (and should) click on your favorites for detail.

I get too wrapped-up in the city and forget that great art can be found pretty much anywhere. I was enjoying some one-on-one time with my daughter on Asbury Park’s boardwalk on a sunny Sunday afternoon and stumbled across these beauties.

They’re made of wood and they’re life size.

They’re situated in The Market on Fifth Avenue, a boutique co-op on the boardwalk. It’s a gaggle of little artisan shops under one roof. I know very little about the artist. Apparently, he came in one day, asked if he could display them and the owner said yes. Smart owner.

The detail is incredible. She’s weird and wonderful. The shirt looks like cloth

The girl behind the counter didn’t even know the artist’s name, much less anything about his work.

I finally found his name at the bottom of this piece. A Google search for Gary Mellon turned up a dead webpage but there are some other links. Apparently, he carves these from plywood in his Brooklyn loft. [Edit: With thanks to Lame Adventures. Here he is.]

I tried not to put my filthy hands on them but it’s tough. It’s one of those pieces that begs to be caressed. The wood is smooth and cool to the touch.

As I said, there’s virtually no information at all out there on this guy, which is pretty amazing when you consider all the information avenues on the internet. Artists are terrible marketers. It’s the downfall of many of them. Get this guy a gallery rep! It made me wonder how many other great artists are out there that I’m unaware of.

I love neon lights. They conjure a certain old-timey feeling. I used to love seeing neon lights reflected on a rain-soaked Manhattan street at 1:00 a.m. The fact that you don’t see them anymore makes me feel like something worthwhile is gone. Neon lights are now LED. Bookstores are Amazon. The counter at Howard Johnson’s is now Starbucks.

So I got a big thrill out of Agnosia, an Illuminated Ontology, an Installation by Joseph Kosuth at the Sean Kelly Gallery in Chelsea.

It was a career retrospective with works produced from 1965 to present. I think having them all gathered together in one room made it even more of a spectacle. I wondered if I would’ve enjoyed it as much if I’d seen them individually mounted? They say less is more, but that’s not always true.

Follow the branches of this tree. The flow makes sense. It all springs from water. I like how he arrives at ‘vodka.’

W.F.T. #3, 2008

Five Colors, Five Adjectives, 1965

This one, Five Fives (for Donald Judd), is from 1965 and the earliest piece in the show. Each review and article I read highlighted this piece. I wonder what set it apart from all the others so that it deserved special attention?

Mounted on the ceiling beams throughout the gallery were the names of famous people who either were born in 1968 or died in 1968. You can see them if you scroll up to that first gallery shot. It’s an eclectic gathering.

1968 2

1968 7

1,2,3,4, 1993

Yes, that’s an illuminated Calvin and Hobbs comic. I wonder if Bill Waterson knows about this or if it’s just another piece of misappropriated comic art?

Double Reading #20, 1993

Two fun stories about two odd paintings

Posted on February 12, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

Everyone was out on Friday evening so instead of going home to an empty house I walked over to MoMA. There’s a modest Jackson Pollock exhibit.

Jackson Pollock
Full Fathom Five 1947

This is considered to be one of his first ‘drip’ paintings. What a mess! But I like it. I wonder what possessed him to take his canvas off the easel and lay it on the floor? He used traditional oil paint but he also used house paint. He threw a lot of other junk in, too. You have to get close to see the other stuff. So close that you’ll be yelled at by the museum guard. Take it from me. It’s like a treasure hunt. Within the folds of paint you can find:

A skeleton key.

Paint tube caps.

Coins.

Some nails.

A cigarette and another coin.

Pushpins and thumbtacks.

The title was suggested by Pollock’s neighbor. It’s a quote about a shipwreck from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

“Full fathom five thy father lies
Of his bones are coral made
Those are pearls that were his eyes.”

Isn’t that beautiful? People stopped paying attention to him after the drip paintings. It’s as if Led Zeppelin sang ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and nothing else. Poor Jackson. It drove him mad. He wrapped his car around a tree in a drunken fit. Is it better to have known greatness, only to have it snatched away? Or are you better off never knowing?

Robert Rauschenberg
Canyon 1959

He used a little bit of everything. Oil, paper, metal, photos, fabric, wood, canvas, buttons, a mirror, a pillow, cardboard and, yes, a taxidermied bald eagle. It’s a combination of painting, collage and sculpture all balled into one using found objects. He called these pieces Combines. He’d walk around downtown New York (we’re talking 1959 downtown) and pick up items that inspired him. Clearly, the centerpiece is that bald eagle.

It was given to him by fellow artist Sari Dienes. She found it in a hallway of the Carnegie Hall studio building. The rumor is it was killed and stuffed by one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. I wonder how it got to Carnegie Hall?

Bald eagles are a protected species, so selling this would be a felony. Consequently, when the owner passed away and bequeathed it to her children, the appraisers valued it at $0. The IRS disagreed and said it’s worth $65 million and they wanted $29.2 million in inheritance taxes, thank you very much. To get the IRS off their backs, they agreed to donate it to MoMA and MoMA agreed to always have it on display for the public to enjoy.

Four people sitting on a bench texting.

And where is this bench? In front of this:

Why bother to let one of Monet’s most vibrant tryptics wash over you when social media beckons? I wish I could report that they were absorbed MoMA’s museum app but, sadly, they were not. They were texting.

The bigger question here is: What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I in their lives? They’re not blocking my view of the painting. Why do I give a damn what they’re doing? This is the opposite of Zen detachment. I feel like a bitchy old man complaining about those damn kids and their newfangled technologies.

It is a shame, though. If I could un-invent mobile phones I’d do it in a second.

It was the last weekend for the monumental Picasso sculpture exhibit so it was pretty crowded. I’d like to propose a new rule: If you have a stroller, you can’t come into an art museum. They banned selfie sticks. Why wouldn’t the ban strollers?

Pablo’s clever guitars on a table.

Cardboard

Metal

Mixed media

Exile on Pain Street

Straddling the Hudson River. One foot in NYC, the other in suburban New Jersey.

Category Archives: Art

Hideous Subway Monster

The spring art auctions: money amok

Potpourri!

Would I? Wood Eye!

Two fun stories about two odd paintings

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