absurdity, their outrageous colors, or their vintage pop culture. Giant
Doritos, odes to Michael Jordan, fluorescent 3D paintings, and other
seemingly random things have been exhibited for their "Oh man!" factor -
a combination of "Isn't this silly?" and "That's so funny!" Beyond a
nostalgic giggle, these works have little to give.
Luke Janson superficially seems to fall into this trap as well;
rainbows, cartoons, and joints populate the gallery, various oversized
phalluses humorously interrupt the viewer's space. The first clue to his
ascension over the "Oh man!" mold is that each piece is excellently
crafted: the arm sculptures are very clean; the barber-pole-man could be
from Toys-R-Us, if they stocked that sort of thing; each painting is
fully worked with apparent intention.
The paintings, in fact, are the simplest way to find the complexity in
Janson. He has developed a vocabulary of styles, each alluding to
specific parts of art history, and collages them in each large canvas to
meet different ends.
There is the "Picture in Picture" canvas, the image shown layered on top
of scale-up versions of itself. Among its historical references are
Holbein's famous skull transformed into a soccer ball, a dripping
Dali-esque appendage, and a pointillist field and figure. These are
mixed with video game details such as the gun-toting hand of a
first-person shooter and floating power-up icons. The other three
paintings might be "Graffiti Interfering With Color-Field/Hard-Edge
Abstractions", "Picasso Gets Metaphysical With Monty Python and Nintendo Basketball", and "Bonnard's Dog Abused By Dali".
The most interesting detail, in three of these four works, is the
sparing placement of colorful globs of paint along the edges of the
canvas. This tiny addition changes the paintings enormously; they are
suddenly active, living, pooling up at the edges and nearly escaping
into the world, to scuttle away or even to capture something new to
bring back. Janson's ability to activate his work (apparent in
everything but "Bonnard's Dog") is the key to this show's success.
Unlike the paintings, which have their allusions to fall back on, the
sculptures in the show rely completely on being somehow infused with
life, so that they are not only observed, but watched. The Great
Galloping Tongue is immediately noticed for its fan and rapid inflation,
but the real interest is at the very tip. Following the gently curved
body we find this curious, wagging end, so eagerly wagging that we fear
it escaping its leash. Opposite is the Nose, the big, rough, drunkard's
nose, gently blurred by its own vibration. Again, this piece feels
restrained, as if it were captured rather than created. Standing near
these works for too long creates a growing sense of foreboding in the
viewer, though it is unimaginable what might happen.
Is Janson's show funny? Yes, but this is only the beginning of its
appeal. He proves that the absurd is not necessarily ridiculous, that
there are greater rewards than a chuckle. Underclassmen, please take
note, everything may not be "so good!"
Will
1 comment:
I completely agree with the sentiments above and was additionally struck and pleased by something else about the show that I meant to write about:
Nothing in Luke's show really 'engages' the display space with its smart curatorial concerns in the same way that almost all the shows I've seen this year have, nor does it need to. With, perhaps, the exception of some shows entirely devoted to painting, students often feel the need to either make interventions on the architecture of their show space (paint it red, make walls for it, etc.) or they make work for the show after arriving at an over-arcing concept (make all of it lavender, make all of it grey, etc.). These are both methods that seek to tie works on display together inorganically and I think that they should both be approached critically. I don’t think they are, for the most part, and I tend to read decisions like these as ‘crutches’ for the work (rather than ‘supports’) more often than not.
Starkly opposed to these ideas, the pieces in Luke’s show are completely autonomous art objects which are not subordinated to the space they’re set down in or, even in some respects, the artist-as-curator himself. On some level, I’d say that Luke lets pieces flow out of him dependent only on his momentary whims and that he allows the works’ cohesive vision to assert and demonstrate itself independent of him. He did not need to change the environment of his pieces in order to heighten their impact nor did he need to create his pieces with an environment in mind. In neither sense did he need to begin with the idea of cohesiveness in order to arrive at cohesion.
While I’m not saying that these two alternatives to Luke’s practice (as I perceive it) are necessarily less interesting, I certainly do see them more often in Cooper Union. It’s refreshing to see someone just make art every now and then.
Post a Comment