Travelogue 39 Rampant consumerism December 2005
Art is a commodity. In art school, in art history classes, it's promoted as a search for meaning but it's a commodity, even when designed to be temporary and outside of the commodity market. Then documentation becomes the commodity. Art reviews exist mostly to tell readers what to buy, other artists what to emulate. One Charlie Finch review at artnet.com was about what art he would like to buy as he strolled through NY galleries. Consumerism is so much easier than trying to develop a coherent observation.
In November I flew back to New York for a visit. My brother from New Orleans had stayed with me in LA until his foot was healed enough to return to his life. A few days after he left, I took a red eye into JFK. For some reason, Song thinks that night flights exist solely to sell snacks and beverages all night. I arrived tired and irritable. And nothing I saw in the Chelsea galleries seemed to lift me out of myself to a greater truth. Mostly it was rehashing and rehashing.
I did, however, laugh out loud at the work in Chris Caccamise's "Talisman of Doom" at sixtyseven Gallery (sixtysevengallery.com). Looking at the black hole of Career seemed to sum Chelsea up pretty neatly. A show I liked at John Connelly turned out to be by a California trained artist, Nick Lowe. (No pics - everything behind plexi.) One show, though, summarized my experience: Rick Briggs' paintings, "Painter Man," made of materials used in construction, spoke eloquently of the vagaries of non-success in the art world and its parallel with the transitory nature of architecture in Brooklyn. (At Sarah Bowen in Williamsburg, www.sarahbowengallery.com) Williamsburg where I lived 13 years has changed so much I don't recognize some of the streets. Pseudo modernist growths have infected entire blocks. The one epiphany moment looking at the architectural work in Roebling Hall's Chelsea branch: idealized architecture is our idealized form. We lust after property the way nobility and clergy lusted after the idealized bodies in Renaissance paintings.
As I was preparing to leave, I was despairing about art when my friend Tamara pointed out that all the galleries were getting ready for Miami art fairs. My timing for a visit was just bad.
Tyler Green has suggested that art fairs should just replace Biennials. One stop shopping is faster, comparison shopping easier. Faster is not better, though. Why the rich would want to shop for art at a Walmart spin off baffles me. Maybe it's the fabulous parties and being seen with fabulous people. Art fairs are competitive shopping like art auctions where spending tons of money as fast as you can impresses peers. I live in a different layer of reality: my friends are impressed if my socks don't have holes in them.
But enough about consumerism. Money is a necessary evil but boring. So the last two photos I've posted: Young Sun Lim at Stefan Stux and Marc Swanson at Bellwether. I would like someone to explain to me why the depressing, creepy art of New York is rated superior to the upbeat, creepy art of LA. I don't get it. Maybe I've finally completed the conversion to an LA artist. I like it here better.
In November I flew back to New York for a visit. My brother from New Orleans had stayed with me in LA until his foot was healed enough to return to his life. A few days after he left, I took a red eye into JFK. For some reason, Song thinks that night flights exist solely to sell snacks and beverages all night. I arrived tired and irritable. And nothing I saw in the Chelsea galleries seemed to lift me out of myself to a greater truth. Mostly it was rehashing and rehashing.
I did, however, laugh out loud at the work in Chris Caccamise's "Talisman of Doom" at sixtyseven Gallery (sixtysevengallery.com). Looking at the black hole of Career seemed to sum Chelsea up pretty neatly. A show I liked at John Connelly turned out to be by a California trained artist, Nick Lowe. (No pics - everything behind plexi.) One show, though, summarized my experience: Rick Briggs' paintings, "Painter Man," made of materials used in construction, spoke eloquently of the vagaries of non-success in the art world and its parallel with the transitory nature of architecture in Brooklyn. (At Sarah Bowen in Williamsburg, www.sarahbowengallery.com) Williamsburg where I lived 13 years has changed so much I don't recognize some of the streets. Pseudo modernist growths have infected entire blocks. The one epiphany moment looking at the architectural work in Roebling Hall's Chelsea branch: idealized architecture is our idealized form. We lust after property the way nobility and clergy lusted after the idealized bodies in Renaissance paintings.
As I was preparing to leave, I was despairing about art when my friend Tamara pointed out that all the galleries were getting ready for Miami art fairs. My timing for a visit was just bad.
Tyler Green has suggested that art fairs should just replace Biennials. One stop shopping is faster, comparison shopping easier. Faster is not better, though. Why the rich would want to shop for art at a Walmart spin off baffles me. Maybe it's the fabulous parties and being seen with fabulous people. Art fairs are competitive shopping like art auctions where spending tons of money as fast as you can impresses peers. I live in a different layer of reality: my friends are impressed if my socks don't have holes in them.
But enough about consumerism. Money is a necessary evil but boring. So the last two photos I've posted: Young Sun Lim at Stefan Stux and Marc Swanson at Bellwether. I would like someone to explain to me why the depressing, creepy art of New York is rated superior to the upbeat, creepy art of LA. I don't get it. Maybe I've finally completed the conversion to an LA artist. I like it here better.
Mery Lynn McCorkle is an artist and curator living in Los Angeles, CA
(Copyright Mery Lynn McCorkle 2010)
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Caccamise at Sixtyseven
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Briggs at Sarah Bowen
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Marc Swanson at Bellwether
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Young Sun Lim's foetuses at Stux
