New Revelation Eric Fischl=Bob Ross

The smell of arugula, balsamic and Virginia Slims choked the room. Our inside source, a “fly on the wall” was at a clandestine meeting of the infamous Gang of Five New York Times art critics, having yet another emergency session to discuss what to do about the Fischl dilemma. “On one hand, we can’t mess with the system, his galleries are upping the pressure, advertising is screaming at us. But his paintings?  I think we all saw that Steve Martin pic against a Bob Ross landscape.” This was greeted by groans. “We’ll lose even more face if we don’t say something now about his paintings going on that bus tour. What next, a Fishcl store in the damn mall?”" Silence broken only by the muted radio as an endless NPR fundraiser droned on. “God sakes, didn’t they get enough dough from Roy Kroc’s widow?”

Unfortunately at this point our inside man was called for a delivery and had to scat. If he can retrieve the tapes next week he will.

This came in as a comment on the last blog:

After watching the video of Eric Fischl talking about his Saint Barts painting of his friends,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7fazNp0e4w

I don’t think Fischl is the new Leroy Neiman.  I think he’s the new Bob Ross — painting “Happy Trees.”  I love the mind-on-idle feeling of a Bob Ross video.  Listening to the lazy carefree anesthetized Fischl discuss painting makes everything so happy and wonderful and beautiful that I’m not sure if I’m going to kill him or myself.

Taking Umbridge: Fischl = Neiman

Comparing Leroy Neiman to Eric Fischl is not fair. We own these two drawings by Mr. Neiman. They are great. He can capture with a simple line an in depth character read of the subject. The one on the right depicts the scene walking into Sardi’s. The goal would be a table  with a fawning waiter or a seat at the bar next to the inebriated sot who probably has a good story. Well, good luck getting by Vincent Sardi, plunk in the middle of the sketch, holding the heavy leather menues like a gladiator’s shield. The next drawing ( left) is Jerry Lewis. From behind, fidgeting in a chair. Here’s a case, if anything was, of undiagnosed Adult ADD. He can’t sit still, Neiman nails it in simple strokes.

I once had a teacher at Art Center who would talk of a vaudeville act where the performers would stomp their feet and prepare for someting dramatic to happen. They would chalk their hands, look skyward, clap them together with great affect and then applaud themselves heartily before taking elaborate bows. Nothing at all would happen. There are drawings such as this, my teacher concluded. Mr. Fischl would fit handily in this category. It is really not fair to compare Mr. Fischl to Mr. Neiman.

But please, let’s leave the art critics out of this discussion. There are some fine and good critics at the New York Times. Then there are some who probably should retire. One has to look back with the passage of time to determine who was right and who was asleep at the wheel.

Vote ‘yer Wallet, Matey!

We put Michael Mapes card right up there when the gift kiosk guy wasn’t looking. At the end of the elevators in MoMA. There, but for one brief shining moment with all the greats; De Kooning, Pollock and Picasso. And some lady who was perusing the rack, selected it. Right in front of us. I shit you not. See documentation of this in only slightly enhanced actual photos. She handed it to the cashier and was willing to pay $1.21 but the kiosk dude said ” This is not one of ours. You may have it”. She just beamed and stuffed it and the Warhol card in her purse. That’s got to be a boost!

So attention all artists! Get your exhibition cards and put them on the rack by the elevators at MoMA and see what happens. See if your work holds up. See if it gets selected over the old dead artist guys post cards.

Aye, democracy votes with it’s wallet. No truer said. Send your photos to us and we will post. What’s the worst that could happen? ” What are you in for? Non-sanctioned postcard rack placement.” Please. This would be a very fun Post headline and would get you even more desired publicity.

We like Mr. Mapes work also. Mr. Mapes work is stunning. He makes faces in boxes that seem to shimmer and move as look at them. Made up of tiny circles of color stuck on with insect display type pins in foamcore in a wood box. Some colors and details are inside little empty pill capsules but all this still registers really well as a realistic person in 3d as the deep areas like eye sockets are further back and something like a nose is further out. His postcard is for a show opening Saturday February 5th at the Parlor Gallery in Asbury Park.

Gnomes for everybody.

Ever drive by a house with a perfect lawn, no trees, and a nice collection of dwarves and pink flamingos…and want to rip someone’s head off??! Good, so do we at Lift Trucks. One look at Horl’s work and you can see the outrage against tradition and the suburban cookie-cutter lifestyle. One sculpture is a refreshing twist on the garden gnome, featuring the dwarf flipping the middle finger replete with an ugly mustard-yellow coating. This is the same artist that had enough brass to actually place hitler gnomes all around Germany (hint: the government didn’t take the historical reference kindly). Horl simply responded “it’s pretty clear that garden gnomes are silly and that they do silly things”, can’t argue with that logic. His work certainly points out the silliness and ridiculousness  of the everyday; like when he took a household hare sculpture and placed 7,000 of them in a pattern in a public square.

I need a dolla!!!

                                             

Both the boxes are far from what one considers a traditional work of art. I mean, someone who can’t write the four-letter word shine in a straight line didn’t make these boxes for aesthetic purposes. These follow the tradition of folk art as everyday beauty from utility and need. These emerged in the 30′s and 40′s during the depression; when everything collapsed in a fell swoop and the world became much more dark. It’s an interesting parallel to the financial crisis of today; because instead of wining about their home foreclosing and how banks are to blame people back then actually got off their ass and did something. No job? Fine, we will go shine shoes; anything to get a buck. Although crudely painted, these boxes represent the optimism and struggle of an era. One says “no credit”, as if someone would actually get their shoe cleaned and be dirtbag enough to say, “hey I’ll pay you back tomorrow when I see you on the street (thanks though)!!”. One is in plain white writing, on pure black wood, and says “shin” (shine was too hard to fit apparently), and looks like the work of a kindergardener. It still has the amazing construction to hold together after all these years from one cheap piece of wood, and looks so out of place in today’s world.  They still can be admired today at Lift Trucks, and hey maybe those whining unemployed college kids will come in and get an inspiration.

Smoke? Don’t mind if I do.

Thick glass with graceful slopes and sharp turns…shiny steel with more curves than J-Lo milled to perfection…”Home of more JACKPOTS, Nugget Reno !”…wait what?! No this isn’t another boring piece of car writing, here at Lift Trucks we focus on something a lot more artistic; ash trays. They might not produce the same muster as a 50′s Cadillac, but are probably even more a work of art and history combined. Today, ash trays are on top of ugly trash can, placed far enough away from buildings so the outcast smokers don’t offend the normal people trying to leave. No, instead these ash trays harken back to the days when you could even smoke on a plane; when you had to dress up for this flying event; where there was a fresh meal; and the TSA wasn’t looking at you naked on a computer screen. One of them features a cartoon; a disheveled woman in a skirt asking the Doc, “Meals? Thought you said three males a day!”. This was before The Atkins Diet, when all the doc ordered to be healthy was a steak and pack of cigarettes. These are relics of a dead era. Another, made by Hitachi, is a heavy piece made of solid steel. It looks like a huge engine cylinder and has a polished appeal of an expensive factory machine. Now, these trays hold nothing but our business  cards and a couple of match packs.  Another features a model incinerator, made by Kerner Incinerator Co. (it’s cleverly called “The Kernerator”), complete with working hinges for the ash and fake bricks that make a model chimney. Try finding something like that today; nobody would even bother doing all that work. So stop by today and catch a rare glimpse at advertising history.

See You Later Pat

Pat O' Connor

Remarks from Dec 11 memorial at the Brooklyn Museum of Art for Pat O’ Connor (on the left).

So Modigliani walks into a bar, bartender says; Hey, why the long face? (I promised to tell a joke, that’s the only art joke I know).

Pat to a lot of us represented the old school, New York 57th street gallery scene. You couldn’t walk three paces down the sidewalk with out a friend or colleague running up and greeting him with a smile. Complete pain in the ass it was.

Remember his greeting? How are you, young man?

Later on, after spending the day basking in my new found youth, it might sink in: Hey, wait a minute! I’m not that young!  But I have the feeling you could be 150 years old and it would still be; How are you, young man!

On a couple of occasions we had the opportunity to meet with the Mayors’ of New York. First, Mayor Guiliani, immediately after his first election and there we were!  Having a cup of tea with Rudy in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, cigar smouldering away in ashtray. A surreal scene in the

Tammany Hall Courthouse Building, an old black and white movie or a scene from Bonfire of the Vanities, protesters waved placards by the 12 foot tall wavy-glass windows, police captains and fire chiefs cooled their heels in the anteroom. Leave it to Pat to make everyone comfortable, chatting up Rudy about the strengths of the new Yankees lineup.

He had that gift of putting people at ease. When we met Mayor Bloomberg, just after he gave up his presidential bid, and after a few minutes, around the time the small talk was growing stale, Pat pitched in: Say Mr. Mayor, You know we were all rooting for you, if you were elected president, what exactly did you have in mind? Mayor Mike smiled broadly, you could see the lines disappear as he went on a 20 minute discussion; all the while his aids tapped their watches and he waved them off. His advice by the way was; publicly, New Yorkers, spend like mad but privately, cut up your credit cards, tighten your belt and hang on.

We all admired Pat’s Irish calm and grace. Almost a Bing Crosby ease, but without all the annoying singing.

I traveled with him to Ohio for a show at the Butler, a dealer from the Paris Gallery in tow. The only place we could find to eat was a Country Kitchen Buffet, there were 20 people in line waiting for the place to open. Largest people I have ever seen in my life, bovine actually, and here we were with the immaculately coiffed French dealer.

Pat, classic twinkle in his eye, handed him this oversize red rubber cafeteria tray, said something like “Now remember, you can always come back for more.”

This is from his friend and colleague Louis Zona, Director of the Butler Institute of American Art:

I’ve been heartsick since learing of Patrick’s passing. A few weeks ago I was on 57th Street but could not make myself go into the gallery for fear that there was bad news. My worst fears were realized. He was a truly wonderful guy and so very caring about his friends. I’ll never forget him and will miss his visits to Youngstown. He represented what was good about the art world. His decency, kindness and gentle manner will be his legacy. I always felt priveliged to be numbered among his many friends.

This is from our gallery dealer in Paris, Katsugu Tamenaga.

I am shocked to find out that Patrick passed away.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend the ceremony at Brooklyn Museum in December. If you see his family there, please transfer my sincere condolences.

Besides the famous ‘all you can eat’ buffet, I have some very nice memories about Patrick working with him in my New York gallery.

Sincerely yours,

Katsugu Tamenaga

I found him very philosophical at the end. We were at his house watching tv, his wife Toni ran out and got us some pot to smoke, medical marijuana that is, neither of us inhaled, of course, being two good Republicans. But he knew what was happening and seemed very ok about moving on. He was a great friend, once or twice a day I reach for the phone to call him.

If you all remember, Pat would never really formally say goodbye, it was always “See you later! ”

The way I picture him now, I don’t know why, but instead of 57th street, in Manhattan, I see him walking down a sunny Irish country road.

He turns with a wave and a smile, and a ‘ See You Later! ‘

Patrick O’ Connor passed away October 6, 2010.

Hawk Rites!

Tom,

California seems to be a fish net for just about everything under the sun, from storage facilities full of valuable items for pennies to being filled with street bums with colorful backgrounds like some sort of whacky catch net. Phil Sparrow wound his last days out in California in his book store before his last roundup in a care facility. Nice place to visit but I don’t think I would want to stay for any real length of time or you can easily get sucked into the vacuum of one extreme or another.

That post of my letter has netted me some reward thank you very much. I have been helping Bert Grimm’s Grand Niece with as much as I can feed her on the book she has been working on for years now, a real Encyclopedia Britannica of the history of many early American Tattooist’s, just an incredible wealth of documented information. Most all consumer literature to date has been, for the most part, coffee table reading single paragraph “stuff” but this is a reference book/item that will survive as “The” tattoo reference book of all time concerning the turn of the 20th Century tattooers and then some, all backed up with reference and documentation. Amazing to hear from her how many have shunned her for information, I’m not at all surprised but if they could only understand the magnitude of what she is doing and how much she has gathered, they would be rushing to get on the bus as a contributor.

She has spent so much time searching micro fish in libraries, phone directories, news accounts, obituaries, census reports, etc. etc, that she has become very knowledgeable in “fact” and gathering year by year whereabouts of many of the tattoo legends. The photo’s she has dug up are incredible, some if not all from their teen years to mid life to old age and of those nobody has photo records of. Life accounts in court documents to grave sites.

I have seen some of what she has compiled and I can’t wait for it to go public through publication.

On another note, all is starting to slumber around the U.S. with the bologna season of the midwest and the excuse of the economy, some shops are reporting how slow things are and I’m convinced of it being geographical and the excuse of the economy is just that, with people saying how tight things are but they just bought the new I phone and pay regularly for energy drinks and large latte chi’s with tuxedo’s, ha! Others report the business never being better but as to the “trend” of tattoos, Lyle Tuttle said it best when he told me “Lets face it, tattooing has shot it’s load”, ha!

This crazy evolution of tattooing in America is really something, and when I speak of evolution, I’m talking about how it truly evolves. For instance, the biker subculture who were once the mainstay from the 60′s to the 80′s has been replaced with the “new and improved” checkbook biker who watches Gangland episodes to become schooled arm chair consultants of the biker lore on something not at all what it once was, where the biker sub culture was the poorer people without a real job gaining identity through their iron machines and actions,  they are now indentured servants to the monthly Harley payment and the credit card that they work so hard to pay off and yet show up every day to a job to keep the high interest payment made on the bike and yet watch their 401 K pay less than that interest. But they are still the evolved crowd whom tattooers can rely on and have become a good staple of income for all. It’s so funny to think that Justin Beeber has been the musical host in 2010 of Saturday Night Live when Bob Marley was once the host, makes ya wanna say “whahhh? Idunno,  it jez, ah, I dunno….” but just what kind of progress is this? I watched “2001 a Space Odyssey” awhile back and laughed at how much they missed their mark, way off but you can remember how colossal that movie was and how prophetic it was acclaimed at that point in time.

Used to be I would have to worry a bit about what was about to enter the door of my shop, a drunk, a whore, a sailor, but now it’s Dad dragging in his Daughter and her friend with their cell phones to their ears like they could be talking to each other ( I call them left handed blinders) and Dad informing me how they just had their 18th birthday, Hah! It’s just to crazy to clarify or define in psychology, it definitely defies any recorded chapters in psychology. It is fun and entertaining but the “It’s not just for sailors anymore” has tweaked a bit, yes Doctors and Lawyers are getting tattooed but so is the guy who didn’t make the grade from medical school and only got as far as an EMT “professor” at the local community college yet married a Doctors assistant who can get scripts for their friends of Vicodin so the tattoo won’t hurt during the tattoo application is in reality the evolved drunk from yesteryears gone by. I really hope that made sense to you Tom.

The evolution of anything and everything will always be unpredictable, I don’t think Johnny Rotten could ever have predicted Green Day as “Punk Rock”, it is again something consumer envied, then recognized by corporate to then be groomed an marketed at WalMart, arghh! Like Thomas Nast could never for see Doonsebury.

I had a beauty today, had all the tell tale marks, home made hand poke marks to the latest trailer park tattoo arhteist, she wanted her deceased Ex Boyfriends nickname “Dirty” on the inside of her hip, whether she was aware that whomever was going to look upon her area of the left ovary bare necked to read “dirty” was of no concern of mine, ha! But at the same time, I savored the moments with that which was bliss. Makes a person wonder if those that Jesus claimed “Know not what they do” were those defined as having abnormal brains, but as to this one, if Jesus don’t love’em I sure do! Rather those than the dramatic emulating the reality programs, you would suspect that the average viewer of the “Ink” programs may feel that tattoo’s were for cancer survivors or those who lost a family member to such, if for only once they would just have some guy stroll in wanting a, lets say a peacock, for no reason whatsoever than he wants a peacock, they show him first filling out forms of privacy disclosure, liability release and payment in advance and the only thing he sez while getting tattooed is “I can’t wait to get outside so I can have a smoke”, now that would be reality but wouldn’t sell Viagra during a commercial break. I am still in awe that nobody from any of the motorcycle manufacturers have figured out that they should advertise through the Orange County Chopper, Sons of Anarchy, and Gangland episodes, weird huh? You would think that the marketing experts would figure that one out,

Anyhow, getting late and tomorrow the witching hour will bring (and I’m not saying that my Mother in Law is planning a visit, although I’m sure her broom is working fine) Halloween! Oh, and thanks for the pumkin art, amazing! But Halloween is the only night that I can get away with “Yer Keith Richards right?” with the reply, “No man, I’m a zombie!” Ha!

Love ya Tom and have a Happy Halloween!

Sincerely,

-Hawk-

New York is Noir Again

Here somewhere between starry-eyed-star-struck first impression and the inevitable ruined dreams, as he tumbled falling for the dame in the Zorro hat buying something quickly stuffed into her tiny purse at Lampston’s, and who but an outsider trying to remake herself would dress in such an outfit? Acting out a fantasy, free at last!  Be what she always dreamed! In this small-town-free-past in the mad carnival urban setting.  But he was just the same really, in a cobalt blue shirt, color of aggression it was, oversize, overstarched collar protruding like the prow of a yacht from a dark ocean blue blazer. Only later did he realize the hopelessness of it all. “But what do I know?” she quietly asked “I’m just a little desert flower from Tucson.” Should have handed his wallet over to her on the spot and ran like the wind down 42nd without ever looking back. All before ending up slobbering, foaming, hunted and hopeless, driven mad by the quest for immediate love and riches by entitlement. He deserved a beautiful wife and a corner office. Didn’t quite navigate the labrynth maze of glass and steel, lost now, given up trying to figure it all out before returning home like the prodigal son-battered, bruised and humbled.  How a little misjudgement can backfire “I was just going to borrow it for a little while. Really. I was on my way to put it back.” Unraveled. He remembered her last words “Let’s have dinner tonight. But not together.” He tried to keep up appearances after the pink slip was dropped on his desk and the guard cut his plastic ID card right down the middle with no regard for the photograph he had the guy retake twice. Walked by a different guard out to the street with a cardboard box of his desk simple posessions, framed picture of his labrador and clever ceramic coffee mug in the shape of the blue and white diner paper cup “Happy to Serve You” it sez,with the Greek keystone designs. Fuck, Outmaneuvered by office rival number one. Again.

Times Square – Grand Canyon

“Suddenly I found myself on Times Square. I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square and right in the middle of a rush hour too, seeing with my innocent road eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York” From “On the Road”, Jack Kerouac.

And what would he see now? Would he still be enthralled with it and soak in the romance and frenentic energy of …tourists in metal folding chairs smack dab in the middle of Broadway stuffing caesar wraps down their ‘ol pie holes?

Some famous wag once said that New York was not Detroit multiplied by 6 or Spokane by 20 and he was right, just ask the folks who retire out to beautiful Bumfuck nowhere or hot and humid Florida and slowly realize as they follow oldsters in Oldsmobiles with left turn signal lights permanently locked on, that after the third cup of coffee, or maybe after 5th re-checking of an empty e-mail account, that there is Nothing Happening and they must move immediately move to be within a 50 mile radius of the epicenter of the Universe, get into Times Square for a fix of the powerful nitro fueled dervish blast of human energy.

Times Square is to New York as the Grand Canyon is to Arizona. The Great Wall is to China, Eiffel Tower to Paris. The storied epicenter of a great city where peep shows once reigned, rampant wildings, mob shoot outs, the go big or go home place for plays and musicals, The Great White Way, the ball dropping on New Years, Symphony Sid introducing the Miles Davis Organization for the first time, virginal women smootching with their servicemen after peace is declared and where else would you go, the mall ?

Anticipation now lies squashed like a stink bug on the driveway by the horror of seeing the great river of bustling people, screeching cabbies, monstrous, belching trash carting trucks, terror struck pedestrians hustling to dodge Kamakazi bike messengers all dammed up. Stopped. Replaced by what looks like the second tier economy deck of a Norwegian Dawn Cruise Ship.

Great block long swaths of the street are closed to cars. People sit in the street. Not protesting even, but everyone slouched over eating and smoking. Remember Ratso Rizzo who banged on a Cabbies hood shouting “Hey, I’m Walking here!”? Now it would be; “Pardon me, I am sitting here, that is, if you don’t mind.”

What it is that makes Times Square the second biggest tourist attraction in the world ( yep, Disney is #1) it’s a wonderfully evolving piece of art in itself. Curated by the pagen gods of commerce and capitalism, new LED signs go up, mandated by the city planning commission to be as gaudy as possible, others, like Lehman Bros, follow Joe Camel and the giant Cup of Noodles and drop down to the pavement and crawl with shame into the 30 yard dumpster of economic misfortune.

But as this is an art column, here we go. There is a presumably innocent artist, gameface on, paint roller in hand, decorating the Holy and True Road baby blue and dark blue and light blue. A water pattern it seems. But honestly it looks like just flat tired old paint not even a clever water pattern as if seen on a stifling hot day with a fire hydrant leaking or something that would tip a hat to the old New York. I think it’s supposed to represent heat, so visually it doesn’t work. Sounds like it will be covered by a seating area anyway, so the concept is? Sitting in a fake puddle below some buildings?

What they have done is like damming up the Colorado River, letting a misguided artist decorate boulders and then setting out chairs for tourists to watch the sad trickling stream.

We were just fine standing en masse on the sidewalk, eyes wide open in slack-jawed bliss, watching the pedestrians dodge the seamless race of double decker busses, bike messengers and pimped out lime-green, rice-burners roaring down the broad avenue. The pedal to the metal, hot rod race right down the middle of New York, our great American City.

Attention Mayor Mike: Nobody travels across the world to see people in metal folding chairs eating sandwiches in the middle of the street. Take off the brakes, let the traffic flow.

Herewith the official jargon.

NYC DOT Announces Winning Design For Temporary Plazas In Times Square
Molly Dilworth’s “Cool Water, Hot Island”

New York City Department of Transportation Commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan announced the winning design for the temporary treatments that will refresh and revive the streetscape design currently in place at the Times Square pedestrian plazas while the agency moves forward with the separate design process for the area’s permanent capital reconstruction project. Submitted by Brooklyn-based artist Molly Dilworth, the selected design is composed of a graphical representation of NASA’s infrared satellite data of Manhattan. Titled “Cool Water, Hot Island,” the artist’s concept focuses on the urban heat-island effect, where cities tend to experience warmer temperatures than rural settings. The proposed design’s color palette of striking blues and light hues reflects more sunlight and absorbs less heat—improving the look of these popular pedestrian plazas while making them more comfortable places to sit. The colors and patterns evoke water, suggesting a river flowing through the center of Times Square, and they also provide a compelling visual counterpoint to the reds, oranges and yellows of the area’s signature marquees and billboards.

DOT launched the design competition in partnership with the Times Square Alliance in March 2010, the first stage in the City’s effort to remake Times Square following Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg’s decision to make the plazas permanent as part of the Green Light for Midtown project. The agency received 150 submissions for designs to replace the one currently installed at the five pedestrian plazas along Broadway from 47th to 42nd streets. The winning design was selected by a jury composed of representatives from the DOT, the Alliance, the Mayor’s Office and the Design Commission.
“This brings creativity and public art to the streets—literally,” said Tim Tompkins, President of the Times Square Alliance. “It signals that the theater district— already known for creative expression indoors—is now a place for creative expression outdoors, in the most urban public space in the world.”
The new design is scheduled to be installed by the end of July. The Alliance will monitor and maintain the temporary treatments for up to 18 months as the agency initiates plans for the design and construction of permanent plazas under the Department of Design and Construction’s Design and Construction Excellence program. As part of the longer-term project, DOT and DDC are working with a team of experts—from landscape professionals to architects to engineers—to design world-class plazas with ample seating, new paving and underground infrastructure able to accommodate and enhance the signature events that are staged at Times Square throughout the year. The project will also completely reconstruct the roadways in Times Square, which have not been structurally repaired in decades. An announcement is expected later this summer. Construction on the permanent plazas is expected in 2012.

Warhol and Basquiat at the Brooklyn Museum

So maybe it’s not entirely true that a shallow thought rules but maybe immediacy and a good and true first impulse? The show at Brooklyn Museum of Warhol and Basquiat is a good example. We all rate Warhol now as the most influential artist of the 20th century. Even though he seemed to be a little out of ideas and digging through a 1960′s playbook for these late paintings from the 80′s. Basquiat was chock full of exploding themes involving black culture, hip hop and a rock out Jimi Hendrix like painting style. Andy who did so much for us in the 60′s: the invention of Pop, the Coke bottle silkscreens which just grow better and carry more import, producer of ultra superstars, and the Velvet Underground now seemed to be on cruise control tracing Yamaha motorcycles and steaks on canvas waiting for King James’ nitro energy blast.

In his last years we used to see Andy, scouring the Sixth Ave flea markets, a lime green jump-suited assistant in tow carrying multiple shopping bags filled with never to be looked at again collectibles. “Don’t care if it is Andy Warhill, he ain’t getting this for $50!’ swap venders would cry as he left their stalls on Sunday mornings in the underground garage.

Andy’s idea of shallow, one famous quote proclaims “I am deeply shallow” on a pillow case for sale at the Brooklyn Museum store, is fine. But only goes so far. You have to be a naive or a naturally gifted genius to pull it off. Which he and Basquiat were. Today we like them but universally hate trendy poseurs like Richard Prince and Elizabeth Peyton. Ask any one from Sotheby’s auctioneers, gallery owners to art mover guys and street artists working in Central Park, they tell us Basquiat’s work just gets better and better while others from that 80′s era just look embarrassing. One huge and horrid example of this decade of excess, taking into account not even Schnabels’ drek, is the David Salle painting with the giant word King Kong lettered in, some figures stumping away and a 50′s chair glued on the canvass. Stays with you like a large, free cheese sample from the flea market.

We now think vapid/trendy is bad, but shallow can be very good. If done by a true talent. And only if the artist is just painting and not thinking about it too much.

Aren’t we all just a little sick of meaningful art and the headache inducing chore of trying to figure it out? Basquiat’s work can be just enjoyed, great colors, black and white rhythmic patterns, the cool words written all over. His paintings are fresh and look like he was having fun. Yet the art critics (actually in the Brooklyn Museum book, which in the end is redeemed by great art reproductions) insist on saying things like ” Close inspection reveals that this head, unlike a skull is alive and responsive to external stimuli; as such it seems alert to our world while simultaneously allowing us to penetrate it’s psycho-spiritual recesses.” Too much thinking, college boy!

A piece arrived at Lift Trucks Project of some oranges on a table. And how relaxing! No meaning at all. Not painted like Zubarin or some famous art dude but just competent. Like opening a window during a stuffy art history 202 lecture by an Art Forum imbibing boor. And maybe that’s why Warhol gets better and better. The Cambell’s cans at MoMA? Stunning. They get more groovy with every new visit. Shallow? Well, yes and no. When asked how he arrived at that particular subject, he answered something along the lines of “I like soup”. Basquiat liked music, boxers and skulls. So he painted them. ‘Nuff said, said SAMO.

There are some rewards for embracing shallow thinking. Much easier that way really. Don’t analyze it; just go. Like a bronc rider; just climb up on the dang bull, hang on for 8 secs. Although a more obtainable goal for us might be to watch an entire NASCAR event without fidgeting, texting or doing anything. Falling asleep during the broadcast would be ok as you wouldn’t really miss the crashes. Instant reply is bully.

Many of us are coming around to believe that the less one thinks about it, the better. Never miss an opportunity to do nothing, to miss the next book reading by some famous author or the next hot must see group show in Brooklyn. Skip the grand gesture, the unnecessary e-mail and why not,not send another twitter message? Just stop. No one really wants to know what you are up to. Although they do seem to want you to know what they are up to.

Carries over to the music world: why are songs by Cool and The Gang still great? Raise your hand if you like Catch the Wind by Donovan. We do. But all the deep and meaningful, the politically charged stuff by sincere folkies like Joan Baez are now entirely unbearable. Keep it shallow, shallow is good.

Praise For An Artist Who Does Nothing

In the huge center area at MoMA sitting in a cordoned off area at Marina Abramovic’s feet was a well behaved gaggle of earnest and intent art lover type folks. There she is, they say, pointing and with hushed whispers. That’s really her, the artist sitting in a chair and in a robe, good posture not even.  She is the art.  What she does here is lean forward a little and look at you in a creepy stare down kids game. I have to admit I don’t find this interesting. Yet. But there is something great about the idea of not doing anything. I have tried it at home ever since I was young and although I try it a lot now, it just seems to get everyone in the house very angry.

Watch out though because this concept might take hold.  A lot of artists are now free to just sit and stare. What a nice change for them. No more of that time consuming learning how to draw stuff and trying to figure out all that color, shape and other difficult painting type stuff.  So last year.

Artists are the trendsetters of Popular culture so maybe others will follow. In fact, maybe this idea will carry over to all creatives such as dancers, playwrights, although I guess Beckett was already there and musicians (ok, John Cage kind of beat us all to this one with the 4’33″ minutes of silent sitting at a piano). But these two artists chickened out and employed prop stuff like a piano or a dead tree on stage. Actors, it’s maybe it’s time to relax now. Perhaps soon on TV a blank stare will greet our blank stares. Then we can all sit and stare at each other. It will quickly crossover to other professions; machinists, real estate agents, doctors, why even school bus drivers will all be practicing their respective professions by not doing them.

How liberating! Finally we can all just stop and go play golf as this culturally challenged group would probably be the very last to “get” it. Kids could still go to school, or would the “sit and do nothing” idea apply to students too?  But they already seem to be doing nothing. Maybe an age appropriate cut off date would have to be imposed, like “Stop that. You can’t do nothing, that’s only for adults”.

This exhibit titled “The artist is present” at MoMA and is far more cerebral and evolved than the conceptual artists we all studied in art school like Martin Kippenberger and Josef Bueys. Looking back now they made the big art mistake of injecting some humility and wit into their art performances. For example Bueys explained the history of art to a dead rabbit. For a few days. Or how about this one? Kippenberger bought a bar in a rough neighborhood, tripled the price of beer, got himself pounded in the parking lot by the local mates, had a photo taken of his bandaged up face and then did a nice painting from the photo.

Yoko Ono, had some wonderful pieces, if you can forgive her for breaking up the Beatles. But she didn’t evolve this far. Her most famous fluxus piece was a stunningly great work (really) where you had to climb a ladder to see a little a note on top of the ladder that said simply; Yes. You were rewarded just for your optimistic outlook by clmbing the ladder and hoping against all hope that the note didn’t say fuck you or something. Legend has it that right then and there, John Lennon fell head over heels for her.

Marina Abramovic does more than nothing as the exhibit continues upstairs. Maybe these were transitional pieces on the art highway to nowhere. There’s a black and white film of her combing her hair. Another of her yelling. Very loud. Then a famous early piece of her wearing nothing and kind of jumping around. Which reminds me of another profession; pole dancers. They would also finally be able to sit and stare and do absolutely nothing like the nude figures in this exhibit. Although these two figures were pretty bland and standoffish. They did not get many dollar tips.

There’s another famous piece showing a big artistic star she hand carved into her stomach with a razor blade. Ouch, Marina Abramovic! I think we can all be glad her art has evolved into just sitting if this is the kind of mischeif she was getting herself into.

So be sure to see the show. Or be truly sophisticated. Don’t go. Do nothing.