forehead. Some smart-ass from Art Assembly had written that the picture of a Brillo box on Venus’s left buttock referred to the philosopher Arthur Danto, who had claimed that art came to an end with Warhol’s Brillo. Quotes from Vasari and Diderot had been uncovered, as well as fragments of Goya’s and Van Gogh’s letters. The all-too-predictable feminist critics had zeroed in on a reproduction of a self-portrait by Sofonisba Anguissola, a Renaissance painter (whom, they claimed, Michelangelo had admired), in Venus’s exposed armpit—a ha-ha about the dumped-on and ignored, women in art history. A photograph of the artist taking a piss in what looked like Duchamp’s urinal, Fountain , complete with R. Mutt inscription, amused some. All this amounted to a tour de force.
There was lots of esoteric yammering about another sculpture in the room, a male mannequin dressed in a navy two-piece suit and red tie with his hands behind his back eyeing said naked lady. Deeply meaningful? Deeply unmeaningful? And what were those seven large wooden boxes scattered around her? The square crates were all numbered and had small barred windows, so curious visitors had to kneel and cut past one another to get a glimpse. Each “story” was lit from the inside to create an “eerie” light.
Story 1. Small girl figure stands on a chair looking out a window in a miniature bedroom with her arms raised and mouth open. On the floor is a nasty arrangement of dirty paper towels, rags, bits of lace, and yarn. Ugly brown, green, and yellow stains cover all. From under the bed a man’s arm protrudes, its hand clenched in a fist.
Story 2. Another room with sofa, two chairs, coffee table, bookshelves. On the table is a torn piece of paper with Don’t printed on it. Beside it: small wooden coffin with more words: she/he/it. Tiny painting hangs on wall. Portrait of figure looking much like girl in story 1 but boyish—arms raised, mouth open.
Story 3. Same room as story 2. Female figure, disproportionately large for room, must bend head to fit under ceiling, stares down at chair. Message?
Story 4. Disturbing fuzzy mammal, something like a rabbit, but not a rabbit, with two heads, lies on floor of bedroom in story 1. Loose letters cut from construction paper are scattered on the bed: G R A T E L O O T Y.
Story 5. Bathroom. Disproportionately large figure from story 3 huddled on floor clutching portrait of child from story 2 to her chest. One leg sticks out doorway and through wall of box. Bathtub filled with mucky brown water. Aargh!
Story 6. Bathroom again. Tub drained but with dark ring. Floor piled with tiny books. One marked “M.S. 1818” appears to be leaking unidentifiable embryonic gelatinous something.
Story 7. Bedroom, living room, bathroom from stories 1–6, with extra room, a study lined with books. The two-dimensional figures of a smiling man and a smiling woman that appear to have been cut out from the same old black-and-white photograph lie beside each other on a rug. Boy child stands in open doorway looking in, holding portrait of girl child up over his head.
And who was this enfant terrible, born and bred in Youngstown, Ohio, attended Chaney High, liked his parents, met lots of “cool people” at the School of Visual Arts, thought New York was “great”? He played the naïf perfectly, the Forrest Gump of visual art, befuddled by sudden success, but he knew enough to carry it off. Large brown eyes darting off here and there as he considered the question. Big grin when asked about influences. Mentions Goya, Malevich, Cindy Sherman. “Basically, it’s a conceptual thing, you know.” A boy who looked as if he had started shaving last week became an instant hit. Then, after that single show, he disappeared. Like Cady Noland before him, he stopped showing art.
I am as tickled by a good hoax as the next person, an Ern Malley, for instance, or David Bowie and William Boyd’s Nat Tate, or David Cerny’s Entropa , but a
There was lots of esoteric yammering about another sculpture in the room, a male mannequin dressed in a navy two-piece suit and red tie with his hands behind his back eyeing said naked lady. Deeply meaningful? Deeply unmeaningful? And what were those seven large wooden boxes scattered around her? The square crates were all numbered and had small barred windows, so curious visitors had to kneel and cut past one another to get a glimpse. Each “story” was lit from the inside to create an “eerie” light.
Story 1. Small girl figure stands on a chair looking out a window in a miniature bedroom with her arms raised and mouth open. On the floor is a nasty arrangement of dirty paper towels, rags, bits of lace, and yarn. Ugly brown, green, and yellow stains cover all. From under the bed a man’s arm protrudes, its hand clenched in a fist.
Story 2. Another room with sofa, two chairs, coffee table, bookshelves. On the table is a torn piece of paper with Don’t printed on it. Beside it: small wooden coffin with more words: she/he/it. Tiny painting hangs on wall. Portrait of figure looking much like girl in story 1 but boyish—arms raised, mouth open.
Story 3. Same room as story 2. Female figure, disproportionately large for room, must bend head to fit under ceiling, stares down at chair. Message?
Story 4. Disturbing fuzzy mammal, something like a rabbit, but not a rabbit, with two heads, lies on floor of bedroom in story 1. Loose letters cut from construction paper are scattered on the bed: G R A T E L O O T Y.
Story 5. Bathroom. Disproportionately large figure from story 3 huddled on floor clutching portrait of child from story 2 to her chest. One leg sticks out doorway and through wall of box. Bathtub filled with mucky brown water. Aargh!
Story 6. Bathroom again. Tub drained but with dark ring. Floor piled with tiny books. One marked “M.S. 1818” appears to be leaking unidentifiable embryonic gelatinous something.
Story 7. Bedroom, living room, bathroom from stories 1–6, with extra room, a study lined with books. The two-dimensional figures of a smiling man and a smiling woman that appear to have been cut out from the same old black-and-white photograph lie beside each other on a rug. Boy child stands in open doorway looking in, holding portrait of girl child up over his head.
And who was this enfant terrible, born and bred in Youngstown, Ohio, attended Chaney High, liked his parents, met lots of “cool people” at the School of Visual Arts, thought New York was “great”? He played the naïf perfectly, the Forrest Gump of visual art, befuddled by sudden success, but he knew enough to carry it off. Large brown eyes darting off here and there as he considered the question. Big grin when asked about influences. Mentions Goya, Malevich, Cindy Sherman. “Basically, it’s a conceptual thing, you know.” A boy who looked as if he had started shaving last week became an instant hit. Then, after that single show, he disappeared. Like Cady Noland before him, he stopped showing art.
I am as tickled by a good hoax as the next person, an Ern Malley, for instance, or David Bowie and William Boyd’s Nat Tate, or David Cerny’s Entropa , but a
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