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THE JUSTICE | TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2013
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2013 | THE JUSTICE
Rose Art Museum Opening 2013
ROSE ART MUSEUM
Light Years: Jack Whitten, 1971-1973 PHOTOS BY OLIVIA POBIEL/the Justice
HUMAN TOUCH: Museum-goers view a piece in the Warhol exhibit, Screen Tests, in which Warhol tries to, as he says, “catch people being themselves.”
Andy Warhol: Image Machine What can you say about Andy Warhol that hasn’t already been said about him by every hipster art junkie a thousand times? Sure, we could talk about post-World War II consumerist culture and its influence on Warhol’s pop art-era pieces. We could allude to a culture of objectification and Warhol’s exposition of it, or his critique of cultural commodification of celebrity and social calamity. But that’s been said already. The new Rose Art exhibit, Andy Warhol: Image Machine, reveals Warhol in both old and utterly new lights, celebrating his more prominent art but also disclosing a unique breadth to Warhol’s work for which he is seldom recognized. Dubbed the “Pope of Pop” by his fans, Andy Warhol is often synonymously connected to the ’50s and ’60s Pop Art movement, a period that marked a transition from elitist and moralistic themes in art to the utilization of popular cultural objects as the subject of art. Image Machine, curated by Joseph Ketner, a professor at Emerson College and a former director of the Rose, is electric and eccentric, freakishly funky, gritty and graphic, erotically evocative and vividly provocative. It showcases his more prominent pieces, such as his screenprints of Cheryl Tiegs, Elizabeth Taylor and Joan Collins—which, in their highly-edited color manufacturing and repetition, portray the notion of celebrity as a manufactured commodity that our culture is not only fascinated with, but wholeheartedly consumes. Paintings like “Saturday Disaster,” which duplicates two identical images of a car crash, highlight a cultural fixation on tragic events and the twisted pleasure our society takes in constantly absorbing such images. Using techniques of repetition and color variation, his depictions of nudity and of the sexed body expose a cultural fascination regarding sex as commodity, and the human body as valued by only its sexual worth. The exhibit’s notable display of Warhol’s “Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century,” featuring pop-art pieces of the Marx Brothers and of our very own Louis Brandeis, relays Warhol’s commitment to exploring and exposing the social and cultural tensions of his time. Additionally, the homoerotic themes prevalent in many of the exhibit’s pieces, and the images of 1960s underground gay and transgender culture, attest to Warhol’s rejection of the era’s social conventions. Yet the immense range of Warhol’s work, and his significant departure from the chiefly manufactured image, is perhaps the exhibit’s most compelling feature. The exhibit features his less glorified experimentation with film and the moving image, called “Screen Tests.” The inclusion of these pieces lends a unique amount of rawness and humanity to an exhibit of an artist most famous for his lack of realism. The black-and-white nature of the “Screen Tests” differs significantly from the “color-mania” that distinguishes his more prominent pieces. The unedited nature of the Screen Tests and their lack of embellishment surround the subjects in each film with a poignant amount of realness.
Indeed, Warhol described his motivation for using film as “to catch people being themselves.” The use of film, a medium inherently susceptible to error, seems to not only allow, but embrace, human flaw. Each film consisted of extreme close-ups on the subject’s face as the subject stares into the camera. In contrast to his pop art pieces, which use cultural objects as the subjects, Warhol’s “Screen Tests” use humans as human subjects instead of commodifying them. The authenticity that permeates these films marks a departure from Warhol’s fixation with celebrity and actors as subjects, who base their careers on how well they can play a character and mask their authentic selves. The most emotionally stirring of these “Screen Tests” is that of poet Ann Buchanan, whose commitment to not blinking for her entire roll of film brought tears to her eyes, and she spent the latter half of the film silently weeping. This moment was both organic and harrowing, as the image of silent tears trickling down her forlorn expression underscored a fundamental sadness inherent in human nature. The inclusion of such candid moments in the exhibit added an element of realness to Warhol’s breadth of work for which he is less commonly recognized, and gave significant depth to the entire exhibit. Warhol’s venture into more realist territory was also apparent in his unedited Polaroid photos of celebrities and prominent social figures, juxtaposed on the wall next to his popart era screenprints of various celebrities. The washed-out, decolorized appearance of the Polaroids starkly contrasts to his images of Joan Collins and Cheryl Tiegs, in which he embellishes the lips and eyes, isolating the most sexualized aspects of a woman’s face (a commentary on objectification of woman’s body parts in popular culture). In his engagement with more unedited and unembellished media, such as the Polaroids and the films, Warhol notably does not force a commentary on cultural norms or fixations. Rather he allows the various manifestations of the image to speak for themselves, without politicizing or commercializing them. If Andy Warhol: Image Machine revealed any overriding theme, it was that Warhol was much more than just an image machine. He was an image genius, knowing when to manipulate an image, but also completely attuned to when to simply leave an image alone. His depictions of celebrity and commodity are skillfully modified to disclose a component of consumerist culture that is acutely intoxicating and equally tragic. Yet his portrayal of humanity reveals an element of authenticity in Warhol’s work that is perhaps most poignant of all. The heart of the exhibit rests in the images that are most meaningful in their bareness. However brilliantly he may compose a picture, the genius of Andy Warhol is not found in his capacity to manufacture an image. In this exhibit, Andy Warhol’s genius lies in his ability to allow his images just to be.
—Arielle Gordon
The Rose has experienced some serious redecorating. A year ago, the Rose Art Museum exploded with colorful, vibrant artwork and mirrored floors covering the entire front room. But now, the Gerald S. and Sandra Fineberg Gallery, the first exhibit upon entering the museum, features Light Years: Jack Whitten, 1971-1973, curated by the Rose’s new curator-at-large, Katy Siegel. This exhibit is far less exuberant than its predecessor and the fun glass floors have been replaced. The abstract painter fits the contemporary atmosphere of the Rose, and it is hard not to be taken aback by the sheer immensity of Whitten’s work. Standing at the front of the room, the exhibit is very symmetrical and balanced: two medium-sized works hang on either side of the door on the back wall; the side walls each feature one huge work flanked by smaller pieces, and each side has a glass table display of small works. I think that the symmetry reflects the clean-cut nature of the artwork and also adds balance to the complex colors. Though Whitten has an impressive array of work dating back to the 1960s and was educated at the Cooper Union in New York, the Rose features his work from the early ’70s, called Slab paintings because of their size. At this time, he began to further experiment with alternative creative processes and unconventional materials, ultimately creating an artistic technique where he dragged an oversized T-shaped piece of wood across a canvas to create the desired effect of lines. The Alabama native was able to create his own version of abstractionism while escaping from the typical hand-brushed canvas art style.
The selection of works are diverse in appearance yet still maintain a sense of continuity. They all have a feeling of austerity, simplicity and organized abstraction, especially in comparison to Walead Beshty’s exhibit— the shatteredmirror floor—that previously occupied the space. One work on display, “Third Testing,” created in 1972, has a texture similar to concrete pavement, and the brown color with subtle lines running through almost looks like a rock formation. Though simple, the acrylic painting is a good example of Whitten’s style and its placement right next to the exhibit description is an ideal introduction. Two of the largest works are entitled “The Pariah Way” and “Asa’s Palace,” both created in 1973. Both are breathtaking to stand in front of, and you feel fully absorbed by their immensity and beautiful detail. Whitten has a way of maintaining simple and monochromatic works, yet also introducing pops of color that add another layer to the piece. In “The Pariah Way,” the use of green, blue and rust color splotches in horizontal layers up the painting creates what looked to me like a skyline. It was my favorite piece in the exhibition and I loved the dark background with patches of muted colors. “Asa’s Palace” is a demure pinkish-purple with abstract blobs of yellow throughout. To me, the name is particularly interesting, and I’m left wondering what the story or inspiration is behind it: whether it represents a specific place Whitten has visited or an abstraction of an idea. “The Eighth Furrow,” a medium-sized work, stands out with its copper coloring and pounded
texture. It is very monochromatic, but the texture offers an interesting depth. Of the smaller works, a set of six “Acrylic Collages” hangs on the walls—colored acrylic pieces arranged abstractly on light brown linen. The collages are pretty much the definition of abstraction, meaning the pieces are open to interpretation of each individual viewer—maybe you see an eye or a bird. The two sets of small series in the exhibit tables on opposite sides of the room are entitled “Cut Acrylic Series” and “Dispersal ‘B’.” The former are three works of pastel and powdered pigment on paper and are mostly black with patches of blue, purple, green and red. A varying amount of the white background is seen, and some areas are darker in color. “Dispersal ‘B’” is four works of dry pigment and reflects Whitten’s interest in spray and splatter techniques that basically create themselves on the paper. However, in both collections, the glass of the case added a layer of glare and detracted from the overall viewing of the pieces. Whitten’s exhibit offers a unique addition to the Rose this semester and is definitely different than its usual modern and contemporary exhibits. While abstract, the paintings all have an air of timelessness and romanticism stemming from the rich, yet muted colors and simplicity. I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit and am looking forward to Jack Whitten’s upcoming visit and symposium to the Rose in October. —Jessie Miller
Minimal and More: ’60s and ’70s Sculptures from the Collection
COLOR CRAZE: Viewers at the opening of the Rose Art Museum last Tuesday examined pieces in Andy Warhol: Image Machine.
The Rose Art Museum, true to form, has offered an exhibit that unites both the past and the present while expanding the viewer’s idea of what can be considered “minimalist art.” Looking back to the era of counterculture, the new exhibit Minimal and More: 60s and 70s Sculptures from the Collection, curated by Christopher Bedford, the Henry and Lois Foster Director of the Rose Art Museum, features an eclectic combination of abstract sculptures from artists of those years. The history of Minimal and More is uncommonly relevant to its current production. In 1996, the Rose put together an exhibit entitled More than Minimal: Feminism and Abstraction in the ‘70s, which displayed the work of 11 female sculptors whose “commitment as feminists coexisted with the strong influence of the 1960s artistic movement, Minimalism,” according to the Rose’s website. The current exhibit provides a new twist by including the works of male sculptors from the countercultural era alongside works from three of the female sculptors of the original ’96 exhibition. The inclusion of works by the four male artists, Donald Judd, Robert Morris, Carl Andre and Anthony Caro, alongside works by the three female artists, Jackie Ferrara, Mary Miss and Jackie Winsor, forces the viewer to consider questions about gender in art, especially in the context of feminism. At first glance, the sculptures, with their diversity of materials such as painted steel, wood, cast concrete and plastic, look like they belong outside. Upon closer examination, however, the different materials create a unique narrative about the exhibit—the sculptures by female artists are all produced from wood, a material that is natural, strong and versatile. In contrast, the sculptures by male artists were made from the commercial materials of plastic, steel and cast concrete. The placement of the
sculptures mixed together allows each visitor to notice this pattern independently and appreciate each piece on its own before focusing on the artistic distinction in gender. The pieces also share the common theme of being complicated in design but simple in style, a unique contrast that can be found in minimalist art. There are no flashy accessories or conspicuous coloring on any of the sculptures, leaving a bare-bones artwork that has little to hide. Caros’ two sculptures of painted steel, “Horizon” from 1966 and “Octave” from 1971, for instance, stand sturdy in burnt pink and muted green, respectively. The bent metal of both sculptures conveys a visual complexity within the simplicity of a single material. Similarly, Miss’ “Stake Fence” takes the form of a long wooden fence with large wooden stakes poking out of it. The use of a few pieces of wood is able to create the danger and intricacy of the stake fence without color or a labyrinthine technique. The chosen space—the lower level of the Gerald and Sandra S. Fineberg Gallery—seems too small to appropriately stage the exhibit. Walking space is limited, and I often found myself coming very close to colliding with a sculpture. Furthermore, sculptures are best viewed from all angles, and the exhibition space does not comfortably permit a full 360-degree inspection of each work of art. A larger gallery would allow for a closer examination of and less physical risk for each sculpture. Minimal and More reintroduces abstract sculpture to the Rose and, with it, a series of provocative questions about gender and minimalist art. It offers a valuable contribution to the lineup of new fall exhibits and, most importantly, reminds the viewer that the definition of “art” is always evolving. —Phil Gallagher
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THE THINKER: A student pensively examines “The Pariah Way” in Jack Whitten’s exhibit at the opening of the Rose Art Museum last Tuesday.
5,000 Feet is the Best In preparation for the Rose Art Museum’s fall opening reception last Tuesday, the fine arts community on campus has been eagerly anticipating the new exhibitions and the special events that accompany them. From classrooms to bulletin boards, club meetings to email announcements, it’s been hard to go far on campus this semester without hearing the name of one of the five artists whose exhibitions just opened. Take, for example, Israeliborn, American-educated film and installation artist Omer Fast—his film project installation, 5000 Feet Is The Best, is one of the five new exhibitions and the first of a series of video art to be exhibited at the Rose. The artist kicked off last Tuesday’s events by giving a talk about his work immediately preceding the museum’s opening reception. Fast’s talk quickly packed the Edie and Lew Wasserman Cinematheque by its scheduled start time of 4 p.m., attended largely by students of Fine Arts classes. Christopher Bedford, the Henry and Lois Foster Director of the Rose Art Museum, gracefully introduced Fast, whose laidback, personable disposition put the audience at ease as he began to speak. Bedford has organized two of Fast’s previous solo exhibits. For the past 12 years, Fast has been using video as a medium to comment on current events, producing works that are both politically and emotionally charged. After earning a Bachelor of Fine Arts at Tufts University and a Master of Fine Arts at Hunter College, Fast first embarked on unsuccessful and amateurish attempts at video projects, he told the audience with a laugh. He reminisced about taking a trip to the small town of Glendive, Mont., using a school travel grant, with the intention of buying television advertisement airtime to show his art to a captive audience. He was denied the airtime by the small-town cable company, and went on to show what he produced instead during his time in Glendive: an approximately 12 minute long video showing each of the 5,000 homes in the town at the time. Fast then showed the audience another short video—of him, making the sounds of wind, barking dogs, cars whizzing by into a microphone—that
comprised the audio track of the Glendive video. At the time of filming, he wasn’t aware that he hadn’t turned the camera’s sound on, so he creatively provided his own audio. Though the style Fast uses in his videos evokes the realist, first-person point of view style that is characteristic of documentary films, he contests the stylistic designation: “I don’t think of myself as a documentarian, but I do rely on the document … to give a sense of the real.” Fast began to talk about how he first started manipulating bits of filmed conversations to compile a narrative that was, as it was shown to the viewer, very different from what actually happened— but the seamless integration of multiple film bits into one work led to a radically different final story. The work 5000 Feet Is The Best uses this style of film integration to establish a narrative around a conversation that Fast had with a man who worked as a U.S. Air Force Predator drone operator, whose job was, literally, to watch the damage of Predator drones and determine the best method of placement for the drones so as to maximize their potential to harm. Playing on loop at the Mildred S. Lee Gallery in the Rose, 5000 Feet Is The Best bombards viewers with a story whose conclusion is unfathomable. “In 5000 Feet,” Fast said at his artist talk, “we’re presented with something that is not completely understood…. There is no closure for this particular person, and there is none for us as viewers.” Often, with film and video installations, museum goers tend to walk in and out of a viewing area. But in the case of Fast’s installation in the Rose, viewers are drawn in and the piece demands attention. The filmed conversations Fast conducted with his subject are spliced by dramatic reenactments of the traumatic events that the man discusses. Perhaps the success of the 30-minute video is that it is one that viewers cannot simply walk away from. It works toward what Fast calls “a poetic truth, a resonance.” He said reverently, toward the conclusion of his talk, that “in its best moments, art can do that.” —Rachel Hughes
TALK ABOUT IT: Artist Omer Fast discusses his exhibit 5,000 Feet Is The Best at an artist talk before the opening of the Rose Art Museum. Design by LILAH ZOHAR and REBECCA LANTNER/the Justice