By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
It's been a long time since we heard Landers speaksince 1995 to be exact. Until then he had been a man of many, many words, writing incessantlyfirst on yellow legal pads and calendars, then canvas, then books, and even in his exhibition press releases, about his life, his art, his career, his sexual dysfunctions and fantasies, his loves, affairs, and failures. The guy was an open book.
Regularly castigated for his self-indulgent displays of self-doubt, arrogance, machismo, and neediness, Landers was an artist with a full-blown neoexpressionist ego. He was raging, only he was operating without any mediating image between himself and his viewers; it was just you and him. It was tender, pathetic, and amazing.
Then strange things started happening. In 1994, at the age of 31, Landers ended up on the cover of Artforum, the subject of two articles, one that hailed him as a kind of slacker hero, while the other branded him a "pornography-warped pervert." An artist with a self-installed lightning rod over his head, Landers was Howard Stern with a paintbrush: telling all, saying anything. Just looking at his work, let alone liking it, became a blood sport.
In 1995, he kept writing but added images for the first timeapes and breastslots of them (breasts that is), along with tales of touching them, looking at them, and longing for them. People went apoplectic, but the reviews were all good, and Landers apparently had what he wanted: success.
But in his 1997 exhibition, the words disappeared and the airwaves went silent. He stopped writing, he wrote in the press release to this show, "because I, like most of you, were sick to hell of my babbling." He began making images that attempted to put into visual terms this weird combination of self-aggrandizement and self-flagellation. Landers lacked either the imagination or the skill to bring this off. The results looked like bad John Currin paintings.
The show was a fiasco. Still, somehow the reviews were positive, except for one in The New York Times (written by Roberta Smith, my wife), which said he was in "a painful transition." And Landers, like some obsessed Ahab, latched onto this remark with a vengeance. His "no failure policy" had been violated, and, in his own words, he became "totally depressed," "disillusioned," and "paranoid."
Over and over in his current exhibition, he refers to being "ripped apart" by his critics, and wonders "what kind of ass kicking I'm going to get this year." He warns that if anyone "tries to derail my art career I'll stop you." He says he "lost [his] confidence," "couldn't sleep," and did some "soulful introspection." In Career Egoa portrait of the artist as a tiny naked man with huge, all-hearing ears who stands in the palm of some gigantic handLanders shows his split personality. At one point, he brags, "Once again I have transformed an average painting into sheer brilliance," to which you want to reply, "Not." But then he reveals his ingratiating underbelly: "In closing, I have nothing against critics," which makes you want to apologize for your earlier criticism. It's tricky, but it's thrilling, too. It's as if Landers were performing live. He opens a direct line to his audience, then he proceeds to make that line hum with interference.
What makes Landers so compelling is that he is Everyartist, only more so. Hypersensitive to criticism and totally committed to his own vision, Landers wears his ego on his own compulsively confessional sleeve. In The Perfect Truth, a middle-aged academic as sweater-vested teddy bear is surrounded by a field of words. Here you learn this is Landers's "favorite" painting in the show. Read on and you realize it's also the most recent one. So even this "perfect truth" has the ring of self-invested ego and a vulnerable overconfidence.
As deluded as Landers seems to be, he is also possessed of a certain clarity. He writes about letting it "rip," about being "totally free." But then in Football Ducka picture of a duck wearing a football jerseyhe just stops and says, "Okay enough fucking around, I need some God damned money." Elsewhere in the same painting he writes, "Here I am a 35 year old happily married man, 2 dogs, a car, a West Village apartment, and lifestyle....How can I even pretend to be a crazy tortured artist living on the fringe of society?"
In this show, Landers has both pushed ahead with his surrogate self-portrait idea and backtracked, reintroducing his monologues. He's hedging, but it's also great to hear his voice again. And the voice has changed: there's no more slacker Landers to kick around; it's all about the art nowor at least the career. The sex is in the images. Writing across pictorial space instead of a flat white surface gives these new paintings an illusionistic buzz that all his previous work lacked. Sue Williams's notations and diagrams are read as sequential (like a comic book); in Christopher Wool's work, word and letter are the image. With Landers, you see the whole thing at once; the words and the pictures are congruent. Instead of his former stream of consciousness, you get a sea of consciousness: pictorial space full of the character's thoughts. This is a big accomplishment. Of course another interpretation of this is that the "bad boy" writing disguises some of the bad painting. There's some truth in this, too, particularly when you're looking at some of the weaker pieces like Multi-Headed Mister.