By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
A natural question for a painter of bodies, perhaps. But for this artist, whose latest show opens Saturday at the Phyllis Kind Gallery, it carries a special weight. At 37, Lukacs has made his mark by representing acts that verge on murderbrutal beatings and ritual humiliation as well as rhapsodic sex between tough young men. His adoring portraits of skinheads and thugs have made him the official bad boy of his native Canada. But even in New York, where being an evil genius is the second oldest profession, Lukacs has had quite an impact on the Nietzsche and Nobu set.
Elton John collects him. Architects have designed rooms to accommodate his massive canvases. One house-beautiful photo shows an elegantly minimal dining roomcomplete with a view of the Pacificdominated by the image of skins in all their grimy splendor. The unintended comedy of brunching before such an icon holds a clue to what makes Lukacs more than a flash in the post-Koons pan. For in these elegiac portraits, painted in a style that mixes high realism with Nazi kitsch, is everything about masculinity liberal society struggles to suppress. Here is Fight Club set in an even more idyllic world, where women don't even existan Eden without Eve.
It's a dream most men won't own up to, though they act on it all the time (in sports, business, war). But for Lukacs, these images of what one critic calls "the hysterical male" are souvenirs of an excursion to the place where jerking off meets art meets life. "I've already gone there," he says. "So it's a matter of, do you want to go there too?"
His studio is a farrago of found objects waiting to be "referenced" in a painting: stroke books from the 1970s ("when porn was still dirty"), news photos of young men in earnest poses (Timothy McVeigh under arrest, jocks at a Columbine memorial), books of Indian and Persian miniatures, a Boy Scouts manual, and Polaroidshundreds of them, filling a tall cabinet and filed by each model's name. Hustlers would be more like it, since many of these boys pose for him and then put outas Lukacs briefly did back in his Canadian days, using the money he earned from turning tricks to pay for other boys.
These photos are also a chronicle of the artist's life, taking him from a stormy adolescence in Calgary and Vancouver to a precarious sojourn in the squats of Berlin to the belly of the art beast, New York. (Of course, he's been here before: Fresh out of high school, he arrived at the legendary Mine Shaft only to be told he couldn't enter, not because of his tender age but because of his Ralph Lauren wardrobewhich he promptly removed.) All along there has been a fascination with skinheads that began when he came upon them as a teenager, sitting in his mother's sun room and thumbing through a magazine. Doc Martens were this boy's madeleine.
"I mean, there's nothing like a 17-year-old with a shaved head and a pair of boots," Lukacs explains. "There's a rawness that's really sincere. And they can be very . . . romantic." As for the swastikas that adorn skin culture (and a number of his paintings), Lukacs insists, "They've taken all meaning out of the image and replaced it with pure aesthetic." And it's true, up to a point. In the brave new world of Jörg Haider, fascists don't sport swastikas, freeing up this symbol to become a fetish. But there's nothing archaic about its connection to male power. Among other things, the swastika signifies the suppression of femininity, which is why, to certain skinheadssome of them gayit's sexier than leather. "Even those gay boys in Berlin loved to pose in front of a swastika," Lukacs recalls.
Still, there are only so many ways to hook a cross. Whether it's an astute sense of the market or the drift of his dreams, Lukacs is painting over the swastikas in a portrait of coupling skinheads when I arrive. "I'm subordinating them," he explains.
Skins are not the only players in this artist's repertoire. There are also men in uniform, a preoccupation ever since he begged his father, a Hungarian émigré, to send him to military school. It never happened, but Lukacs kept the catalogs as cherished jerk-off material, and in 1990 he used them to make paintings for a show about cadets. It opened during the Gulf War, saddling the artist with a meaning he hadn't intendedcombat has less to do with these paintings than discipline does. One piece stands out as a clue to Lukacs's sensibility. Called The Good Son, it shows a boy sitting bare chested, spit-polishing a buckle, while an officer stands over him monitoring his work with an unmistakably fatherly regard. But what are those blotches on the boy's bodypainterly technique or scabs and welts?