By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
Earl Weaver was the perfect baseball manager. A bantam without the athleticism to make it in the Show, he had a numbers runner's smarts that made his Orioles perennial contenders. His pre-computer-age secret was a collection of 3x5 cards on which he plotted the stats of all his batters against opposing pitchers, and vice versa. Weaver had excellent instincts, and knew that in baseball (which, after all, employs managersnot coaches) numbers and bodies both count.
Bodies also count a lot in fine art, but sport has rarely been depicted in that particular field. For every Greco-Roman discus thrower or Bellows boxing canvas, there are thousands of renderings of Christ. Contemporary art gives us Kiki Smith's defecating figures and Sensation's "Dead Dad"; sports, meanwhile, have been left largely to flaccid hacks like Leroy Neiman.
Since the early '90s, however, artist Janet Cohen has been getting at baseball's bottom line in a series of evocative conceptual drawings. In her most recent show, at the Clementine Gallery (through May 13, 526 West 26th Street), her works appear to be little more than patches of stray marks. But take a closer look, and even a casual fan soon realizes that the blur of black scratches are actually handwritten baseball notations: S's, B's, and K's. These are mixed with similar notations in red. The blacks and reds are densely layered and sometimes obscure each other as they clot into four hazy groups that roughly define the corners of a rectangle. The artist has printed at the bottom "Minnesota at New York 5.17.98 New York Wins 4-0."
Huh? So? The second drawing is similar, though more spare, entitled "Montreal at New York 7.18.99 Yankees Win 6-0." More drawings follow, providing a more complete picture of the two games. The red and black notations become more explicit, revealing additional information: players' names, numbers of hits, errors. By the seventh variation, what die-hard Yankee fans have known all along is explicated in a caption: These are abstractions of David Wells's and David Cone's perfect games.
But Cohen goes beyond mere scorekeeping, charting where each pitch crosses the plane of the strike zone. Black for the home pitcher, red for the visitor, each pitch is consecutively numbered and annotated. The resulting drawings become anti-targets, a record of pitchers striving to avoid the bull's-eye that any major leaguer could park in the bleachers. One could spend an "unmanageable amount of time" (as broadcaster Michael Kay might gripe after a typical three-and-a-half-hour Yankee game) finding nuances and subtleties that, like the game itself, leave both a solid record and an evanescent aura.
For instance, the drawings inform us that both games were perfect. Yet we can tell which pitcher is the slobindividual black B's drift haphazardly from the mass in Wells's triumph. Meanwhile, dapper Cone keeps his pitches tight and economical, with even the farthest off the plate enticing a batter to K.
In separate, inning-by-inning drawings of Cone's game, a sense of the ever more exacting groove he is working emerges: His black marks are terse and spare, even as the red plottings of Montreal pitcher Javier Vasquez hemorrhage on the page of the second inning, when the Yanks hammered him for five runs. By the sixth inning Cone needs only five pitches, while a valiant Vasquez struggles to contain the earlier damage, needing only nine of his own to shut out the side. A minor red flurry in the eighth chases Vasquez, and the ninth drawing is monochromatic, black graphite inexorably counting off Cone's final 11 pitches.
These drawings are absent a climactic roar, but they are rich with reflection, with the obscuring drizzle of April, the muggy haze of August, and the crisp clarity of October. So perhaps in Janet Cohen, baseball, which is ultimately unquantifiable (no matter how hard Bill James tries), has found its perfect artist.