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
I miss the saucy "Selections" shows, which have turned up such promising talent as Kara Walker, Barry McGee, and Shahzia Sikander, but the good news is de Zegher is showcasing historical work that needs to be seennot in some musty museum, but in a contemporary light, by us, here, now, on our turf, under our conditions. Not only is it important to count Constant, Eisenstein, or Michaux as "Selections"-style artists, it's cool. If the past can't be seen as pertinent, we're sunk.
Nevertheless, the occasionally extraordinary, occasionally tedious "Between Street and Mirror: The Drawings of James Ensor" is flawed in ways that suggest the Drawing Center needs to take more seriously its bid to recast the past. Loan forms may have specified that lights be kept annoyingly low, but it's doubtful they also stipulated that the walls be painted heinous shades of maroon and brown. It's as though the Drawing Center is trying to appear museological, or attempting to evoke 19th-century Belgium. Whatever it's doing, the place looks hokey and feels like some dank Communist-bloc museum.
Additionally, the Drawing Center doesn't have to get things correct; it only has to get them good. That's why it's a shame that "Between Street and Mirror" presents such a by-the-book version of Ensor's career, beginning in 1880 when the artist was 20 and endingas all Ensor shows doin 1899, when his visionary pyrotechnics ceased. Excised is "the deeply fishy late work" (to use the perfect phrase of critic Brooks Adams, who has written penetratingly on Ensor). Living the last 50 years of his life in his birthplace, the Belgian seaside resort of Ostendwhere he played the role of the famous artist, received admirers like Emil Nolde, and lunched with the likes of Albert EinsteinEnsor turned to making copies of his old work and doctoring earlier efforts to make them look as if he had been stranger sooner. We're never allowed to see, let alone question, this highly questionable work. Imagine a Pollock survey suddenly stopping after 1950, or curators neglectingas they once didthe late work of Chardin, Guston, or Picasso.
Fortunately, these shortcomings don't prevent most of the second half of this show from being a real rush, or stop you from marveling at Ensor's insurrectionary spectacles of fine line and masterful smudging. Ensor is all about throngs, sleaziness, and frenzy. He's an obsessive with a feel for goofy detail, a caricaturist with a magic touch for facial expressions. Figures grimace and glower; they wear weird hats, walk with ghouls, or vomit after eating human flesh. There are skeleton processions, cavorting clowns, and demons with scythes. In one screwball etching, Ensor (who died in 1949) projects himself into the future as a putrefied skeletal form in the year 1960. Elsewhere, you can revel in his mad, grand, convulsive pictures of crowds; gross-out depictions of defecating magistrates; ghoulish characters, freaky faces, and kooky carcasses doing preposterous things.
His massacres and hellish scenes are a Mardi Gras of confusion drawn as if by a wildly precocious, deeply disturbed 14-year-old boy. His sweeping landscapes of human pandemonium are second to none. Some of these images contain thousands of exactly drawn figuresall involved in some sort of conflagration, all pouring off the front of the page. These are Ensor's impressions of his fellow citizensin his words, "a horde of rich hotel keepers, innkeepers, shipowners, bloodsucking merchants . . . and the enemies of progress and innovation"which makes you realize he was a pretty big crank.
Ensor is also responsible for one of the more radical paintings in MOMA's collection, the garish, spectral Tribulations of St. Anthony (1887), which in its wildstyle painterliness presages artists like Cy Twombly and Terry Winters. More important, he is the maker of one of the greatest paintings hanging in an American museum, the Getty's appallingly installed The Entry of Christ Into Brussels (1888). Art historian Robert Rosenblum called this gigantic upheaval of figures and gaudy color "the best painting in America, west of La Grande Jatte." Ensor may not take you as deep as his contemporary Munch, but he takes you further out. In his own agitated way, he pulls back the curtain on the revolutionary fracture formed by the warring pressures of urban reality, private fantasy, social tumult, pageantry, disillusionment, the grotesque, and unadulterated phantasmagoria. Ensor is the king of this crack in our consciousness.