By Tom Sellar
By Emily Warner
By R.C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
Maurizio Cattelan, the Italian post-conceptualist who divides his time between Milan and New York, is one of that crew of artists whose work seems pitched to the increasingly overloaded circuit of international biennials and survey shows. His most famous piece, La Nona Ora(The Ninth Hour), a spectacularly theatrical installation that features a life-size waxwork model of Pope John Paul II pinned to the floor by a meteorite, debuted to predictable controversy at the Royal Academy's "Apocalypse: Beauty and Horror in Contemporary Art" in 2000 and went on to the Venice Biennale the following year. For another startling piece, Novocento, Cattelan suspended a taxidermied workhorse with freakishly elongated legs from a sling in the ceiling. But prankish, large-scale installation pieces aren't Cattelan's only contribution to the cultural landscape. Since 1995, he's been collaborating on work that, while every bit as sly, is designed for a rather more intimate venue: the artist's magazine.
Cattelan is the senior editor of a new publication, due early next month in time for a May 19 show in the café at P.S.1. Called, for no particular reason, Charley, it's his oddest and funkiest book project so far: the fat, compact, 400-page paperback that resulted when more than 70 curators, critics, and artists (Vanessa Beecroft, Dan Cameron, Glenn Ligon, Kaspar König, and the Voice's Jerry Saltz among them) were each asked to choose 10 emerging artists to watch. Every artist is represented by a single, already published imagetypically, a page torn from a magazine or a catalogthat design director Conny Purtill photographed on what looks like a dirty concrete floor. The finished product is ugly, infuriating, and historic, summing up this very moment in the art world with offhand authority and fuck-it-all cool. Whether this compendium will have any relevance five years from now doesn't really matter. Although I imagine its editorsFlash Art's Massimiliano Gioni, Parkett's Ali Subotnick, Dia's Bettina Funcke, and Cattelanwould be pleased to have come up with a blueprint for the immediate future of contemporary art, Charley was never intended to be definitive, only inclusive.
I wouldn't want to argue that point with the artists who didn't make the cut, but the 400 who did include virtually every young up-and-comer on the scene right now, along with a slew of people I've never seen or heard of. Since many of these people, both known and unknown, appear here in atypical or unfamiliar form, Charleyhas its limits as a research tool (and Purtill's decision to number only every 20th page and group all the artists' names inside the front cover doesn't help). But Charley is at once so unpretentious and so shrewd that its flaws turn out to be part of its perverse appeal. As if defying anyone to draw conclusions from this mess, the editors present much more than we can easily digest and make no attempt to homogenize their raw material. What's it all about? Ambition, confusion, desperation, drive, craft, detritus, displacement, immateriality, fashion, passion: everything and nothing. Like the art world, Charleyis a vessel filled to overflowing. You needn't drown here, but you've got to get wet.
Charley is only the latest of Cattelan's publications, the most provocative and regular of which is a Paris Review-sized paperback journal called Permanent Food ($11.50 at St. Mark's Bookshop). Published roughly twice a year since 1995 and now in its ninth issue, Permanent Foodis a perfect postmodern product. Every page has been appropriated from another magazine and re-presented here free of its original context. Because the choice of photographs, drawings, art, and graphicsmade these days by Cattelan and Paola Manfrinis so savvy and unexpected, even the most jaded magazine addict (you talkin' to me?) is guaranteed a quick fix of frisky images, recontextualized to the max. Although issue eight includes a note, cleverly inserted into a Numéro contents spread, crediting Cattelan and Manfrin, most issues appear anonymously. According to that same note, "Permanent Food is a non-profit magazine with a selection of pages taken from magazines all over the world. Permanent Food is a second generation magazine with a free copyright."
"We were making a virtue out of necessity," Cattelan explains via e-mail. "Basically, we wanted a magazine. And we wanted it to be as real and as functional as any other magazine." Permanent's first issues were compiled much as Charleywasfrom pages torn out and sent in by artists and designers. "Permanent was a magazine with no style or personality," Cattelan writes, "simply because any style was available, any personality interchangeable. So it wasn't mine and it wasn't yours." Even if the selection is much more his these days, the magazine still represents a bracingly idiosyncratic, determinedly democratic overview of life on the printed page.
The scrapbook sensibility that informs both Charleyand Permanent Food is postmod but has roots in Pop (notably Ruscha and Warhol) and precedents in the tossed-off brilliance of Richard Prince's Adult Comedy Action Drama and Gerhard Richter's commodious Atlas. It can be traced further back to the New Objectivity of Albert Renger-Patszch, whose 1928 book, The World Is Beautiful, set the standard for the deadpan photographic inventory and influenced the influential Bernd and Hilla Becher. The most prolific contemporary practitioner of this sort of visual sampling and image hoarding is Hans-Peter Feldmann, one of the first artists asked to contribute material to Permanent Food, and clearly an inspiration for Cattelan. Asked about Feldmann, Cattelan acknowledges his debt to the German artist's many books, saying, "After all, we are all dwarves on the shoulders of giants." Just how giant Feldmann is may not be immediately apparent to most New York gallerygoers, who have seen only patchy bits of his oeuvre, so his current retrospective at the Centre National de la Photographie in Paris (which continues through May 13) is something of a revelation.
A celebration of the generic, the debased, the marvelous, and the pathetic through eccentric inventories of pop objects and imagery, Feldmann's "Une Exposition d'Art" includes work from the '70s to the present, much of it photographic, nearly all readymade. Though Feldmann also takes his own photographsof, for instance, the views from various hotel rooms or one woman's entire wardrobethey have an amateur snapshot quality that blends in seamlessly with the many anonymous snapshots he collects and re-presents in his work. Among the exhibits in his retrospective, along with a display box of Milky Way bars, a glass bowl full of pocket watches (all set to different times), and a toy train running in circles on a patterned rug, are an arrangement of 22 color photos of the Eiffel Tower, a small valise filled with flea-market photos, black-and-white Xeroxes of kitsch imagery pinned like posters to the wall, and a long grid of color-copies of mass-market photos of dogs, cats, soccer players, sunflowers, the British royal family, and Jayne Mansfield. Artless, authorless pictures like these were fetishized by dadaists and surrealists and prized by Pop and Fluxus artists, but Feldmann doesn't seem to care about the choice artifact (either object or image) so much as the perfectly banal throwaway.
But you don't need to fly off to Paris to get a pungent taste of Feldmann at his best. The spring-summer 2002 issue of Another Magazine, the hefty, high-gloss biannual put out by the publishers of Dazed & Confused, opens with 12 pages of black-and-white photographs chosen and laid out by Feldmann in a style that will be familiar to those who have seen his various newsprint publications and two small books he calls Voyeur. Veering from the corny to the horrific, from the immediate to the historic, and mixing art photos with photojournalism and stock shots, Feldmann's scrapbook-like pastiches borrow from visual culture at all levels. The resulting slice of life, presented without an organizing narrative or any apparent intent, is, like Cattelan's magazine projects, both canny and chaotic. Dipping into the universal image bank, these artists come up with junk and jewels. However casual his projects, Cattelan is a judicious editor, but Feldmann is much more promiscuous, sampling high and low with such freewheeling élan that the distinction evaporates. Maybe we are the world.