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
At their best, photographs of artists can be totemic: They establish status within the tribe, produce value, dazzle with allure, and manufacture myth; as Barbara Kruger wrote in her 1988 essay "Picturing Greatness," they "freeze moments, create prominence, and make history." Sometimes these pictures take on talismanic lives of their own, becoming fetish objects, what philosopher Francis Bacon called "idols of the mind," as with photos of Pollock painting or Warhol doing almost anything (or nothing). We've all been transfixed by Picasso in his underpants at the beach, Bacon in his grimy studio, de Kooning studying his paintings, Leon Golub's huge head, Hockney's Dutch boy grin, Kahlo's unibrow, Schnabel in his pajamas, Mapplethorpe's image of Louise Bourgeois holding a giant phallus, and his self-portrait as a faun. In our collective mind's eye we see Beuys in his hat, Baselitz in his castle, and Basquiat in his designer suit; the young and beautiful Johns and Rauschenberg, the rakish Duchamp, and the ruddy Robert Smithson.
Whether or not these photographs contribute to these artists being chieftains of art world nation begs the question: If there's no iconic image of an artistas is the case with Braque, Baziotes, Leger, Gris, Motherwell, or Hofmanndoes an artist's work risk becoming fuzzy in the mind? Obviously, this photo-centric formulation wrongheadedly confuses cause and effect: Art only gets fuzzy if it is fuzzy, not because there's no clear image of the artist. Yet it's easy to imagine why artists might participate in and control the branding of their own image, even if this branding sometimes takes over, as with Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons, Francesco Clemente, or even Warholwho at some point in the late 1970s became a walking photo op. Conversely, these days many artists and artist collectives seek to retard or, in Duchamp's term, "delay" this branding. They want to thwart the marketability of both the image of the artist and the art itselfthe idea being that if you avoid having your likeness "captured" your work might stay fluid longer.
Two current exhibitions, the first a sort of celebratory walk-in family album, the second a revelatory glimpse of fame in the making, allow us to examine these ideas more fully. "Portraits of Artists," at Luhring Augustine, is a warm if academic walk down artistic memory lane in which one can bask in portraits of ancestor figures like Dalí and Duchamp, then scrutinize recent arrivals on the shores of renown like Janine Antoni balancing on a police barricade or Sarah Lucas being sprayed by a can of beer. More gripping, because it's more vulnerable and clairvoyant overall, is Lina Bertucci's exhibition of photographs of what amounts to a graduating class of artists who came to prominence in the 1990s. Although only two of Bertucci's photos are iconica doe-like-looking James Lee Byars and the grizzly Mario Merzmost of her pictures are handsome, empathetic, and self-possessed. Bertucci, 47, avoids the passport photo approach of Timothy Greenfield-Sanders and the theatricality of David LaChapelle, grazing Mapplethorpe's classicism as she arrives at a whimsical mix of ambition, innocence, sympathy, and showmanship.
Maybe Bertucci was lucky; more likely she had a premonition. Either way, what is most memorable about her pictures from the early 1990s is that a lot of these artists seem to sense they're about to emerge from a nascent state; Bertucci captures the electric instant before many of them went on to have their moment. Many of her subjects exude a coltish impatience or a resolute quietude. Often, the rooms they're in don't seem big enough to contain them. There's Rirkrit Tiravanija in his East Village apartment, Elizabeth Peyton in her storefront studio, Kiki Smith surrounded by plaster casts, and an intense John Currin standing in his East Houston Street studio. We see Chris Ofili, Charles Ray, Alex Bag, Maurizio Cattelan, and Massimo Bartolini in bedrooms or hotels. Everyone seems to be waiting for something. Some of the best pictures, including one of a princely Piotr Uklanski on his bed already looking like an Elizabeth Peyton painting, have a Nan Goldin noir quality about them.
Bertucci doesn't do much with already famous artists like John Cage and William Burroughs, but she really clicks with some of the younger artists she shoots. Together they take control: There's Michael Joo with a poster of himself in drag, Haim Steinbach as a Haim Steinbach sculpture, Mark Dion as a nerd, and Mariko Mori in matching black bra and panties. Sometimes it looks like the cast of a Fellini film. Rudolph Stingel resembles a movie star, Sean Landers a brooding poet, Matthew Barney an iron man, and Sylvie Fleury a 1960s fashion model. Not surprisingly, Jeff Koons takes the most control of all, posing as a tattooed leather boy with a tattooed biker chick. Lack of icons notwithstanding, the surplus of budding energy on hand lends a thrilling air to Bertucci's show.
Speaking of icons and fetish objects, my friend and colleague Kim Levin, who was an art critic at the Voice for more than 20 years, has filled the Ronald Feldman Gallery with what I consider to be almost holy relics. Pinned to the wall of the main gallery are more than 500 of Levin's gallery itineraries. The effect is like a library, a sea of frozen prayer flags, and a journey through time. Each list has the names of galleries and artists color-coded and organized geographically by neighborhood. (One has a note that says, "Call Jerry Saltz.")