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
This is happening with Yuskavage's recent work. Not only is it becoming repetitious, but Yuskavage is using women as bait. This is fine; all is fair in love and war and art. The problem is her viewers aren't taking away anything other than momentary kicks. Gone is the satire, irony, cruelty, joy, ferocity, self-doubt, awkward sexuality, and the other wonderfully unresolved darker feelings about lust, gender, and power that once fueled Yuskavage's portraits of femmes fatales, ugly ducklings, and imperfect monsters. The artist Nancy Spero once talked about wanting to use women's bodies to transcend the male idea of women in a man-controlled world. Yuskavage's recent paintings are doing the exact opposite: They're just reinforcing those ideas.
Yuskavage is now a star. Her work sells at auction for a million dollars; she is featured in this month's W; the current issue of Vanity Fair calls her a "supernova." But before 2001, Yuskavage's work was rawer, funnier, more abstract and wicked. She was adept at casting classic types: the blonde, the brunette, the redhead, and giving you just enough information to trigger conflicting thoughts. She mined unpopular graphic styles like Playboy, Penthouse, and Laura Ashley catalogs. Her color was less programmatic and more gaudy. Her subjects were skittish, in-your-face, latent, and blatant.
Back then, Yuskavage painted women masturbating, with bushy pudenda, and with their legs spread so wide it was almost embarrassing to look at her work. She rendered voluptuaries lifting their blouses to expose pendulous breasts, and freakish beanpoles regarding their bodies with wonder, shame, emptiness, and bliss. If a man had made these paintings he might have been kicked out of the art world. But something about the anger, insight, abjectness, and self-love/hate told you that this work wasn't painted by a man. This was 19th-century salon painting via Vargas, Russ Meyer, Maxfield Parrish, Botero, romance novels, kitsch, Hallmark greeting cards, Celestial Seasonings packaging, fantasy, folklore, horror, and history. Yuskavage had a huge ambition; she wanted everyone to look at these slow-burn paintings.
Unfortunately, everyoneincluding, I think, Yuskavagehas now shifted the discussion away from the uncomfortable sexuality and psychology presented in these works toward something more palatable and polite. Instead of being about sex, dirty secrets, doubt, and storm-tossed desire, the conversation around Yuskavage's work has devolved into a totally bogus discourse about skill. Because the subject matter is no longer embarrassing, tantalizing, or repellant, everyone has fallen back on the infinitely inane, absolutely empty incorrect cliché: "She paints so skillfully."
Obviously, Yuskavage has skill. Like her colleague John Currinwho is often compared to Botticelli, Cranach, and DürerYuskavage, who has been likened unto Vermeer, Raphael, and Bellini, is a solid painter. But "skill" shouldn't just mean being competent or being able to render the figure realistically; it's nowhere near as important in art as originality, surprise, obsession, experimentation, the willingness to publicly embarrass one's self, and something visionary. Skill is about being flexible and creative. Until recently, in fact, Yuskavage's strength wasn't her "skill" at all: It was her weird way of making everything into a cartoon and exploding stereotypes.
At her exhibit in Chelsea, Yuskavage gives us 10 paintings of women either alone or in pairs; uptown there are a batch of better, smaller paintings. Downtown you might momentarily think, "Oh, these are different aspects of the same woman." For me, the glimmer of hope in the Chelsea show is that while I don't like these paintings, I like some of the things I find myself thinking about while not liking them. First is her rococo-meets-sicko-luminist color. Yuskavage dips into a seedy Fragonard palette of pinks and yellows. Then, there's the nicely dicey relationship in her work between photography, observation, and imagination. Finally, I admire that Yuskavage paints with a hook. This is a very mid-1990s thing, but good or bad she can almost always make you look, however briefly.
The downside to the downtown show is that's almost all that's happening. You look briefly; then the paintings turn into one-liners masquerading under heavy glazes. Worse, however, some of the better paintings look too much like her compatriot, Currin, who is now deploying skill in far more complicated ways while taking you to ever more twisted and challenging psychic and stylistic places.
In 1996, I saw a Yuskavage still life that revealed a lurking problem in her paintings. Without the hook of the women, it seemed as if Yuskavage's work could someday just look like brainy calendar art. That's beginning to happen. Yuskavage's ambition is fierce; her imagination is inventive; her dexterous hand and wily color can be weapons again. But she must transcend the market's definition of skill and stop using her women mainly as punchlines and come-ons.