Waiting for FEMA

Waiting for Godot as staged in New Orleans.

"If no one walks out," Samuel Beckett once told the American producer of Waiting for Godot, "then you're doing it wrong."

Well, no one walked out of the Classic Theatre of Harlem's production at the ICA last weekend - but were they nonetheless doing it "wrong"? One wonders if Beckett himself might have thought so; set in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, with its central pair of tramps, Vladimir and Estragon (or "Didi" and "Gogo") played as homeless African-Americans, the question of racism hung over the production, and was indeed perhaps its raison d'être. Yet Beckett (below left) had been clear all his life that he did not want the question of racism entangled with the master/slave relation his masterpiece ponders. Indeed, he once attempted to stop an A.R.T. production of Endgame that in his mind "mixed" the races inappropriately.

Why did he feel that way? Perhaps because opposition to racism provides too easy an answer to the questions his work raises; Beckett's view of enslavement is one of relentless inquiry, and genuinely frightening dimension. Indeed, in the world of Godot, the question of freedom and slavery is a kind of universal, open-ended dilemma. The tramps Didi and Gogo not only watch as a horrid parody of the master-slave relationship plays out before them (in the persons of the brutal Pozzo and his lackey Lucky), but then play-act at the same dialectic themselves; and what is their bond to the mysterious, unseen Godot, whom they faithfully obey, but one of self-willed slavery? Indeed, when one ponders their existential melancholy, and their pathetic gropings at suicide, one begins to wonder whether the name of the debased, but single-minded Lucky is really "ironic" after all; perhaps, Beckett is whispering, he's the lucky one.

So once literal, political slavery becomes the context of Godot, existential slavery, its true subject, is easily obscured. Still, the wonder of the CTH production last weekend was that it often managed to keep both themes in view - indeed, unlike that A.R.T. Endgame, this version seemed to respect its text, and at times honestly grappled with the contradictions of its own concept.


Designer Troy Hourie's model for the Godot set on tour.

And as a backdrop for the blasted waste the play conjures, post-Katrina New Orleans of course could not be beat. Originally, the production played out in the open air on that city's desolate streets; in New York, Didi and Gogo crouched on a rooftop, surrounded by three feet of water (with Lucky and Pozzo entering by boat!). Alas, the ICA wasn't flooded last weekend to accommodate that particular theatrical coup, but the touring set (above) effectively conjured the Gentilly section of New Orleans, one of the production's original venues (above), and included such nice touches as a Calvary-esque trio of telephone poles to echo the tramps' banter about Christ on the cross. There were other flashes of inspiration: the re-imagining of Pozzo as some lost bushwhacker, broadcasting his commands through a bullhorn, was a stroke of genius, as was the long, disturbing sequence in which the black Lucky silently did his white master's bidding - a once-common American scene willfully edited out of our national consciousness.

Still, powerful as these sequences were, they amounted to an exploitation of Godot for other, worthy political purposes (much as Susan Sontag had done years before in Sarajevo). For in the end, Didi and Gogo aren't waiting for physical rescue, and if, as Beckett insisted, Godot isn't God, then he certainly isn't FEMA. Perhaps as a result, director Christopher McElroen's staging trailed off inconclusively whenever Godot's messenger actually made an entrance (he even appeared to be voiced by the stage manager!). In other ways, however, McElroen seemed to be grappling with some of the issues his concept raised; his Didi and Gogo, for instance, passed the time by trying to play basketball, or imitating Michael Jackson, or indulging in little raps - clichéd gestures of "black" pop culture that the production seemed to be hinting were essentially meaningless before the larger questions facing African-Americans.

This was perhaps the most politically unsettling idea in the show; but the audience tended to take these interludes as a relief from Beckett's bleakness, which undermined their subversive impact. Still, as Didi, the versatile Billy Eugene Jones always seemed aware of these underlying ironies, even if the production didn't seem to know how to make the leap from the political to the spiritual. As Estragon, the talented J Kyle Manzay was more problematic; always amusing, his Gogo was a distant, self-aware comic with little connection to the seeming despair of his situation. And both took a back seat to Pozzo and Lucky whenever they stumbled onstage. Christian Rummel's Pozzo was perhaps the best performance of the role I've seen, with a highly original emphasis on the character's weakness, while Glenn Gordon's Lucky was probably the most disturbingly debased (although it's too bad director McElroen pulled his big breakdown toward rap). When these two took the stage, this Godot held a power that wasn't quite what its author intended, but didn't betray his intentions either.

What happens when a faux street artist meets a real one?

I have to hand it to Shepard Fairey - the content of his work may be banal, but the marketing of that work, and the imposition of it on the city by the ICA and its comrades-in-arms, has proved to be the cultural gift that keeps on giving. Indeed, I think as unconscious self-critique it's almost unparalleled; few cultural events have revealed the hypocrisy of the presumptively hip in such a harsh, unsparing light. Above is what happened to one of Fairey's murals installed in Providence (hat tip to Greg Cook). Could the unknown street artist in question have made a more succinct comment? What's most wonderful about the added graffiti is that it doesn't really spoil the design of the (plagiarized) original, but instead frames it in a richer, more truthful cultural context. I'd say we have an early front runner for next year's Foster Prize. That is if the ICA has any sense of humor.

Stepping out and stepping up

Jennifer Bricker in an earlier production of GIMP. Photo by Chris Ash.

It was interesting, I must admit, to see "The GIMP Project" directly after Boston Ballet's The Sleeping Beauty last weekend. The transition from a fantasy land of long legs and languid arms to a world in which arms sometimes end in single digits and legs may be missing completely was bracing, to say the least.

Yet at first, during the 'aerial' prologue to GIMP, out on the twilit patio of the ICA, the two worlds didn't seem so far apart. When Jennifer Bricker - who happens to have no legs - and aerialist Nate Crawford pulled themselves up into sashes of scarlet fabric dangling from an overhead frame, immediately something like the idealized atmosphere of ballet descended over the watching crowd. For a time, Crawford and Bricker floated together unseen, in a fabric chrysalis that conjured up thoughts of erotic reverie. (Yes, sex with the legless. Get over it.) When they emerged - to the soft breathing of composer Stan Strickland - they began a long, tenderly slow dance in space that was unlike anything I've ever seen, even though its pirouettes and lifts had direct analogues in the type of dance I see all the time. The performers exuded affectionate respect and some serious playfulness; the crowd was mesmerized. This is a word that's used too often, and often for the wrong reasons, but sometimes clichés must be forgiven: Bricker and Crawford were transcendent.

But they also set a standard that the rest of GIMP, which took place within the ICA's new theatre, couldn't quite meet. After the group's aerialists had conjured a brilliant equivalent of traditional dance (okay, they needed a bit more apparatus than a tutu and a dance belt, but what difference does that make?), we were primed for more discovery; what other, perhaps even stranger, forms of grace might these folks be able to illuminate? For after all, that's the challenge curled in the fascinating premise of "The GIMP Project:" how the physically challenged might trace their own "meaning in time and space" (a phrase from an artist acquaintance of mine that I think suits dance just fine).

Choreographer Heidi Latsky, however, only occasionally picked up that conceptual gauntlet. Instead she tended to focus on confrontation rather than exploration, with the usual rather-tired subtext of "objectification." And actually, this was fine at first; it was well understood that for once, the attitude of the dancers was a central concern of the audience. But the choreographer stuck to an angry stance long after it had become tedious, because after all, we were there, at the show, and not in a mood to objectify the dancers but to sympathize and explore with them.

Still, Latsky deserves endless praise for going where no choreographer I know of has gone before, and once or twice she did take the dare she'd set herself and began to really use the capabilities these dancers had. Lawrence Carter-Long, for instance, who suffers from cerebral palsy, has a stricken gait that's innately theatrical; it's like watching willpower incarnate, and Latsky used it to wicked effect in a go-for-it promenade to the strains of the Bodyrockers' "I Like the Way You Move." And dancer Leslie Frye had some intriguing moments in which she calmly pondered, or perhaps came to terms with, the arm that "wasn't there," and limned a new standard of body image. But there were many, many more moments of repetitive thrash - the equivalent of choreographic filler.

Still, GIMP is certainly, if you'll pardon the terrible pun, a very big step in the right direction. The group seems to have no plans (or funding) for a larger tour, but that's what it needs, along with more choreographers, and more dancers, both 'able-bodied' and 'challenged,' with the time to develop a sense of ensemble. More aerial work is crying out to be developed. As Shakespeare's Coriolanus once said, "There is a world elsewhere!" and the dancers of the GIMP Project could serve as exciting guides to it.

Now why, exactly, did the ICA invite a vandal to Massachusetts?

I admit I sometimes can't quite believe it. Did the ICA (tagged above) really just invite a vandal with outstanding warrants into the Commonwealth, and then look the other way while he further defaced other people's property? And did the local press really applaud? And did it also come out that not only was he a vandal, but he was also stealing other people's art? It's all like some Tom Wolfe satire from 1970. And to those who are still harumphing over the fact that Shepard Fairey was finally arrested, ponder that if he is a criminal (and he doesn't seem to deny it) then the curators and staff at the ICA are at best his indirect accomplices. They might at the very least offer to pay for any damages caused by his actions, and one wonders if the museum itself is open to any possible lawsuits over this whole affair. Because why, exactly, did the ICA invite Shepard Fairey to Massachusetts? Please, no b.s. about rebellion and art; we're grown-ups on this blog. They did it for buzz, pure and simple. Did they actually want him to vandalize the state, albeit in some small, not-too-threatening way? Probably. Or was the idea that this time, Shepard would be a good boy for the time being? Either way, surely this counts as the most bizarre violation of the public trust by a nonprofit arts organization since the Wang Center brouhaha (needless to say, nonprofit religious organizations are in another class entirely!). What makes it all the more incredible is that it was done completely out in the open; it was promoted by major news outlets, and the Mayor shook the perp's hand! Sheesh, where is Tom Wolfe when we need him?

Free Shepard Fairey! From Major Publicity Coup!

The word is out today that Shepard Fairey was arrested - for the fifteenth time - just before a gig as DJ at the ICA last night. I would, of course, be sympathetic to Fairey except for the feeling that really, everyone involved couldn't be more pleased (whatever they may say). The cops acted their role as fascist oppressors so beautifully - they even collared him outside the museum - that you'd swear they were following a script (details of the warrants are murky, but they supposedly originated from the artist's tagging in Massachusetts, so perhaps they actually derive from the ICA's 'outdoor exhibit,' which gives the museum even more street cred!) . And the arrest neatly pulls the focus off all those pesky questions about the originality of the art itself (not to mention the artist's own hypocritical use of copyright law to silence those who borrow his imagery) and back to Fairey's status as a rebel, which is precisely where the ICA (and, I think, the artist) would like it to be. And needless to say, this all plays beautifully into the promotional activites of local journalists, who no doubt are already silkscreening "Free Fairey!" T-shirts (see above). Of course in a meta sense, the event is itself a fascinating kind of cultural manifestation. It is required, in a way, for Shepard Fairey to be a "rebel," since his artwork is borrowed, and his only real cultural activity is its illegal distribution. Therefore the "art" only "exists" if he is arrested. That this maps neatly to a general cultural meme in which people feel entitled via the Internet to "appropriate" other people's property is simply the larger resonance of the "work." Hence my appropriated tribute to "Obey" (I feel the underlying photo should remain uncredited as a tribute to Shepard). We are all Shepard Fairey now! The only limit on our artistic greatness is the size of the police force.

Ageism as criticism

Over at www.hubarts.com, Joel Brown keeps returning to the same meme when discussing the press preview of the new Shepard Fairey show at the ICA:

Several camera crews, a horde of still photographers and an unusually large crowd of print and pixel reporters turned up - the kind of turnout that usually greets some MFA crowd-pleaser, although this group was younger than usual and more likely to be wearing black . . .

The artist, not yet 40, turned up on Tuesday in retro Converse and a Clash t-shirt; among this weekend's opening festivities is Friday night's Experiment party, where he'll be manning the DJ booth until midnight. Of course if this was New York or Miami or L.A., he'd start spinning tunes at midnight, but ... walk before we can run, right?

After four full paragraphs of fluffing clubbers under 40, Brown suddenly seems to wake up a bit with:

Oh, and what about the art, you ask?

But there's not really much to say about the art beyond the fact that it's been done by someone young - or at least, the very first thing Brown says is:

For some, it will be a generational question.

No. Really? And then:

"Is the show also going to include the Xerox machine he used to make his 'art'?" snarked one over-40 friend of mine, the single quotes audible in his tone.

Stupid old coot! He just doesn't get it. Brown finally gets down to something like criticism (it's actually more like promotion):

. . . for those more comfortable with DIY [that's Do It Yourself, all you old farts reading this] art that remixes familiar media tropes to comment on advertising, propaganda and our consumer culture, Fairey's mass-produced posters are compelling . . . It's easy to see how Soviet posters of courageous proletarians influenced "Obama Hope," and Fairey's work around the Iraq war is visually arresting and reminiscent of Chinese and Vietnamese propaganda from the '60s. It's also suprisingly beautiful itself, colorful and collagey.

Okay, Fairey's work is - well, basically like other propaganda (I could hardly disagree - some even call Fairey a plagiarist), and it's "colorful and collagey." Right. As you can no doubt tell, I happen to be a Fairey skeptic; and, needless to say, I'm well over 40 (that's me up at the top of the post). The Obama poster is good, yes, but - well, not great, and Andre the Giant and "Obey" are nothing next to, say the work of Banksy (at right), who I imagine is under 40, too. So if I'm over 40, why do I like Banksy but not Fairey? I'm not sure Joel Brown would have an answer to that one.

And let's just do a little thought experiment, shall we, and replace the age-related comments with race-related comments in Brown's writing. So the first paragraphs become:

Several camera crews, a horde of still photographers and an unusually large crowd of print and pixel reporters turned up - the kind of turnout that usually greets some MFA crowd-pleaser, although this group was whiter than usual and more likely to be blonde . . . the artist, who is full-blooded Caucasian, turned up on Tuesday in retro Converse and a Clash t-shirt . . . what about the art, you ask? For some it will be a question of race loyalty . . .

Now I know Joel Brown would never write anything like that second version.

So why did he write the first one? Isn't ageism a form of prejudice too?

Against "cool"; or, the trouble with Tara

It's hard to argue with pleasure in the arts, particularly when so much contemporary art gives, well, so little of it. That's what makes the strange case of artist Tara Donovan so difficult to crack: it's almost impossible to persuade people that she's empty and superficial when she's just so much fun. People have been bringing their kids in droves to her retrospective at the ICA - which, after the Anish Kapoor show, has clearly found its niche as an adjunct of the Children's Museum - and you can hear little voices piping up with "Wow!" over and over again as tiny art-lovers encounter Donovan's clouds of styrofoam cups (above) and stalagmites of buttons and fog-banks of zillions of straws. And you can't blame them; Donovan's pieces are indeed "cool," and "cool," as they say, is king, as well as kid-friendly. I love cool stuff, you love cool stuff, we all love cool stuff. But can we stop pretending it's art?

Before you say it, I know the answer is "no." This would be asking a lot from the typical baby boomer (and actually even more from Gens X & Y). Just try explaining to one that the music and art they thought was cool when they were eleven or twelve was probably not, actually, all that deep or interesting (it was probably powerful, yes, but that's hardly the same thing). Most simply refuse to listen, even though their position is pretty ridiculous (imagine if literature were governed by the same model - we'd all still be talking about The Outsiders). Hey, if it rocks you, then it's deep - because otherwise, of course, you're not particularly deep, but are instead stuck in a very extended adolescence, and that obviously cannot be! It sometimes seems the idea that one should deepen as an adult - indeed, that it's your responsibility to deepen as an adult - has become about as attractive a position to my generation as racism. And why? Because if you've deepened as an adult, then you've become old. Hence the importance of having your taste ratified by your ten-year-old.

It's equally pointless to mention that most great art, in fact, is not particularly "cool." Indeed, great art is often impacted, thorny, strange, or opaque at first blush. It is usually difficult - only not merely difficult for its own sake, like so much second-rate modernism, but rather difficult because difficulty is often necessary to convey complex meaning. Which is practically the opposite of coolness. Cool things are sleek, controlled, and both self-sufficient and efficient; they offer instant gratification, instant elegance, and unexpected solutions; they must be immediately graspable, both in terms of their goals and their success. What's more, they are all about utility; they lift you up, give you wings, in general defy the gravity of the physical and emotional world. They don't leave you pondering your mortality, or perceiving your own limits; they don't make you humble or wise; instead, they "empower" you, which, of course leaves the "you" at the center of that new power basically unchanged.


Those are plastic cups! Can you believe it? It's like a digital network!

So I know it's pointless, really, shaking my graying locks over Tara Donovan; she's here to stay, and I'll be hearing about her at cocktail parties for a long time. Can you believe how many straws were stuck on that wall? How long did it take her to stack all those cups? And isn't it interesting that almost everything she's done is called "Untitled"? I really should just try to lie back and enjoy it, or think of England, or something.

Then again, I can almost already hear people asking me (or thinking to themselves), why can't you just sit back and enjoy all the pretty, mindless coolness, Mr. Snarky Artsy-Fartsy? And Tara Donovan's art is about something - it's like, about digital networks, and it's biological. Biomorphic, whatever. It is conceptual, that's the point - it's like there's this concept, or this process, or this concept process, or this process concept, of doing this small thing over and over - just like cells do, okay? - and then like stepping back and going "Wow. That is amazing." And Tara Donovan didn't have to have any particular ability, just tons of patience and, yes, hard work and determination, because anybody should be able to be a great artist, whether they have talent or not; that's what "contemporary art" means.

So let me tell you, gentle readers, I can enjoy mindless coolness as well as the next man. I, too, enjoy the strange ying-yang between size and scale that Donovan plays with; I totally dig models of Manhattan that fit on a tabletop, as well as twenty-foot pencils. I, too, went "Wow!" and ran around the perimeter of the cups/straws/tape and said "How did she do that?" I, too, understand that what she does is not at all like building an Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks because the Eiffel Tower is not cool. I, too, walked up and down before the gazillion straws of "Haze," letting the piece play hackey-sack with my depth perception. I, too, gazed through the one that's like a window stuffed with curls of polyester film, and thought about how beautiful it was, and how it reminded me of stained glass. And the way the sounds from the hall came through it, that was totally cool, too.

The trouble comes later, when I'm sitting here, before the keyboard, trying to think of something to say about Tara Donovan but not being able to come up with a single thing. Except that I suppose she's given Minimalism some fresh life. But did anyone really want to give Minimalism fresh life? Well, maybe a few curators did! Oh wait - speaking of curators - you know what? I can say something nice about Ms. Donovan after all: she was a lot more fun than those nominees for the Foster Prize! Because they weren't even cool. And man, if you don't have anything to say, then it's not cool to not be cool.

What the ICA might have been . . .

People sometimes tell me I'm too harsh on the new ICA building,
by Diller Scofidio + Renfro. They think the harbor views and the "Mediatheque" are cool, and didn't it just win an award from the
Boston Society of Architects? Yes, but when you see a truly great museum, like the new Bloch Building at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art (in Kansas City) from Steven Holl (whose only local work is Simmons Hall at MIT), you realize everything the ICA is not.

The ICA blows the Foster Prize . . .

It seems mildly incredible, but the ICA has awarded the Foster Prize to Kelly Sherman (above, photo from the Boston Globe). Yes, that's the prize-winning work behind her (easily, I'm afraid, the weakest on view from the Foster nominees). Nothing against Kelly - she's certainly smart (and sexy), and maybe someday she'll be an interesting artist. As for the ICA - this is why people never really took this museum seriously; the building may be new, but it's housing the same old crew . . .