This week, I ask the burning question: “Can anybody really explain Nayland Blake’s art?” Admittedly, conceptual artists are often of an elusive nature. There is a fine line between intent and execution. There must be both. That’s where I have a problem with Blake’s works.  Judging from his blog and interviews, Blake would probably see that comment as a typical art-snob attitude.

As he stated in a recent interview: “It’s not about a kind of intellectual finesse or coolness…the ‘I’m above all of this’ attitude, which is often the way people mark their presence in the art world.’” This is all well and good, but I have a problem with art that doesn’t exhibit anything more than intent—especially when this art depends on the viewer’s knowledge of the artist’s entire language of representation. Without a background check, there is little to grasp onto. This isn’t a grand indictment of the conceptual artist either. I can think of a lot of conceptual artists who elevate their premises by utilizing technique with freakiness.

In his current exhibition, a 25-year retrospective at Location One titled “Behavior,” Blake continues to confuse and confound. Much of his famous works are there: “Heavenly Bunny Suit” (pictured), “Restrain Chair,” “Gorge Lunchbox” and, notably, “Magic” (a Cornell’s box type of work utilizing the “Madame” puppet from the 1970s that Blake bought at an auction).

It’s about time he received another look due to his strong credentials: Born on the Upper West Side in 1960, his artistic parents encouraged him. During his high school years, he used to hang out in East Village & Soho galleries and lofts, checking out performances and films by Jack Smith, Richard Forman and others. He earned a B.F.A from Bard College, Annandale-On-Hudson in 1982 and a Masters of Fine Art from the California Institute of the Arts, Valencia, CA in 1984. In 1995, he co-curated an influential show at the Berkeley Art  Museum (“Different Light”) that put him on the map. Since 2003, Blake holds his position as founding chair of the International Center of Photography and Bard College’s  Master of Fine Arts program in Advanced Photographic Studies.

With all of this credibility, one wonders why so much of the art itself seems so sloppy. I realize that what Blake is saying is more important than mere technique, but still, I have serious hangups when it comes to appreciating his work. This could be his point, but I think critics have been too kind. I actually read a review that virtually apologized for his drawings.

There is another side to Blake: the grotesque. On January 9, Blake re-enacts his infamous “Gorge” piece, where he sits shirtless and is force-fed (this time by the audience) for an hour. There are also Blake’s S&M pieces: chairs with handcuffs, leather, mirrors, etc. Not much more needs to be said, it’s pretty obvious.

Everyone at the opening seemed to be having a lot of fun; snapping pictures and chatting. I don’t begrudge anyone their fun, but I must again ask the question: “Can anybody really explain Nayland Blake’s art?”


Nayland Blake “Behavior” Through February 14. Location One, 26 Greene St., 212-334-3347.

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Recently, upon walking into the Kim Foster Gallery, I was overtaken by larger than life images of young children. There was something unsettling about these works. These were all obviously photographs, but possessed a painterly sheen and held mysterious hues that I have never seen. Darkened, shaded contrasts competed with ghostly, faded highlights. Also, there was something about the expressions on these children’s faces that hit me in a strange way. It was as if I was witnessing something very pure, but couldn’t put my finger on it.

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There is this stereotype regarding abstract expressionism where it’s forever linked to a type of broodiness, a sense of struggle and (at times) madness. One only has to think of Jackson Pollock or Vincent Van Gogh to conjure up images of the obsessed, troubled soul trying to deal with inner demons. As often as this may be the case, this is not really the rule. Ying Li’s “Coastal Paintings” makes the argument that gestural expressionism can be raw, contain an extraordinary amount of energy, be deeply moving but also have a sense of pure excitement in place of doom and darkness.

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Upon entering the Bellwether Gallery, I encountered four hand painted miniature wooden theaters, Zoe Beloff’s The Somnambulists, that resembled something from the 19th century.  When I looked into the actual stage, I saw loops of footage. These images at first appeared to be almost humorous, with people displaying melodramatic behavior: one theater had an over-gesticulating man sounding a plaintive, desperate monologue; another featured a young woman freeing herself from a rope-bound chair after which she appeared on the stage exhibiting bizarre body language. It seemed funny, but something didn’t seem right. They were too real to be shrugged off as some cute, quaint display. It turns out that this is footage from the 19th century of patients going into various degrees of hysterics: all case studies filmed by doctors in Belgium, Romania and the United States. Using an updated version of an old, Victorian stage trick known as “Pepper’s Ghosts” (a hidden mirror provides the refection of the images), these figures are beyond ghostly. It’s as if they were fated to endless hysterics. What started out as light hearted was soon transformed into something much darker.

One might ask, “Why the stage?”  Belloff's works are based on studies of the French psycho-pathologist Dr. Pierre Janet who developed a theory that, when one of his patients went into hysterics, they’d shut down. In order for him to communicate with them, he had to enter their world. This is the beginnings of psycho-therapy (minus the drugs). At the same time, the French public had a fascination with madness which can be linked to the highly emotive (almost hysterical) antics of performers in Parisian cabarets.

Beloff makes the connection in this well-researched project. She also has a book available (The Somnabulists: A Compendium of Source Material) which details cases on which she based her exhibition.

All of this leads up to her main exhibit in the back room of the gallery. In this room is a large theater housing two high-definition 3-D color video projections of what she calls “Vaudevillian Musical Dramas.”  These are shot stereoscopically and project three-dimensional figures, about on fifth of human scale, performing on stage. This is all viewed via the supplied 3-D glasses.  Instantly, one is transported to a hallucinatory trip in time to the late Eighteen Hundreds. There really is the feeling of seeing an entire live performance. The editing (if any) is so transparent that the whole thing looks like it was done in one shot. These musicals use the premise of staging the unconscious as a hysterical drama/musical. The narrator, mc, is Dr Janet himself. There is a woman (in the lead role) and a few other characters.  All of this is drawn from case studies.

The effective, minimalistic music drew on dissonance, 12-tone rows and polyphony while never wavering into the obscure. While watching this, I forgot that I was in a gallery in Chelsea. I can’t remember when I had such a multi-dimensional experience at an exhibition.
 
Through Oct.4, Bellwether, 134 10th Ave. (betw. 18th & 19th Sts.), 212-929-5959.

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It’s the dog days of summer. This is when most of the galleries close up and prepare for the fall’s splash of shows. Even finding exhibits that last through September is harder than normal. This dilemma led me to explore other neighborhoods.

There is nothing like the East Village to get me going. Sometimes, it’s such a cliché, that it’s beyond cliché. For example: Rock Star Art. A while back when I wrote about David Byrne’s “Playing the Building” installation, I found a quote where Byrne said how he avoided linking his musical career in any way to his art for years. Even though Byrne has been a visual artist since the ’70s, for the first twentysome years of his art career, he deliberately kept the two separate. He said that he wanted to avoid the “Rock Star Artist” tag; where a Rock Star dabbles in the art world and garners attention solely because of his/her popularity.

It’s hard to be fair to genuine Rock Star Art, but I’ll try to be fair to Nick Zinner and his current exhibit, It's OK, Don't Look at the Road, at Fuse Gallery since, beneath all of these snapshots, I do believe there is sincerity. Nick Zinner is, of course, the guitar player for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Nick does have a background in photography. He studied it at Bard College and has done national and international exhibitions and has also published three books of photos.

Nonetheless, the somewhat self congratulatory nature of his press release was a little bit of a contradiction to what was being shown. It states: “Documenting his experience as a musician in a successful band, Nick Zinner is able to reveal moments detached from context and free of rock ’n’ rolllcliché. His images reflect modest and sincere vignettes of life on and off the road. In his work, stark realism unfolds into a contemplative snapshot.” This kind of verbiage didn’t exactly enhance my experience.

This exhibition could have been great for CD artwork, but by raising the bar so high with his press release, one wonders why so many crowd shots of adoring fans were included. Unlike the stated premise, most of these images make it impossible to forget that you are watching a guitar player taking pictures on the road. These are not images that are “detached from context and free of rock ’n’ role cliché”. For example “Pill”, which is a shot of a young woman who is looking pretty ‘rock and roll’ with her wide open mouth (in which sits a big pill). It’s not that it’s poor quality, but there is no sense of transcendence or contemplation.

There is one exception: “Paper” is an artful exposition of confetti that takes on an element of abstract expressionism. The way that the picture gradually and logically makes the transition into darkness shows that there is real talent at work here. More shots like this, where it did live up to the hype, would have been welcomed. Maybe it’s a hint at a developing direction. Rock on, Nick Zinner.



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Usually when someone calls a piece of art ‘trash,’ it connotes a negative impression (to say the least). This is not the case for the exhibition at NURTUREart titled, Demo Eco M.O. In this group show, the idea is to recycle elements and create new works out of them. This includes trading mediums, exchanging visual elements, sharing and making tools. Along with this, they take it a step further by using bicycles. Even the lighting of the entire exhibition was done solely by one light sculpture. There were solar panels on the roof (right next to the discarded phone books on display) that provided power to some of the sculptures.

OK, this is all good, but was any of the art good? I was actually surprised at how recycled art contained its own sense of dignity and purpose. There were waste materials hung like carcasses in a meat shop, a giant mirrored sculpture (which provided the light) and some interactive pieces as well. The visitors, fellow artists and even members of NURTURart’s Board of Trustees were encouraged to supply the elements for this. Next to this exhibit was an inventory book. We were instructed to leave something behind, and take something in it’s place.

I was particularly taken by one piece especially: “Deluge,” a collaborative installation by Joyce Yamada & Joanne Ungar (pictured).  This piece shows what might happen to the life of a Brooklyn artist after the polar ice caps have melted and much of Brooklyn is submerged under water. I know, such lofty ideas often come across as preachy, but the way this instillation references history—along with complete vision leaves one spends the time pouring over the details and witnessing art—works.

Philosophically, this is a meditation on the ramifications of humans’ romanticized (and ultimately fatal) relationship to nature. It’s the idea of how we crave the countryside, despite the fact that to live there, we have to carve out our space by clearing nature.
Yamada & Unger compare this to a quest for the Garden of Eden: "...Nature is neither benign nor stable, and we ignore its true functioning at our peril; ignorance and fantasy are dangerous. Therefore, there is no paradise and no Garden of Eden”

As the main focal point, they appropriate Joseph Cornell’s “Untitled (The Hotel Eden)”  from 1942 and turn it 180 degrees. Cornell’s work is an assemblage of found materials and collage contained in a wooden box with a glass cover. He has s stuffed parrot in there; hermetically sealed, pulling wires to create the energy for an air pump to sustain life. Cornell’s  seemingly benign piece, is really quite ominous. More so is Yamada and Unger’s “Deluge;” They "sample" Cornell’s box, but the glass is broken (there are many shards of glass in this installation). Instead of the pet parrot, there is a freed pigeon (still surviving in Brooklyn). The pigeon is free, but it’s feet are stuck. The use of fouxh vermin is pretty menacing. Giant rats lurk, but are glued to the ground. In an amazing skill of reference, Joyce & Joanne utilize one of Unger’s unfinished paintings that hadn’t cured properly; the paint just oozed. This led to the idea of a toxic pool, where they re-interpreted the La Brea tar pits; turning the future into the ancient. The piece is a dystopian vision and is meant as a Cautionary Tale of life in the near future if we humans continue carelessly with business as usual.

There is so much that is amazing about this work that you have to experience it. It’s not in the main gallery, but at the entrance, with chipped paint, a rusty ladder and decay. It works so well there: All of the lighting is supplied by the solar panels on the roof. Still, at the end of the night, since the whole thing is mounted on wheels, they put it inside the gallery. This mobile installation deserves a major shot at the Chelsea galleries.

Through Aug. 18, NURTUREart gallery, 910 Grand St., Williamsburg, Brooklyn.



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Allan D. Hasty is considered by some to be a cultural shepherd. Subversive in the Warhol sense, Hasty has tackled issues in his works ranging from sexual exploitation to violence, power, insecurity and fear. In his latest exhibition, I Want Candy at The Proposition gallery, he takes on the theme of commercialized branding and turns it on its ear by making the connection between the drug trade and corporate marketing schemes.

Just as Madison Avenue is filled with executives in boardrooms fine-tuning the most important aspects of branding product, Hasty turns to the little plastic baggies used to distribute drugs to convey his idea of advertising. These baggies contain often iconic images and seem to be a way to persuade the user to come back to the same source each time. In other words, Hasty points out the subliminal way the drug trade uses images of cute animals, superheroes, candy graphics, skulls, devils, etc. as a way of branding their ‘merchandise.’ By comparing the selling of a cup of Folger’s to marketing drugs (as his press release does), he points out the common thread in American marketing: memorable logos

His press release is great: “Collecting and categorizing these tiny, plastic baggies has been a focus of Hasty for some years now, originally appearing as marred, distressed photographs. But recently, the artist has chosen to present the works with no manipulation, he simply paints them "as is" and in doing so they become emblematic of rotting corporate ideals, consumer complicity and, at a much lower, more demonic level, an attempt by drug dealers to brand and market their super-strong-but-won’t-make-you-paranoid Thai stick, …, numb-your-gums Cocaine …or so I’ve been told.”

This might all seem to be a bit much, but he makes it work by using repetition with a supreme use of color. Hasty silk screens each individual image (similar to what Warhol did) and blows them up on large canvases. Each image, taken directly from the baggie, is rendered raw. In this way he makes a statement about the degradation/survival of the brand. It’s also something that is in code. Take for example, the painting entitled “Bubble.” Since that title is matched with images of someone blowing a bubble, one might assume that the baggie may have once contained cocaine (blow).  If someone wasn’t aware of this type of marketing, they would just see these images as a repetitive form of art, and nothing more. On the other hand, if you do recognize the ‘branding’, then what does that say?

One might ask: is this valid art? In lesser hands, this could have just been some kitschy gimmick. What elevates this is the care that was necessary to silk-screen each individual image and contextualize them.  You can actually feel the degradation that he implies. The effective use of color keeps the eye moving. Most paintings make use of a central perspective, where the color is lightened. Without these elements, I probably would have walked out as soon as I walked in.

Alan D. Hasty's "I Want Candy" through Aug. 2 at The Proposition, 559 W. 22nd St. (betw. 10th & 11 Aves.),



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I recently decided to explore the Lower East Side again to see if anything was out there. It used to be this cutting-edge area, but that’s been long gone. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. I went to “Paint It” at the MF Gallery on 157 Rivington Street a couple of Saturdays ago, where over 20 artists “live-painted” the walls. This isn’t something that happens everyday, so I was naturally curious. I made the trek through the scaffold-ridden, hipster-plagued streets to the gallery. It’s located a little further east than usual, so I was hopeful that something worthwhile would be happening when I arrived.

I found multi-colored Mohawks, lots of leather and expensive punk rock clothing (those St Marks punk wannabes would have been destroyed). They must have spent some time at that store that replaced CBGB, the one that sells $500 jeans. On the positive note, I really didn’t see the typical hipsters. There was not an ironic mustache or an elongated sideburn anywhere on the block.

I was willing to give this a shot. In my youth, I lived in a “punk rock house” where I paid $80 a month for rent and shared the place with my band. We all lived over this bar in a very bad neighborhood. The funny thing is that the locals were a little wary of us. There were some artists among us who painted murals on the stairway walls. Every time the door would open, primitive, figurative and abstract murals could be seen from the street. The neighborhood thought that we were into voodoo or Satanism (which was a joke).

I bring up all of this because much of what I saw at the MF Gallery was even more of a joke. I have never seen so many clean-cut punks in one place. That in itself isn’t really something to complain about, but get this: they were painting pictures of punk rockers on the walls! Is this what passes as ‘punk rock art’ these days? I could hardly contain my laughter. Most striking was one mural of a punk rocker that had a CBGB tattoo. The artist should have gone all out and had him wear a CBGB T-shirt, too. At least then, there could have been some social commentary of the downward state of our society. Instead, the irony passed by.  Still, the technique was quite good.

I could imagine if these murals were on the walls of my old digs. Instead of us being respected, we would have surely been robbed (at least). All in all, it was way too wholesome. I’ve seen edgier campfire sing-a-longs.

MF Gallery, 157 Rivington St., Wednesday through Sunday 2-7pm



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Upon entering the room, I saw a line of people waiting to play this old, hand-me-down church organ. In fact, there was nothing else in the room but that organ and a series of cables which were extended and suspended (in a painterly way) to connect to the architecture. I stood in line to play the building.

For more than three decades, David Byrne has surprised us by broadening the very definition of an artist. Whether it be groundbreaking music with the Talking Heads or solo projects, visual art, installations or, as in his latest project, combining them all by rigging up a building  for sound.

Byrne’s new installation produced by Creative Time, “Playing The Building,” is located downtown in the Battery Maritime Building, which was built in 1909, closed in 1938 and hasn’t been open to the public for 50 years. It used to be the waiting room for a ferry terminal to Brooklyn, and it turns out it's a massive building with 9,000 square feet of reverberant space.

As I entered, I heard sounds that were both familiar and alien. Clanging assaults, otherworldly flute tones and a low-end rattling rumble that almost shook the building. This is city noise. The difference between this approach and, say, John Cage is that Byrne uses what might be construed as random sounds and places them under the player’s control.

Just waiting in line is a surreal experience since the sounds are emanating from the entire structure. When I had my turn, the feeling was of such magnitude that it was symphonic. The haunting choirs of pipes howled over deafening bass tones which clashed against menacing percussion.

The organ itself made no sound. It had wires to trigger motors placed on the 40-foot-high ceiling against the girders. The motors cause the girders to vibrate against the glass (formerly stained-glass) ceiling, resonating within the entire room.  The keyboard also set off air hoses which were pumped into the plumbing; turning the pipes into gargantuan, primitive flutes. For percussion, the keyboard triggered solenoids, which are attached to the columns, creating ‘pings’ of various pitches and timbres. The technology was surprisingly old school, consisting of switches, relays and an air pump; on display via the clear back panel.

Byrne’s concept is of the artist as curator. He created the instrument, but it’s up to the visitors to provide the sounds.  He prevented chaos by setting strict parameters. The keyboard is divided into three sections: the motor, flutes and solenoids. Anyone can sound good—whether they are an amateur, or an accomplished musician.

When I finished playing, I felt a certain high that I didn’t expect. I leave you with Byrne’s words: “I didn’t expect it to have quite as strong an effect…people who played the machine, the building, often got silly, ecstatic grins on their faces, and they’d tend to gaze upward—as that was where the sound-producing elements were mounted. So they did appear to be deeply moved… I believe we have an innate longing for the spiritual and ecstatic.”

Through Aug. 10, Battery Maritime Building, 10 South St.; Fri.-Sun. noon-6, free.



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At Yoko Ono’s opening reception for her exhibit Touch Me at Galerie Lelong, the place was packed and Ono was in attendance. But there were too many people there for me to get a grasp what was actually going on.

With Yoko, it’s always a matter of digging deeper. On the surface, sometimes there doesn’t seem to be that much there. This is intentional. This concept has been the foundation of her entire, 40-some-year career. Still, this can be frustrating at times; so much so that at first I was tempted to get negative. I wanted to be fair, however, so I went back for a second look without the hordes in attendance. I’m glad that I did and urge you to take a little time and examine the entire exhibition.

Yoko is of course, a pioneer. She was one of the founders of Fluxus, a Dada influenced movement which encouraged a DIY philosophy. It was subversive in mocking the over-intellectualized world of abstract expressionism of the 1950s.  Fluxus provides the base for her to use elements of humor, the macabre and shock value combined with the heaviness of mental anguish. Rarely do I see an artist who is so perfect for a medium.

On exhibit is a showing of her famous mid-'60s work “Cut Piece.” This is the performance piece where she sat on a stage while the audience would come up and each cut a piece of her clothing, until she was naked. On display are both footage of an historic 1965 Carnegie Hall performance was followed by a 2003 reprise at the Theatre le Ranelagh in Paris. This is shown on four screens and played back at slightly different times. I have to say that, in the current version, she is in tremendous physical condition. She appears to be defying age. What was originally conceived as an act of vulnerability, now exudes strength and survival.

“Cut Piece,” with its historical context/transformation set the stage for Ono’s central piece: “Interactive Painting.”  A massive canvas (the width of the gallery) is hung from the ceiling. Various holes are cut in it and viewers are instructed to put a body part through a hole. Also, she supplied Polaroid cameras where we were encouraged to take a picture of ourselves and either bring it home, or pin the photo to another canvas, thus creating a new piece of work (which is what I did).  Sharpies were supplied for writing a caption under the picture. I was there solo, but Yoko has someone there to take the picture.  I stuck my arm through one of the holes and extended my hand. My caption was “I gotta hand it to you, Yoko.”

Among the other pieces is “Vertical Memory,” which is made up of photos consisting of a composites of male faces: Lennon, her father and her son, Sean. Below each one are short statements where she addresses the journey from cradle to grave. Even though her face wasn’t included, all of the pictures resembled Yoko.

Through May 31. Galerie Lelong, 528 W. 26th St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.),


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