knockin' the suburbs

Art critic John McDonald is no fan of Howard Arkley, and wonders why anyone else is.
In previewing the Arkley exhibition running until May 6 in Sydney, Carnivale of Suburbia, McDonald questions the validity of Arkley's popularity. He suggests it is more a factor of marketing hype rather than appreciation of any genuine talent (Spectrum, Sydney Morning Herald, April 7; not available online).
McDonald takes a dim view of Arkley's legacy, from the headline--"Major hype for a minor talent"--through phrases like "technicolor screaming", "pure surface" and "no pictorial intelligence". The best he can offer is that Arkley's work has "strong graphic appeal". McDonald declares, "his paintings are failed abstractions that hide behind the facade of suburban kitsch".
A major criticism involves the use of color. McDonald describes, with distaste,

"...clashing colours so bilious and aggressively ill-matched that they seem to have been chosen by playing Roulette with a colour wheel"

McDonald compares the works with those of Michael Johnson, of whom he writes, "his colours never seem arbitrary". Maybe Johnson is saying something quite different. However, by writing that Arkley's colours seem "aggressively" put together, McDonald acknowledges that the colour schemes are deliberate, even as they appear arbitrary, since aggression implies motive. McDonald is irritated that there is "no discernable logic in the selection of colours", unable to accept there might be the logic of no logic. Arkley's colours could reflect ideas about randomness, chaos, chance. Perhaps even something about the apparently meaningless, apparently arbitrary nature of reality (until meaning is constructed or imposed). I'm guessing here, of course; I'm no art critic, and I haven't actually read anything Arkley has said of his work. Paradoxically, McDonald later criticises Arkley for being "mannered" and "calculated".
A second criticism is that Arkley doesn't obey expectations about 'good taste'. McDonald mocks Arkley's postmodernity:

"In the gospel according to Arkley, there is no such thing as good taste--all decorative impulses are equally good and valued."

It's as if McDonald would've been happier if Arkley had painted prettier houses, gentrified the works, perhaps painted Mosman. McDonald seems to cringe at Arkley's view of suburbia and the very idea that it might be "celebrated". He blasts Arkley's status as "poet of the common people, finding beauty in all the kitsch". Frankly, to me there is an element of horror in the pictures as well. I think at the very least Arkley was ambivalent about suburbia.
Of Arkley's monochrome work titled "Primitive", McDonald complains:

"There is no volume, no perspective, no light and shade, just a monotonous line that resolves itself into a stream of consciousness panorama."

Isn't this kind of hitting the nail on the head? Isn't that suburbia--that sameness, that white noise, that homogenous hum? Except the hum is a scream. I mean, doesn't the mainstream, in fact, scream as loudly and garishly as punk?

"As a celebration of the suburban aesthetic, it has a double edge."

Well, yeah.
McDonald's chief objection seems to be to Arkley's claim to the "dubious title of artist-laureate of the Austrlaian suburbs". He offers up his favored alternatives, John Brack and Charles Blackman, neither of whom are exactly Arkley's contemporary peers. (I believe Brack was painting suburban scenes in the 50s, wasn't he?).
To me, there is an element of snobbery in McDonald's critique. He writes,

"Sydney viewers can make up their own minds about Arkley. Don't feel intimidated, because it's not a demanding task."

Is it just me, or is this vaguely patronising and elitist? Because Arkley strikes a chord with ordinary people, because the work is popular and accessible, it represents dumbing down?

"Some viewers will have an instant, favourable response to the bright energy in these canvases. Others--and I include myself in their ranks--will find they slip away from one's gaze like the images on a TV screen."

I find this metaphor unconvincing. Firstly, Arkley's images do not slip away so easily at all. If I say "Arkley", you will be likely to easily conjure up his paintings in your mind's eye. And secondly, images on a TV screen are not always fleeting; many televisual images (September 11 is the most obvious modern example) linger potently, long after they have been aired.
I find this to be a telling paragraph:

"At the end of this show, I felt like those Spanish explorers who crossed the ocean and discovered a new continent. 'What was it like?' people asked. 'Aca nada!' [the explorers] replied. 'There's nothing there.'"

Curious choice of metaphor. After all, the explorers were mistaken, weren't they? To be sure, it may not have been what they expected to find. But there was plenty there.

quilted

I think I finally get quilting now; the fractal-like repetition of patterns and colors. I really like the ones this artist, Brenda Gael Smith, makes (via Club Troppo's Missing Link the other day). I guess I had completely the wrong idea about quilting (scroll to Feb 22).

art ache

There was quite a haunting interview on The 7:30 Report last week with Howard Arkley’s mother Gwen, and with Arkley's widow Alison Burton and her brother-in-law, John Gregory. There is a tense moment in the interview with Burton and Gregory when the reporter gently probes about the contestability of Arkley’s will (it had been signed and witnessed only by Burton, her sister and her brother-in-law):
GREG HOY: Can you, perhaps if you could just explain the situation, though, because you must have been there, were you, when the will was made?
The brother-in-law and Burton appear uncomfortable. There is a strained pause, then Gregory says, kind of nervously,
JOHN GREGORY: Well, look, actually, I really do have to go. Sorry, I'm not able to keep..."
When the going gets tough, the tough shut down interviews. We’re just left with a sense of deep sorrow for Arkley’s mum.

baby, you're so vicious

Tim Blair’s smarting that an artist won a recent ‘best blogger contest’. Blair doesn’t know much about art but he knows what he doesn’t like, and that is bridges that sing.
I can understand Blair’s pain at being robbed of the ten big ones. I, too, had already written my acceptance speech. I had described how none of it couldn’ve been possible without the generous support of my friendly blogging community. I had remarked on how heavy the statuette was. I had even thanked God, despite being an atheist. (OK, I’m cheap.)
I had lain in bed at night and fantasised about what I would do with dem ten thousand bucks. Rather generously, I had decided I would allocate half to donate to other bloggers who, I was going to graciously announce, were equally if not far more deserving than I of the prize. As I lay in bed stroking my ego about my enormous win and good fortune, I was now also able to admire myself for my generosity and altruism.
Meanwhile, I also fretted about winning. I was pretty sure I couldn’t hack the pressure to perform, once I’d won. I imagined strangers turning up at my site for a quick gawk, leaving a few disgruntled comments about my lack of worthiness, and then pissing off again. I felt very depressed about it all.
When I woke up, I thought, phew, I’m glad I’m not Jodi Rose.
Although I agree with Blair that inclusion of a Saab fansite in the 'top 11' is most peculiar, I still think it pretty churlish of Blair not to be a good sport and congratulate Jodi Rose on her win. My feeling, swallowing sour grapes and all, is that Fairfax was probably courting controversy, and blog inches, in choosing a postmodern coneptual/performance artist. But never mind. Jodi Rose, whether or not we understand or appreciate her art, is definitely using the blog medium as a tool for her art, combining sound, visuals and writing, in a way that does highlight the incredibly flexible nature of the medium. In that sense she is representative of what the form can achieve; the content is almost irrelevant.
I had really hoped someone like Margo Kingston or John Quiggin or Tim Dunlop would win. Something about ‘the sane blogger as antidote to the insane mainstream media’. But I mean...okay, as if! This was being judged by Fairfax, after all.
Still, it’s impossible for anyone to be judged ‘Australia’s best blogger’ just as it would be impossible to speak of “Australia’s best author”. There’s just too many genres, too many idiosyncratic geniuses out there.
But more power to Jodi Rose. Yes, it is art.

posers

Ah, I guess there are one or two things to miss about Sydney. From the Sunday Telegraph today:

Combine alcohol and nudity and--no, you're not in a strip club--you're in a real life drawing class at hip drinking holes around town.
Art-lovers are setting up their easels in the ArtHouse Hotel (275 Pitt St) on Monday nights when between 50 and 100 people gather for free life-drawing classes. For details, phone 9284 1200.
At uber-hip nightclub Ruby Rabbit, 231 Oxford St, Darlinghurst (ph: 9326 0044), a Sunday evening drawing class costs $15 but includes a wine tasting and two-for-one cocktail list.

Yeah, that's pretty much my idea of a good night out. Mind you, I'm quite happy with getting mates to strip off in my living room and let me draw them! Three guys I know have volunteered to pose for me over the summer and I plan to take them up on the offers. (None seem to want to pose in winter; why is that?) Anyway, good to earmark the above information for a future Sydney trip.

cinema not so paradiso

It's bad enough that the Valhalla is dead, but the Chauvel, too? I read that the Chauvel needs only an injection of $250,000 a year to survive. Doesn't seem like a lot.
People often argue that it's not the taxpayer's job to fund unpopular art institutions. Some, like the Prime Minister, go on and on about how, in the Howardian utopia, business and industry have a sense of mutual obligation and come to the party instead of taxpayers (especially on useless, uneconomical things like the Arts). Would that it were so. It'd be great to see the huge successes of Australia's film industry--the Mels, the Cates, the Nicoles, but not just the actors of course--pitch in to save the Chauvel and similar institutions. To form their own fighting funds for dying icons of their own. Or perhaps they could even raise some money some other way, with their starpower.
I mean, I'm biased because I grew up going to the Chauvel about once a week (I think my parents, as migrants, craved European stories, and as we didn't have a TV we couldn't watch SBS). But it's part of Sydney's character that we always had a lot of art-house cinemas. It's part of what always gave the city its filmic character, and its strong spirit of indie filmmaking would've arisen partly from that. And it's a film city whose culture has nurtured a helluva lot of international careers and millionaires. How much of that identity will be lost as the icons of serious film go, leaving us with only mass-movies on offer? Maybe these places don't make a lot of money and you don't get stampedes of people queueing for the films. That's not their point, though, is it? They should never be seen as being in competition with the mainstream.
I know they're only little cinemas. But they're important. They give voice to a lot of voices that don't otherwise get heard.
Anyway, the market is dynamic and trends can change. Hey, art-house cinema could even get its renaissance. But close the cinemas and there's no hope of it happening at all.

they don't know much about art but they know what they like

Looking at naked ladies...can it be art or is it just perving? In Boise, Idaho, it's definitely perving and you can't do it; meanwhile, over in Berlin it's obviously perving, but it's art too, and you can do it so long as you queue nicely:

Organisers of a performance art show in Germany featuring 100 naked women had to call in police reinforcements to control a long and impatient queue of people, police said.
Scuffles broke out late last Friday as people tried to jump over the barriers to get closer to the women, aged between 18 and 65, wearing see-through stockings and greased with baby oil, who arranged themselves according to the instructions of US artist Vanessa Beecroft.

I'm thinking...maybe I should grease up my model, arrange him in a nice pose and sell tickets to passing backpackers from Berlin and Boise...

artistic licence

I like this example of lateral thinking, but it seems it's been nipped in the bud again by people who won't believe it's just art:

A strip club in the United States that attempted to get around a ban on full nudity by giving patrons sketch pads for special "art nights" was cited for violating the city's nudity rules, officials said. The citation was issued on Monday night to the Erotic City Gentleman's Club in Boise in Idaho. Boise allows full nudity for "serious artistic" expression only, so the club handed out pencils and sketch pads to patrons so they could sketch naked women. However, a police spokeswoman said officials concluded that patrons were not focused on art, so officers cited three dancers for violations of the city nudity ordinance.

Meanwhile, I've been receiving a series of postcards from my girlfriend who lives in Paris and has just been to an exhibition of Gustav Klimt's erotic drawings. She writes, "Sadly, they only sell 'politically correct' postcards so I couldn't send you some of the special X-rated, masturbatory ones." Considering one of the postcards she's sent contains an image worthy of a Penthouse centrefold, I'm amazed they weren't censored by Australia Post too. I couldn't find the drawings she sent me on-line, but they're very similar to this one:



Now remember--focus on art, everyone.

local heroes

He is reclining on my bed naked except for the fabric he was using as a turban, which he has taken off his head and draped over his lap so I can’t see anything.
“You have a good skull,” I say.
“I collect skulls,” he says. I’ve seen the sculptures around his house; spray-painted aliens made of cow’s horn, bandicoot and Blu-Tac.
I draw his skull. It’s a good skull to draw, perfectly shaped and hairless. He has a small tattoo of a snake’s head on one side. He says he used to have a mohawk but shaved it off when his hairdresser first told him about the bald spot developing at the back of his head. He has just turned forty-seven.
The first drawing I do after years is truly woeful, but it feels good to hold a pencil again.
“You’re good,” he says afterwards.
“It’s hopeless!” I say. “You don’t have to say it’s good when it’s not.”
The phone rings; it's my sister. I tell her I’ve been drawing G. “You know, the surf instructor?”
I tell her he said he’ll give her a surfing lesson next time she comes up, a birthday present from me.
“Well, don’t sleep with him just so he’ll give me a free lesson,” she says and she’s half-serious.
I turn away from the phone and repeat what she said to G. He smiles.
“I’ve already told him I won’t sleep with him,” I assure her.
“Is he there now?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yeah,” I say.
Actually, I suspect that the fact that I refuse to sleep with him is the main reason why he is still pursuing me, but he denies this.
It’s not that I don’t find G. attractive; he is attractive. He has very pale blue eyes, a surfer’s body, he writes songs and is never far from a guitar. He interrupts conversations by breaking into song.
“Welfare mothers make better lovers…down at every laundromat in town now… Neil Young song--” he pauses to inform me.
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “I was pretty good before.”
He tells me I’m gorgeous and I say bullshit but secretly I’m pleased. I say what I like about him is how he overlooks my flaws—my chewed fingernails, the fact that I haven’t had my roots done in six months--and I am pleased when he just gives me “nobody’s perfect”.
Of course I flirt with him, tease him. He says that’s about power, sexual power. I say it’s because I just get a bit manic sometimes.
G.’s mind jumps loosely around, a lot like mine does. When I tell him I like to write he nods and says, “Besides push-ups, words are good.” He tells me stories about when he was in a band, about when he supported Chrissie Amphlett, or when he met Iggy Pop (“I got down on my knees and thanked him for the religion.”) He makes me laugh, too, which is always a good thing.
When we’re talking about why I won’t sleep with him, I say it’s because I am, at heart, a very monogamous girl, and at the moment, I am still attracted to other men. He wants to know who and I say coyly “oh, just someone”. It’s someone who doesn’t even know I’m alive though; someone who I’ve only ever met about three times, around whom I’m unreasonably gauche; around whom I blush and stammer, or over-correct so that I come across as completely disinterested. I like to think there's a mutual spark but you never know if it isn't just one big projection, do you?