The mythic “Los Angeles County Museum of Contemporary Art,” known only from mentions in East Coast media, makes another appearance in the New York Observer.
The mythic “Los Angeles County Museum of Contemporary Art,” known only from mentions in East Coast media, makes another appearance in the New York Observer.
Earlier this year, LACMA had to close some of its European painting galleries after a ceiling leak. The museum has taken the opportunity to repaint and reinstall its 17th-century Flemish, Dutch, and French rooms. They’re reopened with a ginormous Frans Snyders, a gift of the Ahmanson Foundation.
Game Market (1630s) must be the biggest Old Master painting acquired by a West Coast institution in recent years. It occupies its own wall and becomes the visual anchor of the Flemish room. Snyders and his studio produced many variations on this theme, almost all in European collections. (Another, with a similar swan and deer, is in Chicago, and a vegan counterpart is at the Norton Simon Museum.) In the LACMA painting, a man at far right holds a boar’s head, symbol of gluttony. To the left is a table piled with feathered and furred game. In the detail below, a peacock gives a cat a side-eye.
Rubens esteemed Snyders’ ability to render livestock so much that he delegated him to paint the animals in some of his paintings (the documented instance is the eagle in Rubens’ Prometheus Bound, now in Philadelphia). Despite his ability to capture nature, Snyders took some license with kittens, giving them weirdly human arms. Or did 17th-century felines look like that?
LACMA is showing several paintings brought out from storage. Among them is a small, circular Frans Hals Laughing Child, a 1992 gift of Varya and Hans Cohn. Museums are normally expected to display every authentic Hals they’ve got, unless it’s a complete wreck. To my knowledge, Laughing Child has never been on view at LACMA. I took that as a vote of no confidence. The Cohn painting is now on view, as a Hals and next to the better-known Portrait of Pieter Tjarck.
Last year’s experiment in pomegranate pink—for a French gallery named for the Resnicks—has been discontinued. All the Northern Baroque rooms are now a pale shade of anti-oxidant blueberry.
The East German secret police long operated this guardhouse outside the state news agency in East Berlin. After the fall of communism it became a canvas for graffiti and then was repurposed by artist Christof Zwiener as a site for artists’ installation. The Wende Museum brought the guardhouse to L.A., where it will ultimately reside at the Wende’s new home as a permanent loan. Until then it’s touring the Westside. In the photo above, it’s shown on Wilshire next to Berlin wall fragments (and with installation by Sonya Schönberger).
Currently the guardhouse is at 9300 Culver Blvd., Culver City (Oct. 19-Nov. 2) and has an installation by Friedrich Kunath. Then it moves to the El Segundo Museum of Art (Nov. 3-Nov.8) and finally the Armory, Culver City (Nov. 8-), where it will be “a permanent info box and mini-media center in the Wende Museum’s sculpture garden.”
“Did you hear about the George Lucas collection? Everyone who knows the slightest thing about art says it’s JUNK!”
That chatter was the backdrop to Lucas’ search for a home for his planned museum of narrative art. After San Francisco rejected an initial building proposal, the leaders of Los Angeles and Chicago began lobbying for it. Mayor Eric Garcetti had a hashtag (#WhyLucasInLA). The local art community was less enthusiastic, feeling that L.A. needed another pop culture attraction like Las Vegas needed another hooker (to paraphrase Dave Hickey). But no one knew much about the collection beyond from the fact that Lucas collected Norman Rockwell and intended to juxtapose magazine illustrators with today’s CGI and prop movie magicians. (Above, Rockwell’s The Gossips , auctioned last December for $8.5 million. The anonymous buyer was George Lucas, it turns out.)
The Lucas Museum of Narrative Art ultimately chose Chicago as its future home. It now has a new website with much information on the collection. Based on that, I’d say the skepticism was misplaced.
Let me begin by saying that the three things I can’t stand are (a) intolerance, (b) Norman Rockwell, and (c) Star Wars. I’m not the Lucas museum’s target audience.
Sure, there are numerous works by Rockwell, Maxfield Parrish, and N.C. Wyeth; Gibson Girls and Vargas Girls. There is also Kelley Freas. At left is a Freas painting made for a 1960 cover of Mad magazine. Free of text, it becomes something else again. Imagine (if you need to imagine) that you know nothing of Mad or Alfred E. Newman. How many outsiders or thrift shop artists can rival Freas? That’s a good way of appreciating the Lucas collection: vernacular art, only better. And if you like that sort of thing, there’s plenty more where it came from, most by artists few have heard of. (Below, illustrations by Richard Sargent and Norman Saunders.)
One of the more interesting artists is Walter Tandy Murch, a steampunk Chardin who specialized in still-lifes of obsolete machines. Canadian-born, Murch studied under Arshile Gorky and had a show at Betty Parsons’ New York Gallery in 1941. His works appeared on the covers of Scientific American and Fortune magazines. Below is The Clock. Murch was the father of sound editor Walter Murch, who worked on several Lucas films.
The Lucas is also collecting comic strip and comic book art, an area generally underserved by museums. The LMNA website has a broad and smart sampling, from Al Capp to Robert Crumb; Walt Kelly (bottom of post), Charles Schultz, Winsor McCay, Basil Wolverton, and David Levine. The quality is first-rate—though it’s impossible to judge the quantity from a selection on a website.
There is also a trove of children’s book art (John Tenniel, Arthur Rackham, Beatrix Potter) of a quality worthy of the Morgan library’s collection.
The anchor of the film collection is material from Lucas’ own movies and the Industrial Light & Magic effects firm. Going by the website, however, it lags when it comes to the history of non-Lucas cinema. There are Cinema 101 stills and animation cels (Melies’ A Trip to the Moon, Battleship Potemkin, Oswald the Rabbit, Citizen Kane), but these are not all that hard to come by on a high-end fanboy budget. One of the prizes, outside the Star Wars franchise, is Syd Mead’s gouache sketches for Blade Runner.
There’s also a fair of amount of so-called fine art: painting, sculpture, photography, and architecture from the 19th century to just about now. But that’s where the mission gets confused.
The roster of big names is eclectic to say the least: an Ingres wash drawing of Napoleon; watercolors by Winslow Homer and Degas; paintings by Renoir, Frederic Remington, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Thomas Hart Benton, and Guy Pene Du Bois; photos by Bernice Abbott, Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange, Gordon Parks, W. Eugene Smith, and Alfred Steiglitz; documentation of the architecture of Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas; Andy Warhol, David Hockney, Roxy Paine, and Hiroshi Sugimoto.
Above is the Renoir, Les Enfants au Bord de la Mer (c. 1894), no better than something Armand Hammer would have bought. Is it “narrative”? Obviously narrative art covers a lot of territory, and almost anything this side of a Judd might qualify. What’s missing is a sense of why these artists and works have been collected and not others.
That paradox multiplies with the collection of “digital art.” The thesis must be that movie CGI deserves to be shown next to every other kind of art made digitally. But the latter embraces an ever-expanding share of contemporary art, from David Hockney’s iPad drawings (shown, The Arrival of Spring in Woldgate, East Yorkshire in 2011-5 May) to Hiroshi Sugimoto’s 3D-printed Mathematical Model 009, Surface of Revolution With Constant Negative Curvature (2006).
The Lucas collection doesn’t need “serious” art to lend legitimacy. Judging from the website, it has already carved out an important and counter-intuitive mission: to champion the many phases of our visual culture that art museums ignore.
Martin Luther was a big guy, Chris Farley big. The founder of Protestantism makes a surprise guest shot in the Getty Center’s “Spectacular Rubens: The Triumph of the Eucharist.” In Rubens’ newly restored oil sketch of The Victory of Truth Over Heresy, (above) Luther is the distinctly Rubenesque man clawing the ground at lower left. Above him is a leaner but also notorious Protestant, John Calvin. In the tapestry made from Rubens’ design (detail below right), Luther becomes more of a caricature. The tapestry presents Luther and Calvin as Disney villains being crushed by Time and Truth. A century after the Ninety-Five Theses, Luther remained an outlaw to good Catholics, including Rubens.
Wine, women, and wursts: It’s said that Germans related better to Luther than to the pencil-neck saints of Rome. Luther’s scandalous marriage—for he had been a Catholic priest—set the precedent for Protestant ministers to marry. Luther’s resolute features were well-known via the many painted and woodcut portraits produced by Lucas Cranach the Elder and his studio. Cranach portrayed Luther in youth, old age, and even on his deathbed.
Rubens’ small paintings and big tapestries in the Getty show were created in service of a doctrinal controversy that had split Christianity. The Roman church said that the communion wafers and wine at its services miraculously turned into the flesh and blood of Christ. This was based on Jesus’ words at the Last Supper, translated as Hoc est corpus meum (“This is my body which is for you.”) The Latin words appear on the banderole at the top of Rubens’ painting and tapestry.
Ironically, Luther was one of the few Protestants who accepted Roman orthodoxy on the Eucharist. Unable to convince his own followers, Luther chalked words on the table. The words were Hoc est corpus meum.
Another irony is that Rubens’ Luther resembles the rotund, over-imbibing monks that later become a staple of anti-Catholic propaganda—and in our own time, of wine and spirit marketing.
LACMA’s show of Samurai armor, opening this Sunday in the Resnick Pavilion, starts with three galloping equestrians under a Kurosawa-red “sky.” The cinematic installation, by Kulapat Yantrasast of wHY Architecture and Design, is the antithesis of the white cube.
Below is the same show at Fort Worth’s Kimbell Museum last summer—also in a Renzo Piano building.
Another Canadian museum has added a little pizzazz to the title of a scholarly, well-received L.A. exhibition. LACMA’s “Expressionism in Germany and France: From Van Gogh to Kandinsky” has opened at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts as “Van Gogh to Kandinsky: Impressionism to Expressionism, 1900-1914.” Note the changes—
• The bankable van Gogh gets first billing
• The MMFA works “Impressionism” into the title, even though the show isn’t about Impressionism
Sell the sizzle, not the Canadian bacon? Maybe the MMFA was figuring no one would notice. But Robert Everett-Green of The Globe and Mail wrote: ”Anyone expecting to see Impressionist paintings at this intriguing show is in for a big disappointment.”
The Getty’s 2012 exhibition “Florence at the Dawn of the Renaissance: Painting and Illumination, 1300-1350″ also got a Canadian makeover, opening at the Art Gallery of Ontario as “Revealing the Early Renaissance: Stories and Secrets in Florentine Art.” As Tyler Green then noted, “The exhibition has nothing to do with secrets,” and an AGO web graphic was a rip-off of the cover of The Da Vinci Code (not that there were any da Vinci paintings in the show, either).
UPDATE: In the original version of this post, I mentioned that the MMFA website gave the title as “…Expressionism to Impression…,” inverting the chronology (see screen capture at top). This has now been changed to the more logical “…Impressionism to Expressionism…” Sophie Lynch points out that the title was given the latter way in the press release.
Few figures in the Los Angeles avant garde have such an intriguing life story as that of Marjorie Cameron Parsons Kimmel (1922-1995). Known by one name, Cameron was artist, actor, mentor, muse, and sorceress to L.A.’s beat generation. Interest in Cameron has escalated in recent years, the more so after her inclusion in a couple of Pacific Standard Time exhibitions. It’s been tough to disambiguate her too-colorful biography from her too-little-seen achievement as a visual artist. Is Cameron one of the great L.A. artists, or merely material for a future indie biopic? “Cameron: Songs for the Witch Woman,” at MOCA Pacific Design Center, is the first real attempt to answer that question.
Organized by guest curator Yael Lipschutz, “Cameron” downplays the sex, drugs, and social networks for the art itself. Cameron was above all a draughtsman. Fossil (1958, above), in white ink on black ground, is original, haunting, and unlike anything else in the show.
Cameron’s style was ever-mutating, and her retrospective might easily be mistaken for a group show. At left is Harpocrates, shown as part of a grid of 20 ink drawings of occult, freaky psychedelia. Harpocrates was the child-god of silence. The cropped face must be Cameron’s husband, Jack Parsons, a co-founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and follower of Aleister Crowley.
“Cameron”’s most compelling pieces are assemblage-paintings of the late 1950s. Below is an untitled portrait of Crystal (the artist’s daughter, 1959) and Buried Doll (1955). These explore entropy, the universal tendency of everything to fall apart. That inconvenient truth is the nexus of mysticism, religion, and philosophy. In such works Cameron’s art connects most directly to that of her more-famous mentorees George Herms and Wallace Berman. If Berman was the father of California assemblage, Cameron was its godmother.
MOCA gives pride of place to a painting, Aleister Crowley’s Guardian Angel. The clean, illustrational style strikes me as rather dull. It is a reminder that, like Hilma af Klint, Cameron was often transcribing mystic visions more or less literally.
Perhaps in that category is a tiny portrait of an E.T.-unicorn. The title, Alien Assemblage, seems to tweak the California Assemblage movement that Cameron helped foster. In its vintage frame it is poised between a very weird Cornell box and decor for a hipster hotel. Another artist might have made a series of such things; with Cameron it was one-off.
Actually, it’s hard to make sweeping statements about Cameron’s oeuvre. Much of her work is lost or at least misplaced. The MOCA exhibition begins with Curtis Harrington’s 1955 film portrait of Cameron and her art, The Wormwood Star. All the artworks in the film are lost except for Buried Doll. It’s said that acquaintances and fans took much of her art and memorabilia after the artist’s death.
Had Cameron attended art school in this century, she would have been told to promote, promote, promote her career. She had but one single-artist exhibition in her lifetime, at the Los Angeles Municipal Art Gallery in 1989 (the year she turned 67).
It’s all the more notable then that MOCA director Philippe Vergne is a Cameron fanboy. He’s written a foreword to the show’s forthcoming slim (88-page) catalog. A Vergne quote in the MOCA press release puts the pro-Cameron case well:
“Cameron has opened many doors that continue to intrigue and inspire generations of artists. Her hallucinated vision, at the edge of surrealism and psychedelia embodies an aspect of modernity that deeply doubts and defies cartesian logic at a moment in history when these values have shown their own limitations. Her work demonstrates that the space in the mind is without limit.”
For its new exhibition “Home,” the El Segundo Museum of Art has been sub-divided into a designer show house. A series of model rooms display mid-century modern design and ESMoA’s typically recherché selection of drawings, paintings, sculptures, and photographs. Above, an unfinished bathroom has a Joseph Cornell collage in lieu of a mirror. The sink is by Henry Dreyfuss and the towel rack is an untitled 2012 sculpture by Taka Kagitomi. Partly visible through the corner gap is a copy of van Ruisdael’s The Jewish Cemetery by Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller, the genius of the Austrian Biedermeier.
The room below combines a Eero Aarnio Bubble Chair with a Dreyfuss refrigerator that’s seen plenty of use. Framed, domestic-themed photographs are by Bernd and Hilla Becher and Julius Shulman and Juergen Nogai.
There are interesting small paintings by Corot, Maurice Denis, and Henri Le Sidanier; a Joseph Cornell box and collages; photorealism on paper by Richard Estes and Ralph Goings.
As usual for ESMoA, there’s a Teutonic accent. Witness a Landscape in Hessen (1868, below) by Andreas Achenbach, a near-abstract nocturne by Fritz Overbeck, and an 1849 Arnold Böcklin Ruins in Moonlight (Böcklin was a favorite of both Hitler and Duchamp).
Like motorcycles in museums? Check. They’ve got a 1972 Honda CB750. Burnt out by iterations of Duchamp’s urinal? ESMoA presents a toilet for what it is, a modern design object. It’s Henry Dreyfuss’ Crane “Criterion” model, 1951.
But the toilet can’t compete with Egmont Arens’ Streamliner Meat Slicer, or the rustic den dressed up with aqua floor and drawings by Edouard Vuilllard and Lyonel Feininger.
Jeffrey Deitch has two new books out. One can double as a place setting, and the other is about MOCA. The MOCA Index is not a tell-all—it’s a self-published collection of photographs of Deitch’s MOCA exhibitions. For words, you’ll have to settle for some recent interviews.
On celebrity shows: “… from reading press reports, people would think the only thing I did there was a show with James Franco. And the show we did with James Franco was in fact very interesting! But it’s only five percent of what I did.” (ArtNews)
On disco: “The disco show is still a show I’d like to do. I wish I could have done it then, but I think it’s OK for me to wait a while.” (ArtNews)
On Deitch Projects L.A.(?!): “If I had continued the gallery into the next decade… I would have had to have a London gallery, and a Los Angeles gallery. Rather than making this massive investment, I decided to go in a different direction. I can do business with a big collector in London without having a building that cost me millions in overhead.” (NYT)