Chelsea—Big Bouncy Boots and Ghosts

Nancy Davidson kicks up her heels at Cuningham Gallery

Nancy Davidson, at Betty Cuningham Gallery, Dustup (through Oct 6), has created sculptures, either inflatable or just pneumatic-looking, with cowboy-themed details. They look like Thanksgiving Day parade floats made by a mad Texas scientist—eye-catching colors, big round shapes, cowgirl boots, and tassels. Needless to say, they're a great deal of fun, and their scale, while large, is contained enough to be relatable. And if there's one thing that's emblematic of the USA, it's cowgirl boots. Am I right?

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Diana Al-Hadid, Divided Line, 2012

It's rare to come across a completely unfamiliar artistic technique, but Diana Al-Hadid's exhibition at Marianne Boesky Gallery, The Vanishing Point (through Oct 20), is such a discovery. The subject matter of her sculptures and installations can refer to historical moments and architectural monuments such as Brueghel's Tower of Babel and the minotaur's maze. But despite such potentially powerful allegories, it's the visceral effect of what stands before you in the gallery that haunts. In some works, it looks like buckets of paint spilled, dripped down, and dried, and the box or wall underneath was removed. In Antonym, the shell of a torso, like the skin of a snake, sits atop such a negated form. Human are so much more transient than architecture, which endures.

Divided Line occupies one wall. A skeletal external web sandwiches emptiness; if you back up a little and let your eyes wander, a tableau of figures comes into fuzzy focus. (I actually didn't see this while I was in the gallery; it's visible in the installation shots here).  It feels a bit like stalagmites in a cave. Al-Hadid states that she is exploring two-dimensional perspective through a 3D expression, although this didn't read clearly to me. But what resonates is the perceived and actual tension of the absent core and present shell.

Faustin Linyekula's Le Cargo

Faustin Linyekula in Le Cargo. Photo: Agathe Poupeney

Le Cargo, Faustin Linyekula's solo performance at Florence Gould Hall, part of FIAF's thought-provoking Crossing the Line festival, began last Tuesday night during a deluge that required wading ankle-deep through white caps on Madison Avenue. The audience, soggy to a soul, commiserated with one another for having to endure the inclemency. Then Linyekula took the stage, clutching books and a little anthropomorphic stool, and began telling stories (despite declaring that he had come not to tell stories, just to dance).

"War, crisis, war, crisis..., " he repeated numerous times of his homeland, the Democratic Republic of the Congo. By now, our collective self-pity had abated, attention diverted appropriately to the stage and his stories, or non-stories. He spoke of the incredible effort of taking the train from the city to Obilo, his hometown 82 miles away. Apparently it runs infrequently enough so that the foliage grows over the tracks; people with machetes have to hack a clearing for the train, making for glacial progress. So Linyekula wound up riding a motorbike with his father ("father, father, my dad-dee," as he repeated regularly in his entrancing sing-song voice), needing only a few hours. 

He began explaining why he dances and wiggling his fingers. Contrary to an expected politically correct explanation along the lines of preserving and passing along his heritage, he simply explained that he gets paid, and he supports his extended family by doing so. He makes a living taking his storytelling and dance all over the world. It is a frankness that we're not used to hearing, or if we do, it's usually to plead poverty.

In due time, Linyekula did start to dance with his whole body. It's a peculiar style, the movement seemingly generated from his gut outward, shuffling his feet or kicking them sideways, upper body fairly contained and tight, arms extending on occasion. The performance was in sharp contrast to last year's spectacularly showy more, more, more... at the Kitchen, when composer/musician Flamme Kapaya's rock band performed (he also composed music for Le Cargo), and Linyekula and a couple of other dancers wore ruffled costumes resembling car wash brushes. 

Le Cargo did underscore the divide between sources such as dance circles, in which individual expression is framed within a communal context, and a somewhat sterile stage in Manhattan, where Linyekula was surrounded onstage by spotlights instead of other dancers. He has carved out an intriguing niche with his blend of there and here.

See superb dancers for a pittance

Clifton Brown in Collective Body's Sunglasses

No secret that New York boasts some of the finest large dance companies in the world, such as Alvin Ailey, American Ballet Theater, and New York City Ballet. But there's a phenomenon happening that seems to be more and more common—dancers with such major companies perform freelance with, or depart to, younger troupes that perform in smaller spaces. For the most part, tickets to these shows are far less expensive than those companies where these dancers found fame, and can be an interesting option to see new work on a budget.

Michele Wiles of Ballet Next. Photo: Paul B. Goode

In the coming weeks alone, you can see Clifton Brown (for years, a star at Ailey), dance with Brian Carey Chung's Collective Body Dance Lab at Manhattan Movement and Arts Center on Sep 21 & 22; Michele Wiles and Charles Askegard (ex-principals with ABT and NYCB), founders of Ballet Next, dancing in their own company's week at the Joyce (Oct 23-28) alongside dancers from several major ballet companies in dances by five choreographers including Mauro Bigonzetti and Brian Reeder; and Satellite Ballet at Lynch Theater (John Jay College) on Nov 2, put together by NYCB corps member Troy Schumacher, who has corralled such on-the-rise NYCB hotshots as Lauren King, Ashley Laracey, David Prottas, and Taylor Stanley in work choreographed by Schumacher but that strives to emphasize the collaborative process.

Satellite Ballet's Epistasis

Chung, who danced with LINES and Karole Armitage, will present two works on a bill shared with Danszloop (from Chicago, with Paula Frasz as artistic director). Chung's Let's Pretend We're All Wearing Sunglasses combines verbal commentary on male guardianship and materialism with bursts of athletic movement that shows off the preternaturally leggy company of nine. Brown has a lengthy closing solo that demonstrates why he's considered among the finest of his generation—his serene, commanding presence, endless wingspan, and supple power are all apparent in Chung's often witty phrasing that emphasizes line and stage composition. Tickets start at $20 (and $10 for the other two shows), a bargain to see some of the finest dancers around doing what they love. 

Regarding Warhol, Being Regarded

Nine Jackies. Blur your eyes and think of Rothko...
1964, acrylic & silkscreen on canvas, 65"x53". Met Museum, Gift of Halston.
(c) 2012 The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc. ARS, NY

Is the Met Museum’s exhibition Regarding Warhol, which traces his influence on other artists, so obvious that it need not have been put together? Or is it simply a burning topic that once and for all needed to be made manifest? My mind kept flicking between the two poles while strolling through the large exhibition (Sep 18—Dec 31), curated by Mark Rosenthal with Marla Prather, Ian Alteveer, and Rebecca Lowery.

Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat. A less-seen Warhol!
1984, acrylic & silkscreen on canvas, 90" x 70".
The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh Founding Collection
Contribution The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc.

(c) 2012 The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc. ARS, NY

The case for just how influential and versatile Warhol truly was is made quite convincingly. His body of work comprises multitudinous series that changed dramatically and frequently: content-wise, from his ubiquitous (and profitable) celebrity portraits, to his flashbulb nightlife snapshots, to macabre sensationalist or quotidien newspaper-divined imagery. And formally—from his essential cameo portrait, to the matrix format, to giant versions of consumer products, to photo-to-silkscreen paintings, to neon-hued bold compositions.

Within these categories, it’s simple and fun to link nearly every peer of Warhol’s, or younger artists, back to his oeuvre. It’s almost like a parlor game for the high (low?) minded. Cindy Sherman’s ever-shifting play with identity, Sigmar Polke’s impressionistic or object-based paintings, Hans Haacke’s subversive merchandising, Jeff Koons’ sculptural sanctification of pop stardom, sundry Robert Gober works. The canon of artists is a compendium of the last half-century; subtract Warhol and you have a perfectly serviceable survey of the major trends in contemporary art.

Most of the 60 Warhols in the show are from the first half of his career; many are the more elegant or dramatic icons of his work, such as Jackie, Elvis, and the disaster images, plus some films (Empire, screen tests of Lou Reed and Nico). Much of it is so familiar (if not household names, household imagery) such as Marilyn and Flowers, that it’s a bit of a shock to see them again in the flesh, in this relatively haughty context. They’re so ubiquitous that they have ceased to have any artistic impact, a trick of multiple subversion that Andy no doubt would’ve found amusing.

To exit the show, you must walk through the modern galleries, and this is what finally provided an epiphany. Past Pollocks, Rothkos, Stills, and De Koonings, old friends that all sung out fresh notes in the wake of a brisk round of art association. I thought, Oxidations, Dollar Signs/Jackies, Triple Elvis, unflattering honcho portrait. (Now that I’m writing about it, the connections seem more distant, but they felt very strong immediately.)

Ai Weiwei, Neolithic Vase with Coca-Cola Logo, 2010
Paint on Neolithic vase.
Courtesy Mary Boone Gallery, NY

Then through the Greek/Roman hallway, past the marble torsos which looked identical to some of Warhol's Torso works, and some of the archetypal urns and vases referenced by Ai Weiwei's Neolithic Vase with Coca Cola Logo that I'd just seen. (A real Neolithic vase. On which he painted a Coke logo—the act upstaging the object. Warhol may have deified the common household artifact, or signed his name to any old thing, but not a Neolithic vase, to my knowledge.)

It begs the question, did Andy come to the Met and tour the galleries as part of his leisure or work, or on second thought, how often? Did he bring his Polaroid, or simply make mental notes? In the end, he emerges as a pack rat of ideas and influences, a time capsule of sociological trends and popular people. Yet instead of just storing those ideas away, he interpreted them and gave them (or sold them) back to us. The world's greatest cipher and salesman, haunting us yet.

No Rest for Fires and Floods

On vacation in Montana, I find that even while escaping the final dog days of NYC (which are, as it turns out, ideal, weather-wise), it's impossible to escape the fiercest that mother nature has to offer. There's a fire in nearby Pine Creek that has so far consumed 5000 acres. The clear blue endless sky has been replaced with a pewter blanket of smoke, the air slightly charred and insinuating itself into the lungs. The Livingston Fire Department has been posting updates on its Facebook page.

I just heard from a friend in New Orleans who is dealing with Hurricane Isaac, which struck—melodramatically, biblically—on the same date as Katrina. He writes for the Times Picayune, at least for a little while more, and emailed from a blacked-out office there. To top it off, he has family up here in Montana, in a nearby town, who have been evacuated from their home.

So on the one hand, up north, fast-spreading fire in a droughted area, where the brush this year is the color of Van Gogh's wheat fields, crispy as puffed rice. On the other, another scary hurricane aiming and firing at the Gulf Coast. Extreme weather conditions in our most geographically beautiful spots are, scarily, becoming common. Is it too late to reverse the cycle? And will these coincidences help refocus the national conversation on global warming during this ideologically-driven election period?

Armstrong Says Uncle

Lance Armstrong blinked.

After so many years of fighting charges of doping, he decided he's had enough, and dropped his argument against doping charges by the US Anti-Doping Agency.

As a cycling fan, and someone who watched Lance win so many grueling Tour de Frances, it's heartbreaking. But the only surprise is that he blinked first.

I always wanted to believe him when he claimed his innocence, even in a roundabout way, akin to "I've never been tested positive." And yet I have a feeling that pretty much anyone who contended for the yellow jersey had to keep up with the Joneses, basically do what every other top competitor was doing. The high number of winners who've tested positive is pretty good proof of that. And to bolster the idea of how prevalent it has been, the better the rider, the better the resources, lowering the odds of getting caught. And yet they have been caught.

There's so much heroic about competitive road cycling. It's more about an individual's body type, training, heart, ability to endure pain, than about the equipment or weather or whatever. There's so much sacrifice—personal, in the amount of training that's required, and from the families involved; and from one's teammates, each playing a designated role in order to further the top contender's chances.

Cycling will go on, as it has since Armstrong retired from it. Has it been as interesting? No. But as I've mentioned before, if the Tour de France—the sport's pinnacle—is so difficult that it essentially requires performance enhancing methods, perhaps it should be rethought. Sacrilege, for sure. But if it abets fairness and improves the health of the riders, who ostensibly are treating the instruments of their livelihood like lab experiments, then it should be considered before no more heroes are left.

A Star (Merkens) Shadowing a Star

There is only one Mark Morris, for better or worse. Even though he hasn't figured out how to subdivide or clone himself, he managed to wear several hats during the Mostly Mozart run of his Dido and Aeneas at the Rose Theater (through tonight). First and foremost, he is choreographer of this gem of a production, one that remains an outstanding work in his oeuvre after 23 years. Second, he is the conductor, in the orchestra pit having a jolly old time, right across from the powerhouse mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe (her voice raises the roof), and other crack singers. Third, and somewhat vexing, if unavoidable, his ghost lives onstage in the dual roles of Dido and the Sorceress, now danced by Amber Star Merkens.

It's not that Merkens is subpar. She's engrossing, emotionally complex, with a whiff of the tragic. As much as I've admired her in her 11 years with Mark Morris Dance Group, she has remained unknowable, unlike so many of the company's members whose personalities have become as familiar as old slippers. That mystery has been part of her trademark. She is physically commanding, with sure, clean lines, but more likely than not bearing a placid facial expression evocative of the Mona Lisa. She communicates primarily with the rest of her body, reserving for herself whatever psychological underpinnings roil beneath the surface.

Mark Morris is one of those performers whose magnetism is a force of nature. Whatever he's performed in, he'd be the one to draw the eye. He has innate technical skills—notably his sense of balance and centering—to make any dancer jealous. But beyond his technique, his presence has always been undeniable, his sheer force or personality combined with a healthy dose of camp and humor. As Dido/the Sorceress, these traits seemed to multiply exponentially, intoxicating us in the audience along with the delightful Purcell score and the dramatics unfolding onstage via the mimetic, rhythmic movement. It will never be possible to strike the memory of Morris in these roles, alongside Guillermo Resto as Aeneas, nor should it be. It just isn't perfectly fair to the dancers who followed in these roles. (Incidentally, I fondly recall Bradon McDonald's interpretation of the roles; he perhaps came closest to Mark's exuberance, if with even more ferocity.)  

Today's Dido remains engaging in different ways. Domingo Estrada Jr. is a strapping, sweet-natured Aeneas, and Maile Okamura and Rita Donahue are Dido's smart-moving right-hand women. Merkens switches handily between the stricken, midas-nailed Dido and the sinister Sorceress in part by unpinning her hair, which, when draped over her face, looks vaguely like Morris' did back when, but also with her unironic thrill in being evil. She'll never be Mark—no one will—but we take pleasure in her subtlety and with what she chooses to share of her profound gifts.