Zing #23 contributor, Graham Fagen has a mind akin to a tornado: one idea seemingly starts to spiral and picks up other disparate ideas until a cyclone of items such as Jamaican reggae, Auld Lang Syne, Scottish identity, and the 18th century slave economy is barreling out as a (no doubt, unusual) series of songs. Fagen’s recent film The Making of Us, part reality TV and part scripted metafiction, will be shown later this month at the Edinburgh International Film Festival. His forthcoming project in issue 23 features a sort of smorgasbord of his work ranging from a photograph of a “pish balloon” (just as gross as it sounds, and, which was, it should be further noted, plagiarized in a YouTube documentary) to ship blueprints to stills from his film.
Interview by Rachel Cole Dalamangas
The Making of Us is a film that explores that threshold between fiction and reality by making the process a part of the narrative and the audience a part of the cast. It’s not too far from reality TV. Why do you think the interrogation of reality is currently a popular subject of art and film?
Maybe it is so popular because the boundaries of reality are so blurred today by TV shows and Internet living? Just like the blurred boundaries of the concept of truth! The Making of Us developed from an interest in the way that we, as viewers, look at the arts, i.e., theatre you sit down for a known period of time and in an art gallery you stay for as long as you want. Theatre director Graham Eatough and I clashed these two together in an earlier project called Killing Time and it was interesting to see an audience work at finding their place in the work. For The Making of Us we wondered about other influences that could be added to such a scenario, such as a film crew.
In your piece, Natural Anarchy, there is an order in the color pattern of the lettering and language itself is a kind of order. Do you think humans can achieve actual anarchy? Would we want to?
Yes, I’ve used primary colors. We didn’t invent these colors; their matter of factness was discovered by us. They function, do a job, without us controlling or arranging them. The same is true for all natural order. I love this fact. And I love the ambiguity of Natural Anarchy and how people interpret the work. Viewers seem to split between being worried and looking for an explanation or relaxed, smiling at the thought. It does seem to divide viewers like that.
I’ve no idea if humans could achieve actual anarchy! Some might want to but the situation reminds me of the Groucho Marx quote “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”
What is the significance of exploring culture via art? Why not explore culture scientifically or statistically instead?
Culture is, of course, explored scientifically and statistically. This work will result in facts and figures that are usually used to direct and demonstrate a need for a political direction.
I’m interested in the things are hard to give exact meaning to, the territories of nuance, paradox, subtlety, contrast, vagary, etc. I’m interested in a position that is hard to pin down or describe. Something between categories. For me that is my understanding of the complexities of culture and it is also the way that I understand my reasons for making art.
Do you do collaborations regularly?
Yes, I’ve done some collaborations. The collaboration work I’ve done with the theater director is maybe the most prominent work I’ve done in that retrospect. The other one that’s very obvious is that I worked with a music producer named Adrian Sherwood. I approached Adrian to work with me to see if he’d be interested in reworking at old Robert Burns song. Burns lived in Ayrshire in Scotland where I went to school in the late 1700s. He was going to leave Scotland to go work in Jamaica and he was going to work on a sugar cane plantation as what polite society would call a “bookkeeper,” but what in actual fact was a slave overseer on a plantation. When you left, you never had enough money to come back, so the community that you left considered you as dead and gone. So he decided that he would self-publish a book of his songs and poems to leave as a memento. So he did this and he heard rumors that a printer in Edinburgh wanted to reprint the poems and he canceled his sailing to Jamaica from the west coast of Scotland to travel to the east coast where he booked another passage to Jamaica, which he would take if the rumors of the publisher weren’t true. The rumors about the publisher were true, so he stayed in Scotland despite having booked a few passages to go to Jamaica and it was his book of poetry that kept him here. Four years before he died, he wrote a poem called “The Slave’s Lament” and because I grew up in Ayrshire where Burns lived, at school each January on the anniversary of his birth, we had to recite by heart his poetry to the class.
Away from school, I was making my own music, and I sort of caught the tail end of the punk movement and along with the punk movement came Jamaican reggae so I was buying a lot of Jamaican reggae records and I guess I wondered out of idle curiosity during my teenager years why at school, what was being taught as my cultural heritage was kind of meaningless to me, but yet the cultural polar opposite, Jamaican reggae, meant so much more to me than what my cultural heritage was according to school. I had a chance to research Burn’s father and that’s when I discovered that he booked these passages to live and work in Jamaica and that finding helped me make some bridges with that idle curiosity that I had.
So I approached Adrian Sherwood who works in London with a lot of Jamaican reggae artists and performers to see if he’d be interested in working with me to remake a new version of Robert Burn’s “The Slave’s Lament,” but with reggae performers. That was a great process, I really enjoyed that one. It was creative in that Adrian was into the idea and we talked a lot about the songs and the kind of feel I wanted the songs to have, and he would recommend people that he’d worked with that could help us achieve the sound and feel we wanted the song to have, and then you let them do what they need to do in order to achieve the song.
In an interview you said that your process is “an inquiry into cultural formers.” What are “cultural formers”?
There’s a sculpture that I made not long after I graduated from my master’s course and the sculpture’s called “Former and Form.” It’s a really simple sculpture. It’s pieces of wood that are held together with G-clamps and into the pieces of wood I poured some concrete and when the concrete was set I took out the cast and set it next to it. So it was a very simple sculpture and the size of the concrete was about the size of a house brick that’s very common in the UK. The more I worked on projects, the more I realized how important this sculpture was because this sculpture felt like a thinking model. What I was interested in about the sculpture was that I could show a form or a shape, but I could also show the mechanisms that were required in order for that shape to exist. In order for that shape to exist, I had to have some concept or some idea of what shape the mold had to be. So it was a cause and effect relationship.
When people started asking me what my work was about, I tried to find the shorter way to explain the complexities, and that’s when this concept that was becoming clearer to me from that earlier sculpture about “cultural formers” and things that shape our cultures and the way that we behave and then the way that we shape the culture, so the two-way relationship that’s there as well. The thing that was really important to me about that as an artist was the understanding when I started being invited to do other projects. One project in particular, I was invited to be what in this country is called the “official war artist.” I was asked by the Imperial War Museum to be the war artist for Kosovo and that’s where my knowledge of what I was trying to do as an artist became really important because not only was I able to understand a reason for examining my own culture, but I realized that comprehension was actually really important and it can help you understand other people’s cultures and find relationships to help understand what the differences are. So when I went to Kosovo to understand somebody else’s culture, for me, it was so interesting, because their culture had basically been destroyed. The work that I tried to do there was address cultural breakdown or cultural shifts of knowledge and logic that makes a culture hold together.
I’m curious about what you mean when you call a sculpture “a thinking model.” Can you explain that?
When I was making it, I was making a concept that I had that was quite simple in a formal sense and when I made it, it had a life and it was exhibited. It was for the Arts Council’s collection, so it had its own life, but its relationship with me is still the conceptual one. For me, that sculpture explains the complexities of what a cultural former is, or the way that I’ve been using that term “cultural former.”
How does art interact with the breakdown or development of culture?
When I came back from my time in Kosovo and made the exhibition for the museum, it was interesting because it was a question that especially journalists, maybe no so much art critics, but journalists would ask about, like, that must really have changed you? There were lots of questions about what value and what’s the use of making art about this sort of subject. There’s a lot of literary theory you could talk about the relationship to, maybe, genre, but for me what was important about my work was that real life theory. So for example, having been to Kosovo and trying to make an art work that would maybe try in a small way to address the complexities of war and conflict was very important and it was important that that work was exhibited in a museum that hopefully people came to see and try to understand through the artwork a different position or a different route to what war and conflict is. So you’re not experiencing it through the medium of a newspaper or a television or from a politician or from a UN official, it was a more paradoxical introduction through the medium of art. Paradoxical because it’s a simple way to access a very complex situation. That subject of “cultural formers” is very real in terms of a subject area that’s real and that’s what key in priorities for me when I’m making the work as an artist.
How does art differ from media?
The difference would mainly be the way that you see the subject matter in that you make a conscious decision to go to an art gallery or to a museum. Then once you’re there there are preconceptions about the way that you as a viewer would behave or react or interact with objects, or the formality of the construct you’re seeing within these places. That’s a very difference relationship to receiving media in the privacy of your own home. It’s public, for a start.
That’s maybe one of the reasons I started to become interested in working with a theater director—thinking about the notions about how we perceive art and how we receive art depending on the place that we’re in. If you go to a theater, you’re quite prepared to sit in a comfortable seat for an hour and a half and watch something and kind of believe the fiction that’s being presented to you, but if you go to an art gallery it’s very easy to go out and think, “I just don’t like this at all” or “This is aesthetically doesn’t engage me so I’m just going to walk out.” Or you may do the opposite and you may be really engaged and spend a long time there. That question of differences in media is about the ways that you receive them and the associated notions of different media.
Does art take in history and culture and shape our perception of it, or is art on the other side of that fence and shaped by history and culture?
I think art sits on both sides, certainly in the ways that I’ve received it and perceived it, and the way that I have worked with it. I would like to think that I’ve worked on both of those points. I was about to say on both sides of that fence, but maybe that’s the first thing, maybe it’s not a fence, it’s more fluid than that. There’s a lot of debate in the UK about is art political or where is the political art or where is the political art going. For me, the art that I enjoy and the art that I think is important is the art that can be both of these places that you talk about. It’s art that will not just provoke, but can also offer opportunity to reflect and use art history as well.
I think we live in a kind of a cynical time—on the brink of environmental disasters and constant wars. It seems to me that so many contemporary artists and writers and thinkers are engaged with this sort of darkness as a way to try to engage with the world. But then what is art’s role in this world?
That’s quite a description of “the darkness.” It reminds me of a documentary I just saw in which a young journalist was interviewing the Sex Pistols when they had just started and at that time in Britain there really was darkness because a lot of the power stations were working three-day weeks and four days of the week you could be in a power cut situation and there were lots of cuts and garbage men were refusing to pick up garbage. I remember seeing my very first rat, which I thought was a rabbit because the rats were so large. Going back to the point of the darkness, there was a young journalist interviewing the Sex Pistols for a news channel and you could tell the young journalist was quite a liberal guy and you could tell he was really excited about what the Pistols were doing and the fact they were raging against this sense of cultural and societal breakdown. So he’s got his microphone and he’s interviewing Johnny Rotten and he said, “Johnny, we’re a country on its knees and you’re coming along and rallying against political authority. What are you going to do about that?” And he passed the microphone over to Johnny Rotten and Johnny Rotten just said, “We’re gonna make it worse.” Which I thought was a fantastic answer and for me it’s quite an important answer in relationship to what you’re talking about. Because I think the other thing that’s really important is that artists and intellectuals of course have always been part of a more liberal stream, but they’re always part of the bigger majority as well and I guess that’s where those limitations on what kind of influence you can have on these kind of political powers.
What’s interesting about the kind of “darkness”—and these are your words, Rachel, not my words. The thing about the darkness that is Rachel’s is that slowly you start to find out about the mechanisms that control the way that we work politically and how we do business. The banking crisis and things like that, you start to find out the truth about the mechanics of how governments are influenced not necessarily by voters, but much more influenced by oil firms, banking industries, people like that.
So it’s a good point that “darkness” is my word. The body of your work that I’ve seen—there’s a grittiness to it and a humor to it, but it’s not consistently dark. How would you characterize the era that we’re living in and facing as artists and thinkers?
I think we need to stay extremely positive about it. I think we need to be cheeky about it. That cheekiness is maybe the most important thing. By “cheeky” I mean that we don’t become afraid to say what we truly feel we need to say and we say it in whatever way we think is the best way to say it.
In JM Ledgard’s Submergence, James More is a British spy who was captured by Somalian jihadists and spends most of the novel in a shack and eventually in a cage shitting himself and meditating on the soul and utopia as you do. Danny Flinders is an acclaimed scientist who specializes in deep ocean trenches and is something of a sensualist who revels in the object world, drinking Australian wine and smoking cigarettes “in the French way.” As Danny prepares to go on a deep-sea dive and James is slowly whittled away by the torments and amateurish decisions of his captors, both reminisce on a brief if otherworldly love affair they had at a French hotel on the Atlantic during Christmas. The plot arc, which foregoes suspense and operates via a sort of lyrical seduction, goes the only way it could: sadly.
Submergence is nothing if not heady—brutal as well as beautiful. It has been quite awhile since I’ve gotten that “hit by a bus” feeling from a work of literature and the rainy afternoon in March when I finished Submergence on the subway, I had to go about the rest of my day more deliberately. It’s the sort of the book that changes the texture of chocolate and the look of puddles. The work is modular and favors establishing layers of meaning through fragments and twisting metaphors, and much of the prose is to be chewed on. The novel explores the frightening questions of human existence, namely, what the hell are we doing to our planet through war and more crucially environmental degradation that is reaching apocalyptic proportions. Below even this, though, there is also a rather darker attempt to chart human loneliness, that emptiness that appreciates beauty and wants to understand truth and develops profound connections with others. As it becomes clearer and clearer what the fate of James and Danny will be, one gets the sense that perhaps if Danny goes down deep enough into the pitch-black oceanic trenches, and if James goes far out enough into the Somalian deserts, they will eventually fall through a black hole or cosmic furrow and happen upon each other.
JM Ledgard was born in the Shetland Islands. He is a political and war correspondent for the Economist and a thinker on risk and technology in emerging economies. He lives and works in Africa.
Interview by Rachel Cole Dalamangas
Can you tell me about some of your experiences as a foreign correspondent that informed Submergence?
The first thing is my undergraduate degree rather bizarrely was in medieval Islamic history so I have this whole very positive understanding of Islam . . . the rise of the Ottoman Empire, and of course a lot of great Islamic thinkers. So that was the first thing. Then there were certainly the wars in the former Yugoslavia, which I reported a bit on and then some of the wars in the former Soviet Republics and then the Kosovo War, and all of these wars were involved in Islam in some way. Of course what blew everything out of the water was 9/11 here in New York, and after that I got sent by my newspaper to be an Afghanistan terrorism correspondent. Then, again, in Africa, I think probably because of my experience after 9/11, I continued on this tracking and writing a lot about al-Qaeda and jihadist groups, and was very taken with Somalia as a country and traveled there as much as I could even though it was quite dangerous. Several times I was very lucky to get access to jihadist commanders on the ground, some of them al-Qaeda guys, and that was really very quite interesting.
I had a really wonderful, bizarre episode where I went to the Comores Islands near Madagascar. I think the third most wanted man in the United States was a guy called Fazul Mohammed who was from the Comores and he was the guy who blew up the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi in 1998. I just felt really interested in this particular guy and tracked him around and followed where he’d been and then I got to go and meet his wife, his sister, his children, his mother, and that experience is slightly fictionalized in Submergence. So these are real people, but obviously in the book I’m much more interested in the ideas than an exact personal narrative.
Though there’s an interesting story about one of these al-Qaeda guys I met that was very bizarre. It was like something I might have written in my novel. I went to southern Somalia and there was an al-Qaeda commander, a tough guy, a Somalian, not a foreigner—the foreigners are really scary, you don’t want to meet one of those guys because they’ll just kill you. The Somalia guys are tough, but they can talk to you a bit. Anyway this guy was in a compound and he’s sitting there and he had a dik-dik, one of those dwarf antelopes. Very cute little animal, but they’re very shy in the bush. You walk along and they’re just gone. But here was this commander with this little pet and it’s very rare to see such a tough guy with a little dik-dik as a pet and he told me this story. I don’t know if it’s true, but it was just a great story, which is that he had been marching through the bush with his men and they were hungry and they found a dik-dik so they killed it and they praised Allah and they had food for dinner, and as they were butchering it, the fawn was alive inside the dead mother, and so they took it and it became a kind of mascot for them. Something about the fact of being monstrous is not enough to dehumanize you completely. There is always something these guys have, but then they’re terrible and some of them are sociopaths.
In an interview with The Paris Review’s Philip Gourevitch you describe Submergence as a “planetary novel that seeks to alter the reader’s perception of earth.” How does fiction interact with cultural and individual perception?
Not enough, in my opinion. I think my view has always been it’s better to be slightly off, but really have a go at saying something profound. We’re born out in this unknown, it doesn’t matter what your religious persuasion is, this is as much as we know that we’re born into the world and we die in the unknown and we’re suspended in this few years of consciousness, and it seems to me the most amazing and profound thing is to try to make sense of that. I got depressed last night when I was at a book talk in Brooklyn and the lady who was interviewing me, all she wanted to talk about was terrorism. I just thought terrorism is not the big thing. The big thing is our planet and the biosphere and the perception of time and space that makes our human experience much more profound when we reflect on it.
When I think about planetary writing, there are two things I want to talk about. One is that mystery element, which is cosmic, which really is strange. You can look at anything and in the right eye it becomes quite magical and fantastical. But then there’s another side, which is one where I’ll get in more trouble in the states, which is basically that literature is a really profound calling. Literary fiction like great art can really influence people’s perception of who they are and what they think in a small way, and I find, particularly in the states, a lot of misery fiction. It’s beautifully crafted, much better than I would ever write, but it’s going nowhere, it’s middle class families working out middle class angst. I don’t see enough writers out there who say, Holy moly, we’re losing like 50% of the biodiversity of species. We’ve had this incredible revolution of technology and science, and we’re going to see another one in the next 10 or 20 years, and people are going to be super connected in ways they’ve never been connected before. One of the points I made in Submergence is about incredibly primitive chemosynthetic life at the bottom of the ocean, which looks really stupid, but that life has been there for three billion years and we’ve not been around for very long. I would really like to see more fiction that is tackling these really big themes even if you kind of trip over your shoelaces a bit.
I will know in five years time if my novel was a success if you are like stuck on the subway or skiing in Colorado and you just have a flash, a moment where you think consciously about the ocean or the desert or a suicide bomber or whatever it is. I want to leave a kind of residue, a false memory, a sense. Obviously it’s not character-driven fiction. The characters are secondary to these much bigger themes.
Exposure and discourse about environmental issues are waning. For example, The New York Times canceled its green blog earlier this year.
There is an absence of environmental coverage in media. To me this is madness. I won’t speak for musicians or anyone else, but I do know about literature and I do feel that a lot of great writers are missing the ball . . . though it’s a difficult balance because you don’t want to manipulate the reader in stupid ways.
I became a novelist when I was younger because I read Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, and I thought, Wow, this was written in the mid-19th century and it’s still speaking to profound, relevant truths and about changing society in the way that we deal with power structures. So I think we need to see more of that. I won’t say all literature has to be crusading and serious, but there are some writers that are letting themselves down by not having a go at these things. Literature is making itself irrelevant basically and people are going to go to other mediums and forms like video art or whatever it is where they’re going to find those challenges and questions and emotions that they need to process this incredibly fast-changing world.
In a smaller way, a lot of my novel is about oceans. It’s still amazing to me that 90% of our living space is in the ocean and we just don’t spend any money on it, we don’t think about it. We’re not even capable of thinking about it mostly because it’s quite dark, quite cold, there’s a high pressure, and you realize that actually we’re not these sort of Star Trek universe-conquering species. We’re actually designed for a very thin habitat and we have this relationship with light, with gravity.
Your writing style has been criticized as too intellectual or as a heavy prose-style, and I’m curious about your choice to favor beauty and complexity over simplicity and superficiality.
First of all, I don’t mind if even a majority of readers don’t like the novel or don’t get it. I think anyone who really likes a very traditional narrative arc where you have characters who find catharsis . . . they’re not really going to like my fiction. Also, people who read really fast are probably not going to like it. The one thing I can say about this book even though it’s really short is that probably it should be read really slowly, three or four pages a day. On the whole, it’s like when you have a very high-cocoa content dark chocolate. You just write what you want to write and really go for it. People just have their artistic paths to travel.
One way you deal with modulating this heavy subject matter and dense prose is by working in fragments, which actually turn out to be basically meditations in a way. In the novel, there’s a lot of sitting around and thinking that the characters do.
Again, I can see how this could irritate a particular kind of reader. Naturally you’re trying to put the novel together, but you’re in Somalia and then jump to the Greenland Sea. For me it was really important to build up these layers and hope by the end there was some connection between these incredibly weird, disparate worlds. I think very carefully about what I put in and especially what I take out. It’s a very short book, but it could have been like 600-pages. I took out so much two ways. One way was that I cut out lots of sections that I’ve already written, and two, I pared down all these passages. One thing I’ve gotten working for The Economist is how you relay the maximum possible information in the shortest possible space. Obviously, I’m trying to convey completely different thoughts and emotions in the novel. The fragmentary style, I’m just very interested in kaleidoscopic effect, visually and also cinematically and especially emotionally and intellectually. It’s confusing what exactly everything all adds up to, but it puts you in a different space.
Something that concerns me as a writer is how technology is shortening our attention spans and how this could kill the novel.
One thing I was really struck by, a few years ago, I read the letters of President John Adams to his wife. He used to incredibly write two or three page letters to her every day while he was away. What was extraordinary about these letters in the late 18th-century were these long loops of thoughts that don’t resolve immediately and you’re not actually sure where the trajectory is until you get two pages along and then eventually it curlicues to the end. I think we are in danger of losing the capacity to in and of ourselves create these longer loops of thought, and some people are probably even losing the capacity to read these longer loops of thought. Not entirely, you know. It’s possible that people can push back, but of course we have to realize that all other things being equal, and even if these writers who I would like to stop writing about Park Slope and soccer moms, even if they actually start writing Melville-like work, the space for literature is much smaller. All our devices and all the ways we perceive with music and film and gaming and travel. Literature had it really good for a long time and it’s never going to be quite as big as it was.
One theme of this novel is disaster and the political and natural crises that the world is on the brink of. Both Danny and James spend a lot of time dealing with questions about where humanity is going and it doesn’t look so good.
It’s a very dark novel, this one, and I don’t make any apologies for that. Strangely, the one lesson I learned living in Africa the last decade is that pessimism is a redundant quality, if it is a quality at all. There is inquiry and it can be very dark inquiry, really pushing you to the abyssal, but the great privilege of the human condition is that we have still the next day to think about the way we conduct ourselves collectively.
Look at the fossil fuel situation that we have at the moment. I’ve known from these negotiations I do with big companies and looking at oil, coal, natural gas, car companies . . . there is a lot of money on the wrong side of the table. It’s kind of banal and I don’t think it’s the best film in the world, but I always come back to Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. I remember from the film this cartoon image of the planet on one side of the scale and gold on the other, and everybody in the cinema laughed when they saw that because it seemed so absurd. Why, how can we value money over the planet, but actually nothing has moved from that cartoon, it’s basically that stupid. I mean, the planet is going to be fine, nothing is going to happen to life on the earth. The question is how many species, including our own, have to be annihilated before we are sort of vomited off. But I don’t think it’s actually certain at all. We have a tremendous capacity as a species to self-correct, but at the moment we’re not on a good path because we’re not concentrating on the right things. We’re very much like an autistic termite colony where someone like these mad Chechen brothers in Boston poke it with appalling consequences and then the termite colony goes completely crazy. I’m not saying there shouldn’t be a severe reaction to terrorism, but I am saying that we should have at least an equal reaction to the decimation of the planet we’re living on and our ability to survive and particularly the ability of other species to survive. It’s very worrisome to me that we end up with purely anthropomorphic species and that when a species for one reason or another finds it difficult to cohabit with humans we expunge them. I do feel like the future generations, maybe even close future generations, will look at us like, My god, for a bunch of new Chevrolets, you managed to oversee a mass destruction. That is a clear and present danger, and I’m very happy to think in dark terms, but I’m not so interested in fatalistic terms.
There is a great deal of beauty in the novel—especially coming out of the brief love affair between James and Danny in a rather surreal, wintry landscape. Why did you choose to hang these dark questions on this very intense romance?
Well, as I say, we have to get up and live our lives. The really amazing thing about the human condition is that despite this cosmic mystery, whether it’s watching a baseball game or having sex or being in a strong relationship or seeing a relationship break apart, getting old, the actual fabric of our lives are colossal to us and they are of never-ending, immense consequence in these completely irresolvable ways. For example, James is there in captivity and he is trying to hold onto his humanity and mostly he’s holding on through strong emotions. For Danny, she is almost a hard woman, she is certainly heroic to me and she sacrificed a lot of warmth and empathy for the path that she chose. It is possible and it is wonderful to have those profound connections.
I thought about how trauma is perhaps related to empathy and how we’re motivated to reach outside of ourselves. A reading that I had of the book was as a series of dark meditations draped over a love story, which is perhaps a way that we’re disturbed by our existence.
That’s a very perceptive point. You might be onto something there. That’s harder for me to talk about. It almost hits too intimate really.
What are you working on now?
I’m working on a book, but I don’t really know whether it’s going to be fiction or non-fiction. It’s really on that cusp. What I realized in my first two books is that reality and lyrical reality are very closely knit for me, they’re almost zipped together. To be honest, it probably doesn’t matter that much which side of the line we fall on. Except maybe in America because in America the reader demands to know what the truth is, which I’ve never really understood. Some of it is set in Africa. I never show anyone anything I write or talk about it until I know that it’s literally 90% done. It will be building on some of the themes we talked about in Submergence and looking to the future.
The depiction of resurrection is inherently one of spectacle whether violent or rapturous, but perhaps none yet have captured the multifaceted cross-cultural substance of the story wherein the soul returns to the body. Choreographer, Stephen Petronio and performance artist, Janine Antoni, along with collaborators Son Lux, Francisco Núñez, H. Petal, and Ken Tabachnick, will attempt to bring such an ambitious vision to the stage of The Joyce Theater this week in a pastiche that includes Petronio’s all but body-breaking movements and Antoni’s sharp, visceral conceptual sensibilities. The complex—and demanding—arrangement will feature Antoni suspended on a helicopter stretcher in meditation above the audience before and during the dance performance. Hung around her figure will be some 25 milagros, replicas of her skin and bones that are posed in positions and gestures Petronio’s dancers will take. The dance performance itself will present symbol of regeneration as well as glimpses of resurrection narrative, sultry, tortured compositions to American slave hymns as well as fracturing juxtapositions.
Most striking about the undertaking, however, is the uncanny weave of the phoenix with Lazarus, Catholicism with Eastern meditation, the visual plane with the emotional that culminates in a highly orchestrated synaesthesia of earthly human faculties. The audience experience becomes a sort of out of body episode in the collective consciousness of the theater space, a resuscitation to one’s awareness of what any individual reality – the life that happens somewhere between a birth we don’t recall and a death we can’t comprehend—is.
Like Lazarus Did opens April 30 at The Joyce Theater.
Choreographed by Stephen Petronio
Performance by Janine Antoni
Music composition by Son Lux
Music performed by The Young People’s Choir of New York City under the direction of Francisco Núñez (April 30th and May 1st only)
Costume Design by H. Petal
Lighting Design by Ken Tabachnick
Interview by Rachel Cole Dalamangas
Why are you meditating on a helicopter stretcher?
JA: I was thinking about what objects in the world are for the supine body and I came to the stretcher. When I found the helicopter stretcher I realized it was perfect because it is also used to lift the body. Even further, I think of my body in this work as representing the middle ground between life and death so the stretcher becomes an appropriate metaphor for this state.
It makes me think of illness or injury.
SP: Or rescue.
JA: But also that moment when you are faced with your mortality, which I think is important.
How does meditation relate to your practice as an artist?
JA: It’s interesting that I probably came to meditation through my making practice before I was taught formally. A lot of my work is repetitive so I spend a significant amount of time in the studio doing the same thing over and over again. I’ve been meditating formally for the past 15 years and I will definitely draw on that practice in this performance.
And, Stephen, in an interview with Time Out New York in 2011, you actually compare dance to meditation. Can you speak about your process and how your work relates to meditation?
SP: All my work is made through an improvisational state. I go into a state of “something,” which is altered and from that place there is an intuitive flow of movement that comes out of my body and that is a meditation. I practiced formal meditation when I was younger and various kinds of sitting, but I don’t do that anymore. Stillness is not my specialty, but I realized that everyday I go from the state of a normal human being who’s got physical and emotional needs and is whiny and is cold, hot, grumpy or happy, and I go into the studio and that falls away in the process of warming up into the choreographic state, which for me is a meditative state and so I try to mine that state. Whatever comes up in my body in that moment I try to bring back, like wrangling wild animals, for the audience to see. It’s harder for them to see the mental or spiritual or emotional state you get into . . . some people can, some people can’t, but you can always see the form. So just the like helicopter stretcher has a lot of deep meanings behind it, it’s still just a stretcher, and the forms that you see on the stage are formally crafted in what I consider an interesting way, but there’s a lot of mental states that linger behind them if you are able to perceive them.
It sounds like for both of you there’s this interesting take on mind/body duality, though it’s not necessarily so strict, and the mind and body get mixed up.
SP: I will say my art making is not a meditative practice. I slip into meditative states in the process of creating and the audience can slip into any state they want or they can while they’re watching, but I’m not a spiritual disciplinarian, I’m an artist who’s making art and Janine will tell you nothing about me is strict except for the fact that I’m rigorous. I will look at a structure and use it for my own means and I won’t let it complete itself for the sake of completing itself. I’ll use it for whatever means I need it, so I’m very mercurial in that way.
JA: I’m waiting for that duality to slip away and it happens most to me when
I’m making art. It’s when I’m most embodied and I’m thinking through my body. But there is definitely a moment to step away and take on the position of the viewer. This is when a more critical thinking mind takes over. For me the creative process is about stepping back and forth between these two states.
SP: When I’m moving in practice, as a choreographer, I’ve trained myself to watch myself when I’m in that intuitive state because that’s the only way that I can bring stuff back. Do you struggle with that?
JA: Well I’m trying to go in, in, in, in, in, in, in, but in my movement practice, which is not performative, there’s the teacher who is the witness. So they take care of the outside for me and create a kind of safe space for me to go that far in.
SP: For me it’s always a very tricky balance of letting go of me, Stephen
Petronio, who I am and what think about myself as an art-maker or a person or a husband or a lover, slipping away from that into a state of surrender, but also being able to assimilate information and watch it on some level.
JA: What’s funny is that when you make a discovery by going so deep in, you immediately step out to try to see it.
SP: You have to catch it.
JA: You have to catch it, and to do so I have to do it again. “What was that that just happened to me?” and so I do it again and again in order to know it.
Is artistic practice an alternative to or akin to spiritual practice?
JA: That’s a big thing to claim.
SP: I don’t want to make that claim, but I do want to say that part of the reason I’m attracted to the theme of resurrection as a fallen Catholic, is because when I was conceiving this piece I was sitting at my father’s funeral in the church where I went to parochial school, this church was built in the
60s, and it was 2012 when my father passed away, and on the altar, was this guy talking about my father’s rapture, how joyous that my father would be back and we can’t wait for that. It just hit me when I was listening to these songs, it just hit me that that is the thing that every spiritual practice has marketed— redemption. It’s intangible and un-provable. What a great product. I’m not going to say that my dancing is a spiritual practice, but it has made me a much more enlightened person.
JA: I wasn’t going to the use the word “enlightened,” but I was going to say that art makes me live with more integrity or at least at a deeper level. It makes me more alive and to be making is to locate myself in the world. Are those spiritual concerns? And then there’s the question of why are we here and what’s going to happen to us. Spirituality tries to answer those questions and so does art. I could also say that I make in order to feel connected to others. That’s probably what motivates me the most. Dare I say that it makes me a more loving person.
And the project is actually dealing with a lot of cross-cultural references. Lazarus comes from the Bible, but we’re also talking about meditation.
SP: The idea is rising above. Coming out of the body and regeneration and rebirth. Every culture has a story about regeneration from phoenix to Lazarus to reincarnation. I would say that my interest is that process of dying and being reborn.
JA: And that comes up in different forms throughout the piece.
SP: The phoenix is crucial at one point. Formally, I use retrograde and accumulation to move through simple physical states over and over again just for the experience of seeing the same material coming back and coming back and how your perception changes when you stay with something that’s limited over and over again. But, musically, the whole piece really was inspired by a songbook of American slaves from the mid-1800’s, previously only passed by oral tradition. My composer Son Lux (aka Ryan Lott) brought it to me and I was just really moved by the faith of the most oppressed people using this music to get out of their body for a promise that was elusive. It just really hit me how elevated those songs were and the people who were singing them were the most tortured people on the planet, but they got into this most beatific, elevated state through these songs and I really was struck by that.
Is this the first time you two have worked together?
JA: Yes.
SP: In this life.
JA: We realized right away that we have a lot of affinities because of our fallen Catholic status.
SP: An age range.
JA: A certain point in our creative trajectory.
SP: I wanted to work with the Janine because I knew she was working with her body and that would be the most unlikely thing I would ever collaborate with because I am all about knowing my language and my world and claiming that world. It’s taken me 25, 30 years to make that mark and make it be identifiable, and then I was like, “Well, now what?” Janine is working with her body in a very different way. I was interested in Janine because I thought she could crack my bell basically and let some light in.
JA: And I’m looking for the same thing. That’s where my most recent interest in dance come from. It has opened up a new world for me. I came to it through moving myself and I found that it inspired my art practice and gave me access to unconscious information. Usually I sit in the studio and wait for lightening to strike. I have learned that through my moving body, I can dislodge content that is somehow stored in my body. When I discovered this I was little disturbed because I didn’t want to go to the studio any more I just wanted to dance. I thought, I have to integrate this? So I laid a dance floor in my studio and started to move around my unfinished work. At that point things started to merge. Then Stephen magically arrived.
What’s interesting to me is that the production sounds so very constructed and considered right down to fractions of movement, but boundaries are also breaking down, even with the performance beginning in the street and being brought into the theater. You’re both performers and I’m curious what, to your minds, is the boundary between reality and performance?
JA: I feel like you have a body and you already know in your body what it would be like to stay still for two hours and that puts you immediately in a place of empathy, so I don’t think I’m doing anything so spectacular up there. I’m just committing to stillness for that time and I feel like I’m being still for the audience or even with them. I hope they will feel connected to my still body. That is reality. If you want to think of me symbolically, then you can go from there.
SP: Some people think that way and some people don’t really.
JA: But I think the reality of the body brings it back to something very basic. I think in a way, with the dancers too, they’re moving for us. When they jump, when they elevate, we feel it.
SP: You go up.
JA: Even if you can’t do it physically.
SP: Or you notice how down you are, which I hear a lot from people. I want to disagree with Janine in a way because I don’t think people really understand what it’s like to be still for two hours. They could understand the idea of it, but who could be still for two hours? I would be very hard pressed.
I would have to work up to that for months and months and months to be able to be still for two hours. But I also hear from people who come to the shows, “Oh my god, I’m just exhausted watching the dancers.” What they’re exhausted by is focusing and they’re exhausted by the shifts in energy I’m giving them.
JA: I think when you watch the dancers do what they do, when you get up to walk out of the theater, you walk away differently. You’re not doing what they’re doing, but you experience your body differently.
SP: I always see people out on the street trying to do it too. That’s always really fun.
What comes next with this piece?
JA: The piece is going to take different forms.
SP: The piece was conceived not for a proscenium space. It was moved into a proscenium space for various reasons. I’m thinking of this as a series of editions that started in a ballroom where there were only about a hundred people sitting around it and Janine wasn’t in it, but we were already talking about working together. It was a very intimate experience. Having four sides, everything was an action instead of an image. When you put something on stage it becomes an objective image because actions are framed and they’re far away. This is this edition. Then we’re moving down into St. Paul’s Chapel by the Trade Center at the end of June through the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council so again it will have more than one side.
“Those are from Backpage, do you know what that is,” Walter Robinson points to a painting of a young woman in her underwear hamming toward the viewer. It is an undeniable “selfie”—almost surreal to see rendered in opaque brushstrokes rather than pixelated washed-out photography from a smartphone. In his studio, the man who is still revered as a commentator on the art world, long time editor at the former Artnet, is explaining to me in his studio in Long Island City, where he gets material for his paintings. The ear buds from his iPod on which he listens to audio books are dangling from his pocket and he is sucking on a caramel candy. The studio is decked in hamburgers and more women from Backpage as well as women in pajamas from a Macy’s catalogue. At the other end of the room there are paintings of people kissing—the same love story playing out between a small-waisted woman in a dress and a broad shouldered man on canvas after canvas. Fast food, sex,—even romantic love—these are the depictions of desire that we, as Americans, are hit with over and over, day in and day out, so often that we forget we’re seeing them, and for some reason, there is something consoling about these images in paint, something both reassuring and petrifying about their emptiness.
Interview by Rachel Cole Dalamangas
Were you always an artist, or was it a chosen path?
Oh, everything was ass backwards for me. I became an artist sort of by default. I remember being popular in kindergarten because I could draw high noon showdowns. That’s probably where it started, but it’s been a long apprenticeship for me. I’m a slow learner.
I was always interested in art. In college instead of studying I took art classes as “electives.” I did reviews for Art in America when I got out of college and began writing the magazine’s newsletter. I moved to Tribeca in 1973 and later moved to SoHo. With a couple of friends I published my own art magazine. By 1979 I was working with Collaborative Projects, an artist’s group, and I became part of the East Village scene in 1982.
I showed my paintings regularly from 1980 to 1986, and then I pretty much stopped exhibiting. I became a single father, and focused on the writing career. I worked as news editor at Art in America, and founded Artnet Magazine in 1996. I worked there for 16 years and we built up something that people liked and was pretty valuable.
In 2008, Helene Winer, my dealer from the ‘80s, suggested that I do a show of the ‘80s paintings that I still had. It was fairly successful and suddenly I had this nest egg. So I rented a studio. Before then I’d been working in my apartment, but to be a professional artist, you really have to stay focused and work at it. You have to be some sort of a player, be part of the community, part of the scene. Social connections are an important part of success in the art world. So in 2008 I rented a studio in Long Island City and picked up where I left off. When Artnet magazine was shut down in June 2012, I was able to become a full-time painter.
It’s fun being a critic. You get to talk about a whole lot of things, and you try to be out in front of everything important. You’re like an explorer in a new world, everything you write about you claim for yourself. As an editor, you are the center of the art world. Is New York the center of the art world? Berlin? London? No, it’s my consciousness that’s the center, as I processed all the information and put it out there for my readers. As a writer you have a soapbox, and if you do a daily magazine like I did, you get to say something every day. That’s exciting, and very energizing. Working for a monthly magazine was more like moving through molasses.
For an artist, it’s completely different. You talk about a single thing, yourself, and you get to care about one thing, yourself. As an artist, you don’t get to present yourself every day. You present yourself when you have an exhibition or when you show a work. Typically that happens much less frequently. Plus, the process is more private.
Now that I’m an artist, I don’t have to care about anything. I’m much freer. I can consume art world news at my leisure or ignore it. I sympathize with all my friends who write art news, because they all compete—and don’t seem to realize how little their readers care. I was the same way!
Do you think that art press matters in any capacity?
Well, yes art press matters, it matters a lot. Artists want two things. They want to sell, and they want to be called great—and that’s where the press comes in. Jack Goldstein, who died in 2003 but is having a show this month at the Jewish Museum, made me realize that back in the ‘80s. I had expressed admiration at his success, but he button-holed me and said something like, “Write that I’m the greatest artist.” Even an artist who has great success still wants more.
What do you think of the spectators of the art world?
You mean the audience? It’s interesting to think about the audience. There are the collectors, who are a part of the audience, who have authority because they have money. It’s a mixed blessing, and an old story—are you loved for yourself, or for your cash? I used to say that dealers exist so that artists don’t have to talk to collectors.
When I was a critic, the audience was my readership and one of my primary concerns. At the same time, the notion of spectatorship is amorphous, and hard to define. Museums are packed with people who come to participate in the spectacle of art and culture. They go to be enlightened and to delve the mysteries and to see if they can get culture. We still love it, even if it seems so . . . old fashioned.
What do you read of contemporary fiction?
I don’t do that much reading. I get audio books and listen to them and go to the gym.
I’m a fan of genre fiction, it sort of fits in with my painting. Writers like Elmore Leonard and Chester Himes—fantastic. Martin Amis’ Money, I couldn’t even listen to. The Pregnant Widow, that was one I thought was pretty good. Jane Austen Northanger Abbey, loved that—that was great. John Banville The Infinities, couldn’t listen to that—that was horrible. Donald Barthelme The Dead Father was a bore.
Oh, I loved The Dead Father when I read it.
I don’t even know what it’s about. There’s a character that is called “the dead father”—and you know, speaking as a father, I object to that right away. The thing is, to me, that sort of artifice seems stupid. You know, I was born in 1950. I’m old, I’m cranky, I’m not impressed with this kind of literary high jinks. The art world has its own nonsense, of course, but that stuff I like! I’m a 19th-century painter—Manet is a favorite— but I also love Duchampian gestures. My favorite work in the New Museum’s “Younger than Jesus” was the banana peel that the South American artist Adriana Lara had a guard toss of the floor each day. And when Dan Colen had his show at Gagosian Gallery in 2010, he took a plywood skateboard half-pipe and flipped it upside-down, making a kind of sculpture that didn’t really seem to be very sculptural. Then I thought, that’s just what skaters do, flip upside-down in the air, so the thing suddenly had a sort of sense. Is that the same as having a book with a “dead father” as a character?
The poet Robert Cunningham reviewed your show at Dorian Grey, “Indulgences,” for zingmagazine, and he commented on the strange materiality of the subjects of the paintings, so it’s interesting to hear you talk about literature because Robert brought Virginia Woolf into his analysis of your work.
Really? Because I listened to To The Lighthouse and I liked that very much. It’s got this auditory space where time collapses and you’re not sure where the narrator is. I tried to listen to Mrs. Dalloway and couldn’t do it. Some books are not suitable for listening. You have to focus too much on following the narrative, and I find my thoughts drifting off, and suddenly I have no idea what I’ve been listening to. I have the same problem with reading books. I’m reading and I’m reading and then before I know it I’m doing something else.
Basically, in his review of your show, Robert brought up Woolf’s interest in every day objects and how these items can become a whole experience for Woolf, and compared your work to Woolf in the sense that in your paintings a hamburger isn’t just a hamburger, it’s a whole complicated experience and an object of aesthetic consideration, and this way that when viewing the paintings, these representation of hamburgers, you become very aesthetically aware of a hamburger and you notice other things that you don’t necessarily notice when you simply consume a hamburger.
Far out. Like what? Factory farming? That’s a good observation actually and very nice. What I noticed is that if you have something like a painting of a cheeseburger, a viewer can dismiss it, because everybody knows all about cheeseburgers, or a viewer can love it, because they have their own personal feelings and attachments to the idea of a cheeseburger. I gives a glimpse of something about the esthetic reaction, about looking and judging.
Somehow this idea of the familiar dovetails with my feelings about imagination—sometimes I feel like I don’t have any. Making it my goal as an artist to going out in search of something new feels forced and phony. So I like to take what’s there, what’s a cliché. It feels more honest. It’s like saying you can’t fire me, I quit. I suppose there’s a sadness in the retreat to the familiar. But it’s also like a comedy, and I’m more interested in that. At least I think I am. I’ve just always hated the radical masquerade, pretending to be somehow radical, pretending to find some new way of doing things because. The art world loves that, but I know I’m not radical. That’s one reason why I paint the way I do. It’s supposed to be an illustrative style that is straightforward. It’s a denial of magic. Of course art does have real magic, some of it. A lot of artists are able to create that magic naturally, create that magic out of their subjectivity. Think of some of the great painters like Lisa Yuskavage and Dana Schutz—their individual styles seem to just come forth naturally. It doesn’t seem to be about artifice or effort. It’s about authenticity and the only way I can be authentic is to have no imagination.
I’m interested in what you mean when you say ‘magic.’ Can you elaborate?
I was thinking about this just the other day when I was looking at this Ashley Bickerton work—it was a great kind of image of an island welcome with Ashley and three wahines, made with astonishing technique, and surrounded by an elaborate custom-made frame—and it just seemed so wonderful, it just seemed literally incredible. My impulse was to try to drain the magic out of it and make it sensible and one way to do that was to imagine that he didn’t make it himself and had craftsmen do the ornate frames, which may or may not be true. I asked the dealer and she didn’t know. But I had this slightly twisted wish to drain the magic out of it and make it all seem rational and instrumental. Other people see the thing and they hate it, it seems vulgar and garish and they just don’t like it. Ashley is of course our very own contemporary version of Gauguin.
The two guys who run Dorian Grey Gallery, Christopher Pusey and Luis Accorsi, they came and visited my studio two months before the show and we talked a little bit and Luis wanted to call it “Cheeseburgers and Chicks” because I have a lot of paintings of women and I have a lot of paintings of cheeseburgers. I was uncomfortable as coming out about “chicks.” So I suggested “Cheeseburgers and Charms” and Luis, who is a real joker, came back with “Chickburgers.” Christopher then says that nobody buys erotica—the “chicks” were these paintings of “giantesses,” images of naked women from below, as if they’re standing over and dominating the viewer—and came back with the idea of “Indulgences.”
My first reaction was negative, because that’s an advertising campaign for Hershey’s. Then I realized for Catholics the notion of an “indulgence” is a sin you can redeem with good works, and I thought it would fit very well with commodity culture that all these indulgence the media spectacle offers to us that come with their own implicit forgiveness. You are forgiven for indulging in a McDonald’s cheeseburger. There’s sin and forgiveness within this show. A lot of the imagery is taken directly from ads the corporations are using to sell the stuff, so it’s already been designed by an ad agency, photographed by anonymous professional photographers, and generally engineered for maximum appeal to the consumer. Back in 1985 I had the show at Metro Pictures of pharmaceutical products and medicines, the idea being that a painting of a bottle of Excedrine will piggyback on a viewers’ desires to treat their headaches. Also, they target a specific corporate collection market, which is especially amusing. Metro actually managed to sell my big painting of a bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil to Johnson & Johnson.
The Dorian Grey show ended up having a lot of paintings of food in it, brownies and cookies and pancakes and stuff like that. Very humble, very common subjects for art, like a hot dog. It’s supposed to be funny, perhaps a little funnier than when Wayne Thiebaud did it. Thiebaud is a “god” and that’s one reason why my painting is called “Hot Dog Goes to Heaven.”
Several of the images come right off the box of the product. I just find it irresistible, and I’ve yet to have anyone actually notice. Strange, the image is impossibly common and yet still unidentifiable. I also love the idea that with pancake mix, it starts out as powder in a box and then somehow magically ends up as pancakes with butter and syrup and raspberries. Gotta love that, the transformation. It’s a throwback to something from my youth, Tang, that powdered orange drink that was made for the astronauts. It’s very space age.
Is the show also about today, as in, what it is that our culture wants now—I mean, these works signal something just by what the constraints of the project point to, right?
I don’t know. I don’t have any strong feelings about commodity culture. I’m certainly not about telling people what to eat, though I don’t eat any of this stuff these days, though I like to say that when I was younger I denied myself nothing, certainly not cheeseburgers. Our culture is certainly obsessed with that kind of thing, if that’s what you mean. It seems like a distraction, doesn’t it.
Are our base desires of any interest as a subject for art? They’re common. Why is that interesting? Why are pancakes interesting? Why is a cheeseburger interesting? For me it’s all about desire, and all about authenticity, but I also realize that art is an empty vessel that we fill with meaning.
Do we want art to be interesting? Is that a function of art?
Sometimes I think art isn’t serious enough. I think it should be more serious. I have an argument I like to make that art should be more polemical, and should specifically strive to participate in partisan politics— notably by attacking the Republicans. Shepard Fairey did a great thing in 2008 with his “Obama Hope” poster, but it seems now almost as if it were an accident, since for his next show he went back to dorm-room poster subjects, like pictures of Jimi Hendrix of Jean-Michel Basquiat. What I’d like to see now from the art world are artworks that target the Republican leadership, people like John Boehner, Eric Cantor and Mitch McConnell, who really are criminals.
I’m curious about this difference between depictions of desire in advertising and depictions of desire in fine art.
It’s like I’m a sell out, huh. I always used to say to my dealers, “Tell me what to do to be a success, I’ll do it.” But they don’t tell me because they don’t know.
What were you asking? What’s the difference? I don’t know. There isn’t one.
So why not be someone working in advertising?
You mean be the commercial artist? I don’t know. You can only do what you can do, so obviously, whatever talents it takes to be a commercial artist, I don’t have. I have the talents of a fine artist. If I had the talents of a commercial artist, I’d be a commercial artist. As a painter, the question is always, what is your subject, what are you going to paint, and I don’t know where all these other painters get their ideas from, but this is where I get my ideas.
Early on I was interested in the idea of being straightforward and not pretending you’re some kind of visionary or something. It’s stupid. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
What are you working on now? Another show?
Oh, I have some things in the works. I’ll have a picture or two in this group show that the painter Tom Burckhardt is organizing for Tibor de Nagy this June, it’s about a building at 404 East 14th Street that Larry Rivers owned and that was party central for artists like Kusama and Claes Oldenburg in the 1960s. The show includes stuff by the French neo-Dadaist Jean Dupuy, who organized shows there in the ‘70s, and artists like Fred Wilson and Tom, and his wife Kathy Butterly, who live there now. And me, I lived there in the 1990s.
But I have two series of figure paintings that I’m anxious to work on and show. One is based on Macy’s fashion advertising images, and images from Land’s End and even Bergdorf’s. Fashion ads are a separate language, everyone knows that, but I like especially the very middle-brow ones, where the clothes that the models are selling are very square, and the images have sexuality but it’s fairly low-key. The models smile out at you. It’s amusing I think to have a painting that selling something like, say, pajamas.
The second series is based on ads from Backpage, where young women offer “body rubs” or services as “escorts.” These also have their own language, which has developed indigenously, so to speak. It’s a language of solicitation, and one of uncertain legality. So the images both disclose and hide—the women show their bodies and disguise their identity with sunglasses, for instance, or by cropping, which is fabulous, since that’s a technique that dates back to Degas. Or the pictures are of other people altogether. The imagery is about seeing, showing, selling, and transferring all that to contemporary painting in today’s art-market-driven art world has fascinating results.
Stone-Tape Theory, Oil on linen, 2012
Billy Jacobs is an astute fellow, with razor-sharp opinions on music (and many other things). A Velvet Underground devotee, Bowie freak, rock ’n’ roll junkie. Billy is also a painter whose work I’d buy if I had the money. His paintings are the essence of desire—attractive yet elusive. I visited Billy at his studio on Wooster Street in Soho to attempt to speak about painting after staring at a computer screen all day. Here are the results.
Interview by Brandon Johnson
Last visit you had paintings on the wall of governmental conspiracy figures, Manson girls, and Area 51. What initiated these interests?
I have always been a sucker for esoteric and sensationalistic topics of 20th century history. My interest in these topics developed by hearing passing references in films or music when I was younger, and I would need to seek out the story. I always had a hard time accepting that these people or events were real, and so I would become transfixed by their images, which act as a kind of documentation or evidence of their existence. Why did I then feel the need to paint them? I am not sure if I can answer that beyond saying it was a compulsion and felt very logical. Maybe I wanted others to become as fascinated with these topics as I was?
What’s your favorite conspiracy?
I’ll go with a classic: the JFK assassination. I began “researching” it when I was about twelve, and was intrigued by the cognitive dissonance surrounding the event. The majority of people do not believe the official story, yet they still have a hard time accepting a conspiracy theory. Recognizing that dissonance at that age definitely warped my view of the authoritative voice of history. My mistrust was exacerbated by the availability of so much evidence and documentation, especially photographic. This still is pretty unique to the JFK assassination: you can actually see photographs of the alleged participants, and learn about their biographies, and theorize motives. It stands in stark contrast to many other conspiracies where the participants are just faceless government organizations and the motives are vague “national security” It was probably my introduction to abstraction as well. I would pour over the high contrast black and white photos, in which researchers would claim that a fuzzy white mass definitively proved that there was a second gunman or whatever. A conspiracy I love in terms bizarreness, is anything to do with Reptilians. I do not claim to be an expert on this conspiracy, but the gist is that there are Reptile-like humanoids that inhabit our leaders. There are two schools of thought on the Reptilian motives: one that they are in collusion with the classic Gray Aliens, and trying to enslave humans, or that the Reptilians are in conflict with Gray Aliens, who are benevolent creatures watching over us. I am so intrigued that for some people these theories are the logical way to understand the world.
Lately, you’ve been engaged with the idea of landscape, but unlike your “bird’s eye view” paintings, these are divorced from subject. What happened?
Most of the aerial paintings were of Area 51, a secret military base in Nevada. By making multiple paintings of the same subject, the process became more about exploring abstraction than just rendering a specific image. I realized that I wanted paintings that were more visually abstract, and had vaguer and more mysterious subject matter. I began painting Egyptian ruins because I know very little about their historical or cultural specifics, but have always found them visually fascinating. Ironically, about six months after I began the paintings, the revolution in Egypt occurred. It was an interesting reminder that you cannot ever escape the social/political implications of a subject matter.
After painting fairly realistic landscapes of the ruins, I became more focused on the structures themselves. I began collaging my source material, forming new structures. I was focusing on rendering these new, unreal structures, instead of just depicting a vista with a sense of space. This rebuilding simultaneously allowed for me to push the abstraction of the painting and disrupt conventions of the landscape genre, to an even greater degree than the aerial paintings.
I see Egyptian ruins as almost metaphorical to your the development of your painting. Could you be more specific about why Egyptian ruins fascinate you?
Ancient Egyptian ruins are a loaded, yet not pointed, subject matter. They embody ideas of the past, specifically bygone civilizations, mankind’s physical creations, etc., but they also imply the present because they exist today. In fact, a lot of my source material are images by Francis Frith, the 19th century photographer. Today, his black and white prints feel almost as distant as the ruins themselves. I am sure there is a colonization critique to make about Frith’s work, as he mined another culture for his work. I do not know or care about his intentions, though. I initially chose his photographs purely for visual reasons, but I like that using them inherently comments on the tendency for any era to assess past eras. However, I do not identify with Frith any more than I do with the Egyptians who made these structures. Rather, I find both cultures equally exotic because of the distance that time creates.
Something we didn’t discuss at your studio was titles – which, looking at your website, seem important. Are they important?
We probably did not discuss them because they are not really part of my process. I keep a list of potential titles and, when I am finishing up a body of work, I will impulsively assign titles to specific paintings. It is not completely free association, but it is usually a snap judgment. The phrases mostly come from songs, films, etc. and perhaps are paying homage to my artistic inspirations. I can understand why a lot of other artists leave their work untitled, but that always disappoints me. Since the viewer usually will read the title after seeing the work, it seems like such a great opportunity to create another level of tension by confirming or denying the tone, subject matter, or attitude of the work. However, I do choose series or exhibition titles with much more care, as they will often be an introduction to the work.
You brought up lying a lot in our discussion. What is it with painting and lying?
A good friend of mine has often described painting as “a lie,” so that is often on my mind. Even non-representational or conceptual painting usually has an optical or illusionistic space or aspect, which for me, is the quintessential trait of a painting. This illusion, or lie, or fantasy is the perfect complement to historical subjectivity. History is an agreed upon, somewhat inaccurate, and essentially fantasized narrative. That idea gets compounded with alternative histories: conspiracy theories, forgotten histories, myths, and other revisions. Our inability to accurately grasp events is perfectly manifested in a painting’s abstraction.
Can you explain the term “paintingland”?
The title of my first career retrospective?