James Brown, UNTITLED
I was robbed. This was a show that nobody saw or that nobody said (wrote) they saw. Talk about not getting a break with the press for a controversy less forced than "Sensation" and more diabolical than "Sanitation". The issues involved censorship from an educated elite to the janitorial staff at an exhibition held in the lobby gallery of the Cardozo School of Law, entitled "Lifer". Though the school is secular in the makeup of the student body, it is a branch of Yeshiva University, and thus Jewish by nature. The loss was not so much a blow to my already full-size ego, but rather a knock for the participating artists by way of a diminished audience to visit a competent exhibit showcasing some new talent.
"I'm a man and even I find that offensive". That telling pearl of wisdom from a member of the maintenance staff was the beginning of 6 weeks of give and take outrage over seemingly innocuous portions of a group exhibit, hardly on its face questionable enough to even roil Rudy. The piece at issue, one of many involved in skirmishes, was a drawing by James Andrew Brown that depicted an African fertility sculpture with an erect penis seen in silhouette. The image was not central to the composition and hardly noticeable unless you were an enlightened man with a heightened sense of moral trespass. When a huddled group of middle-aged guys stood lording over the drawings spread on the floor during installation, all surreptitiously talking into walkie-talkies and cell phones like junior CIA operatives in training, I could see trouble brewing. They were on the line to the superintendent of buildings for the entire Yeshiva University network of colleges. Word quickly sifted down from the hallowed halls above: the drawing was a no-no. That was the harbinger. In fact, the drawings were drafted in a rough and tumble, naive style, with a scumbled surface reminiscent of Donald Baechler in his brief pre-formulaic-decorative period.
Each and every time members of the physical plant team passed the ongoing installation, they would chortle amongst themselves with mischievous glee; a red flag for what was to come. Being the (cynical) idealist I am, I thought it was great to be stirring dialogue about art with non-artworld types. Was I wrong. The next strike occurred just after the opening and was strong enough to put a bad taste in the collective mouth of humanity. After Sanford Biggers spent hours upon hours installing his piece in full view of the building supervisors, the work was unilaterally pulled from the floor and damaged in the process, due to it being an alleged safety hazard. The floor sculpture was a linoleum tile break-dance floor screen-printed with a circular Mandala pattern meant to invoke Indian religious figures, but substituted with boombox-carrying rappers as stand-ins for Bodhisattvas. The installation had already been shunted to a corner spot in front of a permanent wall sculpture so horrid it can only be described as a miniature, homely version of Israel's Wailing Wall. Had Biggers piece been left undisturbed, it would have resembled an elegant Andre, chilled.
The manner in which the piece was ripped from the floor was akin to the ritualistic violence and mayhem in Lord of the Flies, with wild-eyed janitors replacing mean-streaked kids. As recounted by my liaison in the press department of the school, the men circled around the work and then with fervor and determination as though participants in a holy fatwa, proceeded to tear the tiles from their moorings attached to the carpeted lobby floor. When informed of the episode, I thought perhaps it was time to cut losses and fold the show prematurely. The next day, I was summoned to the dean's office. Did I mention that I graduated from the aforementioned law school back in '87, hoping never to return and certainly not expecting to be summoned before the Dean like an errant school boy caught with a spit ball between my lips?
The Dean relented and agreed to have the work reinstalled at the expense of the school and promising no further gratuitous acts of art terrorism. At this point, I alerted the NY Observer's Jeffrey Hogrefe, with a view towards coverage for the show's woes, in order to increase attendance, muffled by the unorthodox (orthodox) locale of the spectacle. He was indeed interested: A dialogue ensued with members of Cardozo's staff being interviewed, and culminating in a fact check for a story. Low and behold, the article never appeared, nor did the byline of Jeffrey Hogrefe ever surface in the paper from that time onward. I am probably not much more bitter or paranoid than the next person, certainly I am no Peter Fend, but this was the beginning of a spate of bad luck that has not relented since.
The Yeshiva in-house newspaper, The Commentator, did a story indicating that when certain professors passed by a video by Aida Ruilova, they were so incensed by the content they would literally pull the plug on the TV, which meant the screen remained blank for most of the exhibit. These are supposed legal scholars; uh, First Amendment ring a bell? The offending video was a short clip replicating the feel of a low-budget horror film depicting, in one scene, a clothed woman on a stairway jiggling up and down, body partially in view, with an inauspicious repetitive soundtrack. Somehow, this was interpreted as evincing "violence to women". If anything, the disagreeable soundtrack, which was both off-putting and impossible to stop thinking about, was violence to the senses. Another argument ensued and I was assured the work would remain plugged in for the duration of the show. Fun, fun, fun.
As much as the building folks balked and the professors professed their displeasure, the kids attending the law school kvetched about what they perceived as art demeaning to woman. Josephine Meckseper did a wallpaper installation of a cropped image of a woman's bust in a bikini top holding a gun pointed at the viewer, on silver paper, with glitter paintings on canvas overlaid on top of the wall-covering. Less successfully, she displayed some toy guns covered in glitter and placed in vitrines. My arguments to the Yeshiva newspaper in defense of the work were as follows: "Perhaps the artist is reclaiming an object often used against woman and others, making it into another fashion accessory, for which it has already become," and that guns are "fetishist objects obsessed over by many members of society and that the artist is merely viewing with a critical eye society's love/hate relationship toward violence, and in particular violence toward women". Also, with regard to the bodacious bikini clad boobs, I went on: "if our society mainly views woman in such a manner, when a woman herself turns the gaze back on us, why would it be disturbing? Have you seen the way most men view woman?" What I failed to mention was that I would also maintain that the gun pieces were kind of tired and not altogether that interesting to look at.
The school's policy of closing early on Fridays for the Sabbath and for keeping doors locked for virtually anything that might smack of a potentially religiously significant holiday didn't help matters. The title "Lifer" referred to the condition of being involved professionally in the artworld, or any other vocation for that matter, which can seem like an unavoidable sentence (of misery). The experience of this exhibit vividly cemented the notion.
Last and least my work, which surprisingly made an appearance in the show. Spawned by a meeting with an African American banker with a sideline as a jazz musician who mentioned at his first paid gig, a wedding, he even played the song . . . and he went on to hum the tune of the Jewish folk song "Havah Negilah". With a studio rock musician I recorded a heavy metal version of the song, with "nah, nah–nah, nah, nah, nah, nah" substituting for words, in an attempt to update and universalize that all-time crowd pleaser of a tune. In the space were situated two decks with headphones placed on study tables in the lobby. During the opening, I buttonholed professor Barry Scheck, the famous DNA bashing member of OJ's dream team, who incompatibly virtually developed the groundbreaking use of DNA testimony to free the wrongfully convicted with his Freedom Project at Cardozo. And why do lawyers enjoy such exemplary reputations? After a couple of drinks, I convinced him to don the headphones and give a listen to my tape. His head turned sideways the way a dog does when not comprehending something; only in New York, kids, only in New York.
Kenny Schachter
New York, New York 2000
