Skulls & Bones

I see that in two New York art shows Jenny Holzer and the rest have taken some kind of lesson from the Aztecs. "Death hangs in the air," NY Times art critic Roberta Smith writes. "Or, more accurately, on the walls."

But to be frank about it, the art of Holzer et al. is put to shame by the death-obsessed thingies on display at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City's Chapultepec Park.

Maybe it's just a coincidence: The other day I was at the museum, where this stunning Aztec skull caught my attention. (How could it not?) No encrusted diamonds per Damien Hirst, but a helluva lot more expressive. (There were plenty of other masterly pre-Columbian thingies, so many Aztec, Olmec, Mayan and Teotihuac thingies that it was hard to stop taking pictures.)

Meanwhile, now that I'm back from Mex City, I also had a chance to look in again on the show of collages by Mary Beach and Claude Pelieu. (Scheduled to close yesterday, it's been extended through November.) So here's another coincidence: Beach put pants on a diamond-encrusted skull way back in 2001. On paper, of course, but six years before Hirst's full-fledged encrustation.

(Crossposted at HuffPo)

Postscript: A reader writes:

Damien Hirst is the kind of guy who could have been a great artist if he'd pre-existed the mass media. I think he has decent ideas but he deploys them in the most superficial way possible (without thereby attaining the depth of Warhol -- a paradox that would take me half the morning to try to explain).

Every morning when I come to work, I pass by a teaching skeleton that's been tossed on a cart. It's half broken and somebody has hung a blue hair net over a protruding bit of backbone. This ignominious figure probably has more to teach about death than Hirst and co: in death we're discarded and quite likely mocked as well.

PPS: Oct. 23 -- Maybe I spoke too soon. Here, via this week's New Yorker art listings, are two persuasive images from the group show "I Am as You Will Be" currently at Cheim & Read:

They have a certain je ne sais quoi. Nyet? And, I might add, the title of the show is very William S. Burroughs.

October 14, 2007 1:51 PM |

Categories:

Me Elsewhere

'WILD SIDE' STILL ROCKS 

Nelson Algren was one of the great American authors of the 20th century, it is no exaggeration to say, and among the most neglected. Consider his underrated classic, "A Walk on the Wild Side." The title -- popularized and co-opted as an idiomatic phrase by Hollywood and Madison Avenue (institutions Algren loathed) -- is familiar to most anyone who speaks English or knows Lou Reed's lyrics. But the novel itself? Hardly.

BUSTER KEATON REVISITED 
Buster Keaton: Tempest in a Flat Hat is not a biography. "This book is merely a fan's notes," Edward McPherson writes in the introduction, although his publisher ignores the disclaimer and calls it a biography on the cover. In fact, the book is a bit of both, a difficult combination to bring off unless you're David Thomson, who set the standard with Rosebud, his penetrating rumination on the life and career of Orson Welles, which was nothing if not a distillation of every obsessive thought he ever had about the myth and the man and all his movies.
LAUREN BACALL, STILL SALTY AT 80 
When Lauren Bacall writes that her singing voice ranges "somewhere between B minus sharp and outer space," she's being candid and funny. It's not every stage star with two Tony Awards for best actress in a musical whose vocal talent offers so little promise. (OK, Harvey Fierstein excepted.) Still less would one admit it.
THE STARS ACCORDING TO BOGDANOVICH 
Peter Bogdanovich's superb collection of movie-star profiles and interviews -- a sequel to Who the Devil Made It, his interviews of top film directors -- begins with an affectionate tale about Orson Welles that reminds us just how intimate the author's connection to Hollywood's greatest has been. But contrary to what we've come to expect from dime-a-dozen celebrities and celebrity interviews not worth two cents, the tale avoids bromidic egotism and journalistic platitudes.
SAMMY'S WHITE DREAMS 
Four decades ago Lenny Bruce sentenced Sammy Davis Jr. to "30 years in Biloxi," stripping him of "his Jewish star" and "his religious statue of Elizabeth Taylor." Now we have two new biographies of Davis that spring him from ridicule, if not from doubts about his legacy, and restore a measure of dignity to a black entertainer whose huge fame and success never overcame his devout wish -- indeed his lifelong effort -- to be white.
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