SEND A FISTFUL of youngish art-world denizens off to fete an exhibition on a Greek isle in August and the term “opening” no longer seems appropriate. But what to call it, this sunny brew of beach beds and sweet wine, artists and curators and writers? Junket, retreat, vacation—bliss?
Lest I seduce you, disloyally, with tales of boat trips and tanned biennial directors, first a quick clarification of the context. Although it’s now the site, thanks to Art Space Pythagorion, of a laudable annual exhibition series—Harun Farocki in 2012, Slavs and Tatars in 2013, Nevin Aladağ in 2014—Samos is not how contemporary art typically reacts to saltwater. Samos is not Jeffrey Deitch admiring Matthew Barney smear petroleum jelly in Dakis Joannou’s slaughterhouse. Not VIP rooms by Audi and hors d’oeuvres by Rolex. Not glittering yachts and infinity edges. Samos, my Greek friends report, is not Mykonos, not Santorini, not Rhodes. In other words, Samos is so not where you’d expect a Munich entrepreneur, Kurt Schwarz, and his Greek-born wife, Chiona Xanthopoulou-Schwarz, to plant a new art institution.
Off the beach and into Pythagorion, via silver chartered bus, we went Monday night for the opening of Aladağ’s “Borderline,” a rumination on migration, the murkiness of cultural identity, the malleability of boundaries, and, of course, borders of any and all kinds. Such themes have been on the mind and in the work of the Turkish-born, Germany-raised artist for some time now, so there was less surprise upon encountering the display than a certain incitement to reconsider. To reconsider the water in which I had just swum, the backdrop to my hotel room’s picture-perfect view, the imperceptible geopolitical theater that beach chairs are front-row seats for on this part of the island, on this part of the earth.
Left: Poet Quinn Latimer reading. Right: ARTER assistant exhibitions director Başak Doğa Temür.
At their nearest points, Samos and Turkey are barely 4,500 feet apart. “So close you can discern the cars going up and down the hills,” as ASP curator Marina Fokidis described the distance to the Turkish mainland. It’s tempting to call them close, but they are only close if by close we also mean nonproximity, disjunction, fissure. This rift—one that facilitates weighty distinctions like “Turkey” and “Greece,” “Asia” and “Europe,” “East” and “West”—is the space from which Aladağ’s newly commissioned work issues. Only because there is not quite here could fifteen wooden coils be wrapped with black fishing rope the length of that gap and then permit, as sculptural installation (Beeline), political and cartographic questions to pass through an aesthetic prism. For Borderline, a video work that gives the show its title, Aladağ navigates—by boat, aided by GPS—along the seam dividing the two countries. There is no story, only the record of an appearance and disappearance of a line, of the “real” border rendered, momentarily, by the boat’s quickly dispersing backwash.
It was summer, it was Greece, so naturally most fled the darkened galleries for the breezy, playground-adjacent patio. It was there that organizers had promised something that might once have been called a poetry reading—had one or another recent “turn” not mandated every art-funded utterance don a Pedagogy badge—but was now being billed as a “poetic lecture.” Lecture, thankfully, is not what poet Quinn Latimer did. She drew in rather than thinned out the crowd, crooned over rambunctious children’s shrieks and their parents’ shhs, and concluded with an ecstatically recursive accounting of oh so many bounded categories that were being scuttled by all of us, by the hour. “Border of cult / Border of leisure / Border of culture / Border of labor.” And on and on and on.
The next day’s gap in the art itinerary left abundant opportunity to test just how soft the wall dividing work and play was. While many had come to Samos with specific duties—n.b.k.’s Sophie Goltz, Tate Modern’s Andrea Lissoni, ARTER’s Başak Doğa Temür, and art-agenda’s Filipa Ramos were running workshops for ASP’s curatorial fellows; Künstlerhaus Stuttgart’s Adnan Yildiz, curator Chus Martínez, and writer Ingo Niermann were participating in Wednesday evening’s roundtable—in this maritime barter economy, a couple of hours of speaking was trading for a few seaside days, and no one was feeling guilty about the exchange rate. By Tuesday afternoon, most everyone had fled south, by boat, to the barbell-shaped Samiopoula to commune with wild goats, the tiny island’s only permanent residents, and to down what felt like the thirtieth and thirty-first grilled fish in two days.
By night, all were back at Glicorisa Beach communing, cash-bar assisted, on a hotel terrace perfect for—well, you know. Choreographer Alexandra Bachzetsis was the first to show her stuff. Then Alkis, the resort’s star cabana boy (does a ripped, barrel-chested thirty-year-old still count as a “boy”?), showed his, and anyone still seated now appeared more prude than prudent. Once the sound system was ours, right before midnight, Documenta king-in-waiting Adam Szymczyk offered a four-song set—New Order, Joy Division, the Smiths, A Certain Ratio—that ignited all kinds of wild speculation across the dance floor. What does this mean for the next Documenta? was the question posed, with varying urgency, to me by not one, not two, but three artists—each trying, clairvoyantly, to read the back-to-back British postpunk as if curatorial tea leaves.
Wednesday’s archaeological tour had seemed like the ideal preface to that evening’s talks, centered as they were on the symbolism of East and West in Europe. Yet the guide’s violent chatter about wars, piracy, pillaging, and plundering was discordant with the mood that had settled in by day three. To each impassioned nonquestion that consumed the postroundtable Q&A and sent more than a few eyes rolling, Martínez, admirable show stealer, responded with a brainy graciousness. “Nice is the new cool,” Temür announced to me on our walk to dinner, pushing back against the idea that only the toughest curators survive. Composure, too, was the vibe down at my end of the table. To one side of me sat the perpetually understated Niermann, and to the other the always-on Yildiz, who was not only more serene that eve but was also, I had noticed, abstaining from the beef. “Meat makes me aggressive,” he confessed.
What had made everyone so tranquil, so soft? The sun? The art? The air? Who cares. Here’s to hoping that a bit of Samos calm survives September’s hectic openings.
“EVERYONE IS COMING UP with a creative excuse to hang out and make art on Fire Island,” artist Lee Maida told me as we watched the tide roll in.
And why not? Two of Fire Island’s hamlets—Cherry Grove and the neighboring Pines—are gay oases with a storied artistic lineage. Roughly three hours from NYC by train and ferry, Fire Island offers both respite and raunchiness for queers and comrades. Oscar Wilde, W. H. Auden, Robert Mapplethorpe, and Peter Hujar all summered and made work there. And over the past four years, programs such as the Fire Island Artist Residency (FIAR), the New York Performance Artists Collective (NYPAC), and BOFFO have built a flamboyant infrastructure for creative types.
Four recent days testified to the growth of Fire Island’s cultural scene. It all started on a Thursday in early August with a Nicole Eisenman lecture for FIAR—though in true Fire Island fashion, it was preceded by a little drama. The Meat Rack—a wooded sexual cruising ground that separates Cherry Grove from The Pines—had caught fire, sending black smoke billowing over the ocean. “A burning post-blow-job cigarette might wipe out the Meat Rack!” yelled a local. In Cherry Grove, where FIAR is located, the mostly lesbian group of volunteer firefighters sped along the wooden walks in service vehicles—the only sign of automobiles in the otherwise car-free community—eventually containing the blaze.
Unfazed, Eisenman went ahead with her talk: “I packed this one full of queer signifiers for that asshole Putin,” Eisenman described It Is So, her painting referencing Eve Fowler and Ulrike Müller that’s currently on view at the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg for Manifesta 10. The striking work, depicting an ambiguously gendered pair caught in the act, definitely resonated with the below-the-belt-friendly audience.
The crowded lecture took place in the Cherry Grove Community House, a newly landmarked building that in 1948 became the first theater continually producing work for a gay audience. Drinks and a drawing game with Eisenman followed at the Holly House, where FIAR’s monthlong residency takes place. FIAR’s makeshift live/work space is more beach bungalow than artist studio, but living on top of one another seems to encourage close relations among the group. Rihanna rave remixes from the adjacent Ice Palace bar wafted into the living room as the residents and Eisenman swapped sketches and talked “gay utopias.” The dynamic that FIAR’s cofounders Chris Bogia and Evan Garza foster among the visiting artists and the queer artists-in-residence is a strength of their program.
“Nicole’s visit was a highlight,” Garza gushed. “But girl, you should have seen Rashaad Newsome when he was here doing vogue drops on the Cherry Grove pier!”
Studio visits on Friday with FIAR’s five residents—RJ Messineo, Dana DeGiulio, Jonah Groeneboer, Sam Ashby, and Ginger Brooks Takahashi—proved fruitful. Ashby had been splicing together footage of Fire Island’s filmic history into a “narrativistic essay portrait of the island.” Titles shot in the area include Andy Warhol’s 1965 My Hustler, Wakefield Poole’s 1971 The Boys in the Sand (an early mainstream gay porn flick), Derek Jarman’s 1974 Fire Island, and Norman René’s 1989 Longtime Companion. Wandering deer, outdoor showers, and bathing-suit tan lines are common tropes throughout. From early physique posturing in the 1950s to the “gay golden age” of the 1970s to the impact of AIDS, Ashby’s project explores shifts in queer identity over the past half century and promises to be an art-fag crowd-pleaser.
When the topic turned to FIAR’s explicit mandate for queer-identified artists, the residents were in full support. “I get better reads on my work from queer artists and curators,” Messineo said. “I think there is a felt reality there, an intuitive understanding between form and content being one and the same.” DeGiulio seconded: “I often feel myself outnumbered; it’s been great to lose that and expect to be understood because of the shared fluency of language we seem to have out here.”
DeGiulio also waxed poetic about the “straight-up diversity of confident bodies” in Cherry Grove, where body-positive beach nudity is on prideful display. (I counted four leopard-print banana hammock speedos within as many hours.) Events for the bear community and the black community brought additional contingents together on the beach on Saturday, when much of the island moved slowly after the antics of Friday night’s popular underwear party. “Gay men are very sentimental about their jock straps!” laughed artist K8 Hardy, an alum of BOFFO’s residency in the Pines.
If Cherry Grove reflects queer diversity, the Pines is a hotbed for bodies burnished by David Barton and Equinox gyms. “Your shoulders are so chic, so gay ’70s” was the oddest (best?) compliment I heard over the weekend. An impromptu Saturday pool party at dealer Brent Sikkema’s well-appointed home in the Pines drew architect Charles Renfro and Fabian Bernal, founder of NYPAC, whose recent programming included Gerard & Kelly’s The Frank O’Hara Memorial Library. O’Hara died after being hit by a dune buggy on the beach in Fire Island; the memorial library is a mobile unit in his honor, with circulating texts in tribute to the poet who wrote “A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island.” (In a related gesture, the Frank O’Hara Fire Island Pines Poetry Festival earlier in the summer featured readings from Eileen Myles, Ariana Reines, Rickey Laurentiis, and Edmund White.)
Pool party at the BOFFO Art Camp Block Party Benefit (Photo: Marcelo Krasilcic)
Saturday evening brought the weekend’s flashiest event, the BOFFO Fire Island Art Camp Block Party Benefit. Coordinated by BOFFO founder Faris Al-Shathir, the fete spread across three extravagant homes on a boardwalk lined with flyers from the residency’s recent sessions with LaFawndah and Raul de Nieves, among others. Nightlife fixture Frankie Sharp DJed by the pool, which quickly became host to a skinny-dipping bacchanal. Let’s just say I saw “more” of the gay New York art world in that hour of debauchery than I will during a year of openings. BOFFO’s beachfront lobster dinner after was surely lost on many of the guests, causalities of the Tanqueray-sponsored open bar.
“Last night I think I made out with half of the gay artists from the city,” one reveler confessed the next morning. “I hope they don’t remember come September.”
With its “sunset musical performances” and movie screenings, BOFFO’s model of artistic incubator advertised as discotheque is an effective lure for the party-friendly Pines crowd. BOFFO’s resident artists, Malik Gaines and Alexandro Segade, kept up their creative collaborations. Along with Robbie Acklen, the trio used historical Fire Island photographs by PaJaMa—a collective comprising Paul Cadmus, Jared French, and Margaret French—as a jumping off point for their own scenic tableaux.
“Fire Island seemed like a great place to make work exploring multiple affective relationships,” Gaines said.
“Three-ways, basically,” said Segade.
By Sunday, the Cherry Grove Art Show brought a calm conclusion to the week’s festivities. The event was produced by the Arts Project of Cherry Grove (APCG), which, founded in 1948, is the longest running arts organization on Fire Island. Amid the recent surge of creative arrivistes, APCG exemplifies the local community’s long-standing commitment to the arts. Chaired by Dennis McConkey, the art show featured booths by approximately fifteen artists of scenic landscapes and primarily Fire Island–sited work.
These days, even strung-out circuit-party queens would find it hard to ignore the recent cultural energy on Fire Island. Now when walking down Fire Island Boulevard, pasted alongside flyers for Shady Bingo and sex parties are posters advertising visiting artist lectures and performances. “If you haven’t founded an arts nonprofit on Fire Island, then you’re a nobody out here,” joked DAP vice president Alex Galan. Sounds like utopia to me.
THE HOUSE OF EXTRAVAGANZA lies at the end of a narrow lane that slopes up toward the volcano. “You made it,” Fiorucci Art Trust director Milovan Farronato greeted me shortly after I arrived on the opening evening of the ten-day Volcano Extravaganza festival. Getting to the remote Aeolian island of Stromboli from Saint Petersburg in a day certainly felt like an achievement. But losing a night of sleep seemed a small price to pay to hang out with fellow lotus eaters on the terrace of the whitewashed villa at the foot of the volcano.
Lest I forgot this was meant to be work, someone motioned me to take a seat inside a small projection room with a low-hanging chandelier-like sculpture casting shadows on the wall. I was handed a pair of 3-D glasses. Even once I worked out how to use them, Trisha Baga and Jessie Stead’s “spaghetti western,” filmed on Stromboli in the run-up to the festival, was a bit of a blur. The anguished harmonica sounds, a train chugging along, gunshots, a horse neighing didn’t quite tally with the black sand, the lava rocks, and the bare-chested, bearded women lounging about in cowboy hats (Baga chief among them). “I don’t do serious,” said Baga in an interview with the online NTS Radio.
The mood was more somber yet every bit as eerie during the ambient noise performance that followed, which featured siblings Celia and Sam Hempton playing electric guitar with a sawed-off drumstick and copper pipe against the backdrop of the cloud-capped volcano, perfectly framed by an agave, prickly pears, and other garden shrubs. At times the throbbing noise became indistinguishable from the sporadic rumblings of the volcano. Nottingham-based guitarist Sam Hempton of the former drone-pop quintet Six by Seven used a range of pedals to feed back certain sounds, including ones recorded on a bus journey in Hackney, and a beautiful loop meant to convey the idea of freezing lava in the entrancing final sequence.
Lia Haraki's The RRR Show.
Volcano-electromagnetic effects have as peculiar an impact on electrical equipment as on people, according to Celia Hempton. Three days prior to the concert, the neck of Hempton’s guitar snapped at the top; the artist eventually resigned herself to bolting the broken parts together in a delicate operation in which a group of people had to “huddle round it like surgeons” at the villa, after the local carpenters failed to fix it using clamps and glue.
Undeterred by the mishap, the intrepid artist ascended the three-thousand-foot-tall mountain carrying a box of brushes on her back to paint in short bursts, in full view of the erupting volcano. The resulting series of volcanic paintings, titled “Ejecta,” bear scratch marks from falling debris, and will be shown at the Gwangju Biennale next week.
“Stromboli has a touch of hell about it,” Tabitha Thurlu-Bangura neatly summed it up in the inaugural NTS Radio broadcast from the island, part of the overall “Forget Amnesia” concept. Curated by Farronato in consultation with artist Haroon Mirza, the festival’s fourth edition emphasized experimental sound, electronic music, DJing, and, yes, clubbing, its title riffing on the legendary “Amnesia” club in Ibiza, which started life in 1976 as the “Workshop of Forgetfulness.”
Next morning, as some of us gathered back at the House of Extravaganza for the first part of Cypriot choreographer Lia Haraki’s Record Replay React workshop, there was talk of boat traffic to and from the island being suspended due to weather. While surely a logistical nightmare for the organizers, the prospect of being stranded on Stromboli for a few more days, practicing “forgetfulness,” was not without appeal.
The villa used to belong to Marina Abramović, and I’d like to think that at certain points during the two-day workshops—a blend of group meditation, standup comedy, automatic writing, movement, and voice exercises in preparation for individual performances drawing on autobiographical materials—we did Marina proud. My favorite moment, at the start of day two, came in the shape of a trancelike state, partly induced by continually moving from volcano- to seaside, mirroring each others’ movements, at first in line and then in pairs, and partly by a rhythmic sound track cooked up for us then and there by Haraki’s sound designer, Christos Hadjichristou.
The workshops turned us into insiders sitting in on Haraki’s performance, The RRR Show, staged in the garden later that night. Made in collaboration with Hadjichristou, the multilayered show rested on the technical possibilities offered by the loop station that the artist would activate with her foot to “record,” “replay,” and “react” to the sound of her own voice. The words “Wait,” “Stay,” “Wait a sec,” “Hang on,” “Here, or here?,” “Like this, or this?” returned with each new cycle of repetition, variously embodied through movement and gesture. Conceived as a dialogue among the performer’s present, past, and future selves, The RRR Show played havoc with temporal markers.
The next morning I sat on a bed of ropes, nursing a hangover after Eddie Peake, Prem Sahib, and George Henry Longly’s Anal House Meltdown party and inhaling fumes from the back of a ferry bound for Naples. As Stromboli receded into the distance, Louise Bourgeois’s words inscribed in capitals on a handkerchief rang in my head: I HAVE BEEN TO HELL AND BACK AND LET ME TELL YOU, IT WAS WONDERFUL.
Left: The scene at Anal House Meltdown. Right: George Henry Longly and Chisenhale Gallery director Polly Staple at Anal House Meltdown.
IN JAPAN, Yokohama’s a city that’s stayed ahead of the curve. We were told in our tour bus that Japan’s first-ever train line connected Yokohama and Tokyo. The newfangled transportation was so baffling that (absent any other protocol) the train’s first passengers politely left their shoes in neat rows on the Yokohama station platform—only to find themselves in Tokyo, twenty miles away, parted from their footwear.
Apparently, Yokohama’s progressive leanings extend to the realm of the art festival. While it seems that other major biennials and triennials will stick with the imported star-curator model until kingdom come, the Yokohama Triennale’s organizers took a bold step this time around, making artist Yasumasa Morimura this edition’s artistic director. Famous for his self-portraits dressed up as everyone from Marilyn to van Gogh, Morimura has a relatively short curatorial resume. Which, in the context, was a point in his favor: As the organizing committee put it, the 2011 earthquake and ensuing disasters marked “a great change in the Japanese consciousness,” which had people seeking out “the flexible concepts and views of artists.”
Flexible indeed. Morimura gave the triennial a theme (“oblivion”) inspired by a book (Ray Bradbury’s Farhenheit 451), and divided work by sixty-five artists into eleven chapters, each with a header and poetic explanation. Chapter Eight, for example, read: “We are helpless wanderers drifting between the waves of life and death, and the flashing light of the actual slide show.”
Left: Artist Residency Tokyo's Johnnie Walker and Kafka. Right: Blum & Poe Tokyo director Ashley Rawlings.
On opening day, we were all handed special-edition bottles of triennial water. Good thing, too: In between rainy season and typhoon season, this was the hottest time of the year. At the Yokohama Museum of Art—the triennial’s main venue—the central AC was on full blast, the edifice’s granite network of terraces and steps cool to the touch. A crowd both international and Japanese wandered through a labyrinthine route that doubled back and forth, winding past rickety, mechanized musical instruments by Yuko Mohri and then snaking around a lectern, where a queue of people waited to flip through the pages of a Taschen-size book by the group Moe Nai Ko To Ba that contained historical texts whose authors dealt with censorship and, of course, oblivion.
We navigated past giant red chairs and a monstrous clacking gavel—where a collective called the Temporary Foundation will stage a mock trial of sorts—and followed an elevator down to one of Gregor Schneider’s unsettling environments: German Angst, a dim, windowless concrete basement where bolder visitors could don a pair of galoshes and stomp about in a shallow pit of mud. (More unsettling, to some, was the prospect of plunging their feet into rubber boots that had borne the sweaty hooves of so many before them.)
Everyone regrouped at a midday press conference, where one critic in the audience tried linking the fact that Morimura was an artist to the triennial’s theme of oblivion. “You’re an artist; your work might be forgotten. So there’s a sense of crisis there. I wonder if that’s your starting point?”
But Morimura, it became clear, saw oblivion as something to be embraced as much as feared. “Some people speak in a loud voice, so we tend to focus on those people. But there’s also the world of silence and whispers,” he said.
And added: “There’s a huge amount of failure. We want to say it’s not meaningless to look at these things.”
No doubt that philosophy fueled his fondness for Michael Landy’s gargantuan Art Bin, given pride of place at the center of the museum’s atrium, dwarfing all around it. Landy’s piece (first shown in the South London Gallery) is a receptacle for other artists to dump their unwanted creations, and, one by one, as a crowd took photos, local artists processed up a narrow two-flight staircase to toss out their canvases, photos, and sculptural appendages. Morimura himself led the way by discarding a giant photograph of himself dressed as Frida Kahlo.
Why’d he choose to dump that piece? “It’s so big,” he explained to me lugubriously, “When I ask places to contain it, they refuse—which is why it’s a very sad piece of work.”
A couple hours later, mourning gave way to celebration a fifteen-minute walk away at the triennial’s other main venue, Shinko Pier. There, as faint gusts of river breeze seeped into the exhibition hall, a spectacle-seeking crowd had gathered around artist Miwa Yanagi’s latest project. At first glance, it was a hot-pink RV of some kind. But as a bass beat blared over loudspeakers, the trailer began to morph. Powered by hydraulics, its innards unfolded into multiple panels decorated with lotus petals and fluorescent tendrils.
Yanagi will eventually use the mobile stage as a backdrop for her theatrical adaptation of Wings of the Sun, a novel by Nakagami Kenji about three old pilgrims. For now, no elderly travelers appeared on stage. Instead, there was one very young, very limber pole dancer, who strutted forth and performed for the crowd.
Later that day, familiar faces from all corners of the art world gathered beneath the chandeliers of the Yokohama Royal Park Hotel hotel, competing for space with an elaborate buffet-style cornucopia that would shame a Carnival cruise. Among those in attendance were M+ director Lars Nittve and Johnnie Walker, who runs Artist Residency Tokyo. Ashley Rawlings, director of the new Blum & Poe space opening next month in Harajuku, was impressed by the triennial. “Large group shows in Japan often tend toward being painfully didactic or utterly vague,” he said. “But this show has a clear, coherent vision.”
In the hotel lobby, I chatted briefly with artist Wim Delvoye, who revealed that it was his first time showing in Japan. (He’d gone in 2000 to propose Cloaca, his infamous shit machine, but couldn’t rouse much interest in it.) “I remember people were depressed in 2000,” he said. “Not so today.”
Not so, at least, this night: The festivities gathered steam, artists like Zhang Enli and Gregor Schneider joined in, and everyone moved from the hotel venue on to the blue-lit Seamen’s Club, where the party grew wild—or so I was told. What do I know? All the journalists, lured away by the promise of okonomiyaki, or Japanese pizza, had found themselves corralled back onto a bus promptly at eight.
If you close your eyes and squint, it would almost seem like the professional curator’s grown démodé in Japan. First there was Morimura, an artist, directing the triennial. And then, over an hour north, Ryuichi Sakamoto had guest-directed the art festival that kicked off this month in the bucolic city of Sapporo. A full-time curator Sakamoto is not. Many know his name from his electronic music group Yellow Magic Orchestra, as well as his scores for The Sheltering Sky and The Last Emperor.
Unfortunately, because of his ongoing battle with throat cancer, Sakamoto had mostly weighed in from afar. Still, his sensibility was everywhere. “He’s very serious,” said someone on the curatorial team. “He likes people like Beuys and Kiefer and serious ’80s art. He doesn’t, for example, like toy-like things.” Indeed, as part of the festival, the Hokkaido Museum of Modern Art featured—count ’em—three works by Kiefer. (“Shit happens,” one grump said.) But there was lighter fare, too. At the cacophonous “Internet Black Market” (which had the feel of a school science fair) young artists sold various objects and in-person services related to the Internet. One performer in costume promised to be a “physicalized” version of a Twitter follower: For a handful of yen, he followed you—literally. Around the room. Repeating things you said.
In his proposal surrounding the festival’s bipartite theme, “City and Nature,” Sakamoto wrote, “Issues such as energy and art, and urban agriculture and art defy easy solutions.” He’d wanted to “keep the remains of coalmines as works of art,” and hoped, specifically, to get Kiefer to preserve the coal-mining facilities in the neighboring town of Yubari. For years, Yubari’s economy had depended on coalmining. But the industry collapsed. (More recently, residents pinned the economic hopes for their city on a fruit: The Yubari melon can fetch top dollar at auction.)
All of this probably has something to do with why the most poignant moment in the festival was an exhibition featuring the scores of composer Akira Ifukube. Ifukube, a Sapporo native, famously wrote the sound track to the very first Godzilla movie. As we examined his original scores through dimly lit vitrines installed in a musty neo-baroque building, you could almost hear the sound of the original Gojira’s cri de coeur. I’ve always loved Godzilla, who reminds me of my cat. They’re entirely innocent. If anyone’s ever, ever at fault, it’s never them. It’s us.
We were told that Sapporo, meanwhile, was once mountains. It was humans who leveled the terrain into the flat city it is now.
“ALL OF THESE BIENNALES boast of being a forum for the exchange of ideas,” curator Adrian Bojenoiu, cofounder of the Mobile Biennale, reasoned over a Bellini and a tomato-mozzarella skewer on the steps of the Museum of Fine Arts in Craiova, Romania. “We thought to ourselves, if that’s the case, why not just put the emphasis on the ideas? Why even bother with the exhibition part?”
We had gathered to toast the launch of the Mobile Biennale, whose “emphasis on ideas” translated to packing a bus with around thirty potential idea-havers, -sharers, and -negaters for a seven-day tour across what some may see as the armpit—albeit a well-formed, beautifully groomed, entirely desirable armpit—of Romania. The biennial’s founders, Bojenoiu and artist Alexandru Niculescu, had earned street cred as the minds behind Club Electroputere, an artist-run space based in the old cultural center of a factory that once produced locomotive engines. While many artists may have decamped to Bucharest or Cluj, Bojenoiu and Niculescu chose to double down in Craiova, a town whose substantial artistic legacy (it is home to some of the only early Constantin Brâncuşi works to remain in the country) is being mined for a revival of sorts, thanks to the race for the 2021 European Cultural Capital. According to Vlad Drăgulescu, director of Craiova’s campaign, “Everyone writes off Craiova as the underdog in the competition”—which includes frontrunner Cluj, Home of Painters—“but if you look at the criteria, category by category, Craiova comes out on top. Especially when you add the surrounding area of Oltenia!”
The Mobile Biennale would take a closer look (and a gazillion Instagrams) at what Drăgulescu was talking about during its weeklong exploration of Oltenia. Club Electroputere had tried a beta version of the trip two years ago that attempted to cover all of Romania. “That was way too intense,” Niculescu confessed. “Romania is a big country.” Oltenia was a much more accommodating size, with a stunning mix of topographies—from the lush, boat-lined bays of the Danube, to the watermelon-bearing flatlands, to the pristine Transalpina, running along the ridges of the Carpathian mountains—all within a two- or three-hour drive.
The biennial’s championing of “Mobility” may have deemphasized place conceptually, but that didn’t mean the participants—all either invited or selected through an open call—didn’t have every opportunity to play the tourist. The itinerary included a photo op at the Iron Gate II (which sounds straight out of Westeros but is in fact a hydroelectric dam); a pilgrimage to Brâncuşi’s Endless Column at Târgu Jiu; and a brief respite at a chalet in Turcinești, where Niculescu and Dan Vezentan’s Cannibal Disco party featured a human-shaped mirror-ball roasting on a spit over red neon “flames.” Along the way, there were monasteries, mammoth caves, and hot springs galore, not to mention—crucially—outposts to replenish supplies of alcohol and cigarettes. And yes, there were the nightly presentations, more or less formal, though the real conversations raged over bottles of red wine and roadside tuică. Topics skittered from what it might mean for an artist to take responsibility for his or her work to whether an artist could ever effectively comment on another culture to who was left behind on a mountaintop (a conversation I missed, being one of the ones left behind on a mountaintop).
The first major stop was Port Cultural Cetate, a former agricultural port on the Danube, recently transformed into a lovely holiday haven and artist residency by its new owner, celebrity dissident, poet, writer, and sometime vintner Mircea Dinescu. “The whole country has seen this house,” curator Raluca Velisar explained. “Dinescu hosts a talk show where he invites guests here and cooks a meal for them.” “Like Martha Stewart?” ventured Vilnius-based curator Juste Jonutyte. Velisar responded with a wry smile: “Not exactly.”
That evening would culminate in a midnight buffet served dockside to the sounds of Impex, a trio fronted by Dinescu’s violin-wielding son, Andrei Dinescu, who himself is best known as a member of Steaua de Mare (“Starfish”), popular for their electronica spin on Romanian folk music. First, however, we paid a call to Cetate Arts Danube, the neighboring artist residency program launched by Joana Grevers, collector, patron, and founder of Bucharest’s 418 Gallery. The sprawling estate had belonged to her family before communism. By the time Grevers was able to buy it back, many of the buildings had fallen into disrepair, including the magnificent stables, whose collapsed roof had allowed plants to colonize the building. Still, Grevers had managed to retool a hulking barn as the “Cetate Atelier la Dunăre,” a studio space for residents, and the property’s small chapel had been completely redesigned by architect Alexandra Afrăsinei. “I think it’s always best to start with a chapel,” Grevers mused, as we sipped a local rosé wine beside the lavender fields. (She could have said anything at that moment and I would have agreed.)
The following evening we settled into a cabana outside Eșelnița, where, with a little ingenuity and a lot of extension cords, we were able to set up a riverside screening of The Ister, a 2004 film by David Barison and Daniel Ross that travels up the Danube while revisiting Martin Heidegger’s interpretation of Hölderlin’s hymn to the river. As Bernard Stiegler voiced his thoughts on Prometheus on-screen, across the river, Zeus himself decided to weigh in, unleashing one of the most stunning thunderstorms any of us had ever witnessed. The lightning began over the Serbian highlands, but it soon swept to the Romanian side of the river, eventually drenching the hotel with a downpour as mighty as the light show.
In the morning we would learn that the storm had flooded a large part of the region, leaving some of our route blocked. No matter. While participants were dutifully awed by official stops like the Tismana Monastery or the Rovinari open pit mines, we were just as content with spontaneous stops for cigarettes and alcohol. Smoke breaks were held in the strangest of places—on a speedboat in the Danube, in a cave outside the spa town of Herculane. “You know what they say,” chided architect Thomas Tsang. “When in Romania…”
Left: Steaua de Mare (“Starfish”) practices at Port Cultural Cetate. Right: Cannibal Disco party in Turcineşti.
Rumored to have been founded in 102 AD by Emperor Traian—responsible for the “Roman” in Romania—over the centuries, Herculane has hosted the elites of myriad empires, from Marcus Aurelius to Franz Joseph I and his wife Elizabeth (immortalized on film as Princess Sisi). During the land grabs of privatization, many of the town’s more jaw-dropping Austrian Baroque mansions were snapped up on the cheap, and they now belong to people who can’t afford to maintain them but refuse to let them go. “I mean, you could sink a million dollars into fixing up one of these buildings, but then you would never see that money again, so long as the rest of the infrastructure isn’t here,” illustrator Alex Neagu lamented. Perhaps the most impressive building of all, the Imperial Austrian Baths, sits boarded up, its badly patched windows offering glimpses of the grandeur (marble tiles, gilded chandeliers, indoor fountains, etc) within. Upon discovering a door with its bottom panel kicked in, we couldn’t resist a little bathhouse B&E. Inside, the long corridors were lined with stall after stall of private baths where emperors could come to soak their troubles away. “Talk about a spot for a biennial,” Bojenoiu cooed, with an appreciative whistle.
On the last day, we fudged the rules slightly, slipping out of Oltenia and into the neighboring region of Transylvania to visit the home of artists Lia and Dan Perjovschi in Sibiu. Lia greeted us with platters of local delicacies and her home-brewed wonder tea, before indulging us with a tour of her archives, which she has organized by shelves: “The Earth, The Body, Science, Culture, The Universe…” The stacks of books were propped up by jars full of such museum store finds as a magnetic Obama finger puppet and a breath spray promising to help users “Understand Modern Art.” (“I don’t really care for that kind of irony,” she admitted, “but I thought it was important to acknowledge that it’s out there.”) The artist maintained that she is more strategic in her acquisitions than her “collector” husband. “Dan just wants to buy any and everything. I have to be more selective. I never buy anything above the budget of fifty euros,” Lia glanced affectionately at her spouse. “Dan’s more successful; he doesn’t have to think about budgets.”
Left: Artist Mihai Barabancea at a stop along the Transalpina. Right: Artist Jonas Lozoraitis at a stop along the Transalpina.
Lia envisions her archive functioning as a Knowledge Museum. “Knowledge is expensive, but knowledge is also survival,”she continued. “Someone asked me if I thought we had landed on the moon. Did we actually land? I believe we did. But if we didn’t…? What does it matter, whether or not we actually went there?”
One place the Perjovschis won’t be going is the MNAC, Bucharest’s Museum of Contemporary Art, which in 2004 relocated to the gargantuan Palace of the Parliament, the world’s second-largest administrative building (after the Pentagon), as well as its heaviest. “It’s like we’re in a village, where there’s one big house, and you make your parties, your funerals, and your politics all under the same roof,” Lia snapped. “Why the provincialism? We can afford to build these things their own buildings!”
Half the group had to catch the train to Bucharest, but Dan led the stragglers on a walking tour of shamelessly charming Sibiu, which already had its turn as Cultural Capital in 2007. Over a stop for—what else?—cigarettes and alcohol, talk turned to the next Mobile Biennale, which is considering a tour of Hong Kong. Even more pressingly, the MNAC had offered the Biennale an exhibition of its own this coming November. What would a biennial dedicated to ideas have to show for itself? “We’ll have to think about it,” Niculescu shrugged. And just like that, we were planning the afterparty.
WHILE SQUEEZING into a diminutive plane in Denver the Wednesday before last, the group of art-worlders en route to the Aspen Art Museum’s tenth annual three-day ArtCrush benefit auction and bacchanal were barraged with a squawk: “But I ran that gallery! That really pisses me off!” A dealer, oblivious to the range of his broadcast, lambasted an unnamed colleague on the phone. “Ohhh my gahhhhdd, she’s unmerciful!” he proceeded. “You’ve got to do something like this ultra, ultra quietly!” As giggles matured into cautionary laughter, a journalist sitting across the aisle finally alerted the yapper to his self-sabotage—the first shushing of the weekend.
From the moment I arrived in Aspen, the topic of conversation was paper—that is, the Prodema (a wood veneer–encased composite of paper and resin) latticework facade of the new Shigeru Ban–designed museum. “What will happens when it rains?” clucked locals, though presumably the Pritzker Prize–winning architect had already accounted for inclement weather. Sited with an unparalleled view of the Continental Divide, Ban’s first museum in the US achieves an effect both modest and transcendent, with an exposed truss ceiling, walkable skylights, and a glass curtain wall meant to emphasize the transparency and hospitality of the institution. The museum is funded entirely by private donors whose endowment will guarantee free entry—a lark in a city where coffee shops advertise specifically to the Prada-clad.
Left: Sarah Hoover, Nancy Magoon, and artist Tom Sachs. Right: Dealer Jeanne Greenberg-Rohatyn. (Photos: Billy Farrell/BFAnyc.com)
Expensive duds were on parade later that evening at Amy and John Phelan’s palatial mountain lodge for WineCrush, the benefit’s kickoff event. Aspen-based collectors Nancy and Robert Magoon and Soledad and Bob Hurst rubbed shoulders with museum kin (Adam Weinberg, Peter Eleey) and artists (Fred Tomaselli, Marilyn Minter, Lorna Simpson, Tomma Abts) on immaculate white carpets. As the room flooded with blondes in beige, Frieze’s Dan Fox pointed to an Ed Ruscha text painting—its familiar alpine view improbably trumped by the Phelan’s vista to Independence Pass—noting the increasing appositeness of its slogan: IT’S RIDICULOUS.
Dealer Tanya Bonakdar flitted to our perch near a baroque pool table and we gabbed about Ernesto Neto, the recipient of this year’s Aspen Art Award, whose immersive exhibition “Gratitude” is the swan song of the “old” AAM. His installations, evoking candy-colored versions of Alain Renais’s time machine in Je t’aime Je t’aime, require viewers to lie in Savasana on a Marimekko-like platform. As we extolled the democratic persuasions of the piece (imagine the Magoons doing yoga alongside Aspen’s rucksackers), Bonakdar countered that it was in fact the gummy bears that had become Aspen’s common denominator. Indeed, the herbaceous sweets, a local favorite since Colorado’s first legal marijuana stores opened in January, surfaced several times over the weekend. Gabriel Kuri quipped that fellow attendee Lance Armstrong could host next year’s benefit, “PotCrush,” and even Governor John W. Hickenlooper felt the buzz when he later exclaimed, “I’m going to get you all some legal marijuana!” quickly recanting, “Don’t tweet that!”
Conversation turned to sport over dinner. Richard Phillips flipped through images of his race car on his iPhone and the dapper Simon Beriro recalled hiking the Camino de Santiago. As the outfit of ten sommeliers served a 1998 Chateau D’Yquem dessert wine, the crowd took to the dance floor; Queen Phelan was unstoppable. We passed a poolside Koons Gazing Ball on the way out to the fleet of waiting Escalades.
Left: Artist Mickalene Thomas. Right: Artists Dzine and Jim Hodges. (Photos: Billy Farrell/BFAnyc.com)
Back at the Sky Hotel, Kuri ordered a Calvinistic Hedonistic—an almond shake cut with Dutch gin—his contribution to Ryan Gander’s 2013 compilation of cocktail recipes. The waitress wasn’t familiar, so we settled on negronis. Gander commented on the devastating effects of smoking in the thin air, though as we soon found, alcohol tolerance also adjusts for altitude.
By Thursday’s PreviewCrush, hosted at Baldwin Gallery and Casterline Goodman Gallery, it was clear that the rest of the art world had descended on Aspen. I spotted Hammer chief curator Connie Butler and Dallas Museum of Art senior curator Gavin Delahunty among the swarms that gathered to peek at what the live auction would offer—including works by Anne Collier, Sanford Biggers, Margaret Lee, Rob Pruitt, and Michelle Grabner.
Partygoers skirted a downpour on Friday evening as they ventured to tents for the weekend’s main event. To get to ArtCrush, one had to pass over a nuclear-magenta bridge lined with Queen of Hearts roses, and through an orange hallway where gloved hands reached through glory holes to offer sips of limoncello. Once the audience found their seats, Amy Phelan quoted the Dalai Lama before galvanizing the crowd: “I look forward to an evening of just the right amount of wrong behavior!”
Heidi Zuckerman Jacobson (HZJ) looks fierce in her many hats—she is the AAM’s Nancy and Bob Magoon CEO, director, and curator of five of the six inimitable inaugural shows, including a boldly unorthodox exhibition of David Hammons and Yves Klein. She took to the stage to offer a magnanimous thanks and a refrain of the crowd-quelling shushes for which she is notorious. HZJ has a keen measure of patience and persuasiveness, as evidenced by the unprecedented collection of Kleins she managed to borrow for her show, and the Phillip Vergne–penned essay on Hammons—originally intended for posthumous publication—she usurped for the show’s catalogue. She likes to think that the AAM, a noncollecting kunsthalle, collects artists instead, a claim that was corroborated by the number in attendance. In the face of conversations that often drifted to the malignant ethics of art flippers, HZJ seemed a beacon for good faith.
The lulling effects of Neto’s acceptance chant—“thank you, thank you, gratitude”—were in stark contrast to Sotheby’s Oliver Barker, who burst into the spotlight in full force. As is ArtCrush tradition, the sale of each artwork was followed by a heartbeat of dance music—after Sarah Lucas’s Tit Teddy Make Love, Modern English’s “I Melt With You” exalted, and a Rosemarie Trockel was ushered from the stage to Pharrell’s banal earworm of the moment. At $190,000, Ryan Gander’s Tell My Mother Not to Worry (viii) barely beat out Mickalene Thomas’s Clarivel #2 for the evening’s big ticket.
At AfterPartyCrush, DJ and violinist duo the Dolls stomped around, but the crowd raged for ABBA. A group of us absconded from the party’s belly to find Neto shaking a maraca in the otherwise quiet night. As we passed a row of window displays boasting gaudy furs, Neto called us back. “Hey!” He pointed to an understated white wallet as he continued to shake his instrument. “How much do you think this is?” Feeling hyperbolic (or not), Kuri guessed $12,000—Neto laughed and said he thought it would be $50; he had asked for a friend earlier that day. “It’s $4,000,” he said, “but the salesperson told us they’d give it to us for half off.”
Left: Miss Behave and the team from the Miss Behave Gameshow at the List Party at Summerhall. Right: Artist Bobby Niven. (Except where noted, all photos: Gemma Tipton)
IT STARTED GENTLY ENOUGH. Pale sun danced over the green lawns of Modern One and fell across the corrugated polycarbonate sides of the Pig Rock Bothy. Bobby Niven’s elaborate shed will become home to a program of performances and residencies before traveling north to be re-sited in remote Assynt; but for now it housed a clutch of artists drinking wine and appreciating the lull before the coming art storm.
Held at the same time as the almighty Edinburgh Fringe (49,497 performances of 3,193 shows in just over three weeks), the Edinburgh Arts Festival has always been in a lower key, sometimes little more than what was going on anyway. This year things were bigger. In addition to “Generation,” the major survey show already open at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Dalziel + Scullion were opening at Dovecot, “Counterpoint” (another survey) at Talbot Rice, and “Where do I end and you begin” (yet another survey) at City Art Centre.
So why all the surveys? One reason is the Scottish independence referendum, a political specter hanging over every feast. As Scots vote in a month’s time on whether to leave the United Kingdom, opinionated temperatures run high. Another is the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow—a source of opportunistic arts funding. At “Where do I…,” five curators from Commonwealth countries had invited a total of twenty artists to ponder ideas of colonialism, globalism, and contested political ideologies.
Left: Faile's Patrick McNeil and Patrick Miller with artist Bäst at the List Party at Summerhall. Right: Curator Vidya Shivadas and artist Mary Sibande at City Art Centre.
“I’ve been working on it for a year,” said Indian curator Vidya Shivadas, “thinking about the colonial legacy from a contemporary international platform. It’s important not to be obsessed, but not to have amnesia either.” French-American-Scottish artist Yann Seznec was there too, with his band the Yann Seznec fan club. With such a polymorphous background, perhaps it’s no wonder he was commissioned to create a performance for the night.
Everywhere the Commonwealth loomed large, though after a while it started to feel like art homework. How many ways can you do postcolonial? Outside, different festival crowds merged. Fringe performers, comedians, and jugglers mobbed tourists heading up the hill to the Edinburgh Tattoo; orbiting satellites, energetic and exciting, mingling, not quite meeting.
Anything could happen. We had just been at a preview of Olwen Fouéré’s mind-altering riverrun, better than the best performance art. “It comes from the audience too,” said Fouéré. “Never the same twice.” I had a strong suspicion that over the coming days, if you were wise enough to forget about art boundaries, the adventure of a lifetime awaited. Caught up in that feeling, we gathered our strength to cross town and flung ourselves into the brilliant chaos of the unofficial Festival opening, the List party at Summerhall.
One of Edinburgh’s newest venues, Summerhall (the largest private art museum in Europe) is a crazy mashup of art, performance, studios, and surprises in a former veterinary college. We danced to a succession of DJs in the Dissection Room and caught cabaret in the Anatomy Theatre. Curator Paul Robertson appeared, with a hard-core knowledge of Summerhall’s secret passageways, back stairs and vaults.
Left: Artist Yann Seznec. (Photo: Stuart Armitt) Right: Curator, Artist, critic, and collector Paul Robertson.
Robertson is also an artist, collector, and onetime art dealer, with a background in neurophysiology, psychology, politics, and art history for good measure. His mini “Exhibition in a Pocket” runs during the Festival, as he roams the cafés and corridors, showing the unsuspecting what he’s got in his pants. His collection, currently partially housed in a set of lab specimen cabinets, includes first editions by Marcel Duchamp, Laurence Weiner, Joseph Beuys, and Tracey Emin. It’s bound to be a treat.
We lurched into a neon-lit basement, where FAILE’s Patrick Miller and Patrick McNeil teamed up with Brooklyn street artist Bäst, who was having too much fun to remain anonymous at their groovy games arcade. “People don’t know they’re walking into an art show,” said McNeill. The same could be said of the entire Festival, where the best bits merge between art and theater and you can’t be sure of anything.
Back upstairs, the decadent mayhem continued. Genesis Breyer P-Orridge was there, but elusive; h/er gender- and identity-bending exhibition “Life as a Cheap Suitcase” stopped us in our tracks, but another turn brought us into a hall where acrobats from Sonics turned their perfect bodies in athletic contortions. I lounged, resting against a pile of angel’s wings until I was gently moved on; those angels needed to fly.
Fringe regular Miss Behave was up from London. Glittering in sequins, she’d spent the past week in sweatpants, engaged in the unglamorous task of ripping up floorboards at the venue for her Cabaret. That’s what makes the Festival brilliant—not the clean, official stuff, but the raw, the edgy, the riskily cooked.
Cocktails arrived on trays to tempt anyone who had flirted with the idea of sobriety. “It’s on a knife edge of Drambuie,” someone said. “Not a place anyone needs to be…”
We wandered into Gary Baseman’s Mythical Homeland forest. “How did you end up here?” I asked Robertson. “I went to Ricky DeMarco’s birthday party. Robert McDowell was there. I went up to him and said, ‘You should know me.’ Though I had to say it a few more times over the coming weeks,” he confessed. “You know, if you say you are it, you become it.”
THE HAMMER MUSEUM, even though admission is now and forever free, is still way out there on the not-so-proletarian west side of Los Angeles, so I was still crawling down Wilshire at 12:30, the beginning of the KCHUNG TV broadcast day, but never fear—not to miss a live minute, I jacked my iPhone into the car stereo and called up kchung.tv.
It was a bit like the old KCHUNG Radio that way. Just voices. Just the sonorous questions of artist, animal rights activist, and KCHUNG host Johnny JungleGuts; just the cadenced, rounded answers of his guest, film critic Dave White. But now everyone’s favorite unregistered AM transmission has been curated into the “Made in LA” 2014 biennial; and now, they’re streaming video.
I listened until I lost signal in the parking deck. By the time I reached the KCHUNG TV stage, poised in a prominent corner of the Hammer’s main lobby, they were on to the next program: a prerecorded cooking show featuring artist Akina Cox laconically making pasta carbonara. “The recipe says finely chopped, which makes sense,” she said, “but I usually don’t do that.” People watched a monitor showing an artist coarsely chop an onion in real time.
Projected at the top of the Hammer’s grand staircase is a video from Emily Mast’s project for the biennial, ENDE—an endless translation of episodes from the artist’s biography into live and prerecorded troupe-based improv. The performers wear yellow and brown tones. There are baguettes. As the video cycles through, the piercing cries of gulls bleed into the KCHUNG TV sound mix.
KCHUNG TV station manager Gabie Strong met me at the top of the ramp. Strong is one of a handful of volunteers who liaise with Hammer admin, the VJs, the curators, the press, and everyone in between. She tells me everything has gone smoothly so far. The museum staff’s main concerns have been keeping the entrance ramp clear, and a prohibition on live animals or other organic matter. There’s been some friction with their lobby neighbors, a more demure rotating installation by Public Fiction, over shared psychic space. But that’s showbiz. Meanwhile the first episode of Mary Hill and Ben Tong’s “The Monthly” lurched on air, with college-radio aplomb. Hill introduced her guests, Aska Matsumiya, Kassia Meador, and Luke Fischbeck, who would “give us, like, a sound bath today,” using mic’d and looped crystal bowls. Meador’s green eye shadow clipped occasionally into the green-screened background, a paused video of a waterfall.
This was searing calm, supposedly—compared with opening night a month previous, which by most accounts was a shitshow. KCHUNGers did their best to be formal and professional, but also push through into a send-up of red-carpet reportage. Mostly they looked nervous, killing time, live.
Then there was the censorship that wasn’t. The footage from the first broadcast day was pulled from the online archive, temporarily, for technical reasons. Sure, for a few frames of a rave scene you can catch the name of the Colombian U’wa people drawn on a cardboard sign, and sure, Occidental Petroleum, the company once run by Dr. Armand Hammer, tried to drill said people’s tribal lands in the late 1990s. Said Evan Walsh, another KCHUNG TV station manager that day, “No comment.” Despite the feisty finger-pointing of some VJs, this microprotest wasn’t censored; it’s archived online, beginning around 2:56:51. “There is no policy of controlling content around Oxy,” said cocurator Connie Butler. “We have, on occasion, asked artists to be sensitive to the unusual circumstance that we share a building with a large oil corporation.”
“Give yourselves a hand for being in California,” boomed Brock Fansler of the Experimental Half Hour, bantering before his segment—a special KCHUNG TV episode of his and Eva Aguila’s long-running Web series. The pair had been contracted to provide AV support and run the mixer. They don’t usually do all this on the fly, though. That day, Fansler hosted two guests in his green-screened talk studio: God, followed by Mitch Brown and his Exotic Animals. (Blues Traveler’s John Popper got caught in traffic.) Aguila voiced God from off camera, using a gray-green piece of 35-mm film-editing machinery hooked up to a BOSS Metal Zone pedal. “Stand by for God’s clip,” said the announcer. On the monitor flashed the nuclear apocalypse dream sequence from Terminator II, crackling with digital artifacting, but the sound didn’t seem to work. Next, a pack of druggy humanoid cats swarmed the set.
KCHUNG TV is a “splinter group,” said Luke Fischbeck, one of KCHUNG’s founding few. It’s a spin-off—and that, far from being a sign of decline, is the mark of success. The station has managed to translate its charming brand of controlled chaos into an aesthetic defined by jarring transitions, cheesy wipes, fades to red, and bad chroma-keying. The man hired to control said chaos is Brandt Wrightsman, a video producer previously unaffiliated with KCHUNG who, armed with clipboard and schedule, keeps things at least moving. “Kat is AWOL,” he told me. “I’m not sure if that’s my fault or her fault at the moment.” But it was the first time anything of the sort had happened. Everyone had been real pro—showing up on time, running errands, manning the cameras, each according to her ability/need. KCHUNG TV is every bit as collaborative, as anarchic, as internally pressurized as its single-channel counterpart. Maybe more so. Because now, people are watching, paying attention—or at least, one would assume—and this raises some questions: Who is taking credit? control? responsibility? Who is KCHUNG? Will KCHUNG survive being marketed as art? Will KCHUNG TV have a long-term effect on KCHUNG?
Said Fischbeck, “Does MTV2 have an effect on MTV?”
“I don’t think KCHUNG thinks about the future,” said Walsh.
“That’s our secret weapon,” said JungleGuts.
While Wrightsman improvised, killing time by airing some music videos, I collected my thoughts at the museum’s café, AMMO HAMMER. Above the marble courtyard, on the mezzanine, I saw a quartet of yellow-clad Emily Mast performers coming back, or heading to, a performance. Or were they performing? They passed the artist-designed couches, the children’s-block set—blending into the Hammer’s generally family-friendly atmosphere—like the biennial itself, all pretty low-key and uncontroversial. And maybe that’s the irony of KCHUNG’s inclusion. Not that it’s a radio station and not an art project, or even an art collective—but that KCHUNG, no matter what crazy shit it pulls, is exactly what the curators want. And perhaps what the rest of the exhibition wishes it was: a glimpse of raw, fleeting creativity; a strange discursive creature from beyond the museum’s walls. But that’s a little bit too much. Let’s just say the other thirty-four artists and collectives come across, as a group, as a little camera shy.
At the same time, how many dozens of VJs passing through the KCHUNG TV studio these months will add “Made in LA 2014” to their CVs? Seated at the next table was a well-dressed woman in an emerald green suit, with a leather bag to match. I flipped back and forth on my iPhone between e-mails and the KCHUNG TV live stream, which now showed Luke Fischbeck’s “Neighbors,” the day’s last show. I watched him seated in front of a monitor, watching his own footage of museum visitors watching biennial videos, work by Danielle Dean and Sarah Rara. If only that woman in green would step in front of the KCHUNG cameras, I thought. Then we’d see how well they all blend in.