Heidi Bucher. Hautraum (Ahnenhaus), 1980-82. Courtesy of Freymond-Guth Fine Arts, Zürich.

I work at a museum, but not as a curator or any similar position that might have influence over content. I am sometimes approached by artists (friends, associates, acquaintances, strangers at parties) who want to know how to get their art into a museum. Specifically my museum. What’s the curator’s phone number? Can they drop off a packet? Will I put it on someone’s desk? The way to a museum show is convoluted and not the same for every artist. I’m an artist too, and while I sympathize, I am sure my “help” wouldn’t help them and would jeopardize my professional relationships at work. But I would like to have something to tell people.

You have my sympathies. It must be annoying and kind of frightening to have friends, colleagues, and strangers alike envisioning your job as their fast track to being shown or collected by the museum. I mean, there you are, minding your own business like a cartoon pig out for a sunny walk, while behind every tree lurks a wolf who imagines you as a delicious Sunday ham served up on a fine china platter. Okay, no more similies. You get the idea.

Responding to strangers is easy, because all you have to do with any unknown person who asks you for an inappropriate and presumptuous career favor—one that might induce your colleagues to loathe you—is to just stare at her in silence. The longer the silence, the better, so practice this on your significant other or on the cat. If the stranger doesn’t then fall all over herself to backpedal (“Just kidding! Ha ha! I hate museums!”), then maintain your dead-face and say, “I regret that I’m not able to help you.” You can go to confession later for fibbing about the “regret” part.

Dealing with friends, of course, is more challenging—but as you are a fellow artist, I’m sure you can convey the necessary responses with a certain we’re-in-this-mess-together warmth. The best policy here, as in other situations with friends, is honesty. Assuming your museum does not accept unsolicited submissions, you can just say this in a sympathetic tone of voice accompanied by a rueful grimace. If someone requests a curator’s phone number, you can respond that you don’t know it (if you don’t have it memorized, then this is true) and it’s best to call the museum during business hours. If asked to put a packet on a curator’s desk, just explain that you’re not able to do that because it would irritate your professional colleagues and potentially lead to resentment among your other friends. Frankly, anyone who doesn’t understand this is immature, a jackass, or both.

Heidi Bucher. Untitled (Herrenzimmer), n.d.; latex, cotton; approx. 102 1/4 × 71 × 7 1/2 ̋. Courtesy of Freymond-Guth Fine Arts, Zürich.

I’m glad you point out in your question that having your work exhibited and/or collected by a museum is a tricky (and sometimes lengthy) process. More often than not, and depending on the size of the institution, this transaction might involve: gallerists and art dealers who want to increase the economic and social capital of the artists they represent; museum curators who are looking to acquire new works to fill holes in the collection; collectors who want to increase the prestige of the artists they collect; wealthy people who want to donate artwork for the tax write-off; museum board members who may be cozy with/related to any of the above; acquisitions team(s) who are making estimated guesses about the future of art history; and other contingent interpersonal and marketplace considerations that we don’t have space to go into here. I don’t blame any artist for wanting to get a foot in the door, but having a preparator or junior development associate leave a packet on a curator’s desk is, at best, a naïve waste of time and writable CDs.

A final suggestion: Consider asking friendlier members of the curatorial staff if they have any insight into the matter. You can explain that you’re getting hit with this particularly sticky request, and you want to formulate a stock, fact-based response in advance. That way, the next time you’re called upon for an eyebrow-raising favor, you can preface your answer with, “You know, I asked around at the museum, and their curatorial/acquisitions policy is…” Good luck!

I work at a museum, but not as a curator or any similar position that might have influence over content. I am sometimes approached by artists (friends, associates, acquaintances, strangers at parties) who want to know how to get their art into a museum. Specifically my museum. What’s the curator’s phone number? Can they drop off a packet? Will I put it on someone’s desk? The way to a museum show is convoluted and not the same for every artist. I’m an artist too, and while I sympathize, I am sure my “help” wouldn’t help them and would jeopardize my professional relationships at work. But I would like to have something to tell people.

Heidi Bucher. Hautraum (Ahnenhaus), 1980-82. Courtesy of Freymond-Guth Fine Arts, Zürich.

You have my sympathies. It must be annoying and kind of frightening to have friends, colleagues, and strangers alike envisioning your job as their fast track to being shown or collected by the museum. I mean, there you are, minding your own business like a cartoon pig out for a sunny walk, while behind every tree lurks a wolf who imagines you as a delicious Sunday ham served up on a fine china platter. Okay, no more similies. You get the idea.

Responding to strangers is easy, because all you have to do with any unknown person who asks you for an inappropriate and presumptuous career favor—one that might induce your colleagues to loathe you—is to just stare at her in silence. The longer the silence, the better, so practice this on your significant other or on the cat. If the stranger doesn’t then fall all over herself to backpedal (“Just kidding! Ha ha! I hate museums!”), then maintain your dead-face and say, “I regret that I’m not able to help you.” You can go to confession later for fibbing about the “regret” part.

Dealing with friends, of course, is more challenging—but as you are a fellow artist, I’m sure you can convey the necessary responses with a certain we’re-in-this-mess-together warmth. The best policy here, as in other situations with friends, is honesty. Assuming your museum does not accept unsolicited submissions, you can just say this in a sympathetic tone of voice accompanied by a rueful grimace. If someone requests a curator’s phone number, you can respond that you don’t know it (if you don’t have it memorized, then this is true) and it’s best to call the museum during business hours. If asked to put a packet on a curator’s desk, just explain that you’re not able to do that because it would irritate your professional colleagues and potentially lead to resentment among your other friends. Frankly, anyone who doesn’t understand this is immature, a jackass, or both.

Heidi Bucher. Untitled (Herrenzimmer), n.d.; latex, cotton; approx. 102 1/4 × 71 × 7 1/2 ̋. Courtesy of Freymond-Guth Fine Arts, Zürich.

I’m glad you point out in your question that having your work exhibited and/or collected by a museum is a tricky (and sometimes lengthy) process. More often than not, and depending on the size of the institution, this transaction might involve: gallerists and art dealers who want to increase the economic and social capital of the artists they represent; museum curators who are looking to acquire new works to fill holes in the collection; collectors who want to increase the prestige of the artists they collect; wealthy people who want to donate artwork for the tax write-off; museum board members who may be cozy with/related to any of the above; acquisitions team(s) who are making estimated guesses about the future of art history; and other contingent interpersonal and marketplace considerations that we don’t have space to go into here. I don’t blame any artist for wanting to get a foot in the door, but having a preparator or junior development associate leave a packet on a curator’s desk is, at best, a naïve waste of time and writable CDs.

A final suggestion: Consider asking friendlier members of the curatorial staff if they have any insight into the matter. You can explain that you’re getting hit with this particularly sticky request, and you want to formulate a stock, fact-based response in advance. That way, the next time you’re called upon for an eyebrow-raising favor, you can preface your answer with, “You know, I asked around at the museum, and their curatorial/acquisitions policy is…” Good luck!

I work for a commercial gallery space and have been approached by male collectors who express an interest in taking me out. More often than not, I have no interest in these men, but I am always anxious my boss may be upset that I get a bit cold in order to put them off. What do you think is the appropriate way to handle this situation?

The easy way out is to buy a decoy engagement ring, a big eye-catching piece of sparkly glass, and wear it to work. If you’re a man, you could try the same with a traditional-looking thick gold band. It won’t stop all comers, but it might scare off the majority.

Rob Swainston. Centennial, 2009; woodblock print on paper, each scroll 36 in. x 10 ft. Courtesy the artist

But it would be better if you understood your employer’s expectations so that you could stop feeling anxious, and the only way to do that is have an open and honest conversation. Then the two of you can decide together what course of action to take. There’s no need to feel awkward; just ask for a quick meeting and state the facts: collectors are asking you out and you’re not interested. Say, “How would you like me to handle this situation?” Probably your employer will direct you to act similarly to how you already are, but if she tells you to do something that you’re not comfortable with, you must speak up calmly but immediately: “I don’t think that’s going to work; can we find another solution?” Both parties need to put their cards on the table; that way you will know what’s expected and your boss can get your back should an uninvited flirtation get out of hand. You need to know that your boundaries are respected in the workplace, if not by the clientele then at least by your colleagues. And, of course, if your boss tries to pimp you out in the interest of selling some work, you’ll know that it’s time to grab your bag and run for the door.

Without knowing exactly what you consider “a bit cold,” it’s hard to give detailed behavioral advice. Yet, as a side note, you might consider learning how to say a firm, confident “Thank you, but no” with a pleasant look on your face. It will serve you well in your current predicament, and you will find it handy in all kinds of situations.

Rob Swainston. Triumphal Arch, 2007; mixed-media installation, dimensions variable. Courtesy the artist

A very close friend and I are curating an exhibit in Kansas City. The entire show consists of artists under the age of twenty-one, including us curators. We have a pretty solid plan, filled with installations, video projections, paintings, sculptures, and performance. What are some words of advice you can give to us as we embark on our first and greatest endeavor to date? I think the hardest part is the fact that we are all so young. We are definitely talented, not to be modest. I feel that it is going to be hard for people to take us seriously and also hard to make a show worthy of critique and review from the establishment. It’s also hard to perceive the future issues we might face during setup and the opening. It’s also going to be hard to combine all these talents together without it being a sensory overload. What are some issues you’ve come across that we probably won’t think of ahead of time?

First of all, bravo! I’m glad to hear that you are making and executing ambitious plans. I have no doubt that your work is going to be inspiring to the other artists and curators in your community.

With such a big show, you’re going to have to delegate, and that means that you need to communicate clearly, beginning with yourself and your own plans. I love to map these kinds of things out in pencil and paper, so grab some now. Begin with your end goal and work backward, asking yourself how you’re going to get to each step of the way. For example, you might say that your end goal is to put on a great show with excellent artwork that is well received by the press. How do you get there? Well, among other things, you’ll need an exhibition space (which you have), some great artists (check), and a well-crafted press release. Now, how do you get there? Well, you read a lot of art press releases, you write yours out and (this is very important) get it edited by someone who is a good writer, then you gather the contact information for the arts journalists you want to reach and you send the press release out. How do you get there? Maybe you know someone who works at a gallery who can show you some PR or you can look for advice in a book on professional practices such as Taking the Leap, by Cay Lang. Where do you find contact information? On the internet and on the index page of print publications like Art in America, etc., etc., etc.

Rob Swainston. PLEXUS (detail), 2011; mixed-media installation, dimensions variable. Courtesy the artist

This kind of mapping can also help you make a timeline. For example, if you need to send press releases out a month in advance, then you need to have a rough draft in hand two months in advance, which means that your research and example gathering should happen at least two weeks before that, which means that you need to have all the artists’ names spell-checked and into a document at least a week before that…. It sounds exhausting when you write it all out this way, but I assure you, writing it all down will make it much more manageable. Having a comprehensive list will help you stay on track so that the days immediately before the opening are spent on installing the show beautifully and not on overdue administrative tasks. Your map can also function as a checklist so that nothing is forgotten.

In my experience, communication is always the most basic issue/problem that arises in both large and small group shows. People (artists, curators, assistants) make assumptions and then act on them—or not, as when they think that it is somebody else’s job. Your map will aid in communication, and it will help you to parcel out very specific tasks. For example, instead of saying, “Michael’s going to deal with the press” (and then hoping that Michael is going to figure it all out by himself), you can say, “Michael’s going to research press releases from these sources, write a release, and hand it off to Claire for editing by August 15.” See how much better it is to be specific? If you and everyone else are clear on what is required, all the necessary tasks are much more likely to be completed.

Rob Swainston. All That is Solid Melts into Air, 2011; woodblock print on poly knit cloth. Courtesy the artist

Another area where straightforward communication is the key to avoiding strife is in the allotment of exhibition space. Consider giving people specific, measured areas of the venue. Otherwise, you might end up having to sort out some silly squabble during installation over who gets the last eight inches of the wall near the door. The opening should be scripted likewise: if one performance is scheduled for 8 p.m. and another for 9 p.m., make sure that both artists know that 8 p.m. doesn’t mean 8:45 p.m. This is very much the strategy of hoping for the best and planning for the worst. By making a map of every part of this exhibition, you’ll be able to anticipate where things might go wrong.

You are very young, but if you pull this off your youth will work in your favor. Being taken seriously really doesn’t have to do with your age; it has to do with your professionalism. Treat this exhibition as if you are a professional and insist on the same from others. This is a self-created training ground for you all, so practice putting your very best work forward, whether that work is a painting or an e-mail to a curator. Communications should be clear, prompt, and polite; disagreements should be handled with good humor and grace. You can’t do anything about your biological age, but you can act in a way that makes people surprised when they find out how young you are. Best of luck to you all!

I am a painter who recently graduated from art school but haven’t had much gallery experience and I was interested in submitting work to some juried shows as a way of gaining some experience and making some new connections. I was wondering if you could offer some advice on finding reputable juried shows to apply to. I have googled around but haven’t found much.

Juried shows can indeed be a great way to gain experience and build your resume, but “reputable” is a relative term. Here are a few questions to keep in mind as you go about sorting through the listings on websites such as College Art Association, Re-title and WOOLOO:

1.) Is there a fee? How much does it cost to apply? Most juried shows charge a fee to review your work and this often goes toward administrative costs such as paying the juror. It’s usually around $30 for 3 images, but you’ll find some that ask for excessive fees (I know of one that charges 65 euro!) and some that charge no fee at all (usually at community colleges or other small regional venues). Set a budget for this career expense and decide what your upper limit is. If you’re independently wealthy you can toss your money around with abandon, but if you are on a limited post-graduation budget you might want to target your applications very carefully.

Bear in mind that a high entry fee does not guarantee a high-quality exhibition. Follow the call-for-entry’s link back to the home website and take a look. Does it appear professional? If it’s an annual show, how was the work from previous years? Have prior exhibitions received attention from the press? The information on the website should help you decide if the institution provides quality programming. If there’s no website, don’t apply!

Henry Taylor, Another Wrong, 2013. Acrylic on canvas, 116 x 75 1/2 x 2 1/2 inches

2.) Where is the exhibition? In other words, who will see the show? If it’s at a small town community college gallery, the audience might largely consist of the students and professors (and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing), whereas a commercial gallery in a medium-sized city might draw a more diverse group of art patrons. Think about what audience you’d like to have. Since you’re early in your career, getting work in front of audiences is the first priority. Sales are great, but exposure to an engaged audience is a critical investment in your future.

3.) Who will jury the show? Often times gallerists or curators from museums/other arts institutions will jury exhibitions outside of their normal habitat. If you see that a curator who has shown interest in the type of work you make is the guest juror for a show, by all means apply. You should always google the juror to see what comes up.

4.) Who pays for shipping and insurance? This goes hand in hand with our first question. As you apply to various opportunities, you’ll have to consider what it would mean for your bank account if you actually get in! Very few juried shows pay for the artists to ship their work, so make sure that you have the money to crate and ship a large canvas across the country. This is an important consideration, so factor it into your financial calculations.

5.) Will the show travel? Is there a catalog? If the exhibition is going to travel to several venues, you’ll get more bang for your almighty buck. Nothing builds a C.V. faster and easier than a travelling exhibition! Likewise, a catalog can be a helpful document to have as you begin your career. Publication of your work in catalogues lends credibility to your practice.

Henry Taylor, installation view at Blum & Poe, Los Angeles, 2013

Above all, you should only apply to shows that actually fit your work. If you send images of painted landscapes to a themed show about Futurism, you won’t get in and you won’t get your money back. Take a cold-eyed look at what your work really is and then only apply to exhibitions that would be a good match.

Being organized with your applications right from the start will save you a lot of headaches in the long run. Even if you loathe the mundane realities of administrative work, take fifteen minutes to set up a basic spreadsheet so that you can track deadlines, completed entries, related expenses, etc. This document will serve you very well when you need to remember who has what artwork, and for how long. Don’t submit the same work to shows with overlapping exhibition dates. You don’t want to burn a bridge if you are accepted to both!

As hard as it may be, it’s also important to save rejection letters or emails—I don’t know how it works in other countries, but if you file taxes in the US and are audited, the rejection letters could help prove that you are working as a professional and actively pursuing an income.

While you are doing your research, keep an eye out for alternatives to juried shows: libraries, cafes, and other venues hang artwork but don’t often put out calls for entry. Ask around to see who might be interested in your work. Also, think about staging a show with some friends (see this old column, second Q&A). This has the triple advantage of giving you real experience on how to organize and hang a proper exhibition as well as getting your work out into the world. Good luck!

The Ozymandias Parade, 1985, Kienholz: The Signs of the Times Exhibition view. © Schirn Kunsthalle Frankfurt. Photography: Norbert Miguletz

When Edward Kienholz died of a heart attack aged 65 in 1996, his burial arrangement could have been one of his own installations: his embalmed body was stuck into the front seat of an old brown Packard coupe; he drove off into the good night with a dollar and a deck of cards in his pocket, accompanied by the ashes of his dog in the back and a vintage bottle of Chianti beside him. If the stance of aggressive defiance followed him to the grave; such must have been the confrontational quality and persistent rebelliousness of Kienholz’s oeuvre when he lived and worked that his accusatory cries of a reality gone sour are still heard far, loud and wide nearly 2 decades after his death.

Kienholz: The Signs of the Times is an extensive survey of Edward Kienholz’s and Nancy Reddin Kienholz’s collaborative works spanning three-dimensional smaller objects to the conceptual room-filling tableaux in their horrifying, squalid glory at the Schirn Kunsthalle. While not quite a retrospective, it is a show that captures the antagonistic spirit (in variations of form, material and structure) of rebellion (buoyed by the angry years of the 1960s and 70s) that Kienholz is best remembered for, broadcasting generally, a similar theme of humanity’s fallen state.

Edward Kienholz, The State Hospital, 1966, Inside view. Plaster casts, fiberglass, hospital beds, bedpan, hospital table, goldfish bowls, black fish, lighted neon tubing, steel hardware, wood, paint 245 x 360 x 295 cm. Moderna Museet, Stockholm © Kienholz. Photography: Moderna Museet, Stockholm.

Above all, there is a visceral, scabrous rage that palpably underpins this exhibition which reads like an extended exercise in the finer points of accusation. Here, subtlety, as it seems, holds no place of honour in art that has been created for the purpose of indictment. The installations rail against the perennial injustices Kienholz thought assailed and fractured American society at that time: ethnic conflicts, the Vietnam war, the sexual exploitation and commodification of women, the manipulation of the unsuspecting middle-class through by media conglomerates, and the treatment of those who lived on the margins of “acceptable society”. The State Hospital (1964-6) presents a constructed cell of a psychiatric ward, drawn from Kienholz’s own memory of his work as an orderly, in which a naked mental patient with a fishbowl for a head lies strapped to his bed. In the bunk above, an identical figure lies in a similar state of dismal existence, a reinforced symbol of an already broken institution.

Edward Kienholz & Nancy Reddin Kienholz, The Pool Hall, 1993. Plaster casts, wigs, clothing, antlers, photographs, pool table, queues, lamp, light box 245 x 250 x 138 cm. Collection of the artist, Courtesy of L.A. Louver, Venice, CA © Kienholz Photography: © Kienholz, Courtesy of L.A. Louver, Venice, CA

In Rhinestone Beaver Peep Show (1980) triptych, the plaster cast of a pliant woman yields before the voyeuristic viewer, while in The Pool Hall (1993), a headless woman with splayed legs straddles a corner of a pool table surrounded by men with antlers and a mask taking shots around her vagina: an exploration of the brutal masculine gaze that positions the woman as an anonymous object of consumption. The Jesus Corner (1982-3) plays host to misfits who live on the margins; while it is a reference to the motley band of anti-establishment crew who live as outcasts like Christ and his disciples, it is ultimately, an ironic declaration of institutionalised religion’s divisive power.

Edward Kienholz & Nancy Reddin Kienholz, The Jesus Corner, 1982/83, Installation view Wood, glass, hangers, curtains, cans, leaves, textiles, lighting, photographs, framed print, cardboard, books, pegboard, candles, paint, polyester resin, devotional Jesus objects, 252 x 453 x 152 cm. Northwest Museum of Arts & Culture/Eastern Washington State Historical Society, Spokane, Washington, Museum Purchase and gift of the artists © Kienholz. Photography: © Kienholz, Courtesy of L.A. Louver, Venice, CA.

Giving material expression to Kienholz’s uncompromising vision is the sheer number of found objects scavenged from junkyards and flea markets used to assemble his installations, a concept that was unthinkable in his day and age. It was a novel but viable method of sourcing: exponentially increasing consumption made for interesting trash; the more junk material there was to sift through and acquire, the more complex his assemblages also became. Discarded scraps that were symbolic of Western consumer culture – car parts, pieces of furniture, toy soldiers, cigarettes, signs and flags – inevitably found their way into his creations surrounded by other castaways, lending their protesting voices which, combined, produce a chorus of acrimony and pleading. The allegorical Ozymandias Parade (1985) could very well encapsulate this creative process and its subsequent scale of production; it is a sprawling tableau that swiftly strips Shelley’s evocative tale of an ancient statue languishing in the sands by presenting the subjugating tyranny of latter-day rulers in the form of the president who dangles from his white horse, surrounded by an impotent army of fools and helpless tax-payers who have been fleeced of their last cent.

But unlike Marcel Duchamp’s readymades that assaulted notions of art’s traditional modes of production, Kienholz made no attempt to disguise the object’s original incarnations and their purposes. Where the Duchampian dialogue on signification and object displacement begins, there ends Kienholz’s vision; instead, implicit in the insistence on a creative practice drawn from disused matter is perhaps, the hope that out of the detritus of decay and disillusioned humanity, seedlings of social awareness (that would eventually galvanise some sort of action) would have sprouted. This creative bent was balanced with unusual business sense; Kienholz typed details of works he had intended to create, each already containing a title that would be made should a buyer decide to fork out the money for it. Yet in utilising language as an initial, but necessary apparatus for ascribing meaning and perceptual experience to object that were not yet made, Kienholz’s pieces were also to become prototypes for later conceptual practices that would carry a heavier ontological focus by engaging vigorously with language as a framing device while confronting the limitations of the art object.

Edward Kienholz & Nancy Reddin Kienholz, 1993-4. 76 J.C.s Led the Big Charade. Mixed media: 76 wall-mounted pieces, dimensions variable, installation view, Schirn Kunsthalle.

It seems appropriate that these three-dimensional, sculptural assemblages were labelled by Kienholz himself as “tableau[x]” – a term appropriated from the design of theatre sets – in order to emphasise the experiential potential of his pieces while defying the late Modernist style of pictorial flatness and the conventional passivity of art viewing. As with sculpture’s tendency to reinforce interest in context by sanctioning the viewer’s presence in its ambience or physical area of influence, the volumetric intensity of Kienholz’s installations similarly locates the audience inside the work rather than outside of it. Packed to the brim with junkyard assemblies and hemmed in by the gallery walls, his cluttered tableaux are an oppressive plague on the senses, offering no recourse to those who want to look away.

***

Edward Kienholz was born in Fairfield, Washington on October 23, 1927 and died in Hope, Idaho in 1994. Nancy Reddin Kienholz survives her husband, and lives and works in Hope, Idaho, Houston, Texas and Berlin, Germany. Kienholz: The Signs of the Times is at the Schirn Kunsthalle, Frankfurt until January 29, 2012. From February 22 to May 13, 2012, the show will also be on display at the Museum Tinguely in Basel.

Richard Hawkins, "Crepuscule #2", 1994, Collage on Chinese lantern. Collection of Laurence A. Rickels, Los Angeles.

On The Rolling Stone’s website, you can see a behind-the-scenes video of  Terry Richardson shooting the new Justin Bieber cover. In it, between shots, Bieber answers fan mail. He’ll read a letter aloud then, not usually thinking for more then a second or two, spin off his answer. Someone name Marty T. asks the following: “When you take pictures during photoshoots,” (here, Bieber looks up with a we’re-doing-that-right-now grin, and there’s a photoshopped twinkle on his top tooth—it’s like a self-referential toothpaste commercial), “what are you thinking about when you make those intense faraway looks in your eyes?” Bieber, grinning again sans twinkle, replies, “Well, I usually think how bored I am just standing there. Like, photoshoots are long and that’s the face that comes out of me,” and then we see him asleep, head on the piano keyboard, wearing his baseball cap backward. If Marty, who asked that question and could be a girl but sounds like a boy, had hoped those faraway looks meant something special (or that Bieber would be able to put a finger on that something special), he just got hope-dashed by teenage boy cheek.

The day I visited Richard Hawkins’ Third Mind at the Hammer, a show full of some of the most slapdash refinement I’ve ever seen, I was browsing just behind an older couple, a man and woman. The man, standing over Hawkins’ Matt Dillon homage from the early 90s—an obsessive, perpetually nostalgic fanboy collage—half-asked, half-announced, “That’s Justin Bieber?”

Richard Hawkins, "Untitled (Slash/Twombly)," 1992, Altered book; twofold leaves of plates. Collection of Joel Wachs.

Mistaking Dillon for Bieber means misreading the 80s for the 00s and a dirty blond kid-cut for a dark brown shag of curls, but the man had something right: Dillon, like Bieber, was heartthrob worthy and immediately recognizable (well, to some, at least). Dillon, Keanu Reeves, Axl Rose, George Clements, the guys Hawkins adopted into his “indulgent obsession aesthetic” seem to me more beautiful than cute, more striking, less comfortable with childishness than Bieber. But Dillon was in his youthfully seductive, troubled teen stage over ten years before Hawkins the younger version of him on as a muse–one of Hawkins’ earlier works is an altered book by Nietzsche; pasted on the cover is an 80s photo of smiling Dillon and brother Kevin with arms around each other, and text on the left reads, “Through it all, Matt HAS remained close to his family, like his brother Kevin… success hasn’t spoiled this boy at all!”

By the time Hawkins was making works like lg.purple.matt.graveyard (1995) proving Dillon was a good kid no longer behooved mainstream media and Little Darlings, Dillon’s breakthrough and a source for Hawkins, was a decade and a half past. Distance matters in Hawkins’ work. It’s essential.

Richard Hawkins, "Shinjuku Labyrinth," 2007, Wood, collage, and table. Collection of Sam and Shanit Schwartz.

In a catalogue essay he wrote in 1989, Hawkins dealt with nostalgia and idealism–he wasn’t talking about his work, commenting instead on French Decadence and its contemporary counterparts. Still, what he said always seems to resonate with his own oeuvre: “the ideal may be a natural body, but it has to be distanced in some way.” Hawkins goes on, “It can be distanced by becoming artificial. The melancholic is infatuated with the ideal.”  In his show at the Hammer, chock full of cultural references, the images feel compelling because  they’ve been distanced from themselves just enough to become, not fetish-objects, but pitch-perfect stand-ins for melancholia. It might be a few decades, if ever, before Justin Bieber’s image can play a role like that.

Dorit Cypis, "The Nervous System: Mother and Child," 1987. Courtesy Jancar Gallery.

When Workspace, a Lincoln Heights storefront with a gallery the size of a living room, hosted a reading last Sunday, only one of the four featured artists actually read, and he read the work of someone else. It was Tyler Coburn, who sat at the front of the room in bow-tie and jacket, looking very readerly and comfortable in the way a teacher does when sharing something he believes in with students who believe in him.

The someone else he chose to read, Sam D’Allesandro (who changed his name from run-of-the-mill Richard Anderson in order to pose as son to fringe superstar Joe D’Allesandro), had a neutrally inquisitive voice, somehow self-involved without being solipsistic; in a review, Joanna Petrone called it “calm and heatless.” In reading D’Allesandro’s Electrical Type of Thing and Jimmy, Colburn had some of that heatless calm. The first, a story about wanting what doesn’t want you—at least not in the same way—and being wanted by what you don’t necessarily want, wonders whether people could really want wrongly. The story’s explicit sexiness, while tangled up in what the protagonist does and doesn’t desire, seems so subsumed by that question of the rightness or wrongness of wanting that the it loosens itself from its own perversity.

Angela Ellsworth, "Untitled," 2011.

It’s difficult for perversity to hold its own when the parameters that define what’s expected or proscribed are undercut (could “proscribed” and “perverse” be antonyms?)—“Perversions are often phantasms spun by jurisprudence,” wrote Wayne Koestenbaum, in the same essay in which he posited perversities as “a continuum of harmless grays.” There are a good number of grays in D’Allesandro’s stories and even more in Jancar Gallery’s current exhibition, Narratives of the Perverse – II (I occurred in 2008), a show that’s intergenerational and amorphous. Despite its title, Narratives functions more as a list than as a story, an enumeration of perversions, some political, pornographic, decorative, exploitative, explicit, and all somehow tied to how you assert or lose yourself while trying to connect with others. With thirty-eight artists and work hung upstairs, downstairs, in the alcove between desk and wall and in the stairwell, it’s a promiscuous exhibition. But it doesn’t feel overfull.

In Dorit Cypis’ 1987 photograph The Nervous System: Mother and Child, a pink, frilly, sinister image, a toddler holds her dress over her mother’s face in a way that connotes either precocious murder, or a forced pedophilia. In Angela Ellsworth’s Untitled, two girls with heavy braids, who could’ve come from Yearning for Zion Ranch, are about to gently kiss, putting the conservative, repressed wholesomeness of their appearance into intimate contact with the liberation tied up in girl-on-girl loving. There’s no shame in Ellsworth’s image, but there is in Elana Mann’s 2009 video Ass on the Street, where the artist wears an ass’s head and feels her way down a South L.A. street. Her body’s timidity and the simplicity of her black outfit makes the expression of perversity (she’s openly being an ass) seem wrong, like a Scarlett letter, and, as moving through the world with an ass head makes it difficult to see where you’re going but easy for everyone else to tell, Mann places herself at the mercy of others even though she can’t really engage them at all.

Elana Mann, "Ass on the Street," video still, 2009.

Annie Sprinkle and Elizabeth Stephens can and do engage one another in their collaborative Ecosexual, a kitschy, defiant image of Sprinkle with legs spread and Stephens standing above. The couple has now been married six times and hosted six different weddings in the past six years, ever since their planned legal one was denied. This print corresponds with the most recent. It’s a performance of promiscuous commitment–wanting the right kind of togetherness but wanting it wrongly.

“I did not want comfort,” wrote Sam D’Allesandro, not in the story Coburn read but in another, titled Nothing Ever Just Disappears. “I did not want to be comfortable with not seeking comfort or predictability . . . I wanted to be challenged, but not in pain.” The most heartening trait of Narratives of the Perverse II‘s is its ability, as an unweildy collective, to be comfortable with the discomfort of wanting and not wanting in ways that aren’t sanctioned, destabilizing perversity as taboo while still allowing for the confusion of a series of “harmless grays.”