Mickalene Thomas. Sista Sista Lady Blue, 2007; chromogenic print; 40 3/8 x 48 1/2 in. Collection of SFMOMA; gift of Campari USA. © Mickalene Thomas/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Photo: Katherine Du Tiel.

Now on view at the Museum of the African Diaspora (MoAD), Portraits and Other Likenesses from SFMOMA asks its audience to consider: What is a portrait? This may seem like a straightforward question, an inquiry more related to the particularities of style and form than to complex historical narratives. But as the thirty-six artists whose work is included in the exhibition reveal, portraiture bears its own troubled relationship to genealogies of violence and erasure that excluded nonwhite bodies from representation in Western art. By asking their audience to consider what “makes” a portrait, the show’s curators Lizzetta LeFalle-Collins and Caitlin Haskell provoke far more trenchant questions about race and subjectivity. How do you define your identity when your physical likeness has been culturally othered? And how do you engage with representational traditions that have historically denied people of color?

The forty-eight works featured in Portraits and Other Likenesses fill the top two floors of MoAD’s galleries and represent a wide range of media, from painting and photography to installation and performance-based sculpture. Many of the works are by African American artists and engage volatile histories of racial violence in the United States. Kara Walker’s bi-paneled charcoal and pastel drawing Daylights (After M.B.) (2011), for instance, depicts a man on safari next to a Josephine Baker–like dancer in a torn skirt as part of a dense visual narrative documenting the exoticization of people of African descent in American and European popular culture during the early 1920s. Kenyan-born sculptor Wangechi Mutu’s mezzanine installation High Chair and Strange Fruit (2005), by comparison, uses less readily charged objects (a spilled and upturned bottle of red wine, a child’s wooden high chair) to create potent metaphors about bodily violence that transcend specific nationalized histories.

Read the full article here.

Don Bachardy. Joan Agajanian Quinn, 1977; graphite on paper. Joan and Jack Quinn Collection.

The exhibition Joan Quinn Captured at the Brand Library Art Center aims to challenge this viewpoint by presenting dozens of portraits of one woman, Joan Agajanian Quinn, from “what is perhaps the largest portrait collection by contemporary artists in the world,” according to the organizers. For over forty years Quinn has been a passionate supporter of the arts in Southern California and beyond. A Los Angeles native, she was introduced to the Ferus Gallery group in the 1950s through artist Billy Al Bengston, who would race his motorcycle at a track owned by her father. This began her decades-long role as patron, promoter, and chronicler of contemporary art, fashion, and culture. In 1978 Quinn was chosen by Andy Warhol to be the West Coast editor of his Interview magazine, and she held positions at numerous other publications, including as L.A. editor of Germany-based Manipulator magazine and senior editor of Stuff. Since 1993, she has hosted “The Joan Quinn Profiles,” a show on cable television that features interviews with artists, designers, actors, and musicians—two per episode, for 400 episodes and counting. She has served on numerous arts, film, and architecture organizations, including a stint as the longest-sitting member of the California Arts Council. The exhibition is not only a composite portrait of Quinn; it also offers a personal and subjective lens focused on various artists and movements. Through one face, viewers see many stories.

Kevin Whitney. Joan Quinn, 1984; watercolor on paper. Joan and Jack Quinn Collection.

It would be trite and wrong to say that the work in the exhibition is a “who’s who” of L.A. art of the past four decades. The Ferus artists—Bengston, Ed Ruscha, Ed Moses, Joe Goode, Larry Bell—are well represented to be sure, as are other heavyweights like Allen Ruppersberg and Frank Gehry. But the exhibition zigzags around the globe from swinging London (David Hockney, Duggie Fields, and Kevin Whitney) to downtown New York (Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Robert Mapplethorpe). What makes this collection interesting is that it’s not limited to major, well-known artists in the same way that the Broad or the Fisher collections are. Emerging or forgotten artists are given equal billing with established ones (and for that matter, memorable works are hung alongside a few forgettable ones). High art sits next to fashion photography (Helmut Newton) and design (Zandra Rhodes), blurring these taxonomic distinctions and presenting an expansive vision of culture that includes all of the arts.

The portraits range from traditional to evocative. The representational ones all share certain characteristics: Quinn’s large, bright eyes; her elegant, aquiline nose; her mane of dark (now graying) hair. Her fingers are covered with jewelry, her wrists with multiple watches and bracelets, and around her neck, a large cross. (Basquiat’s portrait depicts only her bejeweled arms, alongside images of monkeys and the written amount “$65,000.”) She is often portrayed as a queen or princess—portraiture is, after all, not for the meek—though one gets the impression that this is less because of her personal hubris than the artists’ reverence for her influential support. Within these parameters, however, great variations are evident. Don Bachardy’s 1977 full-body, graphite-on-paper portrait, Joan Agajanian Quinn, lends her face a sense of tenderness and fragility. Rupert Jasen Smith’s Portrait of Joan Agajanian Quinn from a Warhol Polaroid (1988) renders her face in profile: head tilted slightly back and hair cascading behind, lending her a regal, monumental quality. By contrast, in a 2009 canvas, Joan Agajanian Quinn, young artist Lucie Abdalian paints her as a tortured apparition in thin washes of fleshy peach, jet black, and crimson, with wide, lizard-like eyes.

George Herms. Portrait of Joan Agajanian Quinn, 2003; assemblage, mixed media. Joan and Jack Quinn Collection.

Less literal depictions are just as varied. A 2003 assemblage piece by George Herms, Portrait of Joan Agajanian Quinn, is composed of a rusted ocean buoy atop ballet slippers and Zandra Rhodes’ textiles—perhaps alluding to Quinn’s role in determining cultural currents. Laddie John Dill’s funky glass and plywood sculpture, Joan Quinn (1984–85), looks like a cross between a Cubist figure and a piece of Memphis Milano furniture with no discernible purpose. An old, yellowed copy of Interview resting on the work reveals its function as a magazine rack, portraying Quinn as cultural arbiter in her role as editor and writer.

Laddie John Dill. Joan Quinn, 1984-85; sculpture/tempered glass, ground minerals, wood marine plywood. Joan and Jack Quinn Collection.

The portraits in the exhibition have been exhibited previously, but this is the first time they have been shown next to representative works by many of the artists. They are also augmented here by various ephemera, from copies of the magazines Quinn worked on, to episodes of The Joan Quinn Profiles playing on TVs, to a slideshow of her society snapshots (which were unfortunately washed out by the harsh Southern California sun). There is also an ambitious series of talks and film screenings focusing on themes related to the exhibition. This context is a welcome addition to the artworks on view, which are given additional layers of meaning through inclusion in this larger narrative. The show, after all, is not a greatest-hits survey of the last half-century, but is instead a subjective tour of a series of movements, moments, and artists through the eyes—and images—of one woman.

Joan Quinn Captured is on view at The Brand Library & Art Center in Glendale through August 1, 2014.

I.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

In the 1980s, Nan Goldin used photography to document her life and empower her own history.

In 2012, I resisted purchasing an iPhone for fear of having too much access to the world at all times. I did not want to think about sharing and likes in relation to worth. I did not want to worry about friends, following and being followed, and I definitely did not want to grow an extra limb in order to show the world I existed.

However, I did not want to be left out of the world either, so, last week, I broke down and bought one, an iPhone, and now I am stuck, specifically, on Instagram.

“It’s as if my hand were a camera. If it were possible, I’d want no mechanism between me and the moment of photographing. The camera is as much a part of my everyday life as talking or eating or sex. The instant of photographing, instead of creating distance, is a moment of clarity and emotional connection for me. There is a popular notion that the photographer is by nature a voyeur, the last one invited to the party. But I’m not crashing; this is my party.”—Nan Goldin, 1986

Dear Nan, FYI, it’s not always fun to throw your own party.

Sometimes, it can make you feel pretty shitty.

Sincerely, Stacy.

II.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

“The world can only be grasped by action, not by contemplation. The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.”—Diane Arbus

At 21, in the darkroom, I dipped my fingers in the fixer to pull out a print.

“Don’t do that.” A classmate reprimanded. “Your hands are like sponges.”

At 28, outside The Good Luck Bar, I tried to remember my father’s hands. They were thick, dry and chalky—he bit his nails to the bone, sometimes they bled. I was drunk, and unlocking my bike from the stop sign. A hipster kid with a camera took my picture. I told him not to do that. So, he took another one.

“Why are you doing this?” I wanted to know.

“Hey, why not?” He was flirting.

“I always thought of photography as a naughty thing to do—that was one of my favorite things about it, and when I first did it, I felt very perverse.”—Diane Arbus

I shoved the camera into his stomach, pushing him out of my way. My father was dead and I was depressed. I wanted that night and that horrible feeling to be mine, only mine. He got caught stealing and I needed him to know that acting cutesy and suggestive about it all was not cool.

III.

© Stacy Elaine Dacheux

Tonight, I am performing my “future portraits” piece at Concord Space.

I am performing this particular piece because I am scared of and interested in confrontation—how we talk to each other non-verbally and where our minds go based on first impressions and certain visceral judgments. I am especially scared/interested in the documentation process. How will my muse feel about my power to document him or her? How long will I allow them to sit before I feel uneasy about my power to document?

Portraiture is as much about control and systems as anything else.

Portraiture has its own emotional frequency or government.

I hope to remember that it is my responsibility to be fair when designing future portraits, to look at my own preconceptions and push past these into the future.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux performing at Concord Space. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

This is not just about the subject, but myself as well, trying to move past my preconceptions. What does the subject bring up in me? Where does my mind go, and how do I fantasize about the subject? What makes me feel uncertain about him or her? What do I admire? How can I push past these personal biases and try to get to the heart or dream of the subject? Can our imaginations be objective? If so, how?

No matter where my subjects go, I will go too. This is a promise: not to judge or capture, but to hold hands. It is my world they will inhabit and I need to remember this in terms of building another space for us. I want to be a pleasant host in the dream.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux’s "Future Portrait" desk. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

My little portrait studio is situated in a cozy corner of the art space and consists of a backdrop, stool, “future portrait” signage, lighting, and desk. I use the following materials to create each portrait: typewriter, personalized stamp, blue twine, archival ink, newsprint, 4″ x 4″ paper with matching envelopes, pen, pencil, glue stick, scissors, square stencil, ruler, thesaurus. The rotary phone is present for mere aesthetics.

Once the event begins, I sit at my desk and wait. When a possible participant approaches, I welcome them into my space, ushering them to sit on the stool in front of the backdrop for me. I tell them they can leave at any time and that this might be a while.

If they agree, then we start the session.

I place a small square of paper into the typewriter and wait for inspiration.

Sometimes the subjects speak to me and sometimes they do not. I always try to meet them where they are at—to give them what they need to feel safe and secure—so, if they speak, then I speak back. If they are quiet, then I am too.

The typewriter is always lingering between us, governing us. At times, when the subject and I connect on a personal level, I feel guilty about how the typewriter confuses our relationship, or I don’t want to capture the subject. I don’t want to document, or have that control. I just want us to sit with one another and be here: honestly communing. Then, I remember that the portrait is the reason for the relationship—that we wouldn’t be here otherwise. So, I suck it up and take responsibility for the space that we share. I embrace this idea of hosting an experience.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux typing a Future Portrait. Photo by Jason Gtierrez, 2012.

I start by questioning my own intention: Who do they want to be for me? Who are they to me? Can I please them? Is this about pleasing them or seeing them? Who owns the daydream of a portrait? Is the portrait for me or for them?

Then, with my fingers perched above the keys, our eyes meet one another, and slowly these questions soften into playful daydreams. I imagine that I am their mother, new lover, or sister. It’s no longer academic; I just want to take care of them. I pass by judgment, looking for a loving place for us no matter how different we think we are from one another. No matter if the initial meeting feels dark or troubled. No matter what our differences are on the outside, in the moment, together, I want to make a warm bed for us to share. When the subject’s body shifts into a posture that reflects this feeling of warmth or comfort, I know it’s time to type. Portraiture, as I’m discovering, is not just about identity, but where our ephemeral projections collide and collaborate.

Everyone who sits for me is memorable—lovely—and I am humbled.

A "Future Portrait" session. Photo by Jason Gutierrez, 2012.

After I have typed the subject’s future in the small square of paper, I paste it on a larger one. I outline another square around the paper, to give the appearance of a matted frame, then I seal it in an envelope and wrap twine around it like a gift. I present the portrait to the subject, hug him or her, and say thank you.

No actual cameras are used to take future portraits, although subjects can photograph me if they desire to do so. It’s only fair. Photographer Jason Gutierrez sat for me and took photos before and during our session. These photos posted here are his documents of the experience.

At the end of the night, after three hours of taking future portraits, here are my findings:

Portraiture is not about manipulation. It’s about letting go.
When we let go, our faces tend to crack in the most beautiful way.
A subject’s face will not crack unless your face cracks. So, the letting go must be mutual in order for this to occur.
A dual cracking is simultaneously intimate—you will both feel it. It’s heavy and soft. You will want to sleep in it.
As a designer of possible futures, it is your responsibility to not just witness the crack, but to catch the crack, to nurture it, to love it.
The crack is the core. Never exploit it. You are not great because you found it.
I have experienced this feeling on only two other occasions—both of which involved caring for a terminally ill person.
Portraiture is not just about confrontation, as I had thought previously—it’s not aggressive—it’s more about being a caregiver of imagery, ideas, and embracing a dualistic sense of self (what is reflected/where we meet). It is also about being awake and attentive to collaboration and being a sensitive steward of emotion.
The future is bright.

Stacy Elaine Dacheux’s work has most recently been shown at Flying Object and performed at ENTER>text. She looks for art every day at www.revisingloneliness.com