April Picks
Christopher Chambers
Still in jail. It’s been more than six months since Alfredo Martinez was arrested and incarcerated in an FBI sting operation for wire fraud in relation to his alleged forgery and sales of paintings by Donald Baechler and Jean-Michelle Basquiat, two of the top proponents of the school of "bad painting." If I were his lawyer I would advise him to state that the whole thing was a conceptual gesture, an act of performance art unto itself, except for the fact that he has undoubtedly already spent whatever proceeds he swindled long ago. The idea that Alfredo started by hoodwinking a list of art dealers and collectors (some of whom quietly resold the fakes), who would much rather not be mentioned in print, by selling them artworks that he, as Baechler’s then assistant, would have done the actual painting of anyway, is certainly amusing, a plot fit for the movies. No way could he have pulled it off if the artists were, say, Ross Bleckner or perhaps Anselm Kiefer for example, because he simply can’t technically paint well enough. It reminds me of David Bowie’s attempt to invent a long lost master abstract expressionist, which was exposed before the joke went too far. Along the line of producing one’s employer’s artworks we might also mention man-of-the-moment Mathew Barney, who lorded over no less than 95 assistants (a small crew by Hollywood standards) in the mounting of, not to mention the production of, his staggering solo exhibition at the Guggenheim. Head man at the museum Thomas Krens declared the display the most important solo exhibition the institution has held, at least during his tenure at the helm. Indeed, I do feel absolutely dwarfed by the sheer scale and scope of the young man’s efforts; which fill the rotunda and side galleries with a mind blowing assortment of props and ancillary items relating to his bizarre, Feliniesque performance-art-and-more movies. Several top critics have decreed that Barney is the most significant artist of his generation and after seeing this show I am inclined to agree. I always liked his work; ever since his first gym mats and chilled Vaseline sculptures debuted at Barbara Gladstone’s Soho space a million-and-a-half years ago. As a whole his is an amazing accomplishment; over-the-top original, and this exhibition is truly a must see – if only to admire his astounding financial skills in getting his visions realized, and to perhaps "knock off" a couple of castings and peddle them for a few nasty bucks. Perhaps it’s my covetous nature or plain vanity, but I think it’s natural to compare oneself to one’s peers. Personally, I have never had the inclination to feign genital mutilation and prance about semi-clad while an aging "Bond girl" lips syncs operatic melodies, but that’s just me. Steve Kaplan (If you’ve ever been to an art opening in New York you have probably met Steve Kaplan) admonished, "Why do you keep harping on the gay thing? He has a kid with Bjork." To which I replied, "I’m not, I was asking about the serial killer theme and that feminine napkin motif… ?"
