Speaking in Tongues

Originally published November 21, 2007 by New York Press

The current exhibition at Anna Kustera Gallery, Friday, is a sly, dark and compelling retelling of the Passion of Christ. The paintings and mixed-media sculptures by Sean Mellyn are both sacred and absurd. Christ, in the guise of a miniature snowman, makes his way through the imagery of childhood onto the Mount. Perched precariously atop a stack of faux cardboard boxes, it is hard to tell whether he’s in imminent danger of crucifixion or melting. It is precisely this delicious counterpoint of oft-told stories and the surreal adventures of childhood that gives the show real punch.

Mellyn’s religious theme is buried deep enough, and the painting is so good, that for a non-believer like me it was easy to miss the larger narrative. Once aware that there was a unifying storyline, I found the show worth a second, rewarding look. Though I admire the artist’s reinterpretation of this ancient story, the paintings and objects are strong enough that they transcend the need for it. Judas, depicted as a slick ’70s hipster wannabe in huge aviator glasses, stares slack-jawed as a tiny witch (Satan?) is reflected in his shades. Christ, this time as a giant messy snowman, is being hauled off to Calvary in a red wagon pushed and pulled by a posse of 1950s-style, mean-faced children. So much for childhood innocence.

This is a strong, compelling and bizarre vision. The only “off” note is the portrayal of Nancy Regan cast as Veronica clutching a hankie imprinted with her beloved Ronnie’s face. The injection of a political note seems a bit forced, but then again, maybe this is just another level in the absurd world that Sean Mellyn inhabits.

Through Dec. 8 at Anna Kustera Gallery, 520 W. 21st St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), 212-989-0082.

Originally published October 31, 2007 by New York Press

You know you’re in trouble when there are more press people at an art opening than anyone else. Such was the situation Saturday night at The Proposition gallery in Chelsea. It was the “the second coming,” if you will, of the life-sized chocolate Jesus made by Cosimo Cavallaro. The original chocolate Jesus was shown at The Lab Gallery last April, timed to coincide with Holy week. The gallery felt compelled to close the exhibition in the face of right-wing religious protests.

This exhibition, Chocolate Saints…Sweet Jesus (earnestly termed the “Resurrection” by PR people circling the room), was meant to give the public a chance to see the work anew, in a different and less judgmental context. This Jesus, instead of being crucified—a dreadful thing to do to a luscious hunk of chocolate—was reclining in agony on a white ruffled tablecloth looking for the all the world like a demented, man-sized petit fours.

In this “resurrection,” Jesus is circled by a group of small chocolate saints. They resemble cheesy souvenirs from a second-rate shrine.

We walked through a phalanx of whirring cameras and reporters who were eagerly hoping that someone would say something controversial about the work. It was an attempt at a “scene,” complete with burly security guards with earpieces and hot-and-cold running PR people studiously explaining the artist’s intent. The air conditioning was blasting away—presumably to keep the chocolate from melting. We went to the show hoping to find the delicious, sinful smell of chocolate wafting through the gallery, but it was too cold both in temperature and spirit for anything to waft. The gallery was so cold that everyone had their coat on. Everyone, that is, except the Son of God.

Left on its own, perhaps this work would transfix and transcend. Perhaps. It’s difficult, however, to find the art through the flashbulbs.

Originally published October 24, 2007 by New York Press

Tom Otterness’ sculptures work on several levels at once—the blend of the innocence and corruption in his world is so funny and so dark—and the fact that he’s managed to place so many of these sly and twisted figures in public places never ceases to amaze and delight me. His Eighth Ave. subway installation (at 14th Street) infests the station with money-grubbing little men and women. His large fountain in Hudson River Park, an ode to capitalism, is a delight to both children and adults.

Otterness’ current exhibition, the inaugural show, The Public Unconscious, at the spanking new Marlborough Gallery’s Chelsea space, does not disappoint. Giant bronze sculptures of humans and bugs crowd a large universe into a Chelsea Gallery. I’m sympathetic to the sentiments expressed in a piece like “Large Consumer” that tackles, in one breath, consumerism, class and religion. These are common Otterness themes that he’s addressed again and again, but are rendered freshly and delightfully here. In this exhibition, however, it’s the subtler, less-direct pieces—like “Large Millipede,” a 10-foot-long millipede wearing dancing shoes—that I find most engaging. A bit of mystery remains in the non-human pieces—“Walking Stick,” “Kissing Dung Beetles,” “Mouse”—and these works leave the story a little open-ended. On the whole, political messages are buried a bit deeper, so the viewer has a little more breathing room to interpret this latest work.

While I was at the gallery, a young mother came in with two toddlers who immediately began to weave elaborate and delightful narratives about the sculptures. The gallery staff was tolerant of their young energy (though there is “NO Touching”), and the presence of these children made the entire gallery come alive. This breathing of life into surrounding spaces is ultimately what makes Otterness such a successful public artist. His work and his political message never hits you too hard over the head because, at the bottom of his vision, is a giddy delight in the world. Yeah, politics are corrupt and men are greedy, but the world is nonetheless a silly place.

Through Nov. 3, Marlborough Chelsea. 545 W. 25th St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), 212-463-8634.

Originally published September 26, 2007 by New York Press

Fahamu Pecou is leering at us from the rarified cover of Arte Magazine. At least that’s how the Brooklyn-born artist paints himself in the large-scale portraits of his alter ego, “Art Star,” as seen in BORN inFAMOUS, the exhibition of his work currently on view at Lyons Weir Ortt Gallery. Pecou’s paintings are funny and confrontational, daring us to like him. It’s meant to be discomforting to see this young man posed like a street thug, and he’s so convincing a poseur that it’s tempting, upon first glance, to dismiss the work and fall for the game. Also on display is an elaborately produced and quite funny “mockumentary” with interviews of friends and colleagues interspersed with shots of him arriving at events surrounded by paparazzi and squealing fans—more like a pop star rather than a painter.

While the work sometimes teeters on the obvious, what saves it from falling into cliché is that they’re beautifully painted. Pecou uses a lush palette and bold, painterly style to portray “Art Star.” The soft, swirling brushstrokes are at odds with the sneering, defiant faces, and the tension this creates works very nicely. As he moves from the center of his canvas, Pecou leaves ragged edges and pencil lines underscoring who and what is the focus of attention. Calculated dribbles of paint and unfinished pencil sketching remind us that they’re handcrafted—not the glossy magazine covers they pretend to emulate.

The power and beauty of Pecou’s painting is undercut by the addition of a layer of text written Basquiat-style, just in case we’ve missed the point: “The names change but the game is the same” or “These r conflict paintings.” One can read Pecou’s message loud and clear without the words, so in time he’ll hopefully develop the confidence to let the painting speak for itself.

Through Oct. 6. Lyons Weir Ortt Gallery, 171 7th Ave. (at 20th St.), 212-242-6220.