Let me start by noting that Mark Kostabi's opening doesn't get its own entry here, all by itself, because Mark Kostabi is so great. It's not that I love Mark so dearly that I had to set aside one entire evening for just his show, where ordinarily I'd see four or five shows in one night. Not at all. It's that Mark's show is way uptown at Adam Baumgold on the Upper East Side, 79th Street, and there was just no way I was going to make it to any other openings what with Chelsea being 50 blocks south and half a city west.
In fact I had originally planned to try to see some other shows. I didn't realize the show was up on 79th; last I saw Mark, he was showing at Stux in Chelsea, so I assumed Baumgold was in Chelsea also. I dutifully checked over the Douglas Kelley Show list and didn't see anything that really interested me, so I wrote to an unnamed art writer and sometime curator. I figured he'd mock me for going to Kostabi but he might have an idea of where something decent was showing elsewhere. Turns out I was wrong: He admitted he was going to be at Mark's opening and that he'd been a contestant on Mark's Name That Painting TV show.
Thus it was that I was greeted by him outside the door of the gallery and didn't actually make it inside to see the paintings for another hour or so, fully half an hour after the opening was supposed to be over. He sure can talk. He can expound endlessly on almost any topic. I'd say he covered about 80 percent of the conversation, I handled 15 percent, and other people standing around filled in the rest. This unnamed writer introduced me to another artist, Jonathan Ehrenberg; a real estate agent who was standing nearby introduced herself to us. Lisa Kraner was there because she'd tried to help Mark find an apartment and he'd invited her to his opening. I know these names, not because I have a perfect memory, but because the writer insisted on getting a business card from Lisa. "You should always have the number of a good doctor," he opined, "and a good real estate agent."
Conversation ranged widely, as it will. Of course we talked about Manhattan real estate and the writer's living arrangements; we talked about Mark's game show, where art world luminaries (all invited by Mark) vie to invent titles for existing paintings and he hands out cash to the winners; we discussed how drunk other visitors were, and how duplicitous some people are, and whether Jerry Saltz cribs ideas for his articles from other writers. At one point I mentioned my mostly-joking current pet peeve, namely beautiful young female artists getting shows. I'm really just jealous because these hot young chicks are almost my exact opposite, since I'm a fat ugly balding middle-aged man.
"Really what you should do, what's always worked historically, if you look at it, what you should do is turn your perceived weaknesses into affectations," the writer suggested.
"How does that work? Am I supposed to go bald faster?"
"If you look -- Shelley, he was very unattractive..."
"Who?"
"Shelley."
"Shelley. The poet?"
"Yes. The poet. He was very unattractive, really. And Samuel Johnson, he was, like, really tall and had a bulbous nose and these boils all over his face..."
"Aren't we going back a ways?"
"Doesn't matter. You turn your weaknesses into affectations."
"I think I'm too open and honest for that."
"You can be open and honest and have affectations."
Which I think means I'm supposed to revel in being fat. Maybe I should wear half-shirts. I did wear my fetus t-shirt, almost still warm from the iron, since I was double dirty dog dared by Jason Laning (otherwise known as Art Soldier). When Mark came out for air and I stopped him to say hello, he was struck by my design; he said it was like a painting he'd done with the help of Enzo Cucchi in Rome, where he painted himself, in a baby stroller, a bag of cash in one hand and paintbrush in the other, pregnant with -- get ready for it -- another Kostabi, also with a bag of cash in one hand and paintbrush in the other. Someone is pushing the stroller, you can't tell who; the unnamed writer says he thinks it's Enzo Cucchi. And who impregnated this baby Kostabi? Why, Mark himself.
Eventually I did get in to see the paintings. Luckily Mark is the kind of guy who'd keep his show open late to let as many people as possible see his work (some of the more upscale galleries in Chelsea start kicking people out before closing, and some just turn off the lights at eight to get people out; as the writer said, they have dinner reservations). Inside I met Douglas Kelley who, with very little prompting, proceeded to discuss Mark's early years. Apparently Douglas has known Mark for a long time. Douglas says watching Mark grow has been like watching Mr. Spock develop a sense of humor: It's not quite human yet, but it's better than it used to be.
Douglas and I both agreed that our favorite painting in the show is "There's No Place Like Home." Mark said that most people seemed to like "Suicide By Modernism." My guess is that's because people like paintings which quote other paintings; it makes them feel smart to recognize them. And to me the most telling painting in the show is the tiny "Chain of Desire." Mark explained it to us after adjusting the painting below it so it was hanging straight. (I don't think I've ever seen anyone touch an artwork at a show before, and even though I knew it's Mark's show and Mark's painting, I still found it unnerving.)
"Here I am, directing this assistant." Mark traced the cables running from the laptop to the back of the painter. "And I've got all this cash here. And he's chained to this penny. See that? I've got the cash, he's chained to a penny. And yet here we both are... in this little black and white painting."
It's hard to know what to say about Mark's paintings. He's so open about having assistants do most of the work -- Douglas says it's scary to visit his studio and see twenty people there painting away -- it's difficult to form an opinion without worrying you're going to feel cheated or hoodwinked. Liking a Kostabi leaves me feeling a little used. Like that unnamed writer guesting on Mark's game show, grubbing for cash handouts from the master, knowing you're the butt of some joke, trying to pretend you're in on it, suspecting you're not, deciding to take the money and run; it's the kind of conflict you can never feel totally good about. And Mark himself is so sincere, so warm, so friendly -- he's a huckster, yes, he couldn't help but make sure Douglas knew that earlier, yes, just a short time before he got there, the gallery was packed, it was a great turnout, great visitors -- he's a huckster but he's a genuine huckster, or seems to be....
It's the kind of tongue-tied nonsense which reads well on paper but which, when you're tangled up in it, is still uncomfortable. Is Mark sincere? Or is he faking being sincere? Is he honest, or is his honesty an affectation? Douglas and I both agreed that we'd like to think that the assistants are all for show and Mark actually paints all his paintings himself in secret.
And Douglas knows better, because he remembers Mark's system from when he had Kostabi World. He described how Mark had a British woman who was in charge of developing his paintings. She'd have drawings made, always on 8.5 by 11 paper because that was cheapest; the drawings were projected onto large paper at the final size of the painting; the paper was then pounced, which meant that the painting could be reproduced at any time, as long as they saved the pattern; and the drawing was filled in with paint. Mark would show up at the end to add some fine details, maybe, or just sign his name.
There's no reason to think his method has changed significantly whatever our hopes might be. Which leaves me back where I started: It's hard to know what to say about Mark's paintings. I can say that they are a Photorealist's most orgiastic dream of perfect flatness. I can say the paint is blended so flawlessly and edged so precisely it looks like it was airbrushed. I can say the paintings communicate alienation, distance, and loneliness. I can say that when there's color it's beautiful and bright and it contrasts wonderfully with the monochrome figures.
What the heck. I can say I like them. I don't know who did them, I don't know what they all mean. I know the titles are in some sense arbitrary (Mark likes to mention who made up the winning title as he's discussing a given painting). I know the subjects are the result of some committee meeting. Let's look at the paintings as what they are; let's separate the signal from the noise. Simply as objects, I like Mark Kostabi's paintings.
In the long run I suppose that's all that matters. When I think of painting -- either looking at someone else's paintings or creating my own -- I don't think in terms of months or years, but centuries. Because to me one of the best things about paintings is summed up by Robert Gamblin when he writes, "The earliest oil paintings ever made still exist after 550 years. Through the centuries, those artists still communicate their personal vision, undistorted by any editing or commentary." And that's just traditional oil painting: There are cave paintings going back over 40,000 years. When you think in those terms, questions of which individual painted what, and how; and questions of subject matter and taste; and questions of schools and categorizations; all those questions fade in importance. In the end, all of it will be forgotten: My conversation with the unnamed writer, the name of that real estate agent, how much someone paid for a Kostabi original, what Jerry Saltz thinks, the titles of the paintings, the exact dates they were painted, all of it will vanish. In the long run, if anything at all survives, it will be the paintings themselves. So why concern yourself with anything else?
Hi Chris, Interesting post. Do you think that Mark makes the initial sketches or has the original concept for the piece? I have mixed feelings (uh, in case you care) about artists who don't really paint their own paintings. I love being able to do whatever I want as a painter, and so I'd like to be accepting of other artists who work in whatever manner they prefer. But something about not actually making their own work, at almost any level, kind of irks me. For me it's easy to dismiss the art done by assistants if I don't like it, but it gets trickier if I do like it, like Chuck Close's portraits for example. Maybe ultimately, much of that doesn't matter. I don't know.
I don't think Mark makes the initial sketches, either. Enzo Cucchi, he said, worked on the sketches for his womb painting, and from what I've read, he has a committee to go over sketches submitted by his underlings to decide which should be made into paintings.I have mixed feelings, too, obviously. But as I've written elsewhere, Mark is just being really open about a very common practice in the art world. And not just in modern times, either; it's been standard practice for the entire history of oil painting.I personally would love to have assistants, but just for canvas prep and maybe some sexual harrassment.
Hmmmm. So it seems that he and Martha Stewart do basically the same things regarding their "lines". I can't imagine having someone else do anything on my paintings, although with my luck, having an assistant would improve my work, thereby getting me into a NYC gallery.I could see having an assistant handle my paperwork, though I probably wouldn't do the sexual harrassment thing.
Did you see Mia Fineman's article today in the NYT art section?It's all about who fabricates the large sculptures and installations for the super-elite, like Koons, etc. Remember Robert Lazzerini from the Whitney Biennial a couple of cycles back? He was the dude that made that incredible warped phone booth. He had 45 different contractors make the work. I really don't have to much problem with all this. I just wish I could afford that kind of staff to make all that cool shit. But then I don't really know if I want any doing my paintings. How could they do it anyway? Hmmm I have to think about this. My output would be a hell of a lot better. If Robert Longo could have someone do his drawing for him, I guess I could deal with the idea. Maybe...
I can totally see having assistants do the construction on sculpture or installation pieces etc. or even prepping canvas or panels. But like you Nancy, I don't know how I would have anyone do my painting for me, that just seems so bizarre somehow.It just feels disappointing somehow, to know that some artists (like Kostabi) don't even have the initial concept or do the sketch, like that's the least involvement an artist can have and they don't even do that.
Thanks for the pointer to Mia Fineman's article Looks Brilliant on Paper. But Who, Exactly, Is Going to Make It?It's an interesting article -- I'm surprised Kostabi wasn't mentioned somewhere in it.I appreciate that fabricators and other skilled craftsmen are involved in any large art project. They'd have to be. When it comes to things like bronze casting, it's probably better to separate out the sculpting itself from the specialized knowledge required to cast an object. (Much of this knowledge was lost, by the way, when the chain of apprenticing was broken in the late 19th century.)But what I think is missing today is the hand of the artist. An artist should be able to do something. Ideas are great, but execution counts for something, too.
Nice post Chris, it made me think of an episode of 60 minutes that aired a few years ago. They featured Thomas Kinkade "The Painter of Light". Kinkade and Kostabi seem to have a lot in common. It wouldn't matter what they were selling, paintings, used cars, whatever, they're strength is marketing.
I just had a thought Chris. What if (in an inversion of Kostabi tactics), you stay at home and make paintings and then send out a gaggle of scantily clad bomb-shell chicks to market your work? They could be well trained to be consistent in their pitch and maybe chosen for their social graces and wit (along with the low-rider pants). Then, as things get going and your career takes off, a couple of your avatar-sex-kittens reveal that they have been painting on the sly and applying all their knowledge gleaned from all the openings and museum talks they have been attending in your stead. Their paintings turn out to be good.You fire the assistants. Scandal insues.Paintings sell.Movie is made.Just a thought.
Steve, that's a great idea!It's not too far off from some other ideas I've had. The simplest was to find a really, really, ridiculously beautiful woman and take her to all the openings I attend. She wouldn't be my girlfriend -- I'm extremely married -- but she'd be useful for getting noticed and starting conversations.I discarded this because, while I know a couple of women who'd physically fit the bill, I felt very bad about it. I may be sexist but I'm not misogynistic.My second idea was to hire someone to "ghost paint" for. They'd be my public face. They'd be young and gorgeous (male or female -- I was thinking male, but it could be either). Everyone would love them and they'd pretend to have painted my paintings.I discarded this because I don't think I could find someone smart enough to pretend to be me, attractive enough to be worth the substitution, and lacking in ego enough to take the job, even if I offered to split the take fifty-fifty.I had another idea. This one's based on the idea that Warhol (with his Factory) and Kostabi are strictly Industrial Age artists. Time to join the Information Age! I'd build a machine which can paint. Computer controlled, of course. You go to a Web page and order a painting of a certain size based on style and colors and the machine cranks it out. When it's dry enough, I mail it to you. Basically, I'd be designing a printer/plotter which uses real oil paint and brushes instead of inks and paper.I got as far as working out a possible method for mechanically getting a flow of oil paint through a brush, but stalled for lack of funding.Anyone who reads this can have these ideas. They're free! Take 'em or leave 'em.
Chris,For your last idea you're too late. See William Betts. www.williambetts.com.It's not exactly the same thing but very close.I own one of his paintings by the way.
Is there some page where Betts explains how he does what he does? I seem to remember reading a little about him somewhere else... on your blog maybe?Anyway, it looks like his system is somewhat limited. Mine would be able to paint in all kinds of styles! Er, okay, probably not. But in my head it looks really good.
Here's a recent story about Betts: http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ent/arts/art/3843382.html
Here's how you makeum links:<a href="http://www.crywalt.com">Chris Rywalt totally RULES!</a>For future reference.
Betts' system sounds similar to what I envisioned. I was thinking of two rails, like in a printer, with a head that moves back and forth on a rail between them. The head is a brush through which paint is fed from the handle. Changing colors -- I wasn't sure if there should be more than one brush the machine could switch between, or if it could clean out the brush between colors by blowing thinner through it.I was inspired by an airbrushing machine they have in Disneyworld. Since I used to airbrush t-shirts, this made me feel extremely obsolete. Of course, it's a lot easier to mechanize an airbrush versus a paintbrush.Now I'm seeing an industrial robotic arm which dips the brush in paint. Hmm. I wonder where I could get one. Time to check eBay!
Wouldn't an assistant be much more cost effective than a robot? And more harassable?
But so inefficient.
If you made this device, like you say, the technical aspects would be very challanging. I think the most important hurdle would be to make a machine that could do glazes. Even if the paint appeared meaty, you would still be in the giclee catagory. And I have yet to see a giclee print that was interesting (when compared to a painting). I mean, that's why one uses oil right? It has an absorbent quality compared to acrylic. The light doesn't just bounce off the painting, it lingers and refracts and radiates out of oil paint.I assume that when people came to the Paint-O-Matic site, they would have control over/ choice between a limited number of variables. The client would fill out their order and the machine would go to work. (Maybe a streaming live cam would be fun for people to watch thier painting being made much like I used to watch my pizza being made at Ye Ole Pizza Parlor). But what if, as a code writer/programmer, you were able to expand the variables and introduce, style, subject matter, cultural references, art history, etc etc, so that the machine's paintings became virtually indiscernible from a human's paintings? Maybe the charm would be in the clitches. Maybe Paint-O-Matic Paintings would all have a slight vignette of lavander around the edges, or maybe it always painted NASCAR drivers with chastity belts on, who knows? The imperfections would be the most compelling. You wouldn't want the paintings to become too real. I am thinking of the Uncanny Valley they speak of in the robotics and Computer Graphics worlds. That space where something becomes so real that it becomes freaky. That place where the humans in "Toy Story" are unsettling and yet the toys are not. Stay with me now.I've been trying to understand at what point photo-realistic painting becomes unsettling or freaky. Or, for that matter, where contemporary ab-ex paintings become so perfectly rendered that they are simply androids of the real thing?What puts "soul" into a painting?That is the ephemeral thing that is missing (for me) in Kostabi paintings. (Not that I have been able to instill my own with any).
Of course my hypothetical Paint-O-Matic would allow choice of colors, styles, and subjects. Of course! It wouldn't be fun otherwise! Technologically this is probably damned near impossible. But the result wouldn't be a giclee because it would be in oils and you could program impastos and so forth.As far as soul, though, I'm pretty sure it would lack any soul at all. It would be the perfect consumer art: Art which matches your sofa!I think Kostabi's paintings do lack soul. But then almost every work of art I've seen lacks soul. Very few really say something to me.I appreciate photorealism but I don't understand it, not entirely. Why paint something which could just as well be a photo? Aside from the Mount Everest thing, because it's there.Now look at my paintings. They could mostly be photos also. Maybe you'd need some posing, maybe some special effects. Some Photoshop here and there. But they could be photos. So why do I bother?I don't have an answer, not yet. Soul is part of it: I like to think I put something in the painting which I, at least, couldn't put into a photo. But I'm not sure. I'm not sure there's a point at all.
I shouldn't complain, because I've received a lot of free publicity because of it, but I'm often quite amazed that people still make an issue about the use of assistants or fabricators in art. It's even more amazing that probably half the people who make an issue about it are fully aware that Rembrandt, Rubens, Raphael, Giotto, etc used assistants and the people above don't seem to complain, "feel uncomfortable," or "feel irked" about those artists.
Thanks to Chris Rywalt for the kind words about my paintings themselves.
Mark Kostabi
Franklin discussed the use of assistants in, for example, the seventeenth century, in his Journal post titled "Show Mode Mega-Roundup" (scroll down a bit, it's there under Reader Mail) but the short version is this: When someone commissioned a painting from Rubens or Rembrandt, it was stated in the contract what percentage of the painting would be by the master himself, so they knew what they were getting. And the main part of any work -- including the composition and drawings -- were done by the master. Assistants mainly handled the chores of painting a large commission, such as priming, underpainting, backgrounds, grinding pigments, maintaining brushes. (Personally I could really use some minions just to take care of clean up.)
This is significantly different from what you're doing, Mark, or anyway used to do. I have no idea how you're set up these days. In fact I'm not even sure how it used to be, since I wasn't there. I'm going by what I've heard and read. Certainly Rubens, Giotto, et seq ran very different workshops than, say, Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. (I know someone who worked for Koons for several years -- not only is he a lousy artist himself, he treats his workers badly, too.)