Evil Averted

There are times when I simply must leave my family lest we make the 11 o'clock news. Or maybe the paper with one of those articles beginning, "Before turning the gun on himself..." Sometimes, when things get that way, I go to the movies by myself. This always fails to cheer me up but at least it gets me out of the house.

One such time not too long ago the movie I chose to see was M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening. It was terrible. It was such a lousy, unsatisfying, worthless moviegoing experience that I decided to do something I've never done before -- not walk out before the movie was over, because I don't think I've ever done that -- but leave the movie and go to another movie in the same multiplex without paying. Yes, I decided to sneak -- although sneaking would imply there was an employee, any employee, somewhere in the building who actually gave a crap -- I sneaked and snuck and sauntered my way into another movie, one I did not pay for. The film I thus stole?

The Love Guru.

When I told this story to the excellent comic artist Mike Cavallaro he intoned, "Batman would say no good can come from evil."

Those words were ringing in my ears last Thursday at six o'clock as I reached the doors of Cheim & Read and found them locked.

Let me say a few words -- maybe more than a few, we'll see -- about how I decide what art shows I go to. I almost never choose to see a show that I don't think might be good. However I find out about it -- recommended by a friend, a little tiny JPEG on the Chelsea Art Galleries site, artist's mailing list -- however I hear about a show, I'll usually only go if I expect to see good art.

You might at this point say that I'm being a trifle ingenuous. After all, you might note, so many of your reviews here are of the negative variety. In fact some days it seems as if your cup only overfloweth with vitriol. How can this be if you only choose to go to good shows?

There are a few ways I end up seeing art that I don't like. One way is I'm invited to a show. And then maybe I'll go if it doesn't look great, because like anyone I enjoy having my ego stroked, and even a mass e-mail invitation works for me a little bit.

Another common occurrence is that I'm simply disappointed. That happens a lot, sadly. I go hoping for good art and it isn't. Very unfortunate.

And, finally, the way I most often see art I don't like: Wandering. I go in to Chelsea to see one show, then aimlessly wobble around the neighborhood to see what else there is to see. That's usually when I see the absolute worst art I could ever find, because I end up in shows I would never purposely set out to see. Why would I want to see bad art?

Which brings me to my confession. And it is a confession: I'm coming clean with you because we've been through a lot together and I feel you're owed total and complete honesty. Fact is I don't have to confess -- you'd never have found out about it. But I can't go on like that. You deserve better.

The fact is this: I went to Cheim & Read last Thursday for one reason and one reason only: To see the Chantal Joffe show to shred it to little bitty bits.

This is grossly unfair. It's wrong. I admit it. I've written many times before that I refuse to judge artwork on reproductions alone; that I don't go in to a show with my opinion set; that I'm as open as can be to any art, anywhere, and its capacity to move me. I've written all that and I meant it, Dear Reader, I was sincere every single time. Really.

But when I saw the little tiny JPEG on the Chelsea Art Galleries site for this show, I simply didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. When I went to the Cheim & Read site and saw the single image they'd put up at that point for the show, I was filled with anger, with hate. And I wanted very much, for some reason, to go to this show and savage it. Wreck it. Destroy it. Cause Chantal Joffe to weep. Redden the faces of her parents. Induce Mr. Read and Mr. Cheim to shake their heads in disbelief that anyone could trash their wares so vituperously. I wanted rending of clothing and tearing of hair. Thumbscrews and hot irons. I wanted pain pain pain.

And that's wrong of me. That's not who I want to be. That's not what I want to bring you. Because you mean a lot to me, Reader, you do, and you deserve better than that from me.

Good thing those doors were locked promptly at six o'clock, or something evil might have happened.