Pungsnotded

Robert Irwin and Salvador Dali Cage Match

January 22nd, 2009

There is only one reason I would put these two artists together. One simple reason. Because I can.

 

There lies much of my angst with Art History. I took just enough Art History in college to leave an opium-flavored resin ball stuck to one of my tonsils. You just cannot cough that shit up, and so it stays with you forever leaving you confused and bitter.  Lucky for me, I am not enrolled in any such soul-sucking courses, so I can compare at will, and without logic. Lucky for me, I am an Artist, and I do not have to add any pesky little “historian” to that.

Robert Irwin is an inspiring conceptual fountain of neatness. I have no idea what he would bring for the family reunion pot-luck, but I am thinking it might be the day-glo chicken and noodles, like someone in every family makes, but they would be very square and perfect.

 

Standing in front of Robert Irwin’s, piece, Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow & Blue³, I found myself floating in a mess of my own brain. It was so clean, and measured. But in those lines, there was some cloudiness, Irwin just didn’t throw it out there for us. It was reflective, it was shiny. The type of thing that would never find itself in my world. And THAT, my friend, is pure gold to me. From conception to the gallery, there is a process that some artists possess that I am so envious of. I believe it all stems from my basic misunderstanding of math, rulers and not returning library books on time.

Salvador Dali. My long lost friend who I avoided for so long. I put him off, I avoided him, I ignored him. It is my own stubborn fault. It is just that by the time I was of drug-consuming age, Dali posters wall-papered dorm rooms up and down the co-ed halls of my halluconogenic experiences. I probably spent some time looking and escaping into his fine images, via poster, and having some crappy esoteric thoughts, like everyone else. You know, along with some Bukowski and Geiger and Escher,and pass the bong, dude. I am always reluctant when Art becomes a t-shirt design. (or worse, Ed Hardy. I do not even know who you are Ed Hardy, but I really do hate you, from deep inside my soul.) *ahem*

 

One year ago, I stood in San Diego, at the Museum of Contemporary Art, trying desperately to form some opinion, but also content to appreciate the piece my eyes were showing me. I am in complete awe of Robert Irwin, and I struggle to understand him. I stick his work back in my brain, to relate to it later, I know it will be there when I need it. I am in awe. But I am not in Art-love with Robert Irwin. Yet.

And then exactly one year later, I walked into the Dali Museum in Florida. Something happened inside me. It was directly related to the progression of the paintings, but I was beside myself with that warm-fuzzy-Art-love. You know. You know what Art-love is. You get it, you know it’s there. Like mashed potatoes and gravy. Like Henry Miller and red wine. Oh, Salvador Dali, why had I forsaken thee? Was it all due to psuedo-educated potheads and their stupid dorm room posters? Is it because of my obsession with Garcia Lorca that you were overlooked?

I don’t know. But this year, just might have to be the year of the Dali.

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