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1992-08-28
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PHOTOGRAPHY, Page 74Bowwowing the Art World
William Wegman's dog photos are funny; his paintings can be too.
But a new show of his work raises the question, What's left when
the laughs are over?
By RICHARD LACAYO
Whether or not the dog is man's best friend, it's been
good to William Wegman. For many years Wegman's best friend was
Man Ray, a soulful blue-gray Weimaraner that is by now the most
famous artist's model since Alfred Stieglitz picked up the
scent of Georgia O'Keeffe. In the oversize Polaroids that Wegman
started making in the late 1970s, Man Ray can be found patiently
enduring whatever new conceit his master would visit on him.
Dusted in flour, tricked up as an elephant, wrapped head to toe
in Christmas-tree garlands, he had the comic gravity of Buster
Keaton and the acrobatic ambiguities of a four-legged pun. The
pictures made Wegman, until then a lesser-known Conceptualist,
the kind of artist who gets invited on Carson and Letterman.
Four years after Man Ray died in 1982, Wegman acquired Fay Ray,
a chocolaty female of the same breed who has been his muse and
model ever since.
The Wegman retrospective, which continues through April 19
at the Whitney Museum in New York City, then moves to Houston
on May 16, puts his famous dog pictures in the context of his
career as an artist whose specialty has been mildly cerebral
jokes. For the Conceptualists, whose outlook was just taking
hold among younger artists when Wegman was at the University of
Illinois in the mid-'60s, anything could be art so long as it
wasn't a painting or sculpture, those luxury items that the
galleries peddled to the bourgeoisie. Works were conceived as
ideas to be preserved in whatever medium suggested itself --
video, snapshots, the artist's own body -- the more offhand the
better.
The West Coast branch of Conceptualism, which Wegman
joined during the two years he spent in the Los Angeles area
starting in 1970, had the best comedians. In his early days Ed
Ruscha photographed parking-lot patterns from the air: a
satirist's geometric abstraction. Bruce Nauman photographed
himself performing visual puns, like shooting water from his
mouth and calling the picture Self-Portrait as a Fountain. And
Wegman started making deadpan videos of himself spraying an
entire can of deodorant into his armpit. When his new Weimaraner
got into the act, Wegman recognized that it was enough to tape
the puppy doing something as simple as trying to extract a
biscuit from a glass bottle. As a comic deflation of the
doggedness of human endeavor, Man Ray's tireless noodling with
his bottle ranks as a bit of theater that Samuel Beckett might
have enjoyed.
Wegman's blackout skits on video were followed in the '70s
by cartoonish drawings and whimsies staged for the camera. Like
the big, vaporous paintings he started showing in 1987, they
have their moments of Thurberesque charm, but it's only the
loopy dog pictures that click. Situated somewhere between
Marcel Duchamp's cunning art pranks and David Letterman's Stupid
Pet Tricks, they rib Conceptualism even as they lay out its
possibilities. But in the end their effectiveness rests upon
powers of portrait psychology that owe little to Conceptualist
mind games.
In Wegman's best pictures, his implacable dogs are a
surrogate for the part of ourselves that we hold back from the
world, above all in our moments of abject obedience. In one
picture after another, the secret of Fay Ray's charm is the way
she gets the last laugh, even when wrapped in aluminum foil, by
facing down the camera with her own impenetrable self-enclosure.
As a premium, Wegman's dogs can double as Surrealist found
objects. In the 1990 Lolita, Fay Ray's puppy Battina is draped,
sex-kitten-style, along a Le Corbusier chair. With her spindly
legs and nipple-studded underside offered as cheesecake, Battina
is a jolt, a dream of mutant sexuality as well as a reminder
that the bulges we make such a fuss about on people are just
their standard equipment as mammals.
Does Wegman's work qualify as art if he can't keep a
straight face? Why not? Dada was a punch line to the sick joke
of World War I, Surrealism a field of comic non sequiturs, Pop
art a pie in the face of solemn Abstract Expressionism. Given
their devotion to whatever was ephemeral and disreputable, the
Conceptualists were bound to go in for jokes, the second-class
citizens of mental life. But the philosophical pitfall of
Conceptualism is piffle, the temptation to be content with art
lite. Or as Wegman once said, "As soon as I got funny, I killed
any majestic intentions in my work."
Sometimes even more modest intentions don't get satisfied.
Quite a few of these big-eyed dog shots feel like visual
one-liners that merely extend a Wegman product line that has
bowwowed the art market. The pictures of Fay Ray dressed up in
gowns and colonial housedresses are one step removed from those
wallpaper murals of poker-playing bulldogs. Put her on roller
skates, as Wegman has done, and she's just the thinking man's
J. Fred Muggs.
Maybe it was Wegman's own sense of dwindling returns from
the dog pictures that led him to take up painting. His large
canvases are covered in a thin, mottled wash of acrylic. It
gives them the look of oversize watercolors, bringing to mind
anything from the mists of J.M.W. Turner to Raoul Dufy's sunny
mats of pigment. Bobbing to the surface of this broth are simple
images -- planes, ships, cowboys, Greek temples, water
sprinklers -- that Wegman adapts from such feeders to the
collective unconscious as grade-school readers and illustrated
encyclopedias. The aim may be to bring these generic memories
into a suggestive mix or to poke at the juvenile sources of our
mature assumptions, but Wegman's room-temperature musings don't
clinch yet. You smile and wait for his ideas to coalesce, but
. . . nothing.
Maybe it doesn't matter. If painting doesn't work out for
him, he can always go to the dogs again. It's probably just a
matter of time before Battina too has puppies.