John Waters

Film Comment, May-June, 2003 by Chris Chang

"Why would anyone deliberately make something so ugly?" The question, one of many actual responses to the pillow seen here, is the stuff John Waters's dreams are made of. This needlepoint creation played a starring role in "Hair in the Gate"--a recent exhibition predominantly composed of photographs. Although Waters prefers to keep his careers as filmmaker and gallery artist separate, the latter endeavor relies so obviously on the sensibilities of the former that the seemingly discrete strategies merge. Flop (03), the pillow in question, pays ironic homage to fruitless creativity. Those unfamiliar with the director's oeuvre, however, may not understand his fascination with failure, repulsion, and other tactics devised to shipwreck viewer expectations. An obese transvestite eating dog feces (Pink Flamingos) or scratch-and-sniff cards featuring dirty sneaker and human gas aromas (Polyester) are hardly conventional forms of entertainment. Why, furthermore, would anyone market a film (again, Pink Flamingos) by equating it with "a septic tank explosion"? The joke, if you don't get it, is on you. And that's exactly what aligns Waters's most recent work with art history--specifically a period he nominally disparages.

"Hair in the Gate," a phrase intuitively Waters-esque, won't mean anything to those unfamiliar with the rigmarole of film production. On the set, after each take, the camera is examined to ensure debris-often hairs--were not present when the film passed through the shutter. In the event an errant filament is detected, "Hair in the gate!" is announced, and the shot is redone. The title piece of Waters's show consisted of a series of photos taken directly from a TV monitor. In this case, the images were of the so-called money shots from well-known movies like Gone with the Wind or The Sound of Music. But in each example a prominent hair marred the composition--and the artist once again violated the sanctity of things almost sacred.

Two points to consider when looking at the artwork of John Waters: 1. In many cases the viewer must be privy to background information (e.g., "Hair in the Gate"), or at least have a copy of the exhibit's checklist. The titles, the "inside jokes" invisibly buttressing the imagery, are what allow the expression to be fully realized. These hidden meanings also refer to strategies of minimalism and conceptualism. The ideas that lie behind the objects help the viewer comprehend their seeming artlessness. The revelation often entails reading copious amounts of stupefying theory, often churned out by the artists who made the bewildering items in the first place. (Waters is not guilty of this particular crime.) 2. The placement of images in rows or grids is standard minimalist operating procedure. To borrow a few words from a maximum theorist, here's Rosalind Krauss: "And just as the grid is a stereotype that is constantly being paradoxically rediscovered, it is, as further paradox, a prison in which the caged artist feels at liberty." To do what? In this case to desecrate, or at least poke fun at, hallowed ground.

Marfa, a small, sunburned town in western Texas, holds little significance for those not steeped in modernist folklore. So once again, when faced with Waters's silk-screened image, Visit Marfa, devotees of his midnight movies are probably in the dark. The back story/hidden meaning: After sculptor Donald Judd achieved art superstar status he retreated to an abandoned army base in the desert and began turning his austere, geometric constructions into a visionary lifestyle. It's not simply a place to view art. It's an oasis on a higher plane--a location where objects reign supreme and transitory humans are merely tolerated. If you make the pilgrimage to this Mecca of Minimalism, you'll experience portentous installations like Judd's 100 Untitled Works in Mill Aluminum. These acts of messianic productivity are an obvious target for Waters. The poster, resembling a circus broadsheet, invites the viewer to come to Marfa, "the Jonestown of Minimalism," and to "see Donald Judd's bed," "scare the locals," etc. High art has been knocked off its pillar but, of course, with a gentle nudge of respect. Waters, after all, is staking out territory to which he may well become heir apparent. (Flop, in an edition of eight, comes with its own pillar.) And the jokes, cast in a humanist light, might be a way to bring high esoterica to the people. Consider Waters's horizontal array of six 5 x 7 photos, each a slight variant on the same image: the blue glow a TV screen emits when there is no signal. At first glance it seems to fit the minimalist demands for cold, 'abstract, mechanical melancholia. But again, once the subject is revealed, Waters laughs with us. The title? Writers Block.