A short history of Rirkrit Tiravanija - Thai artist who cooks meals as installation art

Art in America, Feb, 1996 by Jerry Saltz

There's a shamanistic side to Tiravanija, too, that ties him to Joseph Beuys. Like Beuys, Tiravanija gives of himself:, he is a kind of one-man traveling circus, a magician who carries his tools with him. But Beuys was always at center stage: his gaunt, photogenic presence informs all his work; Tiravanija is strangely absent, even invisible. He always seems happy, but a bit removed--a quality that ties him to one more artist: there's a bit of Warhol about Tiravanija, too.

An image: two heads of hair--one, Tiravanija's, jet black, unruly; the other, Warhol's rough-cut silver wig. Two skins: one light tan, the other ghostly white. Two serene, nonchalant "fools"--smiling, bemused, slightly detached, a little mischievous. Warhol's "Can I photograph you?" is Tiravanija's "Can I serve you?" Things happen around them: they are ciphers, drifters, village idiots who change the village.

I saw, and ate, Untitled, (Still) 11 times. The food was really good. (It was favorably reviewed by Jeff Weinstein, Village Voice food critic, last summer.) It was medicinal, too I'm convinced the curry put off an incipient cold. Even though the food and the place were the same, each experience was different. After the show's opening, Tiravanija disappeared and had a "double" cooking for him--an artist from Thailand named Udomsak Krisanamis. Whenever I was there people mistook this man--who looks nothing like Tiravanija--for the artist. The situation was fraught with confusion. You're in a hobo kitchen, out of your element; the food you're eating isn't typical. The experience in the gallery is decidedly un-American too. Americans hate to eat with strangers. If you're in a restaurant and all the tables are taken wouldn't sit down with anyone, and you'd be annoyed if anyone sat with you. Americans are very proprietary about space and things: "Mine!" we think.

At 303 Gallery I regularly sat with or was joined by strangers, and it was nice. The gallery became a place for sharing, jocularity and frank talk. I had an amazing run of meals with art dealers. Once I ate with Paula Cooper, who recounted a long, complicated bit of professional gossip. Another day, Lisa Spellman related in hilarious detail a story of intrigue about a fellow dealer trying, unsuccessfully, to woo one of her artists. About a week later, I ate with David Zwirner. I bumped into him on the street, and he said, "Nothing's going right today, let's go to Rirkrit's." We did, and he talked about a lack of excitement in the New York art world. Another time I ate with Gavin Brown, the artist and dealer (Tiravanija has since joined his gallery), who talked about the collapse of SoHo--only he welcomed it, felt it was about time, that the galleries had been showing too much mediocre art. Later in the show's run, I was joined by an unidentified woman and a curious flirtation filled the air. Another time I chatted with a young artist who lived in Brooklyn who had real insights about the shows he'd just seen.

A sense of uneasiness was always close by. Once when I went to the gallery I ate alone, and I felt that old fear of doing something wrong. I remember pausing outside the door and thinking, "Maybe I shouldn't do this--they'll think I'm a moocher." I felt sheepish, guilty, like I was a freeloader. I don't usually feel this way when I go back to a show more than once. I realized more clearly than ever that in a Tiravanija installation, the food is just a distraction from some bigger questions about art.