Rauschenberg’s Repartee
Facetious Facets of the Retrospective in Houston.
(Page 3 of 5)
Goofing in the Fifties
The Menil collection houses Rauschenberg’s earliest works, and now that the Furlong Piece has presented us with the artist’s rendition of where he came from and where he’s going, it makes sense to go back for the non-revisionist history. The maturity with which Rauschenberg interjects humor into his work from the very beginning, both slapstick and profound, is remarkable; hilarious visual imagery and word play are mutually essential in finding each work’s meaning or lack thereof. Throughout the exhibit there are recurring jokes both on the surface and buried within the pieces, the weight and consequence of each bit constantly changes, so that just when you think you’ve found something dear to Rauschenberg he pokes fun at it. That ability, ultimately, is what remains precious. There’s another quirky aspect to this part of the retrospective, one that reminds us of art’s ability to play havoc on itself. Fifteen of Rauschenberg’s paintings were missing from the Menil exhibit for a week, confiscated by authorities as payment for a $5.5 million dollar judgment awarded to an Austin art dealer in a suit against Rauschenberg. The works were later returned and the suit has since been settled amicably out of court, but some of what passed became a comedy of errors in itself.
Odalisk, 1955-1958
© Robert Rauschenberg
Licensed by VAGA,
New York, NY
Inspired by the Abstract Expressionists, Rauschenberg started his formal art career just after WWII, and his early ‘combines’ put a new twist on the existing aesthetic, in that they interject everyday life into the art for art’s sake concept of the movement. It is here Rauschenberg introduced the materials and mediums that have continued to occupy him throughout his career. Even though it really bugs me to look at, I have to comment on the famous ‘Odalisk,’ a collaged wooden box on a pedestal cushioned by a bed pillow, topped with a stuffed rooster. This is a work in which all the levels of Rauchenberg’s sense of humor arrive at once. First of all, it’s ugly and absurd; its mere appearance elicits a laugh of shock at the very least. But art history texts tell us that the title is a clever blend of the words ‘odalisque’ and ‘obelisk,’ referring to both the nude girls represented in the collage of magazine clippings and to the shape of the box itself, whose slightly sloping sides are reminiscent of the pillars of stone of the same name built by the Egyptians. And the pillow, gosh, I don’t know, but looking at it leaves me with the same precarious feeling I’d get if I set a full glass of red kool-aide on top of my feather bed.
It would still be fun to bounce on, though, even if the consequence of the spill was realized. Again and again while viewing these works I was reminded of the playfulness inherent in them. As a matter of fact, Hiccups (1978), a series of 97 small rectangular canvases zipped together end to end along the hallway the foyer of the Menil inspired me to invent a game. My friend and I each started at opposite ends of the hallway, and walking towards each other at the same rate, took only passing glances at the images. Upon arriving at the other end, we would reveal which picture stuck in our head the most; the idea being to study Rauschenberg’s understanding of archetype as compared to our own, and then to contrast the effect the images had on our individual brains. Zooming by the images of sports, nature, man-made objects, and landscapes made for a zany multimedia flip book whose big picture offered an entirely different experience than that of each individual component. It also made for odd stares from other museumgoers. We were in the Rauschenberg spirit, alright.
And there are others to gleefully ponder: Mother of God, from 1950, is best described as a giant white circle painted on top of street maps including the downtown areas of San Antonio, Buffalo, Denver, Philadelphia, and Montreal. Whether it’s a crude representation of the female anatomy or not, it’s the cutout newsprint message on the bottom left of the painting, easy to overlook, that holds my understanding of the work (It reads: an invaluable spiritual road map…as simple and fundamental as life itself - Catholic Review). The White Paintings (just what the title suggests, entire canvases covered with white paint) have inspired many a throw-down argument with fellow appreciators of art who don’t seem to appreciate this possible attempt to poke fun at its validity. This group of works also includes the famous Erased de Kooning Drawing, a real ink and crayon drawing by Rauschenberg’s contemporary that has been erased and embellished. The obvious message might be that one shouldn’t take oneself so seriously, and to that effect, both the Mother of God and Erased de Kooning - listed in the exhibition catalog as property of the artist—were among the paintings whisked away by the plaintiffs in the Rauschenberg lawsuit. ‘We took 15 little ones, said attorney for the Austin plaintiffs Gary Schumann to an Austin American-Statesman reporter, ‘Nobody but an art expert would miss these.’ Now that’s funny.
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