LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN - A CALL TO MY COLLEAGUES

From about 1972 to 1978 The Greighten Group was one of the most influential artistic collectives in the United States. Their reach far exceeded their output - together they may have staged three or four major exhibitions and published only a handful of manifestoes - but their lasting impact on the contemporary aesthetic discourse is remarkably durable.

The Greighton Group, 1977

Like many important movements initiated by young, relatively untested artists, the collective began as something of a prank. Named after an obscure Bosnian poet named Goren Tomislav, the group evolved from a coterie of pot smoking slackers into a highly disciplined and ideologically rigid guild of original thinkers.

Master Class, The Creighton Group, watercolor on paper, 1977

Deceptive and ingenious, the group produced intricate works that appeared on the surface as sober variations on conventional motifs but on closer reading turned out to be fulminating critiques of what they called "ersatz avant-garde retrenchment and retreat."

Though they were often accused of deliberate obscurantism, their ideas slowly gained currency, especially in Europe.

 And while they billed themselves as a collaborative, there is little doubt that as the members gradually succumbed to a form of inspirational fatigue the dominant conceptual instruments started landing in the lap of one man, Patrice Loukaeny.

Patrice Loukaeny as the Great Dictator, date unknown

The collective spirit frayed under the strain of Loukaeny's massive, some say megalomaniacal ego. Most of the members went on to various teaching jobs around the country with their own individual projects never living up to the promise of their youthful energy and idealism. 

Loukaeny disappeared for over a decade only to resurface in Los Angeles where he opened a small, trendy bakery specializing in tortes.

I am currently in the process of securing loans of many of their most important pieces for a retrospective slated for the spring of 2017 at the Greenspan Gallery at Apotolos College in  Coeur d'Alene.

I would appreciate any information from people familiar with these artists and their important work.

TRAGIC BUT NOT TIMELESS

My mother used to say that if you didn't have anything nice to say about a person it's best to keep one's mouth shut and refrain from saying anything at all.

My mom is a service rep for a mid-size electronics company so I suppose she has a point but if you're a New York art critic with any intention of paying your rent on time you may want to consider a few other options.

Dahlia Danton

Dahlia Danton over at The Harps of Heaven has, for some reason, assigned to me an assessment of the painter David Schoffman. At first I thought to myself, shouldn't she hand that over to someone in L.A.? Sure I know the guy's work, who doesn't? But I come in with a distinct regional bias against him, and she should know that.

Anyway, apparently they're planning an entire issue of The Harps devoted to Schoffman and I suppose she wants to throw all of us scribes into the soup.

So here goes.

First of all, I know he means well. His 100-paneled polyptych is probably one of the most ambitious and heroic painterly endeavors attempted these days. But that, of course, isn't saying a hell of a lot.

Yes, he's smart and yes, he is probably the most accomplished colorist of our day but this is the age of the sight-bite and complexity is just oh, so, 1950's.

I'm surprised his career has any traction out there in Los Angeles. Schoffman's labor intensive, obsessively detailed, lush disquisitions on pictorial space and form are so mismatched with the world of fast-paced show biz entertainment.

Sure, I know that Schoffman has a side career as an actor but honestly, he's no Marlon Brando by any stretch of the imagination.

And speaking of the imagination, why does he insist on being so obscurely original. Post-modernism is all about the derivative pastiche and when someone like Schoffman comes around with this sui generis nonsense it throws everyone into confusion.

At the end of the day, Schoffman, if he belongs anywhere at all it's at the end of the last century and even there he's about as fitting as a Châteauneuf-du-Pape with  a bag of flaming hot cheetos.

So forgive my candor when I say that the deep, beautiful and provocative work of David Schoffman is well past its sell by date. Put one of his images on an AARP tote bag but please, please, please, keep them out of the art galleries.

Or at least keep them in California.