Truesday: Meeting The Pink Octagon

The mixture of classics and soon-to-be classics is quite impressive. And the collection is freakishly larger than what will ever be on display at any given moment. There’s a-lot going on behind those thick glass doors. The ones with the really cool long metal-rod locking-handle deals on them. Those doors. So modern. So sleek.

There’s even a small army of hand-slapping volunteer leer-goons who circulate through the rooms, staring at everyone like the goddamn KGB. They remind me of the old coot who used to work at the corner store in my old neighborhood, staring us down whenever we walked in for some air conditioning.

Or to steal candy. Whichever was a more pressing need at the time. Usually both.

Not that we’re new to art here in Austin. Oh no. Not by a long shot. Austin is a city of artistic production. Artists come here to express themselves. To completely submerse in the creative process. To become one with whatever energies are required to dance with their muse. To live in a one bedroom house with no air conditioning off Holly on the east side with five other stinky artists. To sell their work on the curb at First Thursday. To be upset that there were no major galleries here in the Capital City for them to dream of displaying their work in. “One day I’ll bust out of this place and make the big time, and you’ll see my work on the walls at Flight Path…”

That’s because we were a pure production city. We weren’t primarily a voyeur city. To truly bust out, an artist had to LEAVE Austin and find some real exposure. Enter: Blan-ton.

On the whole, Austin still makes rather than imports art. But the scales are tipping. Now we have a solid and impressive venue for good ol’ fashioned voyeurism. Blan-ton, The.

Modern art has always been puzzling to me. Most of it, I believe I “get”. The concepts are well documented, and the styles are worked and worked and reworked and perhaps overworked until a theme is undeniable. A theme of artistic intent. Subconscious vision made whole for the rest of us to admire while giving each other frothy handjobs and waving triumphantly, declaring: “this, my friends, is ART. And I can SEE it.”

But is all of it? I mean, ALL of it: “art”? Who decides this shit? Where is the council on Things Which Were Mere Stuff Before, But By Our Decree Are Now Art? It’s so subjective. And some of it, I’m sad to say, should perhaps be left in the “Stuff” pile. It should remain there due to it being so unremarkable as to upset the sensibilities of those who have chip-on-shoulder sensibilities.

Ahem.

I’m going to pick on a single piece that I witnessed in the Blan-ton. I pick it because it violates me. Because it does not follow any definition of “art” that I could possibly comprehend. I pick it because out the plethora of works on display there, The Pink Octagon (Richard Tuttle, check out Ash Wednesday too, it’s mad-crackin’-tight, son) has its own audio description on the handheld audio tour, of which I would guess only about 50 of the pieces on display are lucky enough to have.

Which in some ways is not surprising. The mere existence of The Pink Octagon needs some serious explaining, let alone the reasoning behind putting it up on a wall with special lighting and uniformed patrol folk to guard.

To begin, it’s not a proper octagon. Sure, it has eight sides, but they’re all off of their angles, all willy-nilly. Symmetry be damned. Not that this matters, because you only need eight sides for something to be an “octagon”. Besides, a big pink stop sign of perfect octagon-ness would be even less remarkable.

Then there’s the uneven coloring of the thing. It isn’t uniformly dyed, which is pretty standard with any home-dye job. It’s practically impossible to get even pigmentation without the proper equipment. I remember we used to buy Dickies painter-style pants from Sears back in the day, and dye them with Ritt dye. Shit NEVER came out without some clouding in the color. Phantom patterns, almost tie-dye, but more faint. We practically ruined our parents’ washing machines in the process, because we were shitty little boys who knew nothing about the pains of splotchy bras and blue-blotted collared work shirts.

So I know why the dye-job looks so second rate. Because it is second rate. But not if you refer to Blan-ton, The’s website (I didn’t want to put the picture up here because I want you to go experience it for yourself, and seeing it on the internet is just about as good as in real-live person, but, whatever).

Read their description. Again. Again. Dear lord, it sounds more and more like a Duchamp joke every time I breeze through it. My word. “it can be hung at any height on the wall and from any side or angle, or placed unceremoniously on the floor.” No shit? On the floor?

Unceremonious is right.

Maybe Tuttle’s later work has more substance, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t really want to be the judge of a person’s entire lifework. But Light Pink Octagon KILLS ME. And you need to see this thing hanging on the wall of the museum, smugly pinned to the wall, snickering at all the wookies in front of it who are trying to understand the subtle and permanent wrinkles that occurred “during the dyeing process”. Oh, you mean the wrinkles that “occurred” when Tuttle decided NOT to iron the fabric after he crumple-dyed it? Man, you’re right. That shit’s crazy deep. Like, “gimme my waders” deep. I’ve never seen laziness championed in such a ridiculous manner.

And then they have the nerve to go on with some of that ever-flaccid and pretentious art-speak: “Tuttle's means of making art is a way of asking questions.” You got that right. Aside from the obvious “will people actually BELIEVE this shit?” Or “you think it possible to hire retarded kids to make my art? "I think he’s really asking “how much can I get for a dollar’s worth of fabric and a crap dye job that took me ten minutes to botch?"

And then it rambles on with “his unexpected and poetic use of materials embraces the value of looking without prior judgment,” and it would HAVE to embrace that “value”. I mean, anyone capable of “judgment” is going to use the thing as a covering for a marred side table. Maybe a dog bed liner. Perhaps soak up some driveway oil.

As an appendix to the “judgment” spiel, they expand with “-of observing with an open mind.” Yeah! A mind that’s “open” to “observe” some serious bull…

Well, hm. Wait a minute here. Something’s not right about all this. Normally all that “don’t judge us now!” pleading is an obvious indicator of a first-class swindling. A jack-move. Your place-holder in line at the gank-a-teria. But something’s bothering me about my own ham-handing of the Pink piece. Like I’m actually missing the purpose of the thing. It’s physical purpose.

It’s a seemingly pointless piece of nothing that makes no real attempt at specific meaning. A frustrating void with lights pointing at it. It certainly doesn’t claim to be art. It just is whatever it is. Flaws, silliness, disappointments and all. A shard of pale “what the hell were they thinking?” on display for reasons that no one should be able to properly explain. The big Pink Problem in the room.

Ah. Aha. Yes.

I think I figured out why I really dislike the stupid thing. Why it generates such hostility from my ringing left ear down to my quivering colon.

I am the goddamn Light Pink Octagon. Poorly thought-out, pinned to the wall, needing a good ironing, earning confused stares or shrug-offs, and acting as the worst looking mirror to ever have its edges hemmed. Well, flick my nuts with a rusty coat hanger. That’s… that’s art. So when you go visit The Blan-ton, drop by and see me. Wooks. Handjobs all around!

Damn everything. Damn it all to hell.