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When a painting isn't really a painting.

by Ronnie Landfield

For those of us who care about painting in New York the real tragedy of our time is how low our three contemporary art museums have sunk. I've written at length about the Whitney Museum, and recently others have written about the Guggenheim Museum's esthetic implosion driven by greed and a thirst for power. Now it's MoMa's turn. The Modern has debased its reputation for quality with its mildly offensive and slightly nauseating Gerhard Richter retrospective of utterly mediocre pastiches of style pretending to be paintings. The exhibition continues until May and like a virus infection I suppose we have to let it run its course.

I'm uneasy about criticizing another painter and while Richter isn't a painter that I admire, I have sympathy for him. His paintings are derivative, eclectic and non-committal; he straddles the fence between abstraction, realism and conceptual art. He's an opportunist and a deconstructivist, and at best a minor painter. There are perhaps less than six paintings out of a hundred and eighty-eight in the show that stand on their own. His bland, mechanical use of a variety of styles, motifs and materials, his dependence on photography and his trademark blurry surface streaks while weak and gimmicky trap him in a middle ground of mediocrity. While he's no worse than scores of less financially successful painters and he is undeniably prolific and he is very canny and clever about what he paints, Richter just isn't that good. A jack of trades, Richter is an illustrator with the soul of an efficient postal clerk, (no offense meant to hard-working postal clerks). A shrewd strategist, an intellectual game player, Richter offers nothing new or particularly exemplary in his work. His work isn't particularly bad either. His work usually appears to be well made, sort of neutral, slick, slicker, and slickest. He mimics other people's styles, and he recreates other artist's ideas, and sadly his work adheres to no real standard of quality. Nothing is delivered beyond the bland, clever and hollow ideas, at best falling into the realm of Conceptual Art. Smeary photo realist portraits, Pop and other mundane images from the sixties, done in ghostly gray. There are gray figurative works, and blurry gray smeary photo realist landscapes and cityscapes. Seascapes, historical allegories and since the eighties blurry and sharper focus photo realist portraits and still lifes and large and small Lyrical Abstractions in garish colors and slick surfaces.
 
A young student of mine, who doesn't really know the history of the art world during the last forty years (through no fault of hers) said, "Richter is a liberator". I say he is a rip off artist and in the New Republic last month perhaps Jed Perl said it best: "Gerhard Richter is a bullshit artist masquerading as a painter". I recommend any interested reader to Jed Perl's complete essay in The New Republic entitled Saint Gerhard of the Sorrows of Painting.
 
I'd prefer to talk about the circumstances that allow the Museum of Modern Art, to suppress thirty-five years of great abstract painting while curator Robert Storr tells us that essentially Richter's champions say that painting is dead except for Gerhard Richter and his close friends. According to the deconstuctivist, post-modernist theorists paintings as paintings aren't viable except when the tiny circle elite that determines these things, give their stamp of official approval. It's an amalgam of big lies piled on big lies that have fueled Anti-Art circles for about forty years. Painting is dead, No-one paints anymore, are a couple of the standard lies often told and repeated ad-nausea. Only this lie attracts big money. Because really we are simply entrenched in a modern day shell game, a sting, proposing a Neo-Dada, Post-Duchampian, Nihilistic/Post-painting is dead/ as a concept, post-political world, but that commentary will wait for another time. It looks like a duck, walks like a duck, smells like a duck, acts like a duck, sounds like a duck, swims like a duck, hangs like a duck but it says it isn't a duck. It sells itself in the duck market, and it's reviewed by duck critics, that conveniently don't like ducks, either. Man, what a market strategy. In the age of the emperor's new clothes Richter's emporium while not exactly being new, is certainly naked. It helps to view his work with healthy skepticism and a sense of humor. Great painting speaks for itself visually but the Richter retrospective remains silent.
 
If you really want to be permanently paranoid, think about Richter advocates taking over the art world in a Neo-Fascist coup, rooting out and destroying all works of high quality that put Richter into focus, and maybe they are already doing it. There are better Portrait painters than Richter. There are better Landscape Painters than Richter. There are dozens of Pop Artists who are more interesting, less arcane, far more original, more versatile and much wittier than Richter. Jim Dine is an artist Richter seems to have ripped off quite frequently that comes immediately to mind. Finally there are Richter's slick and lifeless versions of Lyrical Abstraction that underscore the hypocrisy of this endeavor.
 
Since the mid-eighties he paints abstract paintings in a manner similar to the way Jules Olitski and countless others used to paint in the early seventies. Richter's work particularly brings to mind the work of William Pettet, Darby Bannard, and dozens of abstract squee-gee painters who came to prominence in the sixties and seventies and who's careers have been harshly squashed and suppressed by the Anti-Art crowd since. Museums across the world own great paintings by Lyrical Abstractionists that have been suppressed for thirty-five years and proudly give us these third rate ghoulish versions jimmied up for easy consumption. Many young abstract American painters were shown in Germany in the mid to late sixties including Peter Young, Lawrence Stafford and dozens of others. I suspect they directly influenced Richter's abstraction.
 
The catalogue is impressive, lavishly produced and illustrated with hundreds of color reproductions and a long dull historically incorrect essay designed to impress and elicit sympathy by Storr. There is an interview between curator Robert Storr and Richter in which Storr slavishly seems to hang on Richter's every ambiguous non-committal word. The exhibition includes one hundred and eighty-eight paintings, reflecting this essentially minor figure's forty- year career.
Finally in the immortal words of another one of my students "who cares." Unfortunately and apparently the Modern does care, and so much the worse for the rest of us.
 
Ronnie Landfield, New York City, April 2002

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pril 2002