(Apologies for the none-too-good photos. No flash photography allowed at the museum.)



I've been meaning to blog about the James Castle exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute. It's been two weeks since I saw it for the first time, but I've been back twice to reassess it (family membership at the museum is worth it if you work down the street). You should see it; really, you should. I wouldn't go with overly high expectations, unless you already have a hard-won appreciation for so-called outsider art. Otherwise you may, justifiably, wonder what all the hubbub is about over strung together scrap paper, scrawled upon and reapportioned by a deaf/quasi-mute/possibly retarded/more likely autistic Idahoan.

James Castle, from the little I've read about him, resides the artistic sphere occupied by Holy Goofs like Henry Darger or Christopher Smart. By Holy Goofs I mean the generally gently inoffensive loons who create art lacking formal training and that seems a little off. Like off the planet. Far, far off. Not mention off regarding most people's ideas of what is and isn't art.

And God bless the Holy Goofs for it.



Outsiderness does not guarantee great or even good art, but it does offer a pure, unhindered differentness, unimpeded (at least until discovery by the aesthetic opinion leaders) by outside opinion. What's the Charles Mingus quote I'm searching for?:

"Do you understand that poem, Dr. Wallach?"

"Well, Charles, it certainly is a very personal expression."

I assume Dr. Wallach avoided commentary since he was Chuck Mingus' therapist. He didn't want to put thoughts into Mingus' head, or notions about whether he approved or disapproved of the great bassist/composer's art, music, ethics, or morality. In general, however, I submit that declaring something a "very personal expression" is a gentle cop-out. "What you did, is what it is," says the uncritical critic, afraid to comment, whether too polite or simply confused. One encourages children this way, but one insults adult artists this way.

Yet, perhaps the two can come together. James Castle's art is a very personal expression. Absolutely withdrawn and uncommunicative as he was, it could be called the ultimate very personal expression. What he did was what it was, and thus resists easy definition. Castle didn't necessarily know better, lending his art more heft than if he was a suburban hausfrau taking Art 101 at night school.



The very personal expression is often dismissed because it is unidentified, unknown, uncommon, and thus unloved because it carries no identifying marks, it lacks a familiar and comfortable scent. It does not meet with the prescriptions of what is "art," and is easily, often justifiably, ignored. But when you encounter a holy goof, especially a prolific one, we give pause and ponder the worth of their output with more charity and patience. It is, after all, a very personal expression, with the extra grace of being unpowered by ego. Also, while it may not be "good" there's usually an awful lot of it, and many, little things—even badly rendered pieces— can come together to create an awesome and overwhelming effect. One of the most interesting observations on Warhol's work I've heard is that is you multiply the ordinary, it becomes out of the ordinary, even bizarre. James Castle's work is hardly ordinary, so what happens when you mass it together in a few galleries at the Art Institute of Chicago? Oddness abounds.

I can't say I think much of Castle's constructions. A few work. His dolls are winsome and charming, and weird and creepy by turns. It's interesting that such a thing isn't "art" if it's created by a little girl, but it is if a child-man creates it. The freestanding cardboard whatsit that greets you as you enter the gallery, on the other hand, simply looks like trash, or bad hobo art. From what I gather, however, this is the sort of stark, spare piece that makes the critics and aficionados ooh and ah.



I mean, really.

What appealed to me were the many mini-books Castle cranked out, and the man's obsession with typography. He painstakingly reproduced letters and combinations of letters through his favorite, if distasteful, medium, soot and saliva, with no apparent interest in or knowledge about what they meant. We could pretend that Castle pictured himself as a latter-day necromancer, inscribing little spellbooks with mysterious glyphs meaning... what?





Castle's work reminds me of a English -as-a-third-language version of the Voynich Manuscript. Some have suggested that the Voynich Manuscript may be nothing more than a work of outsider art—spontaneous bibble-babble created by a fool or a prankster. Even so, at the time of transcription, for Castle and the Voynich Manuscript's creator, there was a moment of decision to render this character or that glyph. Castle may not have known what the words on a page said, but that didn't mean they didn't hold power for him, however transiently. Spellbook/spelling book, Castle's books carry multitudes of beautifully meaningless un-words. Exploded telephone books and Ouija boards shaken like Etch-a-Sketches, until the mystifying oracle within became too addled to keep its letters and numbers in order.

Good-bye?

Yes?

No?

JE J& JZ JX JH JK P!D?

Reply hazy, try again.





Lastly, we have Castle the cartoonist. I don't think the world lost another Winsor McCay or Dan Clowes, but it's interesting stuff. Like a mishmosh of Ben Katchor, Edward Hopper, and Buck Rogers. Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot, but not before being greatly confused. When we see panels of illustration we seek a storyline even though, in Castle's case, we know this is quite impossible. Behold my pitiful attempt.



A man and his son(?) view the sea from the rail of a pier or a ship. Cut to a scene of a house, followed by a close-up on individuals chatting away on the front porch. Behold a witch comes. it is at this moment that Castle's Crazy Cartoons attempt to outdo Finnegans Wake for purest mindfuckery. How the cyclopean robot comes into play, I know not. Best to leave it alone, especially since, you will recall, Castle's main media were carbon and enzymes.

Spitting images, as it were.

More here.

Through my friendships, I'm glad Nate has a circle of men to look up to who balance creativity with traditional masculinity. Seriously. Dave edits an arts and culture mag and spends the odd weekend mending fences, toting bales, and such at a farm up in Wisconsin. Eric is an assemblage artist who has a knack for the industrial/shop arts. Grandpa Dan (Mike's dad), plays jazz piano and composes, but he's also good around the garden, a great handyman, and a helluva barbecuer. Uncle Seth is a schoolmarm... I mean teacher, but the man's got street smarts—he boxes and dances salsa, and can tell you the best place to get Cuban food at 3 a.m. Pat draws and plays guitar, but is an outdoorsy sort of guy from Maine, where they're born in the woodlands wearing flannel and field jackets. And dear old Dad (me)? Why, I'm a writer and a self-taught (soon to be taught) carpenter with a voracious appetite for how stuff works. Also, I shot a man in Toronto just to see him cry.

Now, when I say masculinity, I don't mean machismo. I mean being a guy who you can rely on to get shit done. And by "get shit done" I don't mean strictly being able to wield a socket wrench. I mean being tough and dependable, yet not afraid of a little self-expression via the creative arts. My friends are good men to a man. I like that my son can look up to guys with a hammer in one hand and a vial of glitter in the other.

Yes! BAT BENCH!







And as a bonus, here's Batman smacking the shit out of Nate.



And now they are friends again.



Nearby, a special machine where you can buy live bats.



More about the benches here.

Fairly awesome gallery of photos taken in Chicago store-front churches, currently at the Chicago Cultural Center. I think I'll start dropping in on some of these folks and see such folk art wonderfulness for myself.

This summer I'd like to enter a living art contest as Francis Bacon's Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X.



I'll need a purple cloak. And a big screaming mouth.

Harvey Milk and other historical figures and metaphors represented as icons. Love the Apache Christ, and... really?



Though Quetzalcoatl Christ has his charms as well.

Gets extra mindfucky at the five minute mark.

I finally saw some footage of Mr. Smith. I could have gone without hearing that wormy voice.

What I want but cannot have, because there's a recession on, baby.

La tour de 300 Meters: Large (23.2 x 15.9 x 1.4 inches)reproduction of a folio printed and distributed by Alec Eiffel himself, containing his schematics as well as photographs of the tower under construction. I flipped through this at the Art Institute bookstore. It's gorgeous. I can only imagine what the original looked like.

Why have I never heard of this madman? Do the more British among you recognize this guy?

More fun with the LIFE magazine photo archive. A, frankly, adorable Gloria Steinem poses for "pop art" photos.



A frumply Adam "Batman" West on set.



1942 Margaret Bourke-White pic of the Last Son of Krypton on the nose of a bomber.



Frustratingly unlabeled pix from the 1950s comic book hearings. I think I recognize Al Feldstein in a few pix, but that's it. Anyone else want to take a crack at it?



A Turkish soldier and a Korean girl read an American "Henry" comic.



Some dude named Harry Toy "reads his comic strip."



Quite disturbing Peanuts-themed frat party in 1967.





Fun house in 1938 shows popular comic characters of the day, including "Whimpy (sic), Minnie & Mickey Mouse, the Captain and his Katzenjammer Kids & Mr. Jiggs."



Chester Gould and his supposed "graveyard" of dead Dick Tracy villains.

Well done, Google.

Uh... Uh... Um... Uh....

The first thing that threw me was that it wasn't a Robert Williams.

* The wobbly definition of friendship.

* There's a fine line between genius and insanity and crap that's considered genius by an organized mass of halfwits.

* Bad taste is in the tongue of the beholder

* Neglect of good art encourages bad behavior in the artist. Rewarding bad art does likewise.

Just putting it out there.