THE UNSPEAKABLE ACT

it might have been, but i got lazy in the evening after going to the exotic latino grill. so i didn't end up seeing "the unspeakable act" at the wexner center, even though i'd been planning to for a week. i'd just read the taxi, and when i happened to check the wexner center's film calendar i doubted that i'd ever have such a fresh and portentous opportunity to write something comparing two such distant works about a sister and a brother fucking. it might have been entertaining. but i think i might very well have been disappointed with the film, and not necessarily as a film but as a point of comparison, because from the preview i can't say that i'd expect the sister and the brother to get down to that "unspeakable act" (hunched shoulders, deadpan...the i word!), whereas the two in that taxi are going at it all day. then again, such a striking contrast might also have made the writing more interesting. as it is, it just might have been. that kroger got bought out of keystone light two days ahead of the end of its sale, and this cat really wants into this box of cobras. (they're probably dead by now, but i still don't want to have to deal with them.) that is, i already had enough to worry about while i was falling asleep from my burrito al pastor, and thinking about having to possibly ride through the rain to a disappointingly under attended and possibly just disappointing film was more than i felt like having to sleep on. plus, it might have been that i ended up pawning one of those typewriters after all to get my ticket. (i've been forced to splurge on milwaukee's best ice.) so all's well, i suppose. or it might have been. fuck. if it weren't for these cobras. she found them out. and what i'll probably have to do will continue to be unspeakable.

WATCHING THE CLOCK, part 5

last night was the last night that i could have watched christian marclay's "the clock" outside of the wexner center's regular hours, and today was the last day that i could see it at the wexner center at all. but the weather today was too nice not to picnic, and last night after my improvised, anticipatory tinto de verano i was just too lazy. a pass on the weekly paper and a pass on the quarterly review. some (improvised, anticipatory) passes at the boys. i've really just been watching the clock until the history channel airs its new travis fimmel underwear ad. his character's son has the coolest do. and now i'm doing it too. improvised, anticipatory cultural catabolism. and at that i remember that i'd almost forgotten about that demagogic leather bar film by the remarkably marketably closeted james franco that was playing this weekend at the cleveland international film festival -- and that, well, i really didn't make any effort to go.

LLORA CUANDO TE PASE

i remember nothing of michael robinson's half of his (guided) q&a with fellow experimental filmmaker laida lertxundi and their wexner center guide other than his statement on karaoke as prayer. even if i hadn't the emotional wherewithal to process the significance of the guide's leading (and meandering) statements-as-questions on the filmmakers' use of music in their films, i still felt a deep sympathy for robinson's digressive statement (in response to the last question that the guide accepted from the audience) on acts of recitation in song wherein a singer is expected to act out the emotion of his medium. i hadn't recognized any of the cover songs in circle in the sand, and so i hadn't speculated on their significance. neither had i paid specific enough attention to the soundtracks of lertxundi's films to mistake one of the songs she'd used in one of them for a song by roy orbison and then to speculate on the significance of that artist's vocal range with the range of the films (as did a professor in the audience). there were probably tropes of experimental film making (and appreciation) that i didn't understand -- which is probably what's keeping me from articulating any greater or more significant speculations on either robinson's or lertxundi's presentations now. (and i speculated as much after the q&a to the phd candidate friend of mine who'd told me that this was an event that i shouldn't miss.) i couldn't, however, deny that i'd reacted to lertxundi's films -- or that tears could signify a wide range of...emotional states.

Su cine cuestiona la manera en que los deseos y expectativas del espectador responden de formas cinemáticas de narración de historias, y busca modos alternativos de vinculación de sonido y música con imágenes de hábitats naturales, situaciones construidas, y entornos cotidianos. Sus películas, filmadas en Los Ángeles y alrededores, crean una geografía paisajística que se transforma en estados afectivos.

[reaction] affected states. bettye swann singing "my heart is closed for the season" over a shot of the paradise motel showing its no vacancy sign, los angeles city hall reflected in a window. but remember: no hidden stories. why michael robinson didn't use the belinda carlisle song with which he chose to share the name of the film of his that was screened at the wexner center on monday is absolutely overt: he couldn't find a decent cover. but he did give us neil young via linda ronstadt: "there was a band playing in my head, and i felt like i could cry. i was thinking about what a friend had said; i was hoping it was a lie." still (or as a result, maybe) "all i can do is lock up my heart and get over you." and boy oh boy. you'd cry too if it happened. any other day, ms. lertxundi, but not that one. maybe it was an event not to miss, but the brutality of my sympathy for what i didn't even have the particular erudition to discuss with the rest of the crowd just made me want it off the fucking screen.

HOW TO SURVIVE A Q&A

it wasn't exactly funny, as it's said, but it did turn out to be an interesting coincidence that, before we left his apartment to walk to the wexner center, the artist had been telling me about an article that he'd been asked to illustrate, an article for a new homo mag that was being edited by some so and so who had been involved with some thing or another, and about how the prospect of being involved with its publication of the magazine wasn't unappealing, but that the article itself was...well...he was sure that i wouldn't like it. and even though i told him that i'd rather read the whole thing alone, apart (if i ended up reading it at all), he insisted on reading me the first paragraph, a cavalcade of tired, offensive stereotypes about angry lesbians and screaming trannies (and it wasn't that the transgendered were necessarily wont to scream, but man, latinas sure are), and out of the cacophony of those angry, tired, offensive stereotypes, the angry, tired, offensive author was trying to make his voice heard. it would seem that the community has become over-queered. it's no longer special enough to be a (not EVEN so straight acting) gay white male. the artist grabbed another snippet: the world -- as it was represented by the staff and the clientele of the bar-restaurant where the author worked -- was apparently at war with "normalcy." it was time that people started paying some attention to the...culturally disenfranchised mainstream homosexual? apparently he had been pushed off the top of the heap. thud. ...oof. but it wasn't even funny. i agreed that i was sure that i didn't like it, and we left to walk to our movie.

on friday night, the wexner center was hosting wu tsang, who was being hosted to introduce and answer questions about wildness, his first feature length film, which the wexner center was screening in conjunction with its hosting of tsang as the first of two visiting filmmakers events on its film and video program for march. the documentary takes its name from a tuesday night art party that tsang and his friends threw between 2008 and 2010, a party which was thrown at a bar called the silver platter, a bar which had established a special reputation for being a place of safe congregation for central american transgender residents of the macarthur park neighborhood of los angeles. tsang, who "has self-identified as 'transfemenine' and 'transguy'" (the independent, 2/5/2013), was drawn to the bar because of its story and its reputation, and became a regular customer because he was drawn to the spirit of its community. the silver platter hosted (and still hosts) friday night fiestas latinas, the spirit and performances of which made tsang think that the silver platter might be a good venue for a dance party that would also serve as a vessel for queer(ish) performance and performance art. the ownership of the silver platter was down, tsang's friends were down, and tuesday nights were slow. so tsang and his friends started throwing a party, and the party got really popular. the ownership was happy with wildness because wildness made tuesdays at the silver platter a draw. the ladies of the silver platter weren't necessarily unhappy with wildness either, because it wasn't like they were ostracized or excluded from the new tuesday nights, even as wildness gained popularity, and even if they weren't exactly incorporated either.

wildness is narrated from the perspective of the silver platter (herself), voiced in the film by a transgender guatemalan actress, a motif which seems to have been chosen by tsang and his co-writer roya rastegar (who had seen a rough cut of a proto-wildness that tsang submitted to the tribeca film festival when rastegar was a programmer there) because, well, otherwise the documentary doesn't seem to know what it's about. as i watched it on friday evening, it alternately seemed that wildness could have been a documentary about its namesake party, or it could have been a documentary about the experience of an underserved queer community on the front lines (and probably losing end) of gentrification; but as a whole, wildness was sufficiently neither. there's party footage, but the story of the party in wildness is limited to its occurrence, its rise and its discontinuation after tsang found himself temporarily on the outs with one of the bars' owners over an issue of inheritance following the death of the brother of the original owner. the ladies of the silver platter are shown posing and performing and are heard speaking in voice overs, but the only of them fleshed out as a person (and wildness skirts reducing her to not much more than a personality at that) is the transgender woman in charge of the door. what to do? make the movie about the bar, which was -- granted, admittedly and of course -- where the art party and its followers crossed roads with the neighborhood transgender community. but then again, although the silver platter is the bar in wildness, it's self-narration culminates in its assumption of the character of an otherworldly anybar, through which [wistful upward sidelong gaze] the people, the communities they come and go, they drink, dance and dream...if these walls could talk...the waves of time...bright lights and big cuddle at macarthur park!

the thing is, wildness is the kind of film that gets making right now. if, arguably, a party like wildness probably took its opportunity to be discontinued more because queer(ish) hipster dance parties got co-opted by mainstream party culture (just before hipster androgyny hit the racks at mainstream retail outlets and three years after "hipster" ceased meaning anything other than a picture of a certain kind of partygoer in a certain kind of outfit) than because of personal (and personnel) complications at the bar where it was hosted, then (tribeca worthy) art films about trannies, hipsters, gentrification and immigrants are, along the same trajectory, just now coming into their cultural cachet. and don't get me wrong: i liked it. i think it's worth seeing (and i think you should see it). i wouldn't say that wildness is an important film, but i do think that its subjects are important to discourses (discursions) on contemporary queer identity and queer(ish) art (...parties). after the wexner center's screening of wildness (and after the subsequent q&a and reception with the director), the artist and i went back to his apartment, where he proceeded to dig up the issue of interview in which he remembered having seen a photograph of tsang after having seen the director in person. in his portrait, the artist is shown topless and arms akimbo -- highlighting the transguy's runway perfect breasts -- in a pair of high waisted shorts by american apparel and a pair of ankle strap heels by christian louboutin. i don't mean -- at all (...but at all) -- to argue in defense of "normalcy" (oof!). but i do mean to question the stunningly appalling sensationalization (and sensationally successful marketing) of those issues and identities with which a film like wildness takes issue and self-identifies.

no one (...but no one) should take the artist wu tsang to task for taking advantage of his art market moment. he's currently being shown at the whitney (after being featured in the 2012 biennial), and it's year old new york news that he's the artist "soon to be featured in every show in town" (galleristny.com, 2/14/2012). his whitney exhibition is coming to the wexner center in the spring. and i don't think that wu tsang is unaware of the cultural wave of time which has carried him to artistic prominence. ten or so minutes of wildness is devoted to the question of sam slovick, the freelance journalist whose "best tranny bar" contribution to la weekly's 2008 "best of l.a." issue caused the organizers of wildness to mount a online "fuck sam slovick" campaign in response to his aggressively transphobic depiction of their bar. "Finally!" the article begins, "A crossroads convergence of self-involved, art-damaged 20-something kids and Third World gender illusionists at a water hole whose geography transcends the expanse of Silver Lake proper." significantly, tsang doesn't try to defend his friends as far as they're depicted in wildness. if anything, the interviews with his party co-conspirators seem to reify their status as self-involved, art-damaged 20-somethings. one of them, accordingly draped in a black pleather vest and a tank top, questions how any of the ladies of the silver platter could possibly have considered the planners of wildness to be interlopers. as if there were somehow money or power behind him??? [cue unironic explosion of the hipster art party] 

i wonder, however, why the artist seems to feel the need to defend himself. he was asked, during the q&a that followed the screening of his film, why he'd not restarted wildness after he'd gotten himself back into the good graces of nora, the current owner of the silver platter. the thing was, he said, that he'd wanted to. it was that the other three were touring internationally as djs, and he'd had the editing of the film... i don't doubt that wu tsang feels an affinity with the trangender community of the silver platter and of macarthur park. i suspect that he even feels an obligation. but at the q&a that followed the screening of wildness at the wexner center on friday evening, he gave no conscionable explanation as to why he hasn't tried to reinstate any hip kid, grassroots activity around the silver platter since the beginning of his meteoric rise -- which, although it has drawn attention (and likely customers) to the bar, appears to have eclipsed his direct involvement with its community. a party is one thing. those of us who feel a certain compassionate intoxication at the visuals of the art party at the bar in wildness know exactly how queer(ish) performance and queer performance art parties come and go. they're meaningful to whom they were meaningful because of their certain ephemerality, because their ephemeral moment meant our youth (however self-involved and art-damaged). but what's the real story -- or at least the whole one -- behind the closing of the legal clinic that was founded by tsang et al. at the height of the party? without begrudging tsang his success or overestimating the power of the party to effect real social change, surely it isn't without justification to ask why the project of wildness seems to have had nothing real to do with promoting or protecting the agency of the ladies of the silver platter.

on saturday evening, the day after the wexner center hosted wu tsang, the new school in new york streamed "a conversation with david france and jim hubbard" as part of its series revisiting the aids crisis. i haven't seen either how to survive a plague or united in anger, but i tuned in online hoping to learn...something. about act up, about the experience, about the legend of art and activism. unfortunately (for me, anyway), the conversation was largely technical. and unfortunately, although both directors are in a position to reposition the aids crisis within the social history of the twentieth century (a position which i understand them both to understand), ironically, neither of them seemed to like the difficult questions either. when they were asked why people of color, women and the transgendered were underrepresented in the leadership of act up and in both of their films, neither director gave an unqualified answer, seemingly for fear that aspersions would be cast, not on their messages, but on their art. gallingly, gay african american moderator tony whitfield seemed embarrassed to have to serve the directors with the question. the best that either director did to address the issue (and i can't say which one it was because i'd stopped paying attention to the video stream at that point) was to say that the educated, privileged (and male) were the only ones with the means to be able to sacrifice the time and resources to the cause that they did. no one, i think, meant to indict either director -- his methods or his compatriots -- with any question, but a less defensive response would probably have gone a long way to ease the tension in the auditorium (and in the chat room) and to further conversation. maybe france and hubbard feel threatened by the war on normalcy. (not even funny?)

on saturday evening, during the q&a with france and hubbard at the new school in new york, i thought again about the q&a with wu tsang at the wexner center. in response to a question about...i forget. it was actually two questions, and the one that i remember was the one about a statement by tsang in wildness about how his chinese father's never having taught him chinese had left a void within him that he had filled (had facilitated filling) by establishing and building relationships, community. the other question must have had something to do with editing? i don't remember. but i do remember that in his response tsang brought up jonathan oppenheim, editor of paris is burning, and i remember the preemptive -- and emphatic -- statement that tsang proceeded to make to distance wildness from any comparison with that film. paris is burning -- that queer(ish) performance and performance art darling of the aughts -- a documentary about the ball culture of certain african american and latino gay and transgender communities in new york in the 1980s, has been criticized for its failure to interrogate white heterosexuality. that failure, critics say, has made it too easily palatable for privileged, white audiences. wildness is not the los angeles latina paris is burning of the 2000s. okay. but what jenny livingston (a privileged, white lesbian originally from beverly hills) did in 1990 with paris is burning is apparently something that neither david france nor jim hubbard seems (i haven't seen their films) to have been able to do in the second decade of century twenty-one: namely, to depict (at all) a minority queer experience in the decade which, for many intents and purposes, has underscored the popular american consensus on glbtq. i understand tsang's desire to insulate himself from certain criticism, but i wonder who he assumes his audience to be at the whitney, or at sxsw...or at tribeca. the comparison between wildness and paris is burning would, in fact, appear to be most apt in its description of the similarities between the criticism that the two films would draw. unfortunately, to the extent that tsang's film does speak for itself in its elucidation of the experience of the ladies of the silver platter, it doesn't speak to its director's ardent denials of what it's not. and at the wexner center on friday evening, the director didn't say anything else either.

i should have talked to tsang at the reception after the film and asked him to say something myself, one on one. but wu tsang, to his absolute credit, is someone with whom i didn't want to talk at a reception at the wexner center, but rather at a party like wildness, at a bar, on the street, somewhere more charged with our nostalgia for the milieu of the party. i did, however, ask him a question during his q&a. he'd actually started editing wildness as a media intern at the wexner center in 2010, which he'd disclosed during his introduction to his film (and his thanks for making it possible). so following on a question to which he'd responded with something about the community in l.a. i asked him to give us a sense of his picture of the community, as it were, in columbus, ohio. i'd hoped to indict his audience there at the wexner center, or maybe to have the director rail at me for my assumption that his audience there was of the privileged variety that would only see his film to feel good about bearing witness to the experience of people with whom they'd never deign to associate -- and afterwards return to their salaries, the theory of their graduate programs, to the gym and to the esthetician. tsang very tactfully refrained from a real response. his time in columbus had been cut short by the death of the owner of the silver platter and by concommitant questions about his party. no one should take wu tsang to task for his success as an artist, but i don't think that anyone in the know can deny that he knows his audience well -- and plays to it at the same time that he makes a point of swearing it off.

at the reception that followed the screening of wildness at the wexner center, i passed on my opportunity to talk to wu tsang. i could have talked to him about his experience with trying to sustain a free legal clinic for immigrants and trans people and passed whatever information i was able to get to my father, who has expressed his interest in founding an institution along those lines in columbus to his retirement. but as we were at the reception at the wexner center, i really just wanted to take his picture. he's stunning, he was impeccably put together, and there in the antechamber of the gallery he cut the perfect picture of the artist. and on friday evening at the wexner center, to my own discredit, i was principally concerned with matters of art. i didn't make the approach to get my photo because i hadn't brought my phone.

the question that lingers is if i'm happy with it. are we happy with it, the art that the gallery complex deigns to consider appropriate to our experience of the community, as it were, at our crossroads convergence of our self-involved, art-damaged selves, our gender illusions, the illusion of gender, its queer performance, performance art, activism, commercial queering, our war with normalcy and the rest of the world. rail and indict. q&a.
  

WATCHING THE CLOCK, part 4

exotic latino grill hocks its exotic latino grilleries out of a cart in a parking lot on the north side of the block of east hudson between indianola and summit. the menu wasn't what i'd expected (or, rather, had decided that it should have been), and neither was the exotic latina who took my order (something of the beauty who i hope still slings plates at the cart on north vancouver and fremont in portland). i did, however, manage to get myself a burrito (although the burritos weren't at all highlighted on the menu, and perhaps i should have gotten something more typically exotic). it's back to bitter cold, so i ate my burrito in the passenger seat of the car. (the wrapping was pretty, but the beans were too concentrated at the bottom and made almost for a mess.) then i took advantage of our position to have us drive to the goodwill down the street. but i didn't feel too bad taking advantage, even though the driver had regretted having already eaten after he'd had a bite of my lunch, because he also had a box of old shoes in the trunk that had been waiting to find its way to a donation site. and then (and maybe it might not have been there if i hadn't been there with someone making a contribution), i actually found the frame that i was looking for. the first one i'd found at the volunteers of america store in merion village, and this one (although it didn't turn out to be -- not exactly) looked exactly identical. the certificate of authenticity says that the photos are five by seven, but they're actually five by seven and a little bit more, which is apparently a standard non-standard frame size too, but just as easy to find when you're trying to find a frame on the secondhand cheap. but they had one! and almost exactly identical to the one that i already had, so now i had frames for two of three of the alexander guerra photos that a friend had gifted me because they were too gay for her boyfriend to have in the house. score (times two). and so i was happy when we got to the gallery to keep watching "the clock." i picked it back up just after three. and we got in almost two hours. john cusack gets considerable face time. and that's on top of what he gets from one-thirty to three, because it's as a result of having watched the clock that hour and a half that the artist lent me "the grifters." (i haven't seen annette or angelica again at the wexner.) audrey hepburn doesn't see anything, because in the clips of her excerpted from three to five she's blind. audrey tautou finally shows up in "amelie." four o'clock is big. there's commotion. chomping at the bit (although he's asleep next to me on the sofa). then, at four-twenty, not at all what you might think, but everyone's watching the clock. second by second, they're closer to getting out. except that at four thirty-five sissy spacek, in "3 women," is fantasizing about clocking in. shelley duvall is somewhere else and at another time. she's being given a watch. next to me the driver is squeaking back awake, and i feel bad again about taking advantage, because he hasn't gotten any sleep, and i know how that feels. the punch cards get punched out en masse at five, and a couple of minutes later we leave. "the good, the bad and the ugly," he tells me. and he tells me that it was fun going in and out. it's its own experience letting the images confront you after you've been woken up by the confrontation of the images. okay. score (times three). but we were there until just past five. quitting time.

WATCHING THE CLOCK; parts 2 and 3

the goal was to be there at four when the gallery started its free thursday hours and watch as much of "the clock" as we could before it closed at eight o'clock. but, unfortunately, our stylist couldn't get us in until exactly then, and, admittedly, the confusion at the salon the day before had been half our fault. (when i was in the chair she said she had a surprise for me and took out some waxing strips to do my neck, but i suspect that she did it more to save time than as a courtesy. apparently we were all watching the clock that afternoon. i should have said something to stop her after the rash i'd gotten from my last waxing but i didn't. in the interest of time, perhaps.) then, after the both of us were finished, it made more sense for us to go pick up our third on the south side instead of having her meet us at the wexner center -- and then we were all hungry. so we didn't sit down in the screening room at the gallery until six forty-five, which, all things considered, wasn't that bad. on screen, the storefront shutters were going down and the people were sitting down to eat. (it would have probably been excruciating if we hadn't taken the extra time to have something ourselves.) nicolas cage was waking up to have a cigarette...maybe, although that might actually have been part of part one. unfortunately, maybe, it all blends together when you spread the twenty-four hours of "the clock" across so many more. then the kindly security woman kicked us out -- over-promptly at seven fifty-six. fortunately, it turns out that my second has a membership to the gallery which gets him free admission for both himself and a guest. but "the clock" had just been part of the plan for thursday, and anyway, that day it had turned out that we were three. plus, we still had time. and on saturday we had all night at the gallery, but as it turned out we were caught up in the game until midnight. then i can't say what happened for the following two hours -- or maybe i just won't -- but we didn't get to the gallery until two fifteen. (two thirty?) we made sure to eat (although and where all this time was katherine hepburn? was she there that night, or was that another time? or, maybe it was all three of them. from two fifteen (or two thirty) until four in the morning, watching "the clock" is strange. a sleepless night on screen is sympathetically consolatory, even for the knowledge that the people you're watching must be going through the same desperate circles and awful inquietudes as you've experienced in those sleepless nights of your own. more or less alone in the dark, you appreciate that you're not alone. then you're just happy for a cab.

and then three days later you're awake, sleepless, watching the clock, because even though you should think of the night as an opportunity -- that it's nice, for better or for worse, that right now all you have is time, and it's yours to do with however you please -- instead all you can do is watch the clock. then you're just happy for a xanax, and you accept your giving in because you remember that, at least, the least you can do for yourself is remember that, appropriately shot and edited, what's happening right now could be art.

WATCHING THE CLOCK

way to go, wexner. no sooner is leibovitz gone (and almost forgotten) than they've put up something else with a special draw. and it isn't the more american photographs exhibition. that's what those are, to be sure, and we walked through them because he'd never seen the gallery and because everything's free to everyone on the first sunday of every month. you might as well. but no, we had gone specifically to watch the clock. and no, it's not like leibovitz or warhol. it isn't a first or an only. or at least not in any way big (its installation at the wexner center is, to be fair, its midwest debut). but christian marclay's twenty-four hour timepiece marathon of timepieces is definitely the stuff of legend -- and watching it on sunday while the rest of the city got ready to watch the super bowl meant that it was not only free but also blissfully accommodating. we had the afternoon -- and we had the front and center sofa -- so we sat down and watched. "the clock" is twenty-four hours long, and, to be fair, i should say that we only watched it for an hour and a half. (the front and center sofa affords a great viewing experience, but it does nothing for the neck.) still, even only watching it from one-thirty to three p.m. was enough to get a good sense of what it means to watch it. "the clock" is twenty-four hours long, and it's assembled from thousands of film clips "that are rationalized as kindred in that each of them contains within it a reference to a precise minute over the span of a day's twenty-four hours"* (and that precise minute is synched with the minute in which you're watching "the clock"). not only that, they're also organized by the progress of other visual themes, not to mention that some movies and television shows will recur as time has progressed (provided that time is of their essence). i'm not sure how some of the gallery goers on sunday were able to stay for only a few minutes. (maybe they were there to see the photographs.) it's not hard to appreciate how much research and planning it must have required to produce the work -- and we're given the metrics of time and assistants by the notes given by the gallery. but i also found it entertaining. it is, of course, clever, but it can also be funny or brooding, not to mention that its never ending span of twenty-four hours is also a mashup history of film and video. it plays, so to speak, with time. but for as much as it collects, it also keeps discarding and moving on. "the clock" is playful, but it's also daunting. before you can even think to find something to write on to record the time, the scene you didn't recognize but would have liked to remember is gone, and "the clock" marches on. then there's the other issue of time: "its duration qualifies it as an effectively 'impossible' task for a viewer to experience completely, i.e., to remain sensible and alert in its presence for its full rotation."* thankfully, the wexner center has lowered the threshold of impossibility for anyone who wants to watch as much of "the clock" as they can (even if they can't do it in succession). the gallery is scheduled to stay open all night for each of three more nights before the exhibition closes in april so that anyone who's interested can watch the hours of "the clock" that are impossible to see while the gallery is closed. plus, during those evening, nighttime and morning hours, the gallery reception desk won't be open to collect any entrance fees. there's also at least one more first sunday, not to mention that entrance to the gallery is free every thursday after four in the afternoon. it might not be an entire twenty-four, but that's more than enough incentive and opportunity for me to give "the clock" a few more hours of my own. plus, when you're inside you might have an overwhelming sense of being stuck in it, but you never have to check the time.

*bill horrigan, curator at large for the wexner center

STAR POWER; or, WAY TO GO OHIO, part 10

the wexner center for the arts is undeniably something. and -- it should hope -- columbus will always have that. through the 30th of december, 2012, its gallery displayed annie leibovitz's master set, a collection of one-hundred fifty-six photographic prints selected by the photographer herself to document the story of her legacy. the daily mail reported that leibovitz hadn't intended for the set to be a show, but that the idea for a show at the wexner center just clicked. it is, apparently (this also by leibovitz's word), a legendary place among artists, and it was the place that, apparently, came up with the idea of showing the set. not surprisingly, it was the first place to have shown it. not being an artist (or what the wexner center considers to be an annie leibovitz, anyway), i hadn't had a sense of legend myself, although i suppose i wasn't without an inkling. about a decade before i went to see the master set at the center i had seen issey miyake get an award there (the award from the wexner center, the wexner award), and a few years ago i had been to see that andy warhol exhibit (remember other voices, other rooms?) when it was up at the wexner as its only stop in north america. and i'll admit that there was a special something about standing in front of a print of leibovitz's portrait of warhol next to the same friend with whom i'd experienced the portrait of warhol put up those few years ago in the same gallery. and that, although the moment with warhol itself may not have been the stuff of legends, might be the best way of describing the experience of the master set. i don't know that i'm a particular fan of annie leibovitz. in particular, that photograph of scarlet johansson that the wexner center used for its promotional enlargements is not a favorite of mine (neither among the photographer's other work or among photographs at large). but the master set is about contexts: the context of the set, the context of the artist and the context of her subjects. like her or not, annie leibovitz is famous; and both by definition and as its result, annie leibovitz has had access to fame. i liked leibovitz's photo of linda ronstadt because it was a picture of linda ronstadt. but i wouldn't have known if i hadn't been told by the placard -- although you might have, simply because people might know this particular photo of linda ronstadt by annie leibovitz. no part of linda ronstadt's face is visible in the photo, but because we know that the subject is her, we look at the photo and think that the picture of a woman in hose and a romper-nightie sprawled across the hastily made bed while she fumbles for something on a bedside table is so very linda ronstadt. wild chicken-and-egg goose chase: had linda ronstadt always conducted herself to make us see her this way, or did annie leibovitz decide just what people would be seeing of linda ronstadt? why do i have the reaction that i have when i know almost nothing about either figure? the stuff of legend. and the thing about annie leibovitz is that, regardless of whether she was photographing a decision by linda ronstadt or she was making a decision about linda ronstadt on our behalf, the most important thing is that annie leibovitz got to be there. the one-hundred and fifty-six portraits in the master set are a portrait of annie leibovitz, both assertedly and implicitly so, and each one is essentially just a photograph of something being photographed by that one photographer in particular. their various stylings are just the famous personae of the famous artist. it's only because you've taken the time to stop to look at a very possibly unremarkable photograph of linda ronstadt that was taken by annie leibovitz that you then have made the time to see and to remark that the pattern on the lamp on the bedside table is almost identical to the pattern of the wallpaper.

fast forward and rewind. this past weekend i was in cincinnati. and although i wasn't there specifically for the exhibit, i wanted to see a specific exhibit there before it closed. on sunday, we drove up through eden park to the art museum at just before noon. unfortunately, the exhibit was at the taft museum downtown and was ending that day, so we couldn't stay to take advantage of everything else that we hadn't gone specifically to see. fortunately, the taft is free on sundays too.the exhibit -- which i'd seen advertised on the back of a bathroom door on the last day of a visit to the queen city in december (and before i'd been to the wexner to see the portrait of leibovitz) -- is also collection of photographs. star power: edward steichen's glamour photography. on the bathroom door advertisement that i'd seen there'd been a picture of greta garbo: that most famous one, the one on the cover of that life magazine from 1955. but as it turned out, that photo of garbo was taken by steichen in the twenties, and it was originally published in an issue of...vanity fair? steichen photographed for both that magazine and for vogue, and back when the both of them were under the relatively recent redirection of condé nast. does that say anything? condé nast himself said that he'd wanted to make taste for the taste makers. to deliver to his advertisers, out of those millions of americans, the one-hundred thousand who mattered. the other poster image for the exhibit is a closeup photo of the face of gloria swanson, taken with the intercession of a black lace veil. that famous photo. of the famous gloria swanson. steichen also photographed marlene dietrich, joan crawford, fred astaire, katherine hepburn and gary cooper. winston churchill and amelia earhart. who knew anything about june maccloy from toledo, ohio? but we find her famous in the taft because she was photographed by him. he also did high fashion photography, and the placards explained, without nuance, the nuances of his techniques. the blackest blacks and the whitest whites, and every necessary piece of lighting to make sure they appear as they should. the important parts of a celebrity portrait are the most obvious features. they should stand out. the enduring stuff of legend. fay wray is best known for playing the female lead in king kong, but steichen photographed her as ophelia, the role she never played. one of his most famous photos, one of the placards says, is neither of john barrymore nor of hamlet, but of the latter being played by the former. what the placard forgets to assert (although maybe it's understood implicitly) is that john barrymore playing hamlet was being photographed by edward steichen. which is the most remarkable? what are these silver screen and other legends? who is it that has and keeps creating celebrity? condé nast's elite empire hardly survived the first depression, but the legacy it imparted to edward steichen has been inherited by the legendary photographers of the present. the master set, annie leibovitz's glamour photography: one-hundred and fifty-six figures playing themselves being photographed by annie leibovitz. i have another invitation to the wexner center for this sunday. supposedly it's free that day too. i haven't even looked up what's showing, but i don't expect it to be the stuff of legends. nonetheless, i'll go and i'll see something else where i saw annie leibovitz's portrait of the legendary artist of whom i'd seen another, different portrait in the same place. hmm. in that other leibovitz photo, linda ronstadt's romper-nightie is red, but i doubt that anyone cares.