Any dot outside this canvas is beyond me. The roundness of the world has flattened and multiplied, a river of colored marbles flowing downstream, photographed by a great bird. The wind must be on fire, my first thought, black is the outback’s desert-foam. Under what circumstances are painted dots not pointillism? I think the painting just called me ugly and stupid, it has set me ablaze, piece by piece each dot laughs the way the earth laughs when sweltered: in vibrations. They move! I’m shaking, you dimensional, breathing pale ball of hair--
“That one’s an untitled,” the painting can’t speak in the presence of white people, “It’s one of her most important works, especially after the whole Hirst ordeal. I bought it before then.”
Am I supposed to have an opinion here? The truth is, Damien Hirst is my guilty pleasure, and I can’t even pronounce Emily Kame Kngwarreye. Four consonants in a row insults my dandiness, and well, the painting did too.
“He posted this picture from his studio while he was working on his dotted paintings.”
“Oh yeah?” The Collector is old.
“In bright pink underwear.”
“How come?”
Is an artist supposed to give meaning to everything the public has access to? This could get out of hand. Maybe I should compare it to a ménage á trois between Max Ernst, Paul and Gala Eulard. Or Chris Burden getting himself shot in the leg. Or Emily Kame, barely leaving her Utopia in the center of Australia.
“I don’t know.” I have more to learn.
I’ve been to three gallery openings featuring the solemn desert dots, lines and curves since Steve Martin The Inspirator discovered Australian Aboriginal art. During a meeting in December The Collector and I browsed the Sotheby’s catalogue for the first auction of this art in the US. Page after page of soft, geometric shapes and muted colors. Soemone ugly and stupid might say it’s derivative, and then something about Paul Klee.
“Now this is Contemporary.” The Collector folded the corner of a page showing a black and white piece by Wentja Napaltjarri. “Now it is!”
As opposed to what, the Arts of Oceania wing at The Met? But even that gallery leads directly into the Modern art, straight into Picasso. What gives?
“Is Steve Martin on the board of The Met?”
“Excuse me?” The Collector doesn’t look up.
“Steve Martin, which one do you think he’s going for?”
“Oh, probably the cover’s painting. But he keeps his collection so private. And never sells. Never compliments you for buying, either.”
Standing in front of this painting, all red and orange and yellow and black, I’m convinced that Untitled is an indiginous word for Bushfire. It has nothing to do with Untitled (Surrealist Angel) by Salvador Dalí, Untitled Film Still #21 by Cindy Sherman, or the untitled poems by John Ashbery. Sitting at the table facing the painting, a bead of sweat enters my eye. Before it can fall into the stew I ask:
“Do you think the fires in Australia are affecting the market?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the continent. It looks like a lightbulb from space.”
“Oh, no. Did you see the auction results?”
Sotheby’s sold $2.8 million, more than they expected. He was right, Australian Aboriginal art has entered the contemporary, gaining independence from the land that bore it. These artists, most of them don’t live, their paintings had no place in Utopia; they are to be curated, fire-proofed and in the hands of dimensional, breathing pale balls--
“I got the one I wanted. The black, with fine little white dots, that made squares” The Collector gets his iPad out. “Let me see, do you remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course. You called it contemporary.” Not a joke but he smiled. “What was it titled again?”
“Hold on. Ah, here it is.” The Collector turns the screen to me, and the sold price shows as well. $22,500. “Untitled, 2006.”
I was right! Black is the outback’s desert-foam--
1/19/2020 6:51PM