HOWL! HAPPENING: AN ARTURO VEGA PROJECT
MY FATHER WAS A SATYR ANTONY ZITO
MY FATHER WAS A SATYR ANTONY ZITO
PUBLISHED ON THE OCCASION OF THE EXHIBITION NOV. 22–DEC. 22, 2019 HOWL! HAPPENING: AN ARTURO VEGA PROJECT HOWL! A/P/E VOLUME 1, NO. 35
AN INTERVIEW WITH ANTONY ZITO BY ORIAH ABERA
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WHAT IS THE CONCEPT OF THIS SHOW?
My Father Was a Satyr is an autobiographical myth rooted in the universal theme of “the hero’s journey” and other archetypes of mythology described in the work of Joseph Campbell. This is the story of my life, beginning with a childhood steeped in art and nature, where my parents encouraged me to go after what I wanted in life, and to seek knowledge and experience. I left the nest for the Rotten Apple and fell in step with a culture I soon discovered to be in decline. During those beautiful decades in the Lower East Side, I grew as an artist and a person. As my new community continued to disintegrate, I eventually returned home to Connecticut, a place I’d once shunned and relished leaving. To my surprise, I now find myself falling in love with New England, while still keeping a diasporic foothold in the precarious mirage of New York City. WHY THE MYTHIC NARRATIVE?
The mythic narrative interests me because it conveys, preserves, and evolves what it is to be alive. Myth fits the present into the broader cycle of eternity, affirming the fundamental order of the universe. My intent is to personalize the way our own myths uplift and lend significance and purpose to a larger universal truth through the lens of individual stories. WHAT IS THE FOCAL PIECE OF THE SHOW?
The central painting of the show is titled The Threshold. The satyr, a mischievous woodland creature, divides the picture plane—between home depicted on the right and adventure on the left. He plays his flute along the river, beckoning us away from the safety and comfort of the ordinary world and into the realm of magic and possibilities…of hope, desire, fortune, and danger. DOES THE SATYR REPRESENT YOUR FATHER?
The satyr is not a literal rendering of my father, but in many ways does represent him. I was raised by an artist who related to the humor and mischief of Pan—more to the hidden, solitary, wild-animal qualities of the Roman faun than the lecherous, debauched character of the traditional Grecian satyr. But I chose the word ‘satyr’ over ‘faun’ because there is no set series of traits specifically attributed to either. And ‘satyr’ is just a beautiful word.
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HOW DOES THE THRESHOLD RELATE TO THE PAINTING TITLED HOME?
Home is a storybook lullaby depicting the nocturnal dreamscape of childhood and the memories of home. My childhood cat, Bosco, stands in this painting as a gentle and powerful deity of the homestead, holding the space of spirit and memory. In the landscape behind him is the family home, a Tuscan-style stone farmhouse designed and built by my father. The arc illustrated across this series begins and ends in this home where I was raised, moved away from, and eventually returned to. And it is the place from which I hope to leave this world. It is the central vortex of ‘place’ to which I belong. SO WE’VE CROSSED THE THRESHOLD FROM THE ORDINARY WORLD, AWAY FROM HOME, INTO ONE OF EXPLORATION AND ADVENTURE. WHERE DOES THIS TAKE US NEXT?
For me, the battleground of self-discovery was New York City, and the front line was the Mars Bar. The Shaman is my portrait of Hank Penza, the legendary owner of bars on the Bowery since 1957. He was the proprietor of the Mars Bar—the last true Bowery bar. The goatskin coat and ceremonial mask and bells Hank wears here are borrowed from the pre-Christian rituals of Mamoiada, Sardinia. They belong to the Mamuthones, characters said to represent the inhabitants of the kingdom of the dead. Mars Bar was a sort of portal into hell where one could easily enter but many did not leave. It was a hard-drinkin’, hard-druggin’, occasionally violent, often depressing, always unpredictable vortex of madness and excess. Through its doors, every ‘Martian’ was either purified or destroyed. Many dear souls didn’t survive. In my portrait, Hank stands in the role of the shaman—a quasi-mortal guide at the gates of hell. He is the patron of the brave, of lost souls, and of the helpless. After my father’s passing, Hank had become a sort of paternal figure to me in a real down-and-dirty, Lower East Side way. Hank sat every weekday outside, on the sidewalk; or inside the corner of his smelly little dive bar; and held court like the mayor of the neighborhood. He knew everybody and was either loved or feared…but always respected by everyone who passed by. Very few did not know who he was. Hank passed away shortly after the Mars Bar was shuttered—a block away from his beloved corner—with a smile on his face.
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NEW YORK CITY HAS AN INCREDIBLE POWER TO FORGE THROUGH TRIAL OF FIRE. WHAT WAS CENTRAL TO THE EVOLUTION YOU EXPERIENCED IN THE CITY?
During my decades in New York I dealt with many challenges and losses. At one point three of my closest male friends died—my father and my two best friends. During this time, I had a dream of a fearsome creature that had come into my house to destroy me. It came right up to me with its razor-sharp teeth glistening an inch from my face. Initially paralyzed with fear, I quickly sensed that this beast was not here to harm me, but to challenge and protect me. Life has always supplied me with allies, mentors, and guides that have helped me emerge from the underworld of fear cleansed and transformed. The sculpture titled Fear is a found object, a former public statue from the city of Hartford, where it was destroyed during riots in the 1960s. It recalls a time of fear, revolt, and reckoning. Fear represents the heart of the journey, the central life-or-death crisis that pushes each of us to grow to our full potential or crumble to ashes. SO IF YOU ARE LUCKY, YOU EMERGE TRANSFORMED. IS THIS WHERE THE SNAKE COMES IN?
Yes. The snake painting, named after a Leonard Cohen album, New Skin for the Old Ceremony, reflects the act of metamorphosis, healing, and rebirth. Once I had left home to find my way in the world, I came up against adversity and—as everyone who risks a leap into the unknown—I endured true loss. But I have found a way to turn my lead into gold. Those alchemical moments can cause endless layers of ego to be shed and, like the molting snake, I have emerged from my old skin with a new, deeper understanding of who I am and how I fit into the bizarre experiment of life. HOW IS THIS DEEPER UNDERSTANDING REFLECTED IN THE SHOW?
The sculpture of the gryphon titled The Elixir of Life depicts the victor of the ultimate battle, emerging from the flames with the supreme panacea in its talons. I think what ultimately surfaces through transformation is the true desire for self-discovery. For me, some of the most difficult and revealing moments of my life were experienced during ayahuasca ceremonies where I learned that my time in this physical realm is precious—that it is up to me to really go after what I want, breaking through fear with unrelenting intention and deliberate action. In the wake of those sacred rituals, I emerged more connected to the everyday magic of life.
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IS THE MAN WITH THE HORNS AND SIDEBURNS A SELF-PORTRAIT OF A TRANSFORMED AND WISER SOUL?
Mid-Century Satyr is a self-portrait as a 50-year-old man who has finally earned his horns. Who knew it would take so long? It’s painted on the mud flap of a big rig with the name of the city where my father was born, Hartford, emblazoned across my chest. This rugged bit of blue-collar refuse reflects the work ethic of my upbringing. A map of Connecticut—the state I once shunned but have since grown to love—cuts across my face, lending a shadowy background to the piece. In the tradition of my father, I’ve returned home to the woods of New England and stepped into his role as a magical woodland creature. I have earned a place back in the ordinary, cultivating the legacy that was so lovingly passed on to me, with a fresh perspective full of endless possibilities. THE FIGURES OF THE MADONNA AND CHILD ALSO SEEM TO BE MAGICAL WOODLAND CREATURES. WHAT IS THE QUASI-MUSICAL OBJECT THAT THIS PIECE IS PAINTED ON, AND HOW DOES IT TIE IN TO THE REST OF THE SHOW?
Madonna and Child is painted on a true work of folk art created by Eddie Boros, a late neighbor from the East Village and a real Lower East Side character, whose claim to fame was the tower he built in the 6 & B Garden. It was a monumental wooden structure laden with rocking horses, Frankenstein heads, and toys of all stripes. Eddie also built unrideable bicycles and unplayable instruments, like this one. When he died in 2007, the contents of his apartment were thrown into a container outside his window. I was passing by when I saw this incredible monstrosity cresting the horizon of a dumpster. I grabbed it immediately, disappointed to see it had been punctured when it was so carelessly discarded. It lived with me for over a decade before finding its way to my easel. As a musical instrument it is a reprise to the satyr and a window into the adventure and self-discovery of generations to come. Family and children continue to carry the narrative forward as the patterns of myth repeat into the future.
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PIRATE ZITO BY JIM JARMUSCH
FI L M ST I L L S F RO M COF F EE A N D CIGA RET T ES AND B R O K E N F LOW ER S W I T H A N TO N Y Z I TO PAI NT I NGS
I’ve been a fan (and friend) of Zito’s for almost two decades now. I call him “Pirate Zito,” partly because of his somewhat piratical appearance, but more because of the attitude and approach to his creative expression. (Also, for some years now, Zito and I have been mutually convinced that in previous lives, in a previous century, we served together on the same pirate ship!) In any case, Zito has always sailed his own ship and navigated his own colorful waters (often by bicycle) through the hallucinatory streets of lower Manhattan. Oblivious to categories, Zito’s work must be maddening to the more academic assessors. Is he a “street” artist? An “outsider” artist? A “punk” artist? A “portrait” artist? An “artist-for-hire”? Of course, he’s all these things, but really none of them in particular. Personally, I love his sometimes activated “artist-for-hire” persona: “Bring me something to paint on! A piece of metal or wood, a plate, a coffee cup, a lid, a door or grill, a radiator…” and then, “What do you want me to paint on it? A landscape? A historical portrait? A family member? An icon?...” I have commissioned Zito several times, and have a fantastic portrait of Lee Marvin he created for our film Coffee and Cigarettes, another of the great Ethiopian musician Mulatu Astatke that he painted for Broken Flowers, and a Lion of Judah on a metal tea or cocktail tray, as well as several other pieces I have collected. Howl! Happening gallery is an important artistic vortex in New York City, and one of my personal favorites. Now they are presenting a show of all new paintings by “Pirate Zito”—certainly a cause for uncategorizable celebration!
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ANTONY ZITO AND THE HERO’S JOURNEY BY PENNY ARCADE
There is a history of painters who paint what they know, and there is a history of painters who paint who they know. Caravaggio based his paintings of the Madonna and the saints on the rough-and-tumble denizens of his milieu. Many a prostitute posed as the Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven. In the 1880s Toulouse-Lautrec painted the people he socialized with—the music-hall artists of Montmartre and underground club habitués. For the past 27 years, Zito has painted the people he knew in the East Village. His storefront studio on Ludlow Street invited the free flow of characters. It was a fluid salon where you would spot Zito’s subjects seated around the room as their portraits watched them from the studio walls. That was New York’s Lower East Side and East Village at the end of the 20th century— the last authentic or largely market-free bohemia—at a time when the members of downtown’s last avant-garde roamed the streets, diners, bars, and gallery spaces. This was the period when DIY, indie, and alternative values still created and defined downtown art culture. Downtown New York was a place where musicians painted and painters played music…where painters, poets, musicians, drinkers, druggies, and hangers-on were each other’s audience. This is where the creative geniuses who had set the standard 50 years before were still a part of daily life. John Vaccaro of the Playhouse of the Ridiculous; poet, actor, and Warhol superstar Taylor Mead; and godfather of experimental film Jonas Mekas knocked around the same streets and bars—Max Fish, Pink Pony, Lucien, and Mars Bar, to name a few. For sheer audacity nothing could touch Mars Bar. Part punk holdout, part Bowery flophouse-era remnant, Mars Bar was for serious drinkers and serious people who drank. Its walls were hung with art third-stringers traded for cheap bourbon. Was the art good? Who knew? You couldn’t see it! The place was dim, illuminated by one light bulb. The deeper you went, the darker it got. Rising out of that darkness was the acridest stench imaginable. Only the drunkest or most desperate braved the bathroom that made CBGB’s smell like a rose garden.
Mars Bar was presided by Hank Penza, a Sicilian wise guy who got away from the mob. At different times between the 50s and 80s—when the Bowery was still filled with hundreds of derelict winos and bums milling in the street and lying in the gutters—Hank had owned various bars. As the 21st century arose, he was left with Mars Bar, once aptly described as being full of “real people getting real drunk for real reasons.” In 2013, Mars Bar was shuttered with the tearing down of the building at 11 Second Avenue. The place was a real dive. The varsity bros who troll the streets of the East Village and Lower East Side nowadays would not stand a chance in there. It was the last of the Bowery bars of yore. Think alcoholics without jobs rather than alcoholics who drank after work. Think lost weekend on a Tuesday night. The Mars Bar was the end of the line—painters, poets, writers, musicians, alkies, and junkies, along with painters who had stopped painting, musicians who had stopped playing, writers who had stopped writing, and the codependent women who loved them. This is the world Antony Zito entered in 1992. Like many before him, after college, he made his way to the East Village/Lower East Side, in his case from western Massachusetts with his band Agnes Moorhead. Zito was born into an Italian American family, in the small farm town of East Granby, Connecticut. His father John was a second-generation Italian American who continued the family business, carving marble memorial headstones that adorned the graves of northern Connecticut. Both his mother and father were artists who met at Hartford Art School. His mother, Rosemary, eventually turned her focus more to motherhood than art, but his late father, John, was a charismatic full-blooded painter and sculptor, returning home after work to paint and draw. Zito drew and painted from birth. It’s in his bloodline. My Father Was a Satyr is the artist’s largest and most comprehensive one-man show to date. The exhibition marks the completion of a cycle, of the “hero’s journey,” with all-new work—from monumental welded metal sculptures to large multiple-panel paintings.
In 2003, Zito was doing live painting at the Apocalypse Lounge, run by the late Fred Rothbell-Mista of the legendary Limelight’s VIP Lounge. The opportunity for a gallery show was proposed by the future Howl! Happening’s Jane Friedman, but Zito would have to wait for the gallery to manifest itself. As a young painter, he was unable to envision how something that far in the future would happen. It seemed improbable—just as the future seems improbable to all of us! Time marched on, and in 2011, Zito lost the Lower East Side apartment where he had put down roots and, in a story that is sadly familiar to so many of us, was forced to leave. At the same time, the neighborhood was cracking under the weight of hyper-gentrification. Many art and music venues that had defined the scene for decades were closing—and had been closing for over a decade—but something marvelous was happening. Howl! Happening was rising. It was around this time that Zito was going back and forth to East Granby, to a studio where he could work. The future was upon him; he was offered a massive space where he could work large. Suddenly the found items he had collected for two decades—the hallmark of his painting style—beckoned him. They were no longer an abstract collection of found items but a vocabulary he had cultivated for years. He was back in the place he had once left, focused on his own artistic upbringing and tradition. This show is about Zito’s personal journey, his history, and his future. He has built a show of unanswered questions, asked in the vocabulary he had come to discover over two decades in the East Village and Lower East Side. The show is guarded by his father, the painter John T. Zito Jr., and by his second paternal-figure and mentor Hank Penza. Antony paints Hank as The Shaman who stands guard over the Mars Bar, the gates of hell. In the “hero’s journey,” one is either purified or destroyed. My Father Was a Satyr is a fable, a storybook. It’s about what lies between and beyond the gates of the underworld.
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ANTONY ZITO’S ANCIENT RECENT PAST BY ANTHONY HADEN-GUEST
Art worlds were often rooted in a distinctive milieu, and artworks generated in Montmartre pre-World War I, say, or London’s Chelsea post-World War II, are more likely to clue you in to the time and place of their making than the art produced nowadays, which has become a global industry. Antony Zito’s art does just that—though the Where and the When are the Lower East Side, not yet gentrified into the East Village. True, that was the LES of not so long ago, but being pulled back into what was until recently richly alive can trigger emotions at least as intense as more history-sheathed art. As here. Zito grew up in Connecticut. “Everyone in my family was an artist and craftsperson,” he says. He made his way to the East Village in the early 90s and set up as a portrait painter. He was in his early 20s and times were tough. “I couldn’t afford to go buy canvas so I just started picking up things on the street to paint on,” he says. “I found a lot of cabinet doors, panels, ironing boards, mirrors, and frames…things that worked very well as surfaces.” So what had begun as an expedient quickly became part of Zito’s tool kit. “I call these things artifacts of recent history,” he says. “They have their own narrative to them. And they carry an energy in their patina that is very vital. They just add layers to the narrative that sort of interweave with the paint.” Things went well, and Zito decided to set up a gallery. He found a space on Ludlow Street in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, which was, of course, just when many were getting the hell out of downtown. “I knew that was the right time to do it,” he says. “Because all the rents were going down. And New York isn’t going anywhere. I thought all the people who were running away were crazy. And spineless.” At Zito Studio Gallery he focused on portraiture. Zito has a double-bladed gift for this, being not merely able to catch somebody’s likeness in oil, acrylic, collage, whatever, but to make that somebody seem of interest, even when you have no idea who they are. “I asked my friends to sit,” he says. “And a lot of the time people would just come in off the streets. Either they would be
neighborhood people or curious folks. I would ask them to sit down for a painting. And I also used the small storefront space to show my work, alongside the work of my friends. So I had a different show every month.” Zito had also begun picking up commissions, among them from Jim Jarmusch, who included his work in the film Broken Flowers, and commissioned a painting of Lee Marvin for Coffee and Cigarettes. Another commission, this to do a sequence of portraits for Clayton Patterson’s LES-oriented Acker Awards, launched Zito onto a quest. “I started thinking what is a cheap piece of junk that screams New York?” he says. “And it was the blue and white Greek-diner cup that you just see crushed and soiled on every corner. It just speaks of the movement of New Yorkers at the pace of light, just throwing these things away and buzzing on with their lives. I love the activity of a paper coffee cup, and how it is so disregarded and discarded.” The portraits are of just who? Well, I spotted Quentin Crisp, Joey Ramone, Taylor Mead, and Allen Ginsberg, but some deserving names were missing, I felt. Has he done Penny Arcade? “No, I’ve only done people on the coffee cups who have passed on,” Zito says. “It’s basically a post-mortem project. Clayton will every year give me a list. I believe in it, and I want to get behind it.” Steeply rising rents, that not-so-golden oldie, caused Zito to close his gallery in September 2006, an event memorialized by a costume party which he called One Last Anti-Gentrification Freak Out, and which was visited by the police and the fire department three times. He is now back in Connecticut, living on a farm and working out of a studio in Hartford. Which has clearly not slowed the artist down. In 2008 he appeared in 4heads, a non-profit fair involving 120 artists in Governors Island; in Portal, another alternative art fair, in 2016; and in February 2018, he put together a project making silhouettes in the Wyckoff House Museum, a 17th century building, the oldest in Brooklyn. Paintings in this show included The Threshold, a 19-footer,
a recent painting which shows a satyr beckoning gallerygoers to a promised land that has been put together from found objects, including several ornate picture frames and a door. I noted that Jim Jarmusch had referred to Zito admiringly, not as a diss, as “an artisan.” “That was his wording,” Zito says. “But I don’t think it’s inappropriate. I’ve known a lot of people who are snobbish about it, and who think it is beneath me to work for hire. But a lot of people end up taking day jobs that they hate. I’m happy doing art for a living. I’m a portrait painter for hire. I do quite a bit of commercial work. I paint murals. And I make my own art.”
Arturo Vega Foundation Lalo QuiĂąones Jane Friedman Donovan Welsh BG Hacker Board of Advisors Dan Cameron Curt Hoppe Carlo McCormick Marc H Miller Maynard Monrow Lisa Brownlee James Rubio Debora Tripodi Howl! Board of Directors Bob Perl, President Bob Holman, Vice President BG Hacker, Treasurer Nathaniel Siegel, Secretary Riki Colon Jane Friedman Chi Chi Valenti Marguerite Van Cook, President Emeritus In Memoriam of our Beloved Board Member, Brian (Hattie Hathaway) Butterick Howl! Happening: An Arturo Vega Project Founder and Director: Jane Friedman Gallery Director: Ted Riederer Assistant Director: Josh Nierodzinski Digital Content Manager: Jake Court Director of Education: Katherine Cheairs Program Coordinator: Daniel Wallace Registrar/Archive: Daniel A. Silva Collection Manager: Corinne Gatesmith Preparator: David Gimbert Marketing and Public Relations: Susan Martin Gallery design: Space ODT/Teddy Kofman Creative Consultant: Some Serious Business/Susan Martin Gallery Photographer: Jason Wyche
Howl! Happening takes its name from the unpredictable, free-form happenings of the 60s and 70s, where active participation of the audience blurred the boundary between the art and the viewer. More to be experienced than described, Howl! Happening will curate exhibitions and stage live events that combine elements of art, poetry, music, dance, vaudeville, and theater—a cultural stew that defies easy definition. For more than a decade, Howl! Festival has been an annual community event—a free summer happening in and around Tompkins Square Park, dedicated to celebrating the past and future of contemporary culture in the East Village and the Lower East Side. The history and contemporary culture of the East Village are still being written. The mix of rock and roll, social justice, art and performance, community activism, gay rights and culture, immigrants, fashion, and nightlife are even more relevant now. While gentrification continues apace and money is king, Howl! Happening declares itself a spontaneous autonomous zone: a place where people simultaneously experience and become the work of art. As Alan Kaprow, the “father” of the happening, said: “The line between art and life should be kept as fluid and indistinct as possible.”
Antony Zito My Father Was a Satyr Published on the occasion of the exhibition November 22–December 22, 2019 Howl! Happening: An Arturo Vega Project © 2019 Howl Arts, Inc. Howl! Archive Publishing Editions (Howl! A/P/E) Volume 1, No. 35 ISBN: 978-1-7338785-5-5 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Howl! A/P/E. © 2019 Oriah Abera © 2019 Jim Jarmusch © 2019 Penny Arcade © 2019 Anthony Haden-Guest © 2019 Antony Zito Howl! Happening: An Arturo Vega Project 6 East 1st St. NY, NY 10003 www.HowlArts.org 917 475 1294 Editor: Ted Riederer Copy Editor: Jorge Clar Design: Jeff Streeper
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