Rashid Johnson: Anxious Men

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THE D R AWI N G CENTER

Rashid Johnson Anxious Men

The Drawing Center October 2 – December 20, 2015 Drawing Room

Rashid Johnson Anxious Men

Curated by Claire Gilman

D R AW I N G PA P E R S 12 3

Texts by Claire Gilman, Jeremy Sigler, and Cheryl Johnson-Odim

Curator’s Acknowledgments

From my first visit with Rashid Johnson over two and a half years ago to the realization of this exhibition, it has been an honor and a privilege to get to know and share ideas with him. Johnson’s openness, generosity, and goodwill have been boundless and working with him has been a profound experience both intellectually and artistically.

This show would not have been possible without the generous support of several key individuals. First, it was a great pleasure to work closely with the incomparable Cristopher Canizares of Hauser and Wirth and his stellar team including, in particular, Rowena Chiu. Special thanks are also due to Alex Ernst who managed the logistics on Johnson’s end with great finesse. Finally, I would like to thank the catalogue contributors: Jeremy Sigler and Cheryl JohnsonOdim, whose painfully honest words are a perfect complement to her son’s art.

The Drawing Center’s hardworking staff deserves recognition for their role in realizing this exhibition. Specials thanks go to Brett Littman, Executive Director, and to Nova Benway, Assistant Curator.

Thanks also to Joanna Ahlberg, Managing Editor; Peter J. Ahlberg/ AHL&CO; Dan Gillespie, Operations Manager; Molly Gross, Communications Director; Margaret Sundell, Executive Editor; Alice Stryker, Development Manager; and Olga Valle Tetkowski, Exhibition Manager.

Finally, I am incredibly appreciative of the steadfast support of The Drawing Center’s Board of Trustees and the exhibition funders who have supported this show and its accompanying catalogue: Jeffrey A. Hirsch, John and Amy Phelan, Erica Samuels, and Melva Bucksbaum and Raymond J. Learsy. My deepest thanks are reserved for Joseph G. Mizzi for whose abounding generosity I am truly grateful.

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Rashid Johnson: Anxious Men

Claire Gillman

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Rashid Johnson: Anxious Men began with an invitation to think about drawing that would culminate in a site-specific installation at The Drawing Center, the New York museum dedicated to the medium.

Since appearing as the youngest artist in Freestyle, the landmark exhibition at the Studio Museum in Harlem in 2001, Johnson has established himself as one of the pre-eminent artists of his generation. Exploring such varied themes as the black experience in America, the dialogue between abstraction and figuration, and the relationship between art and personal identity, Johnson’s work is wide-ranging and has been discussed within the context of contemporary painting, photography, sculpture, video, installation art, and even performance. One medium rarely associated with his work is drawing. This is not surprising if one adheres to the traditional definition of the drawn mark as confined to pencil or pen on paper.

However, if one embraces a more expansive conception of drawing and its tools, Johnson’s black soap and wax, sticks and branding irons find their place. Indeed, the scarred surfaces of his wall and floor works with their indexical, graffiti-like incisions have everything to do with drawing and its tendency to reject holistic, compositionality for a tentative and exploratory approach. For Johnson, who has described his mark as investigatory in nature (“there is quite a bit of digging and scratching”),1 the invitation to tackle a medium that is by its very nature intimate and open-ended held a particular appeal.

Furthermore, the opportunity to step outside his practice and contemplate a specific medium resonated with Johnson whose work has frequently taken a reflective approach since he began inserting found objects into his compositions in 2010. From his signature 1

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Rashid Johnson, “O Brother, Who Art Thou?” interview with Francesca Gavin, Sleek (September, 2012), 1.

wall pieces incorporating shelves bearing culturally resonant products like African Shea butter, to sculptural installations in which classics of black literature introduced to Johnson by his Africanhistory-professor mother are placed alongside personally meaningful album covers as well as CB radios familiar from his father’s electronics business, Johnson’s work often takes a uniquely cerebral approach to biographical and culturally charged themes. Bill Cosby’s 1986 memoir Fatherhood, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s Death by Black Hole (2007), James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time (1963), Miles Davis’s landmark album Tutu (1986), and Charles Mingus’s The Clown (1957) are just some of the many titles that Johnson mobilizes. Placed non-hierarchically against wood, glass, and black wax grounds, the objects register in a manner that is more archival than didactic. At a basic level, the wall and floor works act like frameworks or armatures for encouraging reflection on the diverse elements they contain without advising how to think about these objects or what exactly they mean.

Now came a chance to do the same with the tools of his trade. At The Drawing Center, Johnson would turn his gaze on the brands and sticks, the hammers and forges that he has described as his “drawing tools.”2 Together, we discussed arranging these objects in the gallery and including wall pieces that would demonstrate their varied uses and applications. Early on, Johnson decided that the show should be personal in nature. He expressed a desire to incorporate a photograph of his father taken in 1977, the year he was born, and we talked about inviting his mother, Cheryl Johnson-Odim, who has written poetry for many years, to contribute to the catalogue. To round out the exhibition, Johnson proposed a film that would address the subject of mark making from a quasi-documentary, quasi-fictional perspective, providing a non-didactic view into his process that would complement the obliquely autobiographical nature of his work in general.

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Johnson, conversation with the author, (April 1, 2015). Unless otherwise noted all references to Johnson’s thoughts about the Anxious Men and their relationship to his work in general come from two conversations with the author, one on April 1, the other on July 14, 2015.

What do we make, then, of the final result? The photograph of the artist’s father is there, repeatedly, in the form of wallpaper lining the exhibition space, but in place of Johnson’s drawing tools, we are confronted by planes of white tile containing visages made from black soap and wax that interrupt the photo-image and punctuate the intimate gallery. How do we approach these anonymous faces, which strike such a different note from not only Johnson’s original plans, but also his earlier work? Staring straight ahead with scratched-out eyes and compressed zigzag mouths, their contours unstable as bits of black matter splatter over antiseptic grounds, the heads seem both unwittingly trapped, as if caught between panes of glass, and self-consciously contained, held together by sheer act of will. Wild eyed and speechless, they are utterly exposed—resolutely frontal and occupying almost the entirety of the gridded tile planes on which they are located, they are literally in our face—and profoundly unreadable. Where is the artist here? Gone are the reference points that we have come to expect from Johnson: the familiar presentation, however undigested, of the stuff and substance of his life and world. Or at least such references have been relegated outside the frame. Johnson has provided a soundtrack for the show—“Love, That’s America,” a song from legendary filmmaker Melvin Van Peebles’s 1970 film Watermelon Man resounds through the gallery— and, as originally proposed, the exhibition catalogue contains intimate narratives about love and loss written by Johnson-Odim.

Finally, there is the aforementioned photograph of Johnson’s father, who is seated legs akimbo in a white karate uniform in front of a bookcase on which are visible sundry objects familiar from Johnson’s own sculptures: a radio, stereo and other communication devices, as well as evocative tomes like I Ching, Malcolm X, and Louisa E. Rhine’s Hidden Channels of the Mind. Against the image of this selfassured figure inhabiting a confidently eclectic personal space, the Anxious Men register their opacity. They read like momentary crystallizations of conscious yet inscrutable form.

Johnson himself is not entirely certain how the Anxious Men came into being, what it was that prompted him to turn to figuration in such an immediate, visceral way. (While the artist has used photography and film to representational ends, the Anxious Men are his first hand-made works involving the figure). Shortly after discussions

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about The Drawing Center exhibition began, he had started working on a series of heads at the large scale more typical of his wall pieces and, as he continued to think about his relationship to markmaking, the anonymous characters evolved. Johnson began experimenting with scale, using smaller supports and varying his gesture from large strokes that required him to step back from the surface to shorter, more precise incisions. The heads, at first comprised of barely discernible lines, assumed more recognizable features. They began to take the shape not of an over-powering abstract mass but of human beings—albeit human beings whose identifying features are predicated on absence, on Johnson’s scratching away at the pulpy surface. Indeed, in the Anxious Men, it is as though acquiring form necessitates a simultaneous withdrawal from positivity. The figures embody the “movable reciprocity between existence and inexistence” which Alain Badiou has described as constituting the very essence of drawing and which, in Johnson’s hands, stands as a rebuke to modernist purity.3 Here, composed of white tile, the grid—a motif that modern art mobilized as a means of warding off representational ambiguity—is sullied and invaded.

Was it only thinking about drawing that prompted Johnson to work in this way? Or, as he suspected at first, was it the anxiety accompanying his newfound sobriety that compelled him to abandon his cultural reference points and enter this visceral space? Or perhaps, other aspects of his relationship to the world had changed and required new modes of expression. In retrospect, Johnson has come to see this series as an attempt to articulate what he terms a “now space,” to negotiate the fear of being a black man here, now, in America. It is a fear that writers like Claudia Rankine and Ta-Nehisi Coates have recently described as a fundamental, bodily condition.

In Johnson’s hands, the white tile ground references an art historical canon but it also invokes power structures at large, the exclusivity, univocality, and “whiteness” that continue to define contemporary society. As someone who has always adopted a historicist position, who has acknowledged the past as a way of moving forward, Johnson took time to register what the recent public focus on police brutality and racial profiling meant to him, to comprehend his reaction to the 3

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Alain Badiou, “Drawing,” in lacanian ink Vol. 28 (Fall, 2006), 42.

Michael Browns and Eric Garners of the world. What he eventually understood was that a position of historical reflection was no longer adequate; presentness, however uninflected, was required. Hence, the Anxious Men, who face us in all their speechless physicality, defiant in their material presence yet flattened and bleeding at the seams through this same exposure. “Some years there exists a wanting to escape— … Even as your own weight insists / you are here, fighting off / the weight of nonexistence,” Rankine observes in her 2014 Citizen: An American Lyric.4 Or as Melvin Van Peebles puts it in the exhibition soundtrack, a song recently adopted as an anthem of the Occupy Wall Street movement, “You foolin ain’t you / Where can I be / This ain’t America is it /… You can’t fool me.”

Unlike Johnson’s father with his books and cultural markers (his is a bold, pluralistic space in which Buddhism meets radical Islam meets Sci-Fi) and his mother, whose texts deftly employ diverse literary tropes to organize difficult, emotionally traumatic subjects, Johnson’s characters have no tools with which to negotiate their situation, no external affiliations to mitigate their intolerable condition. “I can move and get caught or I can stay and get caught,” Johnson has said of these figures. And yet, as Rankine asserts—and as the Anxious Men reveal in their tenacious holding together in the face of disintegration—to stay is really the only choice. For it is in staying and facing the world that selfhood is realized: “this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful.”5 In a poem written for her son, Johnson’s mother expresses a similar idea in personal terms: “how do i thank you / as you fly / into the headwinds / graciously / and without complaint / while i / eyes closed / float effortlessly / in the wake of the air / stirred by your wings.”6

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Claudia Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric (Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2014), 139.

Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric, 128.

Cheryl Johnson-Odim, “Your Wings,” in Claire Gilman, Rashid Johnson: Anxious Men (New York: The Drawing Center, 2015), 40.

Not to brag

Jeremy Sigler

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…but they were sort of in awe of me. Which is not to say that they liked me. They sort of hated me. Why? Because I had sort of destroyed them. One class at a time. Each week we’d walk to the edge and, “Okay, hit the deck! Grab on tight! Stretch your necks.

Peek out over the cliff. And reassemble your eyes on that tiny world.”

One student was an old lady—who initially felt harassed by me (sort of) and kept pushing back at me (sort of). But she was no longer resistant. She was now just quietly observing my outside-facing-infacing-out. Who knows? I had a hard laugh with Gina at the bar the other night when I told her that I had somehow wound up with this “old lady” in my sophomore seminar who kept heckling me.

Anyway, I must have pounded her into submission. But not with cruelty. Just by making her aware how cruel it—art—can be. Every class I’d introduce the class to a new outsider—a new dysfunctional, addicted, well, dick. In the long history of dicks. I included women too. Women dicks.

I even showed that new movie starring Robby Red. Why? Because I wanted them to see that remarkable patch-job he did on the gaping hole in the hull of his yacht—the greatest work of assemblage they’ll ever lay their eyes on. Far better than any Merz or Combine.

All the adventure in detail of the lonely fact of my “take” on things.

And my take-it-to-the-hoop of things. Week after week.

So it was time for the last class of the semester, and I was poised to say goodbye, and on the train ride up from Brooklyn I entered through the automatic sliding doors of my brain and pushed a cart down the parallel isles looking for a few last ingredients… for the

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survival kit. That’s what it was. That’s what I had been preparing for them all semester. As if the world would no longer whirl without me in the room. After leaving them in their omnipresent deprivation.

The class was a “philosophy,” you could say. It was all about my desire to intensify words. To unpack our words. Serious etymology sometimes. We’d hit the dictionary. Which is unusual for an art class.

Backtrack to the first class. I swear I came at them like an entire Special Team on a kickoff. Here’s what I said: “don’t rush me. Ok? Really. Don’t fucking rush me! I don’t want to feel inhibited by your collective anxiety. What are you so anxious about anyway? I know the answer. You’re afraid I’m gonna lose my train of thought. You’re afraid I’m gonna forget my lines.” I smiled. “You’re afraid I’m gonna forget what I’m saying, aren’t you?” The old lady smiled. (And YOU, too, reading this. Relax. I’ll get there. Okay? Don’t rush the poet.)

And then I changed the topic to the word “curiosity.” Ah, the lost art of curiosity. Or How to Surf the Internet. I talked about the apparent atrophy of play and told them how I had once mastered the “clicker” while watching MTV with my brother back in the 80s.

So here I was, ready to level out and land this airbus with the naked awkward aging quality of my hard-nose and graying armpits. “What three words,” I asked the class, “meant the most all semester?” No one moved. No one even blinked. Not even the heckler. No one dared raise a hand. “Three words. Ready? The first is Curiosity. No doubt you’ll need that. The second is reflection. Nobody understands the importance of reflection—of reflecting, that is, on what one has done and what one will do. Don’t prepare. Be unprepared. But reflect!

So that when you are ready to act you will do so with spontaneity.

And accuracy. So that you will reach through the tube sock of the moment and speak the little muppet of your mind. Ok? Got it?”

“Now here’s the third word for your survival kit. It’s the last word I want to say to you.” I stopped. The biggest challenge, I now realized, would be letting something out while simultaneously holding something in. Only part of it—the word—could be safely expressed.

Too much emotion was clinging to whatever word was cocked and

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loaded and about to manifest. “And the third word is… Optimize.

Optimize the experiment. Recognize its excess and irrelevance and redundancy and distraction.

Take the optimal step—take the best step you can. Take the step of optimal un-knowing.” (Like the path of least resistance.) I drew my phone, googled the word, and scrolled down numerous Wikipedia definitions. I tipped my glasses off my forehead onto the bridge of my nose. Like a welder. Now the room was frozen. Waiting. No one was rushing me. “Be opti… be opti…. be…” And a shiver shot from my toes up my spine into my sinuses. And my eyelids flung open like velvet capes. I was now on the ledge looking out through a glaze.

And I grabbed my composure, blinked three times, and said: “be optimistic. I guess.” I nailed it—my dismount. Like in the Olympics.

And I held my gaze to the highest point in the room, tilting up my chin slightly. And I let the whale of sorrow drain back into my gut.

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Plates Works by Rashid Johnson Texts by Cheryl Johnson-Odim

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Abuela Ruth

Ruth was my salvation. She thought she saved my soul. But really, she saved my life. She didn’t actually save me from death, but rather from something worse than death...a life in which everything is a compromise.

By the time I started kindergarten, I was already believing my greatgrandmother, Charlotte, who told us all the time that “happiness is being satisfied with what you’ve got.” If you couldn’t have the ivory lace dress with the silk underslip, then you learned to love the white cotton with the crocheted edging that you pretended was lace. If you couldn’t have the love of your life, the man of your dreams, your soulmate, you just settled for someone else.

Charlotte was nothing if not practical. I think she probably only dreamed at night the better to make a list in her head of what needed to be done the next day. Maybe I am being unfair. After all, she did produce Ruth. Or...maybe she didn’t. Maybe she tried to produce the Ruth who she wanted, the daughter that would somehow clean the toilet every Saturday, go to mass every Sunday, and spend the week from Monday through Friday attending to a home, a husband, children. But somehow Ruth evaded all of Charlotte’s fine lessons and left home very early to skip among the land mines of life. At least for a while—and at least long enough to free my spirit.

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The Road to Hell

Mary Emma carefully picked her way down the rickety steps to the cellar. The old wood railing was almost completely rotted, and so she held onto the cement wall on the other side, sliding her hand down it as gently and securely as she could. She was shaking so much it was difficult to keep her balance, but she kept laying one foot down and then another, counting as she went. She knew there were exactly fourteen steps in an increasingly steep decline with a long drop after the last step; it was so dark that it was important to keep count.

When she reached bottom, she stood there for a few moments and then gasped for air. She realized she had not taken even one breath during her descent. Even though the air was full of various kinds of dirt—floating microscopic particles of cement, coal dust, the scent of mice droppings—it was a comfort to her. She was so glad to be alone, so glad for the stillness, so glad she did not have to inhale the alcohol on his breath, so glad he could not reach her here. This was the air that made her feel safe. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she tiptoed toward the coal bin, unlatched the big wooden door, and opened it slowly so the squeaking of the hinges could barely be heard. She went to the furthest corner and slid down the wall to the floor. Only then did she allow herself to cry, silently at first. The tears rolled down her cheeks to her mouth, to her chin, and then down her neck to her thin and prominent collarbones. She was wasting away from not sleeping and not eating. When would her mother get out of the hospital and come home? Would her grandmother or her aunt ever come to check on her? Her small hand stirred up a little of the dirt from the floor and smeared it on her face and arms. She smeared it all across the front of her white cotton nightgown. She dropped

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her head nearly to her knees and her body began to be wracked by sobs. She could not rid her mind of the face of her stepfather. He sat behind her eyes. She knew it was not her fault and she imagined that her sweat and her tears carried filth from inside her, removing it in almost exquisitely soft motions, washing it in layer after layer from her body. It oozed outward away from her, away away away until she felt almost cleansed. Could she tell tell tell someone? She knew it was not her fault fault fault, but would they? She wondered, now that he slept in an alcohol-induced stupor, if she had the strength and courage to take the large cutting shears she’d hidden here and go upstairs—and send her stepfather on his way to hell.

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Hunger

you kept me so hungry for you that i finally lost my appetite

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Flying Point

The first time my mother tried to commit suicide, I was fourteen years old. That was when I first started flying point—for my mother, my sisters, and me. I became the one who was ultimately responsible for everything and everyone, and to that I sacrificed my youth, tailored my loving, and found myself in the depths of the neediness I would alternately embrace or deny for the next forty years.

The first time was on a day that, on the surface of it, promised no tragedies. The sun was shining; the sky was clear; the air was crisp.

Within a few months I stopped believing that a beautiful day could portend anything. My life could be as desperately depressing, as unforgivingly fearful, on the most beautiful of days just as often as when it poured rain or the skies thundered.

I had finished my history paper the night before and would have handed it in on time, something I was excited to do because I had developed a deep admiration for my history teacher, who made me feel not only smart but beautiful. It is not easy to make a fourteen year old feel beautiful. He was teaching through an exchange program with Italy and had a heavy Italian accent. One day when I ran into him as he headed to the parking lot and I to the bus stop, he said “Ciao, bella!” I scrambled to find out the meaning of the phrase (it was “Hello, beautiful!”). After that, I never wanted to disappoint him. These days he’d probably be facing a Title IX complaint for saying something like that to one of his students. But back then Title IX only applied to equal access for women in sports, and barely that.

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When I stepped out of the shower, I thought I heard my youngest sister whimpering. She had been sleeping with my mother for almost a year now, ever since my stepfather left. Well, truth is, he didn’t exactly leave on his own. The day after he urinated on the bedroom rug because he was so drunk he thought he was in the bathroom and followed up with putting his cigarette out on the night table because he thought he saw an ash tray there, my mother finally had enough.

Late that night, she packed his clothes in two old suitcases that were already sitting by the front door when I left for school that morning.

We never saw him again.

I wrapped the towel around myself and stepped just outside of the bathroom door. For sure that was Ella I heard, no longer whimpering but crying out loud. I walked a few steps down the hallway and cracked open the door to my mother’s bedroom. On seeing me, Ella shouted my name. I started to say “shhhh” so she wouldn’t wake my mother, who had not been sleeping well.

Lately, I often heard my mother walking around our small townhouse at night. Sometimes she was weeping softly. Once when I got up to go and comfort her, she reached out to give me a hug before I could initiate one and whispered in my ear “Don’t let me be misunderstood.” I found that strange, even a little frightening. But a few days later when I heard it blasting from the hi-fi and heard my mother singing it along with Nina Simone, I felt better. “It’s just a song,” I told myself.

Ella drew my attention back to the present as she pleaded with me, “I can’t move Mommy,” she said, “I heard something under the bed that made me scared but I couldn’t wake her up!”

I approached the bed where my mother lay, looking so peaceful.

Eerily peaceful.

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Tightropes

when you are walking tightropes pulled taut above seas of enemies remember when we walked in the tall grass kissing eyes whispering that wherever i am and whatever i’m doing i’m on my way to you

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Your Wings

how do i thank you as you fly into the headwinds graciously and without complaint while i eyes closed float effortlessly in the wake of the air stirred by your wings

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LIST OF IMAGES

UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED

Untitled Anxious Men, 2015 White ceramic tile, black soap, wax 47 1/2 x 34 1/2 x 2 inches (120.7 x 87.6 x 5.1 cm) Courtesy of the artist and Hauser & Wirth © Rashid Johnson Photos by Martin Parsekian PAGE 20

Untitled, 2015 Softground etching printed in black on Rives BFK paper 10 x 5 7/8 inches (25.4 x 14.9 cm) Edition of 25 + 9 AP Courtesy of the artist and Hauser & Wirth © Rashid Johnson Photo by Christopher Burke PAGE 21

Untitled, 2015 Softground etching printed in black on Somerset velvet antique white 14 x 17 7/8 inches (35.6 x 45.4 cm) Edition of 25 + 9 AP Courtesy of the artist and Hauser & Wirth © Rashid Johnson Photo by Christopher Burke BACK COVER & REPE ATED THROUGHOUT

Jimmy Johnson, Self-Portrait, 1977 Courtesy Rashid Johnson and Hauser & Wirth © Jimmy Johnson

CONTRIBUTORS

Claire Gilman is Senior Curator at The Drawing Center.

Jeremy Sigler is a poet and critic living in New York. His next book, Love Poet in Marxist Overalls, is forthcoming from Sternberg Press.

Cheryl Johnson-Odim holds a Ph.D. in history from Northwestern University and was a Fulbright Fellow in Nigeria. She has taught at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, Northwestern University, Loyola University Chicago and is on sabbatical from Dominican University (Illinois) where she holds the title of Provost and Senior Vice President for Academic Affairs, Emerita.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Co-Chairs

Lead support for Rashid Johnson: Anxious Men

Rhiannon Kubicka

is provided by Joseph G. Mizzi. Additional

Jane Dresner Sadaka

support is provided by Jeffrey A. Hirsch, John and Amy Phelan, Erica Samuels, and

Frances Beatty Adler

Melva Bucksbaum and Raymond J. Learsy.

Dita Amory

Special thanks to Hauser and Wirth.

Brad Cloepfil Anita F. Contini Andrea Crane Stacey Goergen Steven Holl Iris Z. Marden Nancy Poses Eric Rudin David Salle Galia Stawski Barbara Toll Isabel Stainow Wilcox Candace Worth Emeritus Bruce W. Ferguson Michael Lynne George Negroponte Elizabeth Rohatyn Jeanne C. Thayer Executive Director Brett Littman

E D WA R D H A L L A M T U C K P U B L I C AT I O N P R O G R A M

This is number 123 of the Drawing Papers, a series of publications documenting The Drawing Center’s exhibitions and public programs and providing a forum for the study of drawing.

Margaret Sundell Executive Editor Joanna Ahlberg Managing Editor Designed by AHL&CO / Peter J. Ahlberg, Kyle Chaille This book is set in Adobe Garamond Pro and Berthold Akzidenz Grotesk.

It was printed by Shapco Printing in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

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