by John Goodrich
Artists have long been irked by the power of modern galleries to regulate the public’s awareness of art. Put off by the commercialization of art and its containment in conventional exhibition spaces, generations of artists have turned to street performances, manipulations of the natural environment, and even transmissions by radio waves and the postal service. When such works become part of the canon of modern art (as some eventually do), they may appear, ironically enough, in galleries as documented events.
Will the New York gallery scene eventually embrace Marvin Gates’ “Barbara?” Likely not; Gates’ sly and idiosyncratic piece cuts a little too close to the bone. In a time when art has exhausted almost every possibility of subverting our expectations, Gates refutes one of the few that endures: our acceptance of galleries as gateways and sanctuaries for art. Gates’ methods, moreover, are almost insidious in their modesty and directness.
Twice I’ve happened upon “Barbara” on the streets of Chelsea. It (or perhaps I should say “She”) consists of a large welded steel box, sized to comply with New York City street vendor regulations, and coated with protective pick-up truck bed liner material. Small folding doors permit entry into its dark interior. In this womb-like refuge one can sit and contemplate eight small paintings by Mr. Gates, each one subtly illuminated by a baffle in the steel walls.
From the outside, the black articulated surfaces lend “Barbara” a vaguely Gothic air. (One thinks of certain sculptures by Louise Nevelson.) Watching Mr. Gates enthusiastically close the doors upon intrigued passers-by, one becomes aware of how much “Barbara” relies on, and engenders, acts of spontaneous trust.
Each time “Barbara” is unloaded on a Chelsea street, she contends anew with the powers that be. The steel skin may be impervious to the elements, but not, as the artist’s video recounts, to the displeasure of some gallery owners.
And just what kind of art lies inside her protective walls? The artist’s paintings possess a surprising delicacy and cheerfulness. Though painted in oil on sand-blasted and powder-coated steel—in keeping with the industrial-strength context—the images from last winter’s trip were simple silhouettes of holiday themes: a reindeer, a Christmas tree, a mitten. They looked for all the world like colored cookie cut-outs. Mischievously, a snow man appeared upside-down. This spring’s trip featured more highly detailed images of hands holding stylized roses or wreaths, derived perhaps from medieval illuminations or tarot cards. Such glimpses of the delicate, within a sanctum only a few feet from rumbling traffic, can be strangely exhilarating.
The innocence of Mr. Gates’ paintings only adds to the slyness of “Barbara,” which mimics the hallowing, focusing role of the gallery spaces whose sidewalks she momentarily occupies, but whose very business model she refutes. We still like to think of artists as footloose, independent creators of transporting experiences, even as we look to the institution of the gallery—with its trained staff, schedule, and space maintained at considerable expense—to alert us to their creative acts. We tend to accept this fraught relationship between artist, gallery, and public as necessary for the incubation of significant art. But should we? One imagines Mr. Gates takes considerable pleasure in poking at our presumptions.
John Goodrich is a painter and writer on art who lives and works in the New York City area.