Ushio Shinohara, “Canal Street” oil on canvas.
“American Art”—Still Relevant?
July 2007
In this well-wired era of worldwide marketing
campaigns, McDonald’s, Starbucks
and other inescapable brands dominate
a global economy in which stock markets
can rise or fall with a few strokes of
traders’ computer keyboards. From New York
to Tokyo, 24/7 mass media pump up or pump
out many of the same products: Harry Potter’s
latest adventure, Prada’s newest handbag,
Britney’s latest haircut.
Different cultures meet and mix in a profusion of “fusion” cuisines. Capital flows more swiftly across borders than ever before, and the art stablishment—galleries, museums, schools, specialized media and fairs—has become a completely global phenomenon. For art’s creators, sellers and buyers, what’s new in Paris, Beijing or Johannesburg can be known as soon as it rolls out of artists’ studios—and often can be had just as quickly. Art-makers steeped in postmodernism’s everything-up-for-grabs aesthetic effortlessly reach across cultures for ideas and inspiration to fashion works that defy labels.
Against this backdrop of global pop culture and integrated everything, does nationality signify anything anymore when describing contemporary artists and the works they create? Should it? In particular, does it still mean anything to be called an “American artist” making “American art”? “In a sense, it can’t,” says Laura Hoptman, senior curator at the New Museum of Contemporary Art in New York. That’s because, she points out, many contemporary artists who are native-born Americans or hold U.S. citizenship come from multinational backgrounds that have provided them with firsthand experiences in more than one culture and that have visibly influenced their art-making.
For example, Hoptman says, “What do you do with—how do you classify—an American artist like Julie Mehretu, who was born in Ethiopia and brought up in Michigan, educated in Senegal and the U.S., and who now is based in New York? Or Rirkrit Tiravanija, who is Thai and was born in Argentina, but who lived for many years in New York? Only now, in his 40s, has he returned to Thailand.” Mehretu makes paintings whose explosive compositions, based on architectural forms, maps and urban-planning grids, hint at historical narratives or imaginary landscapes. Tiravanija’s mixed-media “social art” installations have allowed viewers to interact with them and with each other by cooking meals, playing music or transmitting homemade television broadcasts.
Both artists have inevitably absorbed or been affected by the wide-open spirit of inventiveness that has long characterized the arts in the U.S., Hoptman suggests, while also benefiting from the endless currents of intellectual and artistic stimuli that are the hallmarks of America’s most cosmopolitan city. Tiravanija’s biographies often indicate that he is Thai—but could he equally be regarded as American, at least considering his long exposure to and involvement in the New York–centric U.S. art scene?
“Speaking as an American curator,” Hoptman notes, “I don’t think there is anything intrinsically ‘American’ in this pluralistic, make-your-own society we’re living in right now that makes the work of American artists or of artists who are living and working in the U.S. particularly ‘American.’” However, she adds, overseas audiences sometimes regard American-made art through cultural filters of their own that can reinforce certain already-established preconceptions. “Such myths are important for those who consume our art, especially Europeans,” she observes.
Some critics and curators point to the fact that French audiences have associated the outrageous-grotesque performances of the Los Angeles artist Paul McCarthy, with their squirting streams of ketchup and mayonnaise, with what they think of as America’s cowboy mythology and culture of violence. Similarly, German collectors have long appreciated classic, ’60s-era American Pop art. Perhaps in the neo-Pop confections of a later American artist like Jeff Koons—giant, porcelain sculptures of singer Michael Jackson with his pet monkey or a 42-foot-high topiary puppy— they see the best of the worst of the selfparody and kitsch that flow through so much of American culture and society, from Hollywood movies to the ways of populist politicians.
Different cultures meet and mix in a profusion of “fusion” cuisines. Capital flows more swiftly across borders than ever before, and the art stablishment—galleries, museums, schools, specialized media and fairs—has become a completely global phenomenon. For art’s creators, sellers and buyers, what’s new in Paris, Beijing or Johannesburg can be known as soon as it rolls out of artists’ studios—and often can be had just as quickly. Art-makers steeped in postmodernism’s everything-up-for-grabs aesthetic effortlessly reach across cultures for ideas and inspiration to fashion works that defy labels.
Against this backdrop of global pop culture and integrated everything, does nationality signify anything anymore when describing contemporary artists and the works they create? Should it? In particular, does it still mean anything to be called an “American artist” making “American art”? “In a sense, it can’t,” says Laura Hoptman, senior curator at the New Museum of Contemporary Art in New York. That’s because, she points out, many contemporary artists who are native-born Americans or hold U.S. citizenship come from multinational backgrounds that have provided them with firsthand experiences in more than one culture and that have visibly influenced their art-making.
For example, Hoptman says, “What do you do with—how do you classify—an American artist like Julie Mehretu, who was born in Ethiopia and brought up in Michigan, educated in Senegal and the U.S., and who now is based in New York? Or Rirkrit Tiravanija, who is Thai and was born in Argentina, but who lived for many years in New York? Only now, in his 40s, has he returned to Thailand.” Mehretu makes paintings whose explosive compositions, based on architectural forms, maps and urban-planning grids, hint at historical narratives or imaginary landscapes. Tiravanija’s mixed-media “social art” installations have allowed viewers to interact with them and with each other by cooking meals, playing music or transmitting homemade television broadcasts.
Both artists have inevitably absorbed or been affected by the wide-open spirit of inventiveness that has long characterized the arts in the U.S., Hoptman suggests, while also benefiting from the endless currents of intellectual and artistic stimuli that are the hallmarks of America’s most cosmopolitan city. Tiravanija’s biographies often indicate that he is Thai—but could he equally be regarded as American, at least considering his long exposure to and involvement in the New York–centric U.S. art scene?
“Speaking as an American curator,” Hoptman notes, “I don’t think there is anything intrinsically ‘American’ in this pluralistic, make-your-own society we’re living in right now that makes the work of American artists or of artists who are living and working in the U.S. particularly ‘American.’” However, she adds, overseas audiences sometimes regard American-made art through cultural filters of their own that can reinforce certain already-established preconceptions. “Such myths are important for those who consume our art, especially Europeans,” she observes.
Some critics and curators point to the fact that French audiences have associated the outrageous-grotesque performances of the Los Angeles artist Paul McCarthy, with their squirting streams of ketchup and mayonnaise, with what they think of as America’s cowboy mythology and culture of violence. Similarly, German collectors have long appreciated classic, ’60s-era American Pop art. Perhaps in the neo-Pop confections of a later American artist like Jeff Koons—giant, porcelain sculptures of singer Michael Jackson with his pet monkey or a 42-foot-high topiary puppy— they see the best of the worst of the selfparody and kitsch that flow through so much of American culture and society, from Hollywood movies to the ways of populist politicians.
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