AWM: When did you first begin to paint seriously?
Hagan: You can't paint seriously, you ninny.
AWM: You know what I mean.
Hagan: I'm a contrarian, so I figured I would
give up burglary and try it. I quit climbing tall buildings at that point.
AWM: Why?
Hagan: I thought I made it clear -- because I
wasn't fit enough for climbing, which you should write in the skeletal/suffering
artist/ AIDS mode. I thought I might be fit enough for painting, ala Rothko,
Warhol and other cultural clowns, past and present. You know what Rothko
had?
AWM: What?
Hagan: He had a presence, what Balzac called
a "high seriousness" that allowed us to be serious about him taking himself
seriously, you know what I mean?
AWM: No, I'm afraid not
Hagan: Have you seen his pizza commercial? You
take his elegantly overstuffed persona as a given; he's a man enjoying
his pizza, and you trust that.
AWM: And the point being?
Hagan: That I can't take painting seriously anymore
so I quit doing it seriously. I only paint superficially. I want people
to be light about taking me lightly. But even my best pieces can't top
what's actually being exhibited out there now, what I call "Trendy postmodern
dialogue."
AWM: "Huh?"
Hagan: One-sided intimate canvases masquerading
as paintings.
AWM: Could you elaborate?
Hagan: Yeah, you know, pieces that evoke the
intimate, conversational tone that TV critics use, like you were inviting
someone into your bathroom to see your bowl? Vulnerable but reassuring?
Self-mocking to the point of humility, but no further, that would be uncivilized?
All the top rags carry notes on this stuff. And
when someone comes along with a classical piece, someone who can pull off
prophetic pronouncements like a Hughes -- well it's just not warm and fuzzy
enough anymore. I also call this tendency toward Jung's anima "the vaginalization
of art." Instead of painting having a strong voice, it's become elastic
and weak, near incontinent, as if burdened with a cystocoele.
AWM: Could you extend yourself further?
Hagan: No, the surgery's too expensive. Though
I would like some liposuction around the base. But where have you been?
You don't read these high-falutin journals on Australian Art. Whiny voices,
neutered voices, they make Warhol look like Samson. Your art can't be black
or white or male or female anymore, you've got to be this disembodied sniveling
politically correct neutered democratic hemophilic grant-sucking, and thoroughly
therapeutic invention of galleries and advertising men. It sickens me.
Where can you see "Turner's Battle of Trafalga?" Or "Hannibal crossing
the alps?"
AWM: Could you give us some examples of this
tendency?
Hagan: No, I've already p----- too many people
off. But I can give you an imitation. Let's repaint the Rape of the Sabine
Women for a moment in the post modern deconstruction yuppie mode:.............and
installation with the bisexual stained underpants, and urine simmered and
plastic encased sliced livers shaped like crucifixes.
AWM: That's rather good, I think.
Hagan: You would. See, this instillation piece
is not like the Titan's portrait of the pope, and it's not like the roof
of the Sistine chapel, and it's not like one of Tiepolo ceilings -- it's
blandly uninviting, intolerant, careful to offend, though every now and
then these installations will pull an apple out of the hat just to shock
you -- but for the most part, the voice of post-modern art has gone limp.
AWM: Would you care to name some venues where
you find this stuff prominent?
Hagan: No, I'm in enough trouble already.
AWM: So you won't name names?
Hagan: Hell no. People love gossip but I'm below
that. I prefer out and out libel but my lawyer says I can't afford it because
I'm already in bankruptcy for investing in Warhol' memorabilia while the
Nazi lugers I sold keep going up. How could I have known? And how should
I presume?
AWM: Would you venture an opinion about todays
Galleries?
Hagan: As an unprejudiced critic I always offer
an ironclad guarantee that anyone who hangs me will be spared my ridicule.
Curators, are you listening? It's kind of like the insurance the mob sells.
So I have nothing but good things to say about Galleries since they hang
more of my stuff than the thief next door. I say bite the hand that doesn't
feed you and you'll never go hungry. Get my drift?
AWM: I think so. That's all the time we have,
though. Have any parting shots?
Hagan: You mean you want to see my fetish collection?
(About a week later by chance I ran into Hagan
at a bar. He wore huge round sunglasses they gave his bulbous, scrofulous,
wine-florid face the look of a diseased insect. I couldn't decide if his
body was too big for his head or his head too small for his body. I recognized
him chiefly by his pink paisley coat. He was drinking bourbon in a booth
with Ron Van Gennip. I slipped under the faux wood table edges next to
Ron.
AWM: Remember me, Mr. Hagan?
Hagan: Look, Ron, the rodent returns.
Van Grennip: And the dog returns to his own vomit.
He stirred his bourbon with his pinky and sucked it loudly. You know, Hagan,
I feel sorry for you. You will never have my fame.
Hagan: I don't want your fame, I prefer my own.
Van Grennip: That's exactly my point. How do
you expect anyone to take your work seriously when you go to popular movies?
Hagan: Would it help if I went to unpopular ones?
I just rented "The Postman" last night and loved it -- sort of a "Land
world" sequel to the classic "Water World."
Van Grennip: You don't take things seriously
enough, so no one will ever take you seriously. You're just a Falstaff
wannabe.
(continued above)
|
Hagan: Who the (deleted) is he?
Van Grennip: Oh, never mind. You're hopeless.
I'm outta' here.
He stood and pulled a greasy trench coat around
his frame. Then he pushed through the swinging doors, taking out two cigarettes
as he left, and lit them both.
AWM: What's with the cigarettes?
Hagan: Ever since they passed that law about
smoking inside he tries to make up for his deprivation afterwards as soon
as possible. He's not a bad guy, if you like the guilty type.
AWM: At least we're back on the topic of art
and artists.
Hagan: Ah yes, that vanishing species, terminally
infected by the twin viruses of originality and profit. Better to be original
than good; better to make a profit if you're not original --- or at least
marketed as original, whatever the great unwashed believe, which amounts
to the same thing.
AWM: If I might change the subject, I think our
readers would like to hear more about your condemnation of the "intimately
conversational piece" in post-modern art.
Hagan: You mean the social message art, VD art?
AWM: How do you rank today's artists?
Hagan: I won't pander to those who want me to
name names, but think of the best selling artists; and any celebrity who
paints the stuff -- from Sylvester Stallone to Prince, from Madonna to
Michael Jackson.
AWM: But would you call them artists?
Hagan: What do you call them? They work in studios,
for God's sake. Is there another requirement, some sort of cultural quality
control?
AWM: You mean you admire these people?
What are you, dumber than a sawhorse? This is
America. Of course I admire anyone who makes more money than me.
AWM: Don't you think it strange, though, that
no celebrity suddenly presents themselves as doctors or lawyers in the
twilight of their careers, but to become an artist seems to require no
training?
Hagan: I see you are of the elitist school. Of
course there's some truth to what you say, but given the money, most traditional
artists sell out.
AWM: What does that have to do with the skill
of painting?
Hagan: What are you, a conversational foil? Get
some (deleted) lines. Who's writing this interview, anyway? As I was saying,
publicity is more important than quality. Do you think Warhol or Pollock
or Picasso made it on talent alone? Hell no, they massaged the public persona
of an artist for their fame, much like Rubens did. Dali used to wander
around with a billiard cue and bell diving helmet. All he needed was a
feather up his butt to complete the outfit. These guys were shrewd publicity
hounds.
AWM: And what about you?
Hagan: I'm a good painter but a bad actor.
AWM: And your agent?
Hagan: do you know how demeaning it is to remind
a post modern artist of his two-dimensional existence? That's really rude!
I have an agent but he just won't kiss up enough.
To comfort himself Hagan sucked on a fried shrimp
tail, from which the meat had been already removed. Then he chewed on its
shell with annoying crackle. Hagan fidgeted, then slid toward the end of
the booth while the table creased his gut as if it were making a muffin.
AWM: Before you leave, Mr Hagan, could you just
comment once more on----
Hagan: VD art?
AWM: No, not that -- I mean our readers I think
understand that by now --
Hagan: Understand that it's a terrible, terrible
thing in the history of art, I hope. I could change my uncontroversial
metaphor to something not politically correct, you know, and maybe make
a splash in the academic world -- call it "the intimization of art, the
gossipization of art, the nuclear socialization of art, the art that likes
to get emotionally close so fast you feel guilty whether you spend the
night or not, or something equally clever.
AWM: Talking about spending the night what do
you think of women's art?
Hagan: Ha! feminine principle paints the social
message, whining at third world poverty to attract pity and interest, while
all the while attempting to reverse a man's aggressive instincts into a
fathering mode. Thereby is a potential mate checked for requisite compassion.
If the victim passes the test and expresses an interest in the work, the
relationship may proceed as the woman planned.
AWM: But, what does this have to do with art?
Hagan: Everything, my boy, everything. Wait until
we discuss the romance between the hemispheres, the ultimately narcissistic
duo.
Look, I must go I have fifteen minutes of lucid
thoughts left and my Goodart news group deserves better than the crap I
have been assailing them with of late.
With that he bulled his way out the door. He left
a rather exorbitant tip, but I had no idea how much he had eaten, or how
many times the table had been bused before I arrived. I do know for a fact
that Hagan did not eat salmon pate. He can't stand the stuff.
|
P.
Roger Elliott
Agug
Rai Museum of Art
