Robert Rauschenberg Kicks Ass

Addendum: We miss you RR.

I recently had the experience of attending the Robert Rauschenberg retrospective at the Met in New York where I live, and the Whitney Biennial on the same day. It offered an interesting, and telling, juxtaposition, regarding what the young bucks are up to and Bob’s seminal work of the 50s and 60s, through which he forged his own path from downtown salad days to American master.

Bob’s pieces felt so vital and vibrant as I experienced them at the Met, just bubbling forth with ideas, as does his current and continuing work. And post-stroke he's as prolific as ever, with that ever-present twinkle beaming through his pieces. What permeates his art for me is a winking embrace of life and its inherent funkiness. His cabinets of curiosities seem celebratory and evocative of the joy in the simple wonder of finding, living and making it all work, both in life and art. There’s a mischievous two-stepping and hamboning in his work, but it’s inclusive, as if he’s smiling through each piece saying “join me here." I’m very taken with it.

The kids at the biennial, meanwhile, seemed too overwhelmed by politics to elicit much beyond a forgotten moan. Not all, but a goodly portion of the work displayed seemed confused and angry, and thus, impotent. Perhaps it’s harder to shock people rather than engage them, or vice versa, or both. Don’t know, really, but it seems we’re at the perennial crossroads.

Anyway, while vacationing with my parents in Sanibel, Fla., I tried to snag an interview with Bob -- he lives on neighboring Captiva -- after successfully pitching a story to an editor friend at the New York Press who said she could place a piece that would be a critical rendering of the New York art scene, both high and low and in between, hinged in part on a comparison of the Whitney Biennial and the retrospective of Bob’s work at the Met -- an interview with Bob, hopefully included. As luck would have it, I happened to meet a waitress who, when asked, said her friend worked as one of Bob's art assistants. So I garnered a fax number to which I was told to send my pitch, and after battling (and wanting to beat and destroy) the disaffected non-working fax machine in our condo, I finally got the damn thing through to Bob and his crew.

Well, I received a call a few hours later, around happy hour on a Friday, and, as luck would not have it, I received the partial bad news: Bob was turning me down. His assistant, after mentioning that my fax machine was messed up, said that Bob apologizes but he loathes formal interviews, and he's had to do so many lately. She said he'd been doing them seemingly non-stop for awhile and would have to continue in a week in New York and then off to Europe for more of same. But, she said, let me read you what he told me. She said that, he said, my pitch was "one of the most creative he's ever received," and,... she said, 'he said to tell you': "You don't need me, Shane. You get it."

Well being turned down in this way was not so bad. It made me happy just to get the message through to Bob that I think his work is so valuable and good for the soul.

So, here's to ya Bob Rauschenberg. Keep doing great work, man. Salut!

And hell, I'll pester him again when things aren't so hectic: I need an art piece, and though he doesn't really need me, it'd be an honor if he would play protagonist in my think-piece.

But my advice to everyone is to go check out Robert Rauschenberg's work wherever and whenever it's on display, he's good for you. A true American master, he'll brighten your experience.

Post-script: So many of the young bucks are overprivileged pricks, seems anyway. I mean, I'm an empathetic guy and all -- my prior comment notwithstanding -- and not all of the new young bloods suck, and I don't care whether you have money or not, but,... so much of the current art scene leaves me at wit's end. I mean, irony's a head-game, after all, not a lasting feeling, right? It's, at most, a fleeting uncourageous muscle-spasm. But it's that which it seems a lot of these young folks covet, and, assumably, longevity, but through honing vacuous sarcastic tossed-off visual witticisms, over and over again. That which might attain a second's play at some overstuffed publicist's orgy, or some similar expensive waste of time. But it all seems to want to sag us back into the dull humming depressive eunich-nature of the modern lifestyle, or maybe, in its finest hour, gurgle a bit of acid reflux up into our mouths. Hmm, yummy. Mostly, this new young art, just sucks. Take this as a shot across the bow to GET CREATIVE! you young, disaffected over-precious little pretty things.

My failed pitch:

Dear Sir, Madam,

I want to interview Bob Rauschenberg for an article in the New York Press. ?*&^vamp;$, an editor at the New York Press has accepted my pitch for a piece that would be a critical rendering of the New York art scene, both high and low and in between, hinged in part on a comparison of the Whitney Biennial and the retrospective of Bobs work at the Met and an interview with Bob hopefully included.

I've always been delighted by Bob's work, his sculpture-paintings, the combines. But I recently had the experience of attending the Rauschenberg retrospective at the Met in New York where I live, and the Whitney Biennial on the same day. It offered an interesting, and telling, juxtaposition, regarding what the young bucks are up to and Bob's seminal work of the 50s and 60s, through which he forged his own path from downtown salad days to American master.

Bob's pieces felt so vital and vibrant as I experienced them at the Met, just bubbling forth with ideas, as does his current and continuing work. What permeates his art for me is a winking embrace of life and its inherent funkiness. His cabinets of curiosities seem celebratory and evocative of the joy in the simple wonder of finding, living and making it all work, both in life and art. There's a mischievous two-stepping and hamboning in his work, but its inclusive, as if he's smiling through each piece saying join me here. I'm very taken with it.

The kids at the biennial, meanwhile, seem too overwhelmed by politics to elicit much beyond a forgotten moan. Not all, but a goodly portion of the work displayed seemed confused and angry, and thus, impotent. Perhaps it's harder to shock people rather than engage them, or vice versa, or both. Don't know, really, but it seems were at the perennial crossroads.

Anyway, Id like to tease Bob out on New York and art and his life with both, but also, interview him in his Captiva studio, perhaps watch him work, or chat with him while he's in the surroundings of craft and home. I expect to blow out a feature from my conversation with Bob, as well, in addition to the New York-centric piece, if he accepts an interview on any of these terms. It could be timed to the Met show, his current projects, whatever he's jazzed about now.

Logistics: Im staying in Sanibel, so I could easily drive over to Captiva to meet him, but it would have to occur sometime between today and Sunday, April 9, as I leave for New York early on Monday. Or, we could work to set up an interview when Bob's in New York. I live and work in Alphabet City as a freelance writer/reporter/editor. Either way, please let me know, I can send clips upon request.

Thanks very much for your time, and please respond if any of this sounds good;

Cheers sincerely,