Sunday, October 5, 2025

Chapter 2. ​The DUM-DUM Boy my first performance.

 


Chapter 2.

The DUM-DUM Boy my first performance.

​Back to the beginning and my very first performance.  It was unrecorded as most things were back then because we were too young and just didn't know any better. This was well-before we all carried cameras and we just had no clue about recording things for the future—I don't even think any of us thought of the future—not in any concrete sort of way. Because of this, my very first performances at UNR are completely gone and undocumented—something I would never allow today!  We just didn't know, didn't understand the importance of documenting anything. Hey! We were just a bunch of artistic punk kids!

At the time of the first performance, I’d been making small box sculptures with dioramas—a mixture of painted text and object, often with toys unceremoniously nailed outside of hastily put together frames or found boxes, standing in front of each artwork like tiny emcees presenting the art, instead of some product like burgers or cereal.  In some installations I would place customized "action figures" on small metal stands that were screwed to the wall. At this same time, I also created a metal mouse with a familiar shape that became a kind of hero for a series of sculptures, again standing against the wall—everything, at this time was a mixture of painting and sculpture and all the pieces stood against gallery walls like paintings, which is where I started, so it makes perfect sense.

​As part of the pre-planning for my first performance, I drew many preliminary sketches, and began to fill sketchbooks with notes and ideas that would later become either sculptures or future performances—something that I do to this very day!

​The "Dum Dum Boy" performance (as it has come to be known), was based on many things including a conversation between myself and another sculptor named Heidi—who told me about a character that she was creating, she called it the "Burning Girl" or something like that. That was the last bit of inspiration that I needed and the "Dum Dum Boy" was born.

​At the time, I was quite worried that I was dyslexic, mostly because I just couldn't understand any of my math classes—something which actually jeopardized my entrance into graduate school. I felt very much like a dumb, dumb boy, even though I was also reading voraciously all things about art, philosophy and history and spent evenings at the library poring over anything I could get my hands on.

​The performance, itself was very simple, influenced by the work of Gilbert and George, my wall pieces and, well, everything that was going on at the time. I remember it clearly, as it was the very first time I ever did a performance art piece. Not performance, like singing or dancing, but performance art, like Chris Burden, Joseph Beuys, Yoko Ono or Paul McCarthy.

​I was dressed in a clown mask, yellow Doc Martens, black shorts and Minnie Mouse ears, and I could barely see anything.  In the background a loop tape played the “Bag of Laughs” audio from the death of the Joker in the first Batman movie.

​I was propped up against a wall, as Robert Morrison’s sculpture class walked in, all of them watching me as I stood there, loop after loop playing endlessly, until my shaking legs gave way and I dropped to the ground from sheer exhaustion from standing there for what seemed like years, but was actually a very short time.  As I stood clinging to the wall, however, I felt myself getting heavier and heavier and my legs began to shake and then gave way, surprising the other students in the class as I came crashing down.

​Looming above my classmates, I remembered another inspiration for the piece. I was walking through "Toys R Us" in Reno one day, when I passed a wall of laughing bags and, just as I did so, Reno had its largest earthquake up to that date.

​Bag after bag began to laugh loudly, maniacally—the moment was terrifying—it sliced deep into the heart of me. It meant so much, it meant so many things all at once—eviscerating the seriousness of life and opening death up to the ironic, sarcastic meaninglessness that only a mechanical, mindless wall full of novelty gags or a rampaging virus could ever even begin to approach.

​A memory within a memory. A dream within a dream. I snapped back into reality.

​That was it—the performance itself lasted less than fifteen minutes, scared the hell out of me, but ended in enthusiastic applause and heaps of missed opportunities—but it was mine and it left me completely changed. I was never the same and I could not wait to do it again. I could not wait until I had the opportunity to do another performance and investigate this form of art and type of communication once more!

Tuesday, September 16, 2025

Chapter 1 Part 2 Xavier Lopez Performance Art Biography 2025

 



Fast Forward: Our early story really begins to take off and move forward at UNR, the University of Nevada, Reno. It was my first year as an artist and everything was going gangbusters for a very young artist in a small town. I had just moved out of my parent's house, well more like I was thrown out of my parent's trailer and after a summer spent on several couches, I had finally moved in with my first, real girlfriend and her chain-smoking grandmother--who I loved as though she was my actually grandmother--moreso, actually.

​I was taking art classes in the University of Nevada, Reno art department, which we referred to as the "Church of Fine Arts," due to a misreading of a placard at the old front entrance, which had been dedicated to James Edward Church, who was a professor of Latin, German, classical art and history, there from 1892-1959. 

It was at UNR, in front of the Getchell Library, that I had met Laura Akers, who I would eventually marry and later divorce in a breakup that would leave me completely broken for exactly one year, not one day more.

​Back then, though, everything was exciting and new and I was even a bit of a local Chicano art star. I had just been asked to be part of a three-person "Day of the Dudes" Show with two of my professors, Ed Martinez and Michael Sarich--something which was a huge deal for a student, any student--as it was apparently the first time that anyone had been asked to join any of their professors in an art exhibition.

​A couple of months earlier, Professor Sarich had bought one of my artworks, a sculpture of a found Virgin Mary, which I had wired to a plank of wood painted with the colors of the Italian flag because I had gotten the Mexican flag wrong.  That same year, I won a materials grant for my work and for showing great promise, but something was missing—even though I must have been in twenty "Day of the Dead" shows that year!

​There were no particularly discernible dinosaurs hanging around on campus on that certain blisteringly hot Nevada semester day and all the Neanderthals on the planet had long-since lost their sloping foreheads and could move about undetected—except under detailed genetic analysis and at UNR, at least, these particular "cavemen" preferred to couch their more primitive inclinations into more artistic activities and endless discussions of the finer points of deconstruction, rhetoric and irony, after all, things were always bit more rugged, a bit more seminal, a bit more artistic, and ultimately a bit more cowboy here at  UNR!

​UNR had never lost that primal edge--more than once I was almost shot--by one of my professors, but I'm sure I am not the only one who took classes there that can say that! Those were different times—and UNR had created its own rugged, insulated art culture—yet, at the same time never losing a sense of hope and the idea that we would all become extremely important artists and that everything we made was instilled with a kind of magic. Years later, when I was accepted to UC Davis for grad school, one of the professors there confided in me that they had a great respect for the teachers and students at "good ole" UNR.

During this seemingly never-ending summer of my extended adolescence—four professors—especially, were very important to me—sculpture professor Robert Morrison, painting Professor Michael Sarich, performance artist and mistress feminist Joanna Frueh and photographer Peter Goin. They were the egos, superegos and ids to my artistic infancy.


​For a very glorious period of my undergraduate experience, in fact, every Friday we would head to one of the local bars with a few of these professors and we would get very drunk, smoke ourselves sore, and talk and talk and talk about philosophy, share our artistic ideas, dreams and autobiographies, and all the while we would be thinking about how our art would change the world—just as it was changing our very souls and opening our imaginations in ways that even now I do not fully understand.

It was during this period, too, that I was first introduced to the ideas of Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and the mixed media work of Matthew Barney—who was still climbing walls and restraining himself for all to see, and it was also then that I fell in love with Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns and came to worship Marcel Duchamp. It was then, too, that I first understood the power of noise with John Cage and danced with Merce Cunningham, ate my first helping of Naked Lunch, ran from Gargantua and Pantagruel, had Akira completely blow my mind, met (in the flesh) Allen Ginsberg, Graham Chapman, Terry Allen, Rachael Rosenthal, Alan Wilder, Paul Humphries and missed Andy Warhol by mere minutes—all the while having the time of my life and filling my head with the dreamy dreams of an aspiring artist.

​But back to the amazing bacchanals that we were having—and those old-world "secret society" meetings. Here mystery women and mystery men told stories of New York gangsters and opium dens, of Montana artists in cowboy hats and chaps--crooning songs and setting up artistic boxing rings. We heard tales of professors who in their past lives broke people's fingers for money—and mangled hands in meat-grinders due to non-payment. I heard stories of a young Bruce Nauman and his performances on the Davis campus, tales of the "Hairy Who" and Robert Smithson, of Jackson Pollock and the invention of conceptual art and so much more.

​In time, word would come down from "the regents" or "whomever" that professors could not fraternize with their students like this, they couldn’t engage in a real artworld where everyone was treated as an adult—I didn’t realize it at the time, but this moment was a harbinger of how the entire world was heading—but for one long moment there was magic in the air and everything seemed possible.

It was during this period that Dave Hickey was asked to judge our annual student art show—I don't remember who it was that won that year--it wasn't me, though I think I got an honorable mention or something—I don't remember and it doesn’t matter.  I do remember getting really drunk later that night at a bar with our professors and I remember Bob accidentally lighting a cigarette butt backward and after several hours of listening to Mr. Hickey pontificate about art—I finally got the nerve to step up and began to ask him about art criticism.

At the time, I had been doing reviews and criticism for the UNR newspaper—the Sagebrush—and I was thoroughly loving it.  Eventually, I would end up writing criticism on and off throughout my university experience and I really, desperately wanted to understand why he also did it-to understand what drove him, and to some very real extent to maybe understand better why I did it. After about an hour of back-and-forth, however, I remember getting drunker and feeling like he was absolutely unwilling to give me the magical answer that I was so desperately demanding.

To me it seemed like he must be in the catbird's seat—spending all of his time imagining and re-imagining the state and form of the art-world—finding, refining and defining the state of play in each of the words that he so carefully set out before us.  The Buddha that was presented before me however was flawed and imperfect and so very unhappy—it seemed to me—with the heart of a poet and a very tragic clown.  What I found before me was something very different than the battling hero that a young artist-cum-art writer wanted to find—what I found was someone who was not actually in love with what he was discovering to be the truth of the matter of contemporary art.

He told me and I must assume that that means that he was telling everybody—that he was even thinking of retiring and that was way back in the 1990's.

Naively—I asked him—why don't you just change it?  Why don't you just change the art world?"  He looked at me with a mix of emotions that I still don't think I understand, can't replicate but also cannot forget and said, "I can't.  It doesn't work that way."

I looked back up at him and answered, "bullshit."  I said, "Just bullshit."

He looked at me with another look—one that I could see clearly read, "you just called me bullshit--if I was in a different mood I would punch you--or worse—if I had a gun—I’d shoot you."

I had seen that look from Michael Sarich before and after a minute which felt like far too long and in which I steeled myself and made myself ready for anything—he cleared his throat.  Then he held me transfixed in his crooked eyes for another eternity.

"What are you having?" he asked.

I relaxed.

Safe with the knowledge that I wasn't going to get punched—at least not that evening.  Not by Dave Hickey, anyway.

Luckily, Robert Morrison—my ever-present, guide through all things artistic—came to our rescue and shifted the conversation and more and more drinks and cigarettes were consumed, but nothing else was said that night about the perceived darkness that was infiltrating the art-world and I was spared my own delicate naivety.  Though, if I remember correctly Hickey never paid for a single drink, so this particular darkness was also an ever-present friend.​

End of Chapter One. 

 ********************************************************************************


Tuesday, August 19, 2025

Chapter 1 Part 1 Xavier Lopez Performance Art Biography 2025

 


Chapter 1:

Where We flash Back to the Beginning of Time.

Once, maybe twice, perhaps even a near infinitude of onces upon a time, there was a group of apes trapped in a holographic projection of a multi-millennia-long game of Sid Meyer's “Civilization.” The rules of this game have always been relatively simple—stay alive long enough to procreate, try to come up with something/anything that will advance your tribe and don't let the vandals destroy everything you've built up.  Don't get annihilated by a giant asteroid like the dinosaurs, don't fall into the ocean like the Atlanteans, don't fuck yourself out of existence like the Neanderthals and by any and all means don't end up as slaves to the fascists in the very matrix you are living in, filled with its undercover agents in business suits and sunglasses—preparing you for a very short and brutal existence—all without single-payer healthcare.  And definitely don’t allow yourself to die when humanity yet again finds itself going through another worldwide holocaust, wherein millions die and the only thing a person can do is to stay as much out of the way as possible and pray that you are one of the lucky ones.

This is, of course where we find ourselves again, as I write this—in a situation that appears to happen every hundred years or so and which, to be fair shouldn’t have come as a surprise as it had been foreshadowed for at least the last thirty years, but it appears that humans always need to be present, experiencing things in the first person, before we pay the slightest attention to even the greatest tragedies!  We need to be present, knee-deep in the hoopla so to speak, before we break out of our state of ennui—even if that may sometimes mean that it is too late to get out alive. 

The first person, in language as a concept and a form of communication always conveys intimate, personal experience and information and it is always a performative act, even when it comes to us disguised in the passive attire of the written word and through the passage of time.

​Whether accomplished through the expelling of air past vibrating vocal cords, pushing ink onto a blank page, the movement of microscopic waves of electricity through tiny tendrils of blood from the brain to the body, the tapping of keys in front of a pulsing computer screen or by a performer moving from one point in space and time to another, the transfer of information and performance are inextricably linked.

In fact, the first person-singular is the perfect metaphor for the complexities of Performance.  By its very nature, speaking and writing in the first person imparts as much information about its author as it does of the description of an event—it says clearly in words and the documentation of those words through an impression left on paper, sand, or audiotape; “I was here! This is what I saw!” “This is what it all meant to me.” The first person voice, then, is also always about identity, as much as it is about identification--it is always both a performance and an artifact left after describing the events of a performance—that is why it is also art and not just a conversation—but a conversation taken to the stage, no matter what that stage may consist of, and it has the function of both welcoming and confronting the audience at the same time.

 

Performance is always an attempt to say something—to make a point, to change some small pocket of the world and to leave a mark, but I will circle back to that later. This is the "I" of the first person and it asks, and, if very lucky, answers, what have "I" been trying to say, what am "I" struggling to say right now and what might "I" be attempting to say in the future. It is the "I" in "I Am." But it is also the trepidatious "I" in "Am I?" It is an echo of Shakespeare's Iambs, with which he created Hamlet's soliloquies signaling the mortal and universal state of existence of humans and killed fair Ophelia off-screen—words made into actions—performed on and off the stage.

Over time, I have learned that whether my own performance work denies the body, celebrates my fat, unathletic, Latinx physique, whether the work is painfully honestly diaristic or secretive, masked and elusive—all my work is in fact about me and—for the most part—continues to be presented in the first person—and likely will, until I shuffle off this mortal coil.  This, then, is the least perceived distance between the author (me) and the audience (you). Here, I speak directly to you and my body and my mind are presented directly to you, whether I am masked or not, whether it is through text, live or on Youtube. Here, I perform and communicate directly to you, if not for you—though what and how much is actually communicated depends on both of us. Sometimes.

Performance, and the idea of performance as something more than just a television show, a movie or a play in a theater, for me, began long before I even knew what any of this meant, or what art was.  When I was still very young my parents would often take us to Chicano art galleries and art museums in Los Angeles where I was introduced to artists like Andy Warhol, Joseph Beuys; where I watched breathlessly, films showing Jackson Pollock splashing his paints onto canvases laying on his studio floors and where I rooted for Yoko Ono staring down her audiences as she experimented with the darkest sides of humanity and the frightening vision of men with scissors.

​It should not be surprising then that when I finally got to college, I practically glommed onto Butler, Wilson and Silverman, but also Foucault, Lacan, Derrida, Guillermo Gomez-Pena, Performative Theory, Queer and Feminist Theory--and scoffed openly at my pro-hegemonic "Masculinities" professors at UC Davis with their simplistic, "Iron John" self-help psychologies. I particularly derided "Masculinities’" apparent inability to create a theoretical and conceptual basis for critique, unlike their more intellectual siblings and swore that if I ever had the opportunity to shape an intellectual discourse that it would reflect the complexities of feminism's children and ignore its simplistic modernist fathers.

​In college, I ate, drank and slept this "Postmodernist" stuff, but only—If I'm completely honest, after a very strong—if short-lived—period of mourning over the death of modernism. For a time, I was definitely in shock—who wouldn't be-—-artists before Postmodernity, were heroes, great big faux-masculine gods plowing their way through life by the power of their presumably oversized penises and their equally exaggerated imaginations—think of artists like Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning and Barnett Newman with raging hard, abstract expressionist erections and you get the picture—but do not think of artists like Helen Frankenthaler, Elaine de Kooning or Norman Lewis—as they were supposed to be relegated to the sidelines, the margins and we were told they had nothing to say. Not nothing valuable to say through their artwork—nothing at all.

​As a child, of course, I didn’t realize that I would be placed into this “silenced minority,” but that would change soon enough, even before I got to school.  I believe that we tend to ignore the fact that the first times we navigate race and issues of racism happen when we are children, at a period of our development in which we don't have the distance or ability to understand the nature of this world that we have suddenly become a part of.  I see race, issues of race and the whole universe of ideas that center around race and racism, at that age, as almost a kind of murder mystery.  Where we are following the clues to make sense of what we have gotten ourselves into, it is big and dark and terrifying and does not reveal itself all at once, but rather comes out in riddles, jokes, jabs, taunts, imposed limitations and fights—many fights—and loss of faith in everything as we realize the rules that are being set before us are not in our best interests. 

 

Slowly. I began to become aware of the world that my Chicano parents were wrestling with, aware of the turmoil that my homosexual/Mexican, favorite uncle was going through.  I was becoming aware of all of it--living in Montclair, CA--in an age before guns were rampant and gangs ruled the streets. I think the very first time I even became aware of racism and especially the implied threat of the mob--occurred when I was about four and my family found ourselves in Malibu after hours.  I remember the night as though it were yesterday, the night air was beautiful, and we were listening to a local radio station on the A.M. that was playing some Ventures, Jan and Dean and the Beach Boys--even then, I loved the echoing guitars of the Ventures and how they cut through the salty, humid California air. I was in the back seat and I think my brother was asleep--a pretty safe bet, since during that time he was almost always asleep.  I remember that a group of very blond teens began following us and I remember being excited--maybe they were the Beach Boys or Jan and Dean or some famous musical group.  I was overjoyed when they attempted to pull us over and one of the men/boys walked over to the car, then I heard clearly, "You better get your beaner ass and your family out of our town." 

There is something that happens to a person the very first time this occurs—it’s not something that you can describe to someone who does not experience it as a child--it is something akin to letting go--in this case a letting go of innocence and especially letting go of the faith in your fellow man.  These blond gods fell from heaven that moment and joined Lucifer in the netherworlds of my childish brain.  And I saw my father, have to back down, to swallow his pride in front of his wife and family.  I don't think he said, "Yes sir." or anything that dramatic or cinematic--but the message was the same--suck up your pride because there is danger in the air and it was the kind of danger that did not care if your wife and your children were riding with you in the car. It was primal and terrifying and it changed everything. But it was in elementary school that I would see how racism was tied up in society and that I would experience racism mixed with power—again, first hand.

Flash forward a few years to Sacred Heart Academy in Southern California and another story from my childhood—documenting a set of events that probably ring true for many people's childhood's.  This is especially true I’d wager for any child of color who is intelligent or special in any way—as I said—I actually mean every child. 

Her name was Sybil Anne Warren, she was my primary teacher in third grade at the Catholic Elementary school.  I have not changed her name, nor the location where this happened in the hope that if she is still living that she will possibly read this and know that she failed—that at least one person triumphed over her covert and overt desire that the world operate by her strict laws of racism.

My parents had always been perversely religious—strong, if albeit convoluted Catholics in my childhood—crazy religious, end-of-the-world nutters later in my early teen years until this very day.  When they found out that I was put in the California Mentally Gifted Minor program they completely freaked out as it became clear that my school wanted to send me to a special school—apparently my parents were afraid that I would become an atheist—a slave to logic.  I never said that they were too bright—and I will never truly understand the religious fear of intellect—or maybe, if I'm honest—I understand it perfectly.  After-all, what do you get when you deconstruct God?

Anyway, back to Ms. Warren—she took an immediate dislike toward me.  I would learn, later that she had told my parents upon hearing that I had been in the "Mentally Gifted Minors" program that, that was impossible—that no Mexican could be "gifted."  But at this point, I just knew that she had decided that she didn't like me and that she was going to make my life a kind of personal hell—what follows came after about a week of little things.  For example, she accused me of mispronouncing the word "Geyser" when I thought it was the word "Geezer" and put me in the lower reading group as punishment—until it became clear that I was reading so far beyond the rest of the class that she had to give me my own reading material.

But, later that same week it happened, I was sent out of class—which was fine by me.  We were reading Steinbeck—so I had no problem not being part of the discussion—instead, I bought two of my favorite popsicles—the red, white and blue one and a 50/50 Bar"  Aaaah!—that was the life.  It wasn't until recess that I would realize that I had been made the butt of a racist joke--that joke, of course being society, history and in this case—the villain was the very same teacher who had been a jerk to me all week!  I was told by my breathless comrades that they had been sworn to secrecy, but that she had called Mexicans—my self included—"Beaners," "Taco Benders and Spics" that she had said that all Mexicans were "lazy, dirty and not very smart."  One of the boys turned to me and said, "My father says these things about Mexicans—but you aren't like that at all!"  It was agreed all-around that I was one of the "good ones," and in its own way things were immediately made better between me and the other kids--they understood, I think, at a very basic level that this could have happened to any one of them—that this was purely an accident of birth—and that Ms. Warren's madness could get any one of them at any moment.  In a way I had become a celebrity, something to rally around—a cause!—Americans have never like bullies and mine was a pretty spectacular case of unfair and irrational treatment and it was impossible to keep this story from reaching epic proportions—especially after I told my parents who never saw a social injustice that they wouldn't face with overwhelming force.  My mom could make even the biggest bully eviscerate himself with a pretty blistering look and the well-chosen words of someone with a community college education.  And as for my dad, he was at the height of his powers—having just run for city council and won.

I don't remember if they forced Ms. Warren to find a different line of work or not.  But at the time one thing that struck me was her perception of difference, her stupid, small-minded belief that someone should be perceived as different because of something that was outside of their control, something they were born as, some state of their being—rather than a decision they had any control over.  This pissed me off.  Fast forward to today—and I am now an adult.  Ms. Warren is either very old now or more than likely quite dead.  I would like to say that her ideas are dead as well—that people are no longer judged by their race—but we all know that that just ain't the way that things are—even in this new millennium.  

Today it still galls me when I realize that what Sybill Warren firmly believed was that I somehow saw the world differently than every non-"othered" white kid in that classroom.  That my ideas were somehow impoverished because I was born to Mexican/American parents.  That I should expect less because I was born with slightly more melanin in my skin.  Now, I want you to take a moment and let those ideas sink in a bit.  Ms. Warren—a teacher, at a private school in California—someone who was supposed to look after the children in her class—felt that at least one of those children was inferior—simply because they were born brown—because I was born brown.  Let me repeat—because these things bear repeating—she believed that my view of the world, my ability to appreciate philosophy, art, comic books, television—a glass of wine, Christmas carols, snowmen, sex, my ability to ponder the eternal verities, the shape of the universe, evolution, the scent of cocoa, to pet a puppy, my ability to love, to listen to Electronic Body Music or to let the beat drop--was somehow impoverished, lessened, cheapened—inferior to a supposedly "white" person’s.  Even at ten, or however old I was at the time—I knew enough to call bullshit on that.  And that sense has not changed one scintilla.

Flash forward again: Modernism and especially the Abstract Expressionist movement was the last collective gasp of western-humanity's ideal of "Manifest Destiny" and artists were its "chosen Zen warriors"—the Obi-Wan Kenobi's of that era—the focal point of society's last need for magic—these artists became a walking, talking Bakhtinian parade of warriors, jokers and clowns--and for one last moment I was sad to see that go away forever.  Not knowing that what would replace it was larger and more inclusive than any of us could imagine at the time.

​Today, in fact, something very similar is happening at a national level as the majority shifts, and loses its status as the majority.

​I remember hearing about the Abstract Expressionists at a very young age—they were my father's heroes—and I remember watching an episode of the old “Batman” television show in which the Joker posed as an Abstract Expressionist artist and bamboozled the dynamic duo.  I also remember asking my father, who was working on a large painting at the time, whether he was a good guy or a bad guy—he told me that it was much more complicated than that.

​He also told me that only other artists can truly understand what it really means to be an artist–that artists must think and paint with their eyes and with their minds. He told me about Giorgio Vasari–the very first art critic and art biographer and gave me a copy of the book, “Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects”—and he said that it was of the utmost importance that Vasari was also a very accomplished artist and worked alongside his peers—for he could truly understand every word that he wrote in a way that a mere watcher could not.

​He taught me that artists have been arguing about art since the beginning of time, what it was and what it meant–and the greatest artist of them all was a man named Marcel Duchamp, (who I wouldn’t truly understand until college,) because he took art out of the realm of the purely retinal and placed it firmly in the arena of the mind.  My father was a very wise man and his words still guide me in many ways. But what did I know then, I was, what? Four? Five? I knew so little about the shape and substance of the world I lived in.


Thursday, September 17, 2020

Xavier Lopez Performance Art #27: Just Being: Dematerialized (Can you have a performance with no body present) #1. 2020



This Performance begins to answer the question "Can you have a performance with no body present," in this first answer to the question the camera--essentially the audience's eye is turned outward through a window, away from the artist, who in this first tentative step is still mostly present through a reflection, spoken description and presence behind the camera.



As the Queen of Hearts attempted to teach a Modernist Alice--when Alice haughtily opined that one could not actually believe the impossible . "I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen , "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." Alice just hadn't had the proper practice, growing up in Victorian England as she did--but in the 100+ years since then, we have all had that practice. Modernism with its heavy reliance on "truth," the manifesto, the "universal," the phallus, masculinity, God, hegemony and so many "isms" "it would make a shy, bald, Buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder," turned very quickly into absurdism, nihilism and went absolutely berserk when they discovered that God had died somewhere on the way to the forum. ix

This was replaced by a football field of vying positions all questioning the supreme hegemony/ies, until it became necessary to bring out the phallus and take away the toys of identity before this post-modernist "play-time" could get out of hand and become a polymorphously perverse, identity orgy. Little did anyone know that when the phallus finally did blow that it would not be a fun, sexual or liberating event (I mean, Freud must have had a sense of that, though-- right?). -Instead, it erupted into a terrified/terrifying, manic, paranoid, madness--at least so it seems--these really are early days so far.



Historically, even when post-modernism sought to deconstruct things, it was still with the faith that what would arise was some sort of deeper truth, even when that truth was ironic, or presented ironically, the result was still filled with hope and faith. There was still the idea that if you took the truth to the top of the mountain and shouted it to the people, that everyone would recognize it, act accordingly and do the right thing. Before this, the funny thing was that in the modern era, this same mountain was the space from which you received, interfaced and interacted with the "Kierkegaardian God " of Enlightenment, then tried to figure out how much of that truth you could keep in your unworthy, little head. Well, nowadays--that mountain has been blown up and strip-mined for the last bits of helium on the planet, no one believes in truth today. Even if you did receive any wisdom from the experience, as soon as you tweeted it you would get a thousand people all coming from so many different points of view that the original "truth" would be completely lost. Then scientists would tell you that we probably live in a giant hologram anyway, so what is the point?





Perhaps this really is the Age of Nefarious--the culmination of DADA and the completion of its agenda. It is an era where reality has met "the Real" head on, and the only ones with any faith are the ones that are trying like crazy not to go completely, irreducibly insane. Luckily, however, this is all just theory and has no real basis in reality--Right? Right. Maybe. Because if it did, then that would be absolute madness, right? Right. 




Just Being: Dematerialized (Can you have a performance with no body present) #1
 

Xavier Lopez Performance Art #26: Fountain (Soft, Brown-body Remix) After Nauman. Photo: Xavier Lopez Jr. 2020. (During the Pandemic of 2020.)


Fountain (Soft, Brown-body Remix) After Nauman. Photo: Xavier Lopez Jr. 2020. (During the Pandemic of 2020.)





1. Who are you and where are you from? 

My name is Xavier Lopez ; I was born in Southern California, half-way between Hollywood and Disneyland. My first memory is of the warmth of the California sun on my cheeks and visions of the bright blue sky overhead as the song "A Theme From a Summer Place" played all around me in the background of the car radio. From birth, when it came to telling the difference between what was real and what was make-believe--I never stood a chance! 

I came from a family of three siblings and when we were kids we used be left alone at the Hollywood Wax Museum and auto museum and would spend literally days staring at the Batmobile, Bat-cycle and full-sized wax models of old Hollywood stars. When we got home we would make Batman and Robin costumes and fight invisible bad guys until sundown. 

Disneyland was such a prevalent part of my childhood that I actually remember nightmares of the Haunted Mansion before I even remember having been old enough to make sense of the ride. My father used to taunt us by saying, "You're nothing but a nothing, you're nothing but a nothing..." which was a song from some scary Disney cartoon. He would also take our stuffed animals and trick us into believing that they were alive--though my brother who was always much smarter than I was never fooled. 

2. What message do you want people to receive from your artwork? 

There are many layers to my work, I want people to see my work as a questioning of reality, of culture, and of traditional ideas of gender and race. I am absolutely obsessed with the moment in all media when Pinocchio comes to life--the moment when the inanimate becomes animate. That for me is the true moment of magic. At the same time, I tend to think of life as a giant horror movie--grisly and visceral. I tend toward Lacan, Bakhtin and Balzac--rather than Kant, Hegel and Disney--though I understand their places in normative culture--and how we navigate the world. 

At the same time--even when I am employing elements which may seem to be very painterly or Pop--I am still always a conceptualist at heart. I think that historically, at this point in time, we are actually post-pop (once again)--and that that is an amazingly generative space for an artist to be in and to work from. I don't like things to be clean, pure and delineated and it is my goal to marry all of the various strands of my own work--the performance art, sculpture and the pop together into something new--something that we might not have ever seen before. 

Pop, itself is amazingly important because it has always had the ability to make even the hardest ideas easier to take and I do have lots of very complicated, dark, happy, manic, beautiful and ugly things to examine and say in the work. Also, because pop has the ability to make the strongest of medicines go down, I don't think that it will ever completely leave my work--but will rather take its place alongside the more minimalist and conceptual aspects of my work in a working mix and become another tool in my toolkit. 

Do you remember your first artwork, when you knew that you where an artist? 

There have been several moments in which art has saved my life--in which it has reminded me that there never really was any other choice for me. Any true artist knows that they really can't do anything else--I'm pretty much not good at anything else-really. As far as the first moment--it might have gone all the way back to watching my dad painting murals in Hollywood, standing atop a ladder with a crowd of people complaining that what he was painting wasn't art. He looked down at them, paintbrush in hand and said in a very thick Chicano brogue--"Thees, thees is not just art--this is revolution!" 

I still have the very first drawing I ever did--it was of a train and it is probably better than anything I have ever done since. Maybe. 

Who are your favorite artists and inspirations? 

My favorite artist is Marcel Duchamp--he took art out of the realm of the purely retinal into the conceptual. He ended the primacy of the eye and handed it over to the mind. All art that has gone after Duchamp has been inflected by Duchamp. I would not be an artist without him. I could not be an artist after him. 

Robert Rauschenberg was my first favorite artist who didn't illustrate comic books and Mark Ryden took me on a trip for awhile that I am still dealing with. I love Bruce Nauman and did my graduate work at UCDavis--where he attended classes and did performance work. I used to sneak into classes that were taught by late first wave Pop artist Wayne Thiebaud and I really think that you can see the effect that his classes had on my brushwork. 

What tools do you use, to create clean paintings and murals. 

Honestly, I tend to use whatever materials I need to in order to communicate what I am trying to communicate. For the murals its usually a lot of paint and brushes, for the performances it is often latex, masks, costumes, cereal, music, etc.--for the mixed media sculpture--it's all over the map! 

I don't think that I really have any allegiance to any particular set of tools. I use what I need to use in order to say what I want to say! 

Where can we see more of your art? What other places has your work been published? 

I have a book coming out in the summer that will be available on Amazon and my work will be in the next issue of Studio Visit Magazine. I always have some sort of drawing or painting in the books printed by Raven Above Press--and I have even had work in Mad Magazine. I continue to do "Live Painting," and performative work with the awesome folks over at the Seattle Art Museum, alongside fellow muralist Ryan "Henry" Ward and he and I have a few projects set for the future that will definitely get people talking. 

As far as collaborative work goes, look out for at least three performance art performances this year, the first will be a musical love story-- based on Marcel Duchamp's glass and mixed media piece, "The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bachelor's, Even," and two which are based on characters of mine--the "Dum-Dum Boy" and the "Sorcerer's Apprentice." 

My work is always available at Echo Echo Gallery in the Greenwood Collective-- and online at my terminally "under construction" website at xavierlopezjr.com. 

What do you see yourself doing in 20 years? 

Honestly--I just want to do more and more of what I am doing--take things to their limits and grow--I want to see where all these directions lead and how they connect and dissect. I used to think that the Pop stuff I have been doing for the last several years where a break for me --that they had nothing to do with the previous work. That is until I actually looked at the older work and saw that all of the same obsessions were there, the same connections, the same tropes and contradictions and that they were all connected through me. It was a transformative realization and one which continues to surprise me --I want to surprise myself continuously and always continue to piss off exactly just the right people! 

If you could work on an art project with anyone in the world from any period in time who would it be? 

I would love to work on a performance with Joseph Beuys--of all the artists throughout history--his is the one that I seem to come back to the most--visually, we share some striking similarities--which is odd--because for both of us the performance work is extremely personal, autobiographical and anecdotal. I'm sure that Beuys himself would say it has something to do with a kind of post-Jungian--artistic collective mind--but all of that is just a little too new agey for me--though I love Beuys for being so out there and for being so willing to go out on a limb for what he believed--no matter what! 

Any last words you would like to say to the Section 8 Magazine readers worldwide? 

Be true to yourself. Even when everything seems to go against you--because that is when you will find out who you truly are. Too Zen? Too “New Agey?” Yeah, you're right--I am nothing if not a jumble of contradictions!

 






 

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

Xavier Lopez Performance Art #25: Performance From the Foot of my Bed #1: Dada Death - Song From the Heart. 2020.


Performance From the Foot of my Bed #1: Dada Death - Song From the Heart.

By the time I became aware of Marcel Duchamp as an undergraduate art student at the University of Nevada-Reno, his bones had long disintegrated, but not his memory, which far from being forgotten and obliterated by time and disuse--had turned to gold--he had become what only the best martyrs are allowed (the 1% of martyrs, if you will)--he had achieved sainthood--but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps, as his 1959 sculptural piece "With My Tongue in my Cheek" suggests--perhaps --Duchamp didn't actually give one single shit what we came away from his work with--and maybe that was his greatest strength after--all. Marcel was Dada. All art is Dada and all artists are Dada. But then as Thierry de Duve told me--maybe I am completely missing the point (which is not only possible--but almost certainly likely.)




Whether he went by the name Marcel Duchamp, Rrose Selavy or Richard Mutt--a modernist understanding of authorship and of authorial intent is always very important to any understanding of Marcel Duchamp's oeuvre. Let us look at just a few instances where authorship is central to his work and especially where he very specifically highlights authorship by frustrating it. His character of Rrose Selavy--which features prominently in a series of images and products presents the artist in drag emblazoned with the tag Rrose Selavy (eros c'est la vie--eros is life.) And especially in Fountain, wherein Duchamp signs the--nearly one-of-a kind urinal with the name R. Mutt--are both conspicuous because of the artist's absence--in them, the artist has taken on a character--an impersonation. In Rrose--a very bad drag queen or an unconvincing woman is outrageously played by Duchamp. In the Fountain, however this is taken one giant step further and the artist is missing altogether. But what are we being told by these misperformances of identity? What does it mean when an artist signs his/her work with someone else's name? What does it mean when the artist employs varying levels of misidentification or misdirection of identity. In the Rrose pieces we know that these are Duchamp's artworks because the artist is ultimately there--even if he is in costume, in drag, misidentifying his gender and his identity. But a very interesting thing occurs. Because we see Marcel--because the misdirection is not meant to fool anyone and because it is signed--Rrose becomes an almost translation of the name Marcel Duchamp--a near translation or a badly tuned pronunciation. Almost as if Rrose Selavy is Marcel Duchamp in Russian, Spanish or more likely --as if it means the same thing in the language of art--the language of Dada.





In the Fountain, on the other hand the artist is never present. We only find out that it was made by Duchamp third hand because Duchamp comes to its rescue and then claims the urinal indirectly via a letter he writes in the Dada publication "The Blind Man." Interestingly, it is not even in the letter that Duchamp claims authorship of the sculpture and the letter itself acts as a misdirection of a misdirection. He ultimately, later uses traditionally non-artistic modes in order to claim the fountain--after the fact-- in interviews and conversations--via word of mouth.

It becomes clear that Duchamp is working with issues of authorship and here it is is also important to realize that, while Duchamp will one day lead us all to the ironic stance that will allow many artists to claim a position of non-identity--we have to remember that Duchamp was not a post-modernist, he was a very talented, forward thinking modernist--but a modern all the same. All of these instances of misdirected authorship, of misperformance of identity, whether convoluted and tricky are nonetheless, ultimately meant to lead us back to the artist--in this case, all roads lead us back to Marcel Duchamp.





Before I move on, I want to speak a bit about how authorial intent plays out for the Dadas and for Duchamp in particular in response to Duchamp's best known, masterpiece--the Large Glass (The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelor's, even)--and especially in Duchamp's definition of chance. In the large glass sculpture, Duchamp employs many examples of what he termed "Canned Chance," as he put it--“This experiment was made in 1913 to imprison and preserve forms obtained through chance, through my chance.”

"...Through my chance." This is an amazing sentence--a revelatory and very important distinction and one which is paramount to understanding what the Dada's felt about chance and authorship. The words "my chance" are odd ones because we tend to think of chance as something that occurs to us--outside of us--something over which we have absolutely no control. People often speak of bad luck, or lucky stars--even lucky people have no control over how and when their luck will run out. But for the Dadas and especially Marcel--luck was another tool of the artist--ultimately an extension of authorial intent--luck is always under the control of the artist in a way that was governed by the laws of Dada logic--which was a truly modernist undertaking and could be quite magical. The powers of the author--for the Dadas and later, even for the Surrealists was something, which to us, now, as post-post moderns must at times seem almost ludicrous, fantastical or outlandish--but which nonetheless were considered part of the general powers of an artist like Marcel Duchamp. In fact, similar attitudinal examples can even be seen in the ways that the Abstract Expressionists--especially Jackson Pollack saw themselves and the control of their environments as well. In fact it was this same supra-human authorship and "claiming" of chance that allowed Marcel Duchamp to assert that the Large Glass was finally finished when it came out of storage with a large series of cracks--that would have caused most petulant artists to break down and claim that their work had been ruined by bad luck!





In his talk at SAM, according to de Duve--the most interesting aspect of what Duchamp's work (as exemplified in the urinal) was, is that it meant that everything could be art and that anyone could be an artist. De Duve claims that this is the main idea that the artists of the sixties came away with when they were presented with his work, but I very humbly want to say that this is a misapprehension on the part of de Duve--that the dual ideas that anything can be art and anybody can be an artist were in fact, not the most interesting, most important, longest-lasting aspects of the Frenchman's work--and that this is in fact a misreading of what the work--especially Fountain even had to teach.

Over the years, Duchamp's relationship to Fountain became a complex--at times prickly one. He, himself claimed that artists of the sixties misunderstood the work--and not just Joseph Beuys as de Duve points out. He was quite concerned that his revolutionary act of "Anti-art" would be reintroduced into the realm of the "Retinal"--which he saw as a travesty. For Duchamp, himself--and I argue for the most important artists of the periods that followed him--artists like Jackson Pollock, the artists of Fluxus, all the conceptual artists of the sixties and seventies, Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, John Cage and Merce Cunningham etc., what Fountain brought us was not the idea that anything could be art--but rather that art had now been forever extricated from the realm of the retinal to the realm of the conceptual. De Duve's misapprehension is mistaking the press's reaction, the popular reaction--the most visceral reaction to Fountain with what practicing artists felt was his most important revelation--and especially with what was the importance of Duchamp's impact on the history of art.





This popular view of Duchamp's oeuvre is sadly the most obvious and superficial layer of what Duchamp's work brought to the world. It is tantamount to Jackson Pollock's being called "Jack the Dripper" and Andy Warhol being called the "Campbell Soup guy." These are all true claims--but they are essentially irrelevant to any actual understanding of each artist's place in history. Duchamp's Fountain does continue to be one of the most important objects and moments in art history--and his work is seminal to all art (even the retinal) that has been made and continues to be made ever since--but the idea that this importance has anything to do with de Duve's syllogism is in itself the product of a formal/formalist and retinal reaction to an object that spoke past that directly to the conceptual--in fact giving birth to an art that exists in and of the mind and which continues to drive formalists absolutely nuts!

It is a misunderstanding of the idea of the urinal--in favor of a formalist understanding of the piece as a sculpture. It is a backward look at something that is looking and moving forward in very much the same way that Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase marked the end of Cubism--Mr. Mutt's Fountain was moving art into something completely different--and gave birth to performance art, conceptual art--any art whose basis was thinking before seeing.

What the artists of the sixties took from his urinal--what continues to be Duchamp's most generative gift--and therefor the most important, was his debasement of the retinal from its perch as the highest form of art--in favor of the conceptual. The favoring of the mind over the eye. In fact, this would prove to be far more radical--far more revolutionary than claiming all things to be art (which, in fact, in the final analysis Duchamp never claimed after all)--and in it we find the birth of everything that art is today. It is the break that de Duve is searching for. The Fountain, in the final analysis becomes nothing more than a decoy--on one hand it is something shocking enough to stick in our minds--something to shock us into a new mindset--a slap to the back of our heads, and secondly it is something used to lead us away from what Duchamp--in his guise of a Dadaist--is really attempting--something all the Dadas were working toward. That was the desire to create a space for what linguists call the breakdown in the vraissemblance of any system--it is the creation of an ideological fatigue--wherein art cannot recognize itself. Where it breaks down and something else--something new arises.




Duchamp once complained that he gave us a urinal--basically a pot to piss in and we found the Madonna--or was it the Mona Lisa--The Surrealists knew that if we came to an intersection between a skeleton and an operating table that we would bend over backwards in an effort to contrive a story that we could make sense of--and that is exactly what popular history and de Duve have attempted to do with Fountain.

Duchamp gave us the purest, most minimalist piece of Dada ever created and we contorted logic into every conceivable shape to have it make sense to us again--even searching for a formal answer to something that was only ever meant to be a completely conceptual ghost. Madness--the void--illogic and Dada are like that--they make us pine for the comforting, for the sensical, for the beautiful--it makes complete sense that Surrealism followed Dada--followed Duchamp (who never became a Surrealist--though he always was one) because the mind needs to return to succor and safety after looking too long and too hard at the opposite of art. In the end--perhaps the syllogism of the break between these two eras may actually be more like this: Marcel was Dada. All art is Dada and all artists are Dada--though not all artists are Dadaists. Magic is in the air--but not all artists are magicians (magi chiens.)

Xavier, out.
 

Xavier Lopez Performance Art #24: Pandaemic Theatre Presents: The Crimson Phantom Presents--Ghost Stories. 2020


Pandaemic Theatre Presents: The Crimson Phantom Presents--Ghost Stories



This one really isn't performance art in the strictest sense, but rather reading a favorite story from childhood during the pandemic. 


Pandaemic Theatre Presents: The Crimson Phantom Presents--Ghost Stories
Robert Bright Ghost Story-Music by Haunted Me.