Mapplethorpe. X, Y, Z @ LACMA and Getty

Condensed for an earlier blog post...I felt this was important to underline with the new shows of Mapplethorpe's coming to Los Angeles.

This past week (earlier in Spring of 2012) I was finishing up my finals for my second quarter back in school at Antioch University. In Academic Writing I was to turn in a research paper, on a topic of my choice. I thought it would be interesting to re-investigate the whole NEA/Mapplethorpe/Helms controversy, and decide for myself how I felt about government arts grants. I worked on this paper for a month. Twenty pages in length, it covered the topic in depth, and I was happy with the work I had accomplished.

On our final day in class we were to share a brief presentation on our paper, our topic. I volunteered to go first, and stated that I would read the first two paragraphs of my paper. It outlined in a personal format my experience with this show, and examined the NEA, and Helms' agenda.

To the class I read:

"On a thursday night, I went to the Whitney to see this obscene Mapplethorpe show, The Perfect Moment. Thursday evening's were free at the Whitney, and I was grateful for the sponsorship so I could view Robert's works. I was a young artist and I was about to have my mind blown by his vision."

Surprisingly, tears began streaming down my cheeks as I continued:

"I didn’t have much money in my pocket, and was grateful for this free evening of art, made available through the generosity of the museum and various sponsors. I was aware of Mapplethorpe’s flowers, his pictures of Patti Smith, and of celebrity portraits. I slowly made my way through the museum. Roberts works silently held their place, adorning the walls." 

I stopped reading. Tears ran down my cheeks. I had no idea what was happening to me. I offered my apologies to the class, expressing embarrassment and exasperation for the emotional response to my story sharing. I continued reading: 

"Glorious prints, with such deep intense blacks, it appeared you could slide your fingers into their depths, trailing ripples into black water at night. Soft luminous bodies, their physical perfection matched in how he captured them. And his flowers. Deep religious visions. Reverent, and also containing an occultish air, tinges of unspoken mystery floating within their folds. Satanic shadows played off their form, as they were expertly lit."

I stopped reading again. I was having difficulty as I tried to hold back my gentle sobs. What the hell was happening to me? I told the class that I was confused and stunned as to my tearful reading, and apologized. They kindly reassured me I was doing fine, and their encouragement allowed me to feel safe in our space to continue: 

"I wasn’t sure what part of the pictures to focus on, my eyes were drawn deeper and deeper into his work. These images, as they grew on me one after another lining the museum’s walls, brought me into his world. My artistic spirit was plateauing, and I wondered how high it could ascend. What I wasn’t prepared to see were all the partially nude black men. In business attire with enormous cocks hanging out of open zippers, or white mens genitals held fast in some kind of trap, barbed wire encasing it all. Finally, in all his glory, was an incredible photograph of Robert himself. Standing with his back to the camera, clothed in nothing more than a leather vest, and leather chaps covering his thighs, Robert looks over his shoulder and stares down the viewer. One leg rests upon a sheet covered riser, his legs spread wide as he crouches, revealing the handle of a bullwhip shoved into his ass. The tail of the whip hangs out and down, past his legs, slithering on the floor. It is incredibly disturbing to me, and I am nervous looking at this picture, with many others around me at the show looking also. Lastly I see Robert in close up, holding a cane adorned with a skull at its tip. You see his hand, the cane’s skull, and his head. All the rest is black. He stares into the camera lens, and beyond. This is the last self portrait Robert would produce. Looking into the eyes of this brilliant artist, I am moved outside my comfort zone. I am grateful to be here, at the Whitney in NYC, to see these works. To be exposed to these ideas. I wonder at the world, art, Robert, AIDS, the NEA, Jesse Helms, and where it all is going to go. The future and my life before me, what is left?"

     I finished reading. Tears streaked down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes, and looked down into my lap. Stunned, shell shocked. I felt like I just had an earthquake inside.The class applauded my efforts, and our professor spoke of the power of the written word. How even when we are writing, at times we are ourselves unaware how deep into our subconscious we are accessing, and what results will play into the stories we share. He commended me on my willingness to finish, and the beauty of my choosing to do so.

     I realized on a profound level the impossibility of Mapplethorpe's work being obscene. The response I discovered I contained inside my artistic soul after seeing his beautiful show, The Perfect Moment, had silted down into me. It became a part of my being, as have so many other great artist's works I've seen and resonated with, even if unaware. What I had understood about his work was now a part of me, even though I had not ever articulated it, until that moment. And I had to read it aloud to a class for the discovery.

     This is the power of art.

     This is the beauty of an artist leaving something behind.

The LA Times writer Jori Finkel on October 19, 2012, articled questions wondering if the re-newed shows at LACMA and Getty will strike again the chords of controversy.

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/arts/culture/la-et-cm-robert-mapplethorpe-lacma-20121020,0,4121613.story?track=rss&utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter&dlvrit=175674

The current air we are living in seems not so unlike the ones breathed nearly 25 years ago. I like to imagine we have moved on. I would hope all could see in his works what I saw, and how they touched me so deeply all those years ago. They raised my consciousness; my understanding of myself and the world I find myself living in, and those I share it with, and still do.