I followed by a
forty-year-and-counting campaign for the hearts and minds of the largest
possible audience. Perceptions of him evolved quickly, from the Oedipal assassin of his
Jasper Johns, Cy Twombly, and Andy Warhol have been much more frequently
invoked in the mantras conceptualizing subsequent generations of artists, which
is understandable given how manic and promiscuous Rauschenberg has been with
his gifts. The reciprocal influences and dialectics connecting him with Johns
and Twombly are well known, but the latter pair have
been far more withholding of their favors, and the collective heart has grown
fonder as a result. Meanwhile, Rauschenberg’s high profile, if not his
practice, certainly made a big impression on Warhol. The two of them are the
most compulsively prolific artists of recent times who haven’t lived in
transient hotels or mental hospitals. Yet Warhol stayed more on message, and
while there seems to be an exhibition of his work on view at any time somewhere
on the planet with no apparent damage to his aura, the volume of Rauschenberg’s
output appears to have diluted its intensity. The Guggenheim’s disappointing
1997 retrospective reinforced this notion with its illusionary sprawl.
Rauschenberg’s work benefits from consideration of specific series, and the
Metropolitan Museum’s exhibition of the Combines provides the first such
treatment since the Whitney’s revelatory, if weirdly underappreciated, “Silkscreen
Paintings, 1962-64” of 1990 Now we can revisit the period of his greatest
influence and deepest trailblazing, while also glimpsing within his artistic
DNA the hyperactivity that would later have such
confusing repercussions.
One often hears the art of
an earlier period praised for looking like it was “made yesterday,” but on
entering the show at the Met another thought came unbidden: These things look
like they were made a long time ago. To walk through the exhibition is to
travel down a collective memory lane to a time of enormous change in both art
and the culture at large. Rauschenberg made the first Combines not long after
the beginning of television, when the imagination of the art world was still
very much in the thrall of the
Rauschenberg’s general
approach in the Combines-the composting of fabric, pictures, and objects of
private and common interest into a fertile mulch of dense pictorialism--was
neither unprecedented nor wholly unique. Precursors can be found in several
collage episodes of earlier modernism as well as in nineteenth- century
American trompe l’oeil painting, just as there were affinities with con-
Robert Rauschenberg’s
career took off with a chapter of shock and awe temporary developments in
Yet while much was made at
the time and since of the Combines’ hostility to painting and their
implications for practices external to it, seeing a quorum of them at the Met
makes it clear that they were much more significant as a way for painting to
have expanded and survived. They roamed freely but did not really leave a
territory of flat rectilinearity in their
construction, which was often manifest as a stretched canvas or panel with
prosthetic extensions, or in jerry- built contraptions alluding to shelves,
cabinets, windows, or fragments of wall. Rauschenberg’s baseline relationship
to planarity is paradoxically most evident in the freestanding Combines,
notably Odalisk, 1955/58, Untitled, ca. 1955, or Monogram,
any of which could be seen either as paintings trying to be sculptures or as
sculptures trying to be paintings. While they require a shifting and rotating
point of view to be wholly perceived, they unfold in space largely as
sequential pictorial episodes.
It is frustrating and
perhaps not desirable to deal with these objects as ready sites for
iconographic decoding, the usefulness of which has been extensively debated in
the literature on the artist. The Combines are the most nonverbal form of
communication imaginable while being replete with nameable things. The works
come fully loaded with topical, historical, and no doubt personal references
that can seem to invite narrative connections, but as in dreams, no single
reading can hold final authority. It is much more rewarding to bask in their
multi-bandwidth emanations. The trivial and philosophical, the refined and the
insensitive, the intimate and the banally public all coexist in the clutter of
their surfaces.
As attempts to transcend
normal notions of selfhood, the Combines explore deeply the defining conditions
of personality. They are the products of a solitary and somewhat isolated
consciousness working improvisationally with the matter and emotions directly
at hand, a projection of Rauschenberg’s mind and body onto the intimate and
alienated world of the studio. In a sense they are all one thing, the aftermath
left by the sensitive and acquisitive tidal wave of the artist’s awareness as
it crashed into reality and then receded. This force of nature had certain tics
and dispositions that define the “style” of the Combines and determine some
thematic threads. The approach to composition is grid- based, like the physical
structures, and relates more to late Hans Hoffman than to the frequently
mentioned de Kooning. But Rauschenberg’s “push-pull,” unlike Hoffman’s, was an
attempt to include all levels of the inner and outer life within the “gestures”
of the works, expanding that term to an almost universal category.
Rauschenberg clearly loved
including taxidermied animals and fragments of clothing in these constructions,
both of which possess a history with literal connections to biological
processes and the rhythms of daily reality. The paint-spattered hat at the
corner of the bleak no-place of Interior, the necktie crushed into the surface
of the crudely authoritative Wager,
1957-59, or the sock drifting in the emotional crash zone of Untitled all
impart to these paintings the afterglow of lived life. One doesn’t necessarily
know where the oftmentioned “gap between art and life” is located but it can’t
be far from the dead bald eagle preparing to hightail it out of the painterly
abyss of Canyon, 1959.
The feathered denizens of
works as diverse as Satellite and Inlet, 1959, inflect the Combines with
strange back stories as well as reverberations of literal death. To see a dead
animal inhabiting a painting triggers unprecedentedly
complex angles of exegetical contemplation, touching on animal husbandry,
individual and group extinction, and the question of the boundary between
culture and nature.
There is a powerful halo of
scatology around the Combines that is most apparent early on, becoming
progressively repressed and redirected with time.
The early examples are very
“dirty” and the later ones relatively “clean.” During the time he made
Collection and related paintings, the impecunious artist was acquiring
remaindered cans of commercial paint with illegible labels. The resultant
randomness of the colors merges with the undirected, almost simian quality of
the painted passages to create an effect of truly shifty aggression at the
service of no descriptive or gestural agenda. The
frequently applied label of “Abstract Expressionist.” to describe these ersatz
fecal smears misses the point rather widely. The anal libido is channeled in
strange tragicomic directions.
Although much has been made
of the painted and scribbled violation of Bed,
1955, Rauschenberg rarely encountered a dead bird (or goat) whose face he didn’t
want to decorate with dribbles and dabs of viscous paint, in gestures that feel
simultaneously tender and insulting toward their recipients. Monogram includes passages of this sort
as well as a nasty tennis ball that sits behind the goat as if it had emerged
quite recently from the animal’s ass. Although this work has often been read as
a parable of sex, the forlorn, tire-encircled goat stranded in the middle of a
messy brown panel also suggests embarrassment not unlike that of a dog whose
house-training has lapsed. Sexual content in the Combines is a matter of
interpretation, present obliquely or as metaphor, but the scatological is often
explicit subject matter. The palette of certain works is a dirty mix of black
and brown, and two in particular bring this chromatic shit storm across the
threshold of sublimation into direct awareness with their physical elements. Talisman, 1958, has a small aperture
within which hangs a mason jar containing what looks for all
the world like a bowel movement. Kickback,
1959, has embedded in its field of smeared paint part of a pair of filthy
trousers that might be evidence of a total loss of sphincter control, a
collapse of the most basic boundaries of the individual.
In our present situation,
as we bury ourselves in garbage and slide toward irreversible climate change,
any residual glibness one sees in the Combines is replaced by a creepy sense of
prescience and a feeling that they might be analogous to both journalism and
poetry. Almost all of them were made during the Eisenhower administration, when
the consensus view of the
Porter went on to say that “Rauschenberg’s
work has more personality than anything like it. Its weakness is that it tends
to approach the chic.” This is a sharp observation to have been made years
before elegance and good taste in art came to be defined by the likes of
Twombly or Warhol, especially so coming from another artist who was basically
sympathetic to what Rauschenberg was up to. (More reactionary observers also
accused Rauschenberg of being light- weight and merely fashionable but these
impressions can be dismissed in hindsight as the obligatory sour grapes built
into the basic plotting of avant-gardism.) One feels that Porter was
identifying a big problem in its incipient form. What’s clear is that whatever
problem Rauschenberg’s superficial side may have become for the rest of us, it
wasn’t too much of a problem for him. Once he figured out the general approach
of the Combines, he made a lot of them, and a complicated by-product of this
exhibition’s exhaustiveness is the confrontation with his reliance on pure
style to achieve coherence in many of these works. The jarring specificity and
sense of adventure of the great Combines is not mitigated by but must be
understood in contrast with the insouciant artiness of many of the smaller
works and the discomfiting sense that the entire enterprise could coalesce into
one big dandified haze. Yet it was necessary for Rauschenberg to do all of this
in order to do any of it, and ultimately one person’s masterpiece might well be
another person’s provocative mess. The slightly embarrassing feeling of
scattered attention, of someone working too hard, all too evident in the
Guggenheim retrospective, is really the flip side of the unwillingness to
self-censor and the defiance of any normative sense of the appropriate that
allowed Rauschenberg to self-actualize. However vexing the problem of
understanding his entire contribution may remain, the Combines merged the energies
of their maker and their moment into mirrors reflecting the collective and
windows onto exotic inner precincts, and their reverberations will be with us
for a long time.
CARROLL DUNHAM IS A NEW
YORK-BASED ARTISTE.