This article taken from City Press:

Ed Young, a controversial artist, seems intent on making art out of racist offence and profanity, and of riling black people in particular. His recent exhibition of site-specific murals exhibited around New York and Miami in November last year was a case in point, it had the rather odious title: Niggers (sic) can’t be choosers. Young is white and so unsurprisingly his work has riled many an artist, critic and ordinary person.

Young burst onto the local art scene with an exhibition/concept entitled Bruce Gordon (Found Object) in which he auctioned off local art world personality Bruce Gordon (to Suzy Bell for a donation of R52 000, which went to the South African National Gallery).

The Welkom-born artist instantly became a bit of an uneasy media darling, displaying his work in myriad shows locally (at Bell-Roberts Gallery, he presented Asshole, a one-night exhibition which featured strippers serving Heineken and KFC) and internationally (VideoBrasil in Sáo Paolo, Threat Zones in Texas and, currently, Apoohcalypse Now at London’s Hayward Project Space).

Despite being obviously intelligent and charming (in spite of his almost forced attempt at being insolent and disaffected), this Michaelis School of Fine Art graduate’s work is opportunistic at best – he’s a trickster; a prankster who produces work without depth simply to get a rise out of the easily pleased or easily offended. The motivation for his modus operandi is the concept of persona-as-brand. But there are certain lines that anyone with an iota of self-respect (and respect for others) would think twice before crossing.

For the Miami leg of his exhibition, Young informs me, his title piece Niggers (sic) Can’t Be Choosers, a mural he was to have painted across different parts of either New York or Miami was not chosen. “For obvious reasons,” says Young, making it patently clear that he is fully aware of the potential for outcry this particular work has. Other pieces in the series include I’ll Be Black In Five Minutes and We Are All so Fucking African. The pieces and their overt racist tones are a testament to Young’s arrogance and ignorance in thinking that its cool for a white South African to use his position as an artist to blindly use terminology that has, for hundreds of years, been used to subjugate generations and in the process erode their pride and sense of self worth.

As author, professor and radio host Michael Eric Dyson states, while in conversation with one of America’s most renowned black intellectuals, Cornell West, on Never Forget: A Journey of Revelations, in which West combines hip-hop beats with intellectual dialogue: “There is a specific history and context of suffering and malevolence associated with this word [nigger], and you (as white people) cannot, by pretending, erase that history… The black psyche is so destroyed, so demoralised and degraded by the rapid proliferation of forces that are hurting us: white supremacy, economic inequality and social injustice … that [we are] not yet [at] the point in our culture where we can afford to surrender that word. I am not going to allow (the white community) the ultimate terminological privilege of naming me and fixing me with [their] narrow categories. True enough, we’re using the same term, but we’re not using it in the same way. We’re not giving it the same meaning and we’re not choosing to engage the history of suffering and oppression in the same way.”

When challenged on his motivation in using such loathsome racial epithets, Young’s argument is unconvincing at best. He claims that he’s simply commenting on the topicality of being African and Africanism. In furthering his argument, he asserts that that he too is ‘a nigger’ because he is also an African. The reductionism of this statement borders on the farcical. This flippancy exacerbates the offence.

Artistic frivolity aside, I can’t help wondering if Young would have the gall to recreate the work here, and call it K*ffirs Can’t Be Choosers . I’d like to see Young get away with tagging a wall in a local township with such racist invective. Although, another controversial figure, author Ronald Suresh Roberts donned a t-shirt bearing Young’s Niggers Can’t Be Choosers title at one of his book launches.

In a comment on the website artheat.co.za, a critic states that Young’s work is “like Reader’s Digest does Art Theory, or sad proof of deep self-delusion. Actually, it was the Emperor who was deluded, the crowd were merely too terrified to point out his grand craziness.”

Artistic irreverence is one thing, but, unless backed up by well-thought through, sincere and articulate motivation, this kind of cultural voyeurism by art practitioners such as Young is completely unacceptable. We, the proverbial ‘crowd’ should, for the sake of genuine dialogue, always expose Emperors guilty of the predatory opportunism displayed by artists like Young, who make artistic currency from exploiting the offensive and the profane.

I liked this article, not because I agree with everything that it says, on the contrary, I believe that artists making currency from the offensive and profane is vital. But it criticizes Ed on the content of his work rather than his medium of delivering it, something which much newspaper criticism has failed to do.

On the other hand, a newspaper, would hopefully have paid a little more respect to copyright, and not plagiarised almost directly from an article on Ed on Artthrob:

Ed Young burst onto the scene in 2002 when his work Bruce Gordon, curated by Andrew Lamprecht, hit the media headlines. Bruce Gordon, Jo'burg bar owner and local art world personality, was auctioned at a fund-raising event held by Michaelis as Bruce Gordon (Found Object [concept]). He was bought by Suzy Bell for R52 000 and subsequently donated to the South African National Gallery

Young burst onto the local art scene with an exhibition/concept entitled Bruce Gordon (Found Object) in which he auctioned off local art world personality Bruce Gordon (to Suzy Bell for a donation of R52 000, which went to the South African National Gallery).

Then again, who am I to nitpick.

(Please note: I am unable to edit the comments below, however, someone in the comment section has been using the name "Melvyn Minaar" falsely. These comments are not by him, and do not express his opinions in any way. Please in future respect the reputation and integrity of an individual. Love ArtHeat)

Labels: City Press, Ed Young

They say if you have pictures of dogs/cats/hedgehogs on your blog it helps with traffic. So I thought I'd show you all my dog Sickert. He likes red balls. I make him attack people by tying bacon to their knees.

They also say if you equate art and sport it makes the one as popular as the other. But we all know this isn't possible. Sport will never be as popular as art. Ever.

There was only one decent work on the recent show at the AVA (Ball Sports), and it's no secret it was my one.

But perusing through some of the other works that somehow made it onto the show, there were some gems. It reminds me that Kirsty Cockerill is doing a great job on that gallery, bringing in a lot of vital (as in the vitamin pills, not as in indispensable) art. Yay, well done. Now hire a painter cause the walls were filthy and I find that distracting. The show was, barring this flaw, nicely curated, with distinct themes coming through in all the different rooms. The first room was all about the body and, as it seems hard to separate it, sexuality. So we had Lawrence Lemoana's unsurprising but pleasant print, Zanele Muholi's itimate moment from the Gay World Cup soccer. There was a nice ball point drawing in there too, but I'm screwed if I can remember who it was. The second room focussed much more on the ball, but also it seemed the politics that are attached to it, so we had some uninspiring Fritha Langerman sculptures of balls with spikes, studs, glass, etc, a nicely oblique floor piece by Elgin Rust of the plans of a cathedral chalked on the floor, maybe slightly overstated by a large steel football in the middle. Stuart Bird presented framed Ten Rand notes stamped with a 2 and 0 to make each one say 2010. Cutely cynical. I was bit annoyed that the price of the work was R2010 and the edition 2010, pushing that cute to twee. I just hope he don't have to cut them all up. Ralph Borland's Jubilee, the exceedingly annoying vuvuzela piece, which I would really like if it didn't grate on my nerves. Playing along a thin line of celebration of death and life, destruction and creation and some other happy binaries, it's best seen from a distance. There was also a piece by Svea Josephy which was pleasant, but I'll reserve my comment because her solo is tomorrow at Bell-Roberts.

Upstairs was all the bits and pieces that didn't tie in. Ed Young finally got to show his verboten kiddy porn piece, The European Collector who Could Gaze Uninterruptedly, which is a very zoomed up video of some kiddies playing naked in a garden. With a ball, in case you didn't get the connection. Apparently he was sneaky in the way he got it onto the show... Also upstairs was Charles Maggs Fight, a rythmic and humourous video of two people fucking each other up. Lovely gratuitous violence.

The show was good, and lots of it interesting. And I'm glad too to see a curated group show, how I miss them. It reminded me why people rather watch soccer.

Labels: ava, ball sports, Charles Maggs, Ed Young, Elgin Rust, Lawrence Lemoana, Ralph Borland, stuart bird, svea josephy, Zanele Muholi

SMAC, apparently according to the mother of one it's employees, is street slang for heroin. Luckily, the gallery is easier to kick. I've been completely cold turkey since Ed Young, Ruth Sacks, Christian Nerf and Douglas Gimberg had their show there in March. Still, they are trying to be street smart in their dealing, this time by sending a bus to pick up impressionable minds not willing/able to drive all the way to Stellenbosch. I think it's a great initiative, especially for a gallery out in the sticks, and I was surprised that more people didn't take up the ride. The bus was a little empty, populated mostly by some old cronies from Michaelis, which led to a dramatic, wild and silly bus ride, which did my traditional Saturday morning hangover no good at all. At all.
Arriving at SMAC one is confronted by the contemporary collection, a mix of young and more established artists. There were some slightly boring paintings by Willie Bester. Stuart Bird (of Zuma Biscuits fame) put up a piece in which two heart shaped wooden plaques, one blue, one pink, were mounted on the wall. The blue one had a large fish hook attached to it, the pink had vagina shaped scratches and gouges in it. I'm not easily disturbed, but the piece has been hanging round in my mind since. Somehow, even in our saturated society, the confluence of sex and violence is still shocking. Svea Josephy exhibited a pair of photos from a series which left me dying to see more. It's a very simple premise, taking photos of cities with the same name, in this case Barcelona, Spain, and Barcelona, South Africa, but it really works, helped on by the beauty of the prints, the depth of detail and saturated colours. I really hope to see the whole series soon. I had a similar obsession about the twin cities Johannesburg, one in California and one in Gauteng, and I think in the comparisons you get to see the flipside of the dreams, colonial, capitalist, that make one city great and the other a failure.
The most horrifying piece on the show was a work by Ed Young. It was a print, quite nice, of white text on a black background. The wall behind it was also painted black. The text says, in Italian: You'd have to be fucking desperate to be on this crappy show. Not too horrifying? You're right. A normal Ed Young work, till I saw the 'fucking' in the title had been crossed out with permanent marker. I couldn't believe Ed would allow himself to be censored, it seems fundamentally against what I always felt his work was about: breaking down the values and bullshit of gallery-based culture. I checked the catalogue too, to find the same thing had happened there. I would like to at this point out the article recently appearing in Artthrob.co.za, written by Kendell Geers, in which he fumes about censorship. I know this is only one swear word, but it's a slippery slope.

I've always had a strained relationship with painting, we don't understand each other too good. But having a painter as a girlfriend, I've paid more attention, and we get along a bit better now. With this new mutual reconciliation I was quite looking forward to seeing Trasi Henen's show, the main feature at SMAC, called 'The Delicate Life Pursuer'. This is the first time she is showing in Cape Town after moving from Jo'burg. So although she has had quite a few solo's I'm pretty unfamiliar with her work besides seeing some shitty jpegs that didn't impress me too much. Judging, perhaps unfairly, from those jpegs this body of work is a bolder, and more impressive offering from her previous work, even though some pieces looked a little hasty. The paintings were big, using a lot of language borrowed it seemed from architecture. Cut away buildings, roof struts and walls were all layered, clustered and worked over, jumbling around the canvas. Using dark backgrounds, and shadowy layers, the pieces seemed to speak of an impending apocalyptic doom, where parallel lines no longer meet and the rules that keep us secure are upended. The most successful work was in the back room, where the painting mounted on the wall spread off the canvas into a huge mural behind, literally the forms exploded off the painting. This sort of thing can easily descend into kitsch, but it was pulled off with enough energy that it ever quite sank. The biggest problem was the title, which gave no clues. Apparently it came off the back of Trasi's microwave. Appropriate perhaps in origin: a world were words have lost their meaning. But it seemed too light to match the content of the work.

I can't say I'm hooked on SMAC yet, but as a young gallery they seem to have the right idea, supporting the artists they feature financially, something that is much needed.
The bus ride home, however, was worse than the one out, I'm still bearing the bruises.

Labels: Ed Young, smac, stuart bird, svea josephy, trasi henen

Live now in the ArtHeat ProjectSpace, a new work by Ed Young titled Ed Was Hairy. Check it out.

Labels: Ed Young

I think an image that'll stay with me for life is Ed Young, getting shouted by the curator's mother. The poor guy couldn't get a word in edgeways. But the fucker probably did deserve the berating.
So here's the story: Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz are planning a series of one-night events at Blank. They are undergraduate students, and I think this is amazing initiative.
Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz didn't do many of the things expected from a curator. Like organise press, design an appealing flyer and buy booze. And didn't communicate fully with either the artist or gallerist. Not as amazing. Especially if you are using an artist's name such as Ed Young to bring attention to your project.

10:30 am. Ed Young gets irritated, and decides to not pitch up to the show. He turns off his phone.

5:25 pm. Robert Sloon gets a call from Jonathan Garnham (the gallerist), asking if he had seen Ed. Robert tells Jonathan he just left him at the Kimberly Hotel.

6:00 pm. Jonathan arrives at the bar, with rope. They drink beer. Ed Young is tied up. Ed is physically removed, and dragged into a car.

7:30 pm. Robert Sloon arrives to the exhibition to see general chaos. Carrie's mum is yelling at Ed. A surprising amount of people are milling around drinking beer and wine. Jonathan has stuck up the bill from the bar on the wall, so there is at least something to look at.

8:00 pm. The surrogate art work is burned.

8:30 pm. The thinning, but rowdy crowd trashes the gallery. Broken glass litters the floor. Wine stains the walls. Robert Sloon goes home to play with cat.

What more can be said?
Crap Show. Funny Story.

Labels: Blank, Carrie Timlin, Ed Young, Lily Luz, review

Labels: Ed Young

The Art of Failure
A project by Sabine Schaschl and Claudia Spinelli

States of emotional overdrive are a fertile breeding ground for art. Whether it is unrequited love, despair over one’s own shortcomings, an ideology in disarray, political standstill, or the inability to comprehend what is going on, culminating in an existential crisis—ever since Samuel Beckett, failure has been a facet inextricably linked with artistic production. Certainty has been supplanted by ambivalence, finality has given way to experimentation and transitoriness, and answers recede as questions wash ashore. Thus, the works created by many artists having this mindset are imbued with a sense of permanent search. The latter will never be over; on the contrary: in these artworks emphasis is placed on one’s own failure and that of others.

Failure is a trivial everyday phenomenon but has also gained political currency. With the demise of socialist utopias and the upheavals in the former Eastern Bloc, failure was invested with an additional dimension almost 20 years ago that has left an indelible imprint on the artistic production of an entire generation. What is the best way to handle the dismantling of societies and the erosion of values upheld by them? How can new ideals and objectives be formulated and further developed? There is no evidence at all suggesting the existence of an emerging and universally valid world order.

Since the end of modernity and the loss of absolute ideals, artists have been increasingly called upon to respond to ongoing social changes and the concomitant sense of insecurity. As an artist, how can you hold your own in a context of incessant questioning and criticizing? The artistic contributions on display in “The Art of Failure” are statements brimming with ambivalence and irony. Creating something provisional, non-finite, ambiguous, but at the same time profoundly serious is a good method to turn failure into a compelling act, and perplexity into art.

The exhibition “The Art of Failure” explores a vast field, encompassing the banality of everyday life, politics, and existential ideologies. To put it differently, it is intriguingly positioned at the interface between art and life.

Labels: Ed Young, listings