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The Demented Imagineer The Demented Imagineer
(3 days later)
“Now, I see this as pantsless,” the artist Paul McCarthy announced one winter morning to a group of male actors standing at the edge of a massive soundstage in a warehouse east of downtown Los Angeles, flanked by a plumbing supply and an auto impound yard. Normally, McCarthy looks like a hipster carpenter, broad and bandylegged, with gnarled fingers and wiry white hair poking out around his baseball cap. But this morning he was nearly unrecognizable in a tuxedo and gray toupee, a regal prosthetic nose glued over a neatly trimmed mustache.“Now, I see this as pantsless,” the artist Paul McCarthy announced one winter morning to a group of male actors standing at the edge of a massive soundstage in a warehouse east of downtown Los Angeles, flanked by a plumbing supply and an auto impound yard. Normally, McCarthy looks like a hipster carpenter, broad and bandylegged, with gnarled fingers and wiry white hair poking out around his baseball cap. But this morning he was nearly unrecognizable in a tuxedo and gray toupee, a regal prosthetic nose glued over a neatly trimmed mustache.
The transformation was startling not only because McCarthy, 67, had succeeded in making himself look quite a bit like Walt Disney, but also because his version of Walt smacked — obviously but also hilariously — of Hitler. He shook my hand, and I asked how he was.The transformation was startling not only because McCarthy, 67, had succeeded in making himself look quite a bit like Walt Disney, but also because his version of Walt smacked — obviously but also hilariously — of Hitler. He shook my hand, and I asked how he was.
“Pretty exhausted,“ he said. “I picked a fight with Grumpy yesterday, and it got a little out of hand.” He sank back into a chair, nursing a badly bruised elbow.“Pretty exhausted,“ he said. “I picked a fight with Grumpy yesterday, and it got a little out of hand.” He sank back into a chair, nursing a badly bruised elbow.
Today’s filming would be much less crazy, he announced. “It’s just going to be a light day, a music day.” But before long, McCarthy as Disney — or Walt Paul, as he called his amalgamated character — was rampaging alongside an actress dressed as Snow White and the male actors done up like scrofulous-looking dwarves, to the din of a kitchen pot that Dopey pummeled into a metallic lump. The cacophony built toward pantslessness, and within minutes McCarthy and the dwarves were dancing a conga line, tights and trousers around their ankles, penises flapping in the air like pompoms. McCarthy’s son, Damon, holding a high-end video camera, brought the scene to a close and seemed satisfied. He walked past me, grinning: “Just another day at the office.” And everyone took five.Today’s filming would be much less crazy, he announced. “It’s just going to be a light day, a music day.” But before long, McCarthy as Disney — or Walt Paul, as he called his amalgamated character — was rampaging alongside an actress dressed as Snow White and the male actors done up like scrofulous-looking dwarves, to the din of a kitchen pot that Dopey pummeled into a metallic lump. The cacophony built toward pantslessness, and within minutes McCarthy and the dwarves were dancing a conga line, tights and trousers around their ankles, penises flapping in the air like pompoms. McCarthy’s son, Damon, holding a high-end video camera, brought the scene to a close and seemed satisfied. He walked past me, grinning: “Just another day at the office.” And everyone took five.
The Snow White project, which will make its debut at the Park Avenue Armory in New York on June 19, is — even for an artist whose subject is outsize spectacle — a monster. It necessitated the creation of an 8,800-square-foot artificial forest, filled with glowering brown plastic-foam trees whose branches undulate more than 20 feet into the air, concealing in their midst what enchanted forests often do: a cottage. This one, however, owed nothing to the Brothers Grimm or Gustave Doré or Disney. It was a faithful replica of the canary yellow ranch house in Salt Lake City where McCarthy himself was raised, the son of a liberal Mormon homemaker and a grocery-store butcher. In its evocation of childhood set amid a kind of pop catastrophe, the project is quintessential McCarthy. For four decades, his version of American Gothic has been so perverse and outrageous, bloody and scatological, that it remains disturbing for even art-world initiates.The Snow White project, which will make its debut at the Park Avenue Armory in New York on June 19, is — even for an artist whose subject is outsize spectacle — a monster. It necessitated the creation of an 8,800-square-foot artificial forest, filled with glowering brown plastic-foam trees whose branches undulate more than 20 feet into the air, concealing in their midst what enchanted forests often do: a cottage. This one, however, owed nothing to the Brothers Grimm or Gustave Doré or Disney. It was a faithful replica of the canary yellow ranch house in Salt Lake City where McCarthy himself was raised, the son of a liberal Mormon homemaker and a grocery-store butcher. In its evocation of childhood set amid a kind of pop catastrophe, the project is quintessential McCarthy. For four decades, his version of American Gothic has been so perverse and outrageous, bloody and scatological, that it remains disturbing for even art-world initiates.
When I first visited the set in its early stages last November, McCarthy had placed a conference table at the forest’s edge, so that he could convene meetings while looking at the work, the way a painter spends time with a canvas, except on an environmental scale. (The space is so large that whenever a landline call comes in for McCarthy, a loudspeaker rings out: “Call for Paul! Call for Paul!”) At that moment, he was struggling with how to complicate the set. “It needs abstracting. . . . I need a lot more time to screw it up,” he said, using a much more descriptive verb.When I first visited the set in its early stages last November, McCarthy had placed a conference table at the forest’s edge, so that he could convene meetings while looking at the work, the way a painter spends time with a canvas, except on an environmental scale. (The space is so large that whenever a landline call comes in for McCarthy, a loudspeaker rings out: “Call for Paul! Call for Paul!”) At that moment, he was struggling with how to complicate the set. “It needs abstracting. . . . I need a lot more time to screw it up,” he said, using a much more descriptive verb.
This entire colossus, forest and house sets — which McCarthy calls “WS,” for “White Snow” — would soon be packed into dozens of tractor-trailers headed for New York, where the Park Avenue Armory has prepared the ground for anyone expecting a bedtime story. “This exhibition contains content that visitors may find challenging and unsuitable for children,” its Web site warns. The forest, paired with projections of the kind of footage I’d watched him shooting, will be the largest single work McCarthy has ever presented in America, and certainly the most important show he has ever had in New York, where he was long regarded as a West Coast cult phenomenon. (McCarthy didn’t sell his first substantial piece until he was 45.) To coincide with the Armory exhibition, his gallery, Hauser & Wirth, will host four separate Manhattan exhibitions.This entire colossus, forest and house sets — which McCarthy calls “WS,” for “White Snow” — would soon be packed into dozens of tractor-trailers headed for New York, where the Park Avenue Armory has prepared the ground for anyone expecting a bedtime story. “This exhibition contains content that visitors may find challenging and unsuitable for children,” its Web site warns. The forest, paired with projections of the kind of footage I’d watched him shooting, will be the largest single work McCarthy has ever presented in America, and certainly the most important show he has ever had in New York, where he was long regarded as a West Coast cult phenomenon. (McCarthy didn’t sell his first substantial piece until he was 45.) To coincide with the Armory exhibition, his gallery, Hauser & Wirth, will host four separate Manhattan exhibitions.
McCarthy views “WS” very much as a work in progress. Once the New York show is over, he intends to repatriate it to Los Angeles, where it can grow and mutate, possibly for years. And yet the forest is not even the most complex work he has planned. He recently bought a thousand acres of rolling scrubland north of Los Angeles to construct an Old West town for a series of demented westerns he envisions filming, another milepost on what amounts to the creation of his own B-movie studio.McCarthy views “WS” very much as a work in progress. Once the New York show is over, he intends to repatriate it to Los Angeles, where it can grow and mutate, possibly for years. And yet the forest is not even the most complex work he has planned. He recently bought a thousand acres of rolling scrubland north of Los Angeles to construct an Old West town for a series of demented westerns he envisions filming, another milepost on what amounts to the creation of his own B-movie studio.
As he hurtles ahead with these multimillion-dollar projects, many of them so unwieldy that their prospects of making it into collections or institutions are uncertain at best, McCarthy has set out on a path more ambitious than almost any American artist now working, one not even he is sure he can follow. “It’s necessary to do what I have to do, and I see the art world the same way,” he told me, sitting at the big conference table with the artificial trees looming over us. “I could retreat. I could do it another way, maybe. But obviously I’m not going to turn it around at this point. I’m only digging myself deeper.”As he hurtles ahead with these multimillion-dollar projects, many of them so unwieldy that their prospects of making it into collections or institutions are uncertain at best, McCarthy has set out on a path more ambitious than almost any American artist now working, one not even he is sure he can follow. “It’s necessary to do what I have to do, and I see the art world the same way,” he told me, sitting at the big conference table with the artificial trees looming over us. “I could retreat. I could do it another way, maybe. But obviously I’m not going to turn it around at this point. I’m only digging myself deeper.”
Paul Schimmel, the former chief curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles and a longtime McCarthy supporter, told me: “The thing about Paul — and it comes partly from so many years of lack of success — is that he is willing to bet absolutely everything, put the entire pot on the table and double down and say, ‘I’m going to push this to the brink.’ The potential for massive failure — financially, intellectually — is always there, and now it’s as big as it’s ever been. I think that kind of risk is what keeps him pure.”Paul Schimmel, the former chief curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles and a longtime McCarthy supporter, told me: “The thing about Paul — and it comes partly from so many years of lack of success — is that he is willing to bet absolutely everything, put the entire pot on the table and double down and say, ‘I’m going to push this to the brink.’ The potential for massive failure — financially, intellectually — is always there, and now it’s as big as it’s ever been. I think that kind of risk is what keeps him pure.”
For an artist whose work is still underrepresented in public collections because it makes many museum officials squirm, McCarthy lives a life of remarkable domesticity. He and his wife, Karen, an ebullient fellow Utahan, have been married for 46 years and are rarely apart. In the 1980s, when McCarthy had no money and worked in construction, they built the modest wood-frame house where they still live; he designed it so that none of the roof beams weighed too much for him and Karen to hoist alone.For an artist whose work is still underrepresented in public collections because it makes many museum officials squirm, McCarthy lives a life of remarkable domesticity. He and his wife, Karen, an ebullient fellow Utahan, have been married for 46 years and are rarely apart. In the 1980s, when McCarthy had no money and worked in construction, they built the modest wood-frame house where they still live; he designed it so that none of the roof beams weighed too much for him and Karen to hoist alone.
The house, near Pasadena, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, is cluttered and usually full of art people, grandchildren and dogs. When I visited, there was a pet turtle in the back and a treadmill in the living room. It could have been home to a couple of English professors, except that just off the living room, in a small studio, there hangs a prominent picture of a bare-bottomed mannequin excreting a sausage into a bowl, a still from a 1992 film reimagining the Swiss classic “Heidi” that McCarthy made with his fellow Los Angeles artist Mike Kelley.The house, near Pasadena, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, is cluttered and usually full of art people, grandchildren and dogs. When I visited, there was a pet turtle in the back and a treadmill in the living room. It could have been home to a couple of English professors, except that just off the living room, in a small studio, there hangs a prominent picture of a bare-bottomed mannequin excreting a sausage into a bowl, a still from a 1992 film reimagining the Swiss classic “Heidi” that McCarthy made with his fellow Los Angeles artist Mike Kelley.
The McCarthys run the studio as a family business, mulling over personnel issues in the mornings on their back deck (the studio sometimes employs more than 40 people full and part time). Damon, 39, who is his father’s chief collaborator, lives nearby, as does the McCarthys’ daughter, Mara, 34, who runs a highly regarded downtown gallery, the Box, where she often shows the work of underrated artists from her parents’ generation. “I basically knew my dad as a guy who worked in construction, and the art part was just something that was around,” Mara said of a fairly normal middle-class Los Angeles childhood that included high-school baseball for Damon and gymnastics for her.The McCarthys run the studio as a family business, mulling over personnel issues in the mornings on their back deck (the studio sometimes employs more than 40 people full and part time). Damon, 39, who is his father’s chief collaborator, lives nearby, as does the McCarthys’ daughter, Mara, 34, who runs a highly regarded downtown gallery, the Box, where she often shows the work of underrated artists from her parents’ generation. “I basically knew my dad as a guy who worked in construction, and the art part was just something that was around,” Mara said of a fairly normal middle-class Los Angeles childhood that included high-school baseball for Damon and gymnastics for her.
The McCarthys fly in a better class than they used to, but otherwise their life shows few traces of the financial success that, in recent years, has put McCarthy in the same rarefied realm as artists like Jeff Koons, Cindy Sherman and Richard Prince. His sculptures — cartoon figures, uncanny McCarthy avatars, supersize inflatable feces — can sell for more than a million dollars apiece. In 2011, one — a toylike character topped with a huge tomato head with holes for inserting eyes, ears and genitalia — went for $4.5 million at Christie’s, setting an auction record for his work. “I never really think about the money,” McCarthy told me over sandwiches one afternoon at the house. “I just think about the next piece and about how we’ll do it and how much it will be. And sometimes I think, Wow, that’s a lot. And sometimes we have it, and sometimes we don’t.”The McCarthys fly in a better class than they used to, but otherwise their life shows few traces of the financial success that, in recent years, has put McCarthy in the same rarefied realm as artists like Jeff Koons, Cindy Sherman and Richard Prince. His sculptures — cartoon figures, uncanny McCarthy avatars, supersize inflatable feces — can sell for more than a million dollars apiece. In 2011, one — a toylike character topped with a huge tomato head with holes for inserting eyes, ears and genitalia — went for $4.5 million at Christie’s, setting an auction record for his work. “I never really think about the money,” McCarthy told me over sandwiches one afternoon at the house. “I just think about the next piece and about how we’ll do it and how much it will be. And sometimes I think, Wow, that’s a lot. And sometimes we have it, and sometimes we don’t.”
In addition to the large studio east of downtown, there is a 20,000-square-foot space, in the Baldwin Park neighborhood, dedicated to sculptural casting and to eerie animatronic pieces that have been a staple of McCarthy’s work, made by some of the most-sought-after special-effects artists and sculptors in Hollywood. (One sculptor left Disney last year and then went to work for McCarthy.) Over the last several months, negotiations were completed for yet another warehouse, a 150,000-square-foot behemoth near downtown that will allow him to consolidate storage and give him an even larger soundstage environment.In addition to the large studio east of downtown, there is a 20,000-square-foot space, in the Baldwin Park neighborhood, dedicated to sculptural casting and to eerie animatronic pieces that have been a staple of McCarthy’s work, made by some of the most-sought-after special-effects artists and sculptors in Hollywood. (One sculptor left Disney last year and then went to work for McCarthy.) Over the last several months, negotiations were completed for yet another warehouse, a 150,000-square-foot behemoth near downtown that will allow him to consolidate storage and give him an even larger soundstage environment.
McCarthy presides over this mushrooming enterprise as a generally benevolent but tireless sort of director-producer, constantly in motion, addressing everyone, man and woman alike, as “dude.” Much of his time is spent shuttling between his various locations in a white Subaru hatchback, which meant that many of our deepest conversations took place along the 210 Freeway or else at a sausage-and-beer joint near his daughter’s gallery, where he and Karen like to go. Sitting there, listening to him describe becoming what amounts to the George Lucas of his own maniacal Industrial Light and Magic, I constantly found myself looking at the happy-seeming people around us and thinking: If you only knew what comes out of this man’s mind.McCarthy presides over this mushrooming enterprise as a generally benevolent but tireless sort of director-producer, constantly in motion, addressing everyone, man and woman alike, as “dude.” Much of his time is spent shuttling between his various locations in a white Subaru hatchback, which meant that many of our deepest conversations took place along the 210 Freeway or else at a sausage-and-beer joint near his daughter’s gallery, where he and Karen like to go. Sitting there, listening to him describe becoming what amounts to the George Lucas of his own maniacal Industrial Light and Magic, I constantly found myself looking at the happy-seeming people around us and thinking: If you only knew what comes out of this man’s mind.
McCarthy came of age as minimalism was blurring into the performance-heavy world of conceptual art. But even under conceptualism’s cool spell, his early pieces were hard-core. “When I first came to Los Angeles, I had this idea where I drew a line straight across a big map of the city and then tried to walk it,” he recalls. “But it meant you had to go through people’s backyards and over roofs and walk long diagonals across busy freeways. There was no way to do it without getting killed.” While still an art student at the University of Utah, he executed a homage to Yves Klein’s famous 1960 “Leap Into the Void,” a doctored photograph showing Klein doing a swan dive to the pavement from a roof ledge in a Paris suburb. But McCarthy had only read about the photograph and had no idea it was faked. He threw himself feet first out of a second-floor window and somehow avoided breaking his ankles.McCarthy came of age as minimalism was blurring into the performance-heavy world of conceptual art. But even under conceptualism’s cool spell, his early pieces were hard-core. “When I first came to Los Angeles, I had this idea where I drew a line straight across a big map of the city and then tried to walk it,” he recalls. “But it meant you had to go through people’s backyards and over roofs and walk long diagonals across busy freeways. There was no way to do it without getting killed.” While still an art student at the University of Utah, he executed a homage to Yves Klein’s famous 1960 “Leap Into the Void,” a doctored photograph showing Klein doing a swan dive to the pavement from a roof ledge in a Paris suburb. But McCarthy had only read about the photograph and had no idea it was faked. He threw himself feet first out of a second-floor window and somehow avoided breaking his ankles.
His Salt Lake City childhood was a fettered, anxious 1950s-suburban one. He was dyslexic, which made school traumatic: “I just remember being afraid all the time.” But the condition revealed to him early on that he experienced words and images differently from everyone else. “For me, each part of a conversation,” he says, “always had a position in space.”His Salt Lake City childhood was a fettered, anxious 1950s-suburban one. He was dyslexic, which made school traumatic: “I just remember being afraid all the time.” But the condition revealed to him early on that he experienced words and images differently from everyone else. “For me, each part of a conversation,” he says, “always had a position in space.”
In the late 1960s, he settled in San Francisco, but Los Angeles always seemed the inevitable destination. “It was like L.A. chose me,” he says. First, he and Karen lived in Echo Park, and McCarthy worked in derelict downtown spaces. Then they moved to Pasadena, whose empty storefronts became an unlikely hotbed of art in the early 1970s, home to Bruce Nauman and Allan Kaprow, whose participatory, evanescent “happenings” (he once built a wall near the Berlin Wall with bread and jelly as mortar) were deeply influential for McCarthy.In the late 1960s, he settled in San Francisco, but Los Angeles always seemed the inevitable destination. “It was like L.A. chose me,” he says. First, he and Karen lived in Echo Park, and McCarthy worked in derelict downtown spaces. Then they moved to Pasadena, whose empty storefronts became an unlikely hotbed of art in the early 1970s, home to Bruce Nauman and Allan Kaprow, whose participatory, evanescent “happenings” (he once built a wall near the Berlin Wall with bread and jelly as mortar) were deeply influential for McCarthy.
Over the last half-century, some of the most acidic and genuinely terrifying American artwork has emerged from the sun-splashed studios of Los Angeles — Ed Kienholz’s “Five Car Stud,” a sculptural tableau of six white men castrating a black man; Chris Burden’s performances in which he wriggled across a parking lot spread with broken glass and had himself shot in the arm with a .22-caliber rifle; Nauman’s videos of clowns being “tortured.” (“Like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat,” Nauman said of the intended effect. “Or better, like getting hit in the back of the neck. You never see it coming.”)Over the last half-century, some of the most acidic and genuinely terrifying American artwork has emerged from the sun-splashed studios of Los Angeles — Ed Kienholz’s “Five Car Stud,” a sculptural tableau of six white men castrating a black man; Chris Burden’s performances in which he wriggled across a parking lot spread with broken glass and had himself shot in the arm with a .22-caliber rifle; Nauman’s videos of clowns being “tortured.” (“Like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat,” Nauman said of the intended effect. “Or better, like getting hit in the back of the neck. You never see it coming.”)
McCarthy’s early work was primarily performance and about as close as an American came to the extremes of the Viennese Actionists, artists whose notorious works in the 1960s sometimes involved real blood and real criminality — enough to land them in jail. In 1976, before a classroom of students at the University of California, San Diego, McCarthy performed “Class Fool,” a shamanistic, quasi-sexual ritual with plastic dolls, in which he crawled around naked and smeared with ketchup, retching at the conclusion. “Early on,” he says, “it was about understanding something about the absurdity of normality in the face of everyday existence. It was about trying to make work that grinds into something.”McCarthy’s early work was primarily performance and about as close as an American came to the extremes of the Viennese Actionists, artists whose notorious works in the 1960s sometimes involved real blood and real criminality — enough to land them in jail. In 1976, before a classroom of students at the University of California, San Diego, McCarthy performed “Class Fool,” a shamanistic, quasi-sexual ritual with plastic dolls, in which he crawled around naked and smeared with ketchup, retching at the conclusion. “Early on,” he says, “it was about understanding something about the absurdity of normality in the face of everyday existence. It was about trying to make work that grinds into something.”
As the performances developed, they became more overtly comical, though rarely any easier to watch. “It’s a little bit like eating meat,” Burden, a longtime friend of McCarthy’s, told me about his work. “I mean, I love meat. But I’m not sure that I want to go to the slaughter yard. And that’s where Paul takes you.” (The analogy is apt in more ways than one. In McCarthy’s world, consumer foodstuffs, sometimes rotted — hot dogs, ketchup, mayonnaise, hamburger meat, chocolate — are like paint and plaster.)As the performances developed, they became more overtly comical, though rarely any easier to watch. “It’s a little bit like eating meat,” Burden, a longtime friend of McCarthy’s, told me about his work. “I mean, I love meat. But I’m not sure that I want to go to the slaughter yard. And that’s where Paul takes you.” (The analogy is apt in more ways than one. In McCarthy’s world, consumer foodstuffs, sometimes rotted — hot dogs, ketchup, mayonnaise, hamburger meat, chocolate — are like paint and plaster.)
In what he calls not films but “performance videos,” he began to wear masks and take on personas — cartoon characters like Olive Oyl and Pinocchio. Increasingly, the personas became those of patriarchal types — a ship’s captain, Santa Claus, Willem de Kooning. McCarthy says that he doesn’t have any inherent interest in fairy tales or childhood stories but that, like westerns, they provide him with simple, archetypal, often moralizing stories — of family, society, good and evil. In some ways, Walt Disney seems to be the figure he has been practicing to eviscerate his whole life.In what he calls not films but “performance videos,” he began to wear masks and take on personas — cartoon characters like Olive Oyl and Pinocchio. Increasingly, the personas became those of patriarchal types — a ship’s captain, Santa Claus, Willem de Kooning. McCarthy says that he doesn’t have any inherent interest in fairy tales or childhood stories but that, like westerns, they provide him with simple, archetypal, often moralizing stories — of family, society, good and evil. In some ways, Walt Disney seems to be the figure he has been practicing to eviscerate his whole life.
To anyone who thinks of contemporary art as a confrontational, profane, puerile, nihilistic, body-obsessed in-joke, McCarthy provides a near-perfect example of all that has gone wrong since the ’60s. His work can — and does — provoke physical revulsion. But it is not mere provocation; it’s intended as an all-out assault, a “program of resistance,” as he calls it. And the older he gets, the more explicit he has become that his target is the American entertainment-consumer economy. “I can see much more clearly now that we are living in the middle of this kind of insanity,” he told me, “and it runs itself. And the really scary thing is that we’re not conscious of it anymore. It’s a kind of fascism. The end goal of this kind of capitalism is to erase difference, to eradicate cultures, to turn us all into a form of cyborg, people who all want the same thing.” This may be true, but even if you agree, you still have the sneaking feeling that the perversity is so abundant simply because it lights him up; it’s his métier.To anyone who thinks of contemporary art as a confrontational, profane, puerile, nihilistic, body-obsessed in-joke, McCarthy provides a near-perfect example of all that has gone wrong since the ’60s. His work can — and does — provoke physical revulsion. But it is not mere provocation; it’s intended as an all-out assault, a “program of resistance,” as he calls it. And the older he gets, the more explicit he has become that his target is the American entertainment-consumer economy. “I can see much more clearly now that we are living in the middle of this kind of insanity,” he told me, “and it runs itself. And the really scary thing is that we’re not conscious of it anymore. It’s a kind of fascism. The end goal of this kind of capitalism is to erase difference, to eradicate cultures, to turn us all into a form of cyborg, people who all want the same thing.” This may be true, but even if you agree, you still have the sneaking feeling that the perversity is so abundant simply because it lights him up; it’s his métier.
His work was never meant to be easy for the commercial art world to digest, which for a long time, it didn’t. “A lot of stuff got thrown out,” he says. “There were times when we needed space, and we would just take a load out to the dump.” After one long trip to Europe, during which he was living hand-to-mouth (and also was robbed), he recalled: “I came back and I was pretty screwed up. I had to figure out what to do — two kids and no money, you know?” He and Karen were on the verge of moving back to Utah when Burden, then teaching at U.C.L.A., helped McCarthy get a part-time teaching job. McCarthy also found piecemeal work in Hollywood; he was on the crew of the first “Star Trek” movie in 1978, assisting with special-effects photography. “It affected me,” he says now, “being on the Paramount lot especially.”His work was never meant to be easy for the commercial art world to digest, which for a long time, it didn’t. “A lot of stuff got thrown out,” he says. “There were times when we needed space, and we would just take a load out to the dump.” After one long trip to Europe, during which he was living hand-to-mouth (and also was robbed), he recalled: “I came back and I was pretty screwed up. I had to figure out what to do — two kids and no money, you know?” He and Karen were on the verge of moving back to Utah when Burden, then teaching at U.C.L.A., helped McCarthy get a part-time teaching job. McCarthy also found piecemeal work in Hollywood; he was on the crew of the first “Star Trek” movie in 1978, assisting with special-effects photography. “It affected me,” he says now, “being on the Paramount lot especially.”
Like Burden, who gave up pure performance and started creating sculpture and installations, McCarthy decided that to have a lasting influence in the art world, he had to begin making objects. But he did so without losing the impact of his performances. The turning point for his career was “The Garden,” from 1992, a small Arcadian patch of artificial forest (some of it recycled from sets for the television series “Bonanza”) that connects his early work with the kind of massive set-building he undertakes now. As viewers walk around it, two animatronic male mannequins become visible, both with their pants down, one standing and copulating placidly with a tree and the other lying down, doing the same to the earth.Like Burden, who gave up pure performance and started creating sculpture and installations, McCarthy decided that to have a lasting influence in the art world, he had to begin making objects. But he did so without losing the impact of his performances. The turning point for his career was “The Garden,” from 1992, a small Arcadian patch of artificial forest (some of it recycled from sets for the television series “Bonanza”) that connects his early work with the kind of massive set-building he undertakes now. As viewers walk around it, two animatronic male mannequins become visible, both with their pants down, one standing and copulating placidly with a tree and the other lying down, doing the same to the earth.
“I was in another room, and before I ever laid eyes on it, I heard people gasping,” says Jeffrey Deitch, who was a New York-based art adviser when he saw the piece in an influential show of Los Angeles art, “Helter Skelter,” curated by Paul Schimmel, at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Deitch, now the director of MOCA in Los Angeles, bought the piece and later showed it in an exhibition that toured Europe. He considered it a new kind of work, a performance sculpture. “It’s rare than an artist invents a wholly new structure for art,” he says, “and Paul did that.” “I was in another room, and before I ever laid eyes on it, I heard people gasping,” says Jeffrey Deitch, who was a New York-based art adviser when he saw the piece in an influential show of Los Angeles art, “Helter Skelter,” curated by Paul Schimmel, at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Deitch, now the director of MOCA in Los Angeles, bought the piece and later showed it in an exhibition that toured Europe. He considered it a new kind of work, a performance sculpture. “It’s rare that an artist invents a wholly new structure for art,” he says, “and Paul did that.”
Yet even after so many years of being lionized by fellow artists and curators, McCarthy has remained a figure little known outside the art world. Tom Eccles, a longtime New York curator who is helping to organize the Armory exhibition, recounted a story of introducing McCarthy at a New School lecture in Manhattan. “I showed a lot of tough images, and everyone looked a little frightened. And then when Paul finally came out to the stage, a group of older people up front got up and stomped out. They thought they were coming to see Paul McCartney.”Yet even after so many years of being lionized by fellow artists and curators, McCarthy has remained a figure little known outside the art world. Tom Eccles, a longtime New York curator who is helping to organize the Armory exhibition, recounted a story of introducing McCarthy at a New School lecture in Manhattan. “I showed a lot of tough images, and everyone looked a little frightened. And then when Paul finally came out to the stage, a group of older people up front got up and stomped out. They thought they were coming to see Paul McCartney.”
McCarthy’s standing as an art-world secret is likely to change in the next few years. In November, he and Karen drove me to a patch of chaparral and rolling grassland that sits between the San Joaquin Valley and the Mojave Desert. On the drive there, up California State Route 14, past Edwards Air Force Base, the land becomes flatter and browner, and signs begin to pop up about God, mostly the vengeful Old Testament version, along with ominous Northrop Grumman billboards showing only an image of a dark gray military drone and the slogan “Securing the Globe, 36 Hours at a Time.” Just two hours north of the city, this is full-blown John Ford country — part of “The Grapes of Wrath” was filmed around here, outside the town of Tehachapi. And it’s also where McCarthy bought the thousand acres on which he plans to build his own Cinecittà to make anti-westerns among the California pinyon pines.McCarthy’s standing as an art-world secret is likely to change in the next few years. In November, he and Karen drove me to a patch of chaparral and rolling grassland that sits between the San Joaquin Valley and the Mojave Desert. On the drive there, up California State Route 14, past Edwards Air Force Base, the land becomes flatter and browner, and signs begin to pop up about God, mostly the vengeful Old Testament version, along with ominous Northrop Grumman billboards showing only an image of a dark gray military drone and the slogan “Securing the Globe, 36 Hours at a Time.” Just two hours north of the city, this is full-blown John Ford country — part of “The Grapes of Wrath” was filmed around here, outside the town of Tehachapi. And it’s also where McCarthy bought the thousand acres on which he plans to build his own Cinecittà to make anti-westerns among the California pinyon pines.
“It’s really a pretty crazy idea, even for me,” he said, looking over a sparsely wooded basin where he has tentatively platted his Old West town, composed of all the familiar structures of frontier civilization — saloon, sheriff’s office, general store, bank, hotel/brothel. In the recreation room of a plain ranch house on the land, he keeps a conference-table-size architectural layout of the town, with plastic models to represent the buildings. The windowless structures will be mostly disorienting, claustrophobic and repetitive. “It’s not going to be like going into a saloon or a jail or an outhouse,” McCarthy said, fiddling with the models. “It’s going to be like going into someone’s head, into their mind.”“It’s really a pretty crazy idea, even for me,” he said, looking over a sparsely wooded basin where he has tentatively platted his Old West town, composed of all the familiar structures of frontier civilization — saloon, sheriff’s office, general store, bank, hotel/brothel. In the recreation room of a plain ranch house on the land, he keeps a conference-table-size architectural layout of the town, with plastic models to represent the buildings. The windowless structures will be mostly disorienting, claustrophobic and repetitive. “It’s not going to be like going into a saloon or a jail or an outhouse,” McCarthy said, fiddling with the models. “It’s going to be like going into someone’s head, into their mind.”
This little Dodge City will be unlike any other land-based art or public art in the country, if it ever opens to the public, a subject about which McCarthy is still highly ambivalent. He originally wanted to buy land to build the town along a major highway, so that it would be visible, like a crackpot theme park, to hundreds of thousands of people passing on their way to work. He also toyed with buying Santa’s Village in the San Bernardino Mountains, a family-run amusement park with gingerbread houses and live reindeer that closed in 1998 after more than four decades in business. But the isolation of Tehachapi and the cost of its real estate — “We bought it basically for the price of desert land,” he says — appealed to him. Among the hurdles to creating the town is the task of getting city construction permits for buildings that don’t fit into any known category of municipal structure. “Ninety percent of the time I don’t even mention the word ‘art’ at all,” says Damon McCarthy, who has been talking to Tehachapi officials about their plans. “It just really confuses people.”This little Dodge City will be unlike any other land-based art or public art in the country, if it ever opens to the public, a subject about which McCarthy is still highly ambivalent. He originally wanted to buy land to build the town along a major highway, so that it would be visible, like a crackpot theme park, to hundreds of thousands of people passing on their way to work. He also toyed with buying Santa’s Village in the San Bernardino Mountains, a family-run amusement park with gingerbread houses and live reindeer that closed in 1998 after more than four decades in business. But the isolation of Tehachapi and the cost of its real estate — “We bought it basically for the price of desert land,” he says — appealed to him. Among the hurdles to creating the town is the task of getting city construction permits for buildings that don’t fit into any known category of municipal structure. “Ninety percent of the time I don’t even mention the word ‘art’ at all,” says Damon McCarthy, who has been talking to Tehachapi officials about their plans. “It just really confuses people.”
The next time I visited McCarthy’s main Los Angeles studio, in late February, filming was under way in the forest, which had grown freakish over the few months since I had seen it. It was overrun with huge plastic acid-trip flowers and thickets of underbrush installed by a Hollywood set company. The towering leafless brown trees looked both funny and unmistakably fecal. In a huge adjoining room, domestic sets replicated the interior of McCarthy’s childhood home down to the faux-ormolu-framed mirror in the living room and a rust stain in the bathroom sink. Actors emerged from the makeup room done up like dwarves, with scrotum-like bulbous noses and tighty-whitey underwear over leggings. Elyse Poppers, the actress who plays McCarthy’s primary “White Snow” character (following a kind of dream logic, there are doppelgängers), walked around in a red ball gown for that day’s scene, a party in which relations between the maternal-erotic White Snow and her earthy cartoonish hosts start to reel out of control.The next time I visited McCarthy’s main Los Angeles studio, in late February, filming was under way in the forest, which had grown freakish over the few months since I had seen it. It was overrun with huge plastic acid-trip flowers and thickets of underbrush installed by a Hollywood set company. The towering leafless brown trees looked both funny and unmistakably fecal. In a huge adjoining room, domestic sets replicated the interior of McCarthy’s childhood home down to the faux-ormolu-framed mirror in the living room and a rust stain in the bathroom sink. Actors emerged from the makeup room done up like dwarves, with scrotum-like bulbous noses and tighty-whitey underwear over leggings. Elyse Poppers, the actress who plays McCarthy’s primary “White Snow” character (following a kind of dream logic, there are doppelgängers), walked around in a red ball gown for that day’s scene, a party in which relations between the maternal-erotic White Snow and her earthy cartoonish hosts start to reel out of control.
This Snow White would not follow much of a fairy-tale narrative — no evil queen, no magic mirror, no resurrection through a prince’s love. At one point, two of the Snow Whites, most of the dwarves and McCarthy lay in a moaning, panting, undulating pile on the living-room floor that McCarthy intended as a visual echo of an image in Jack Smith’s 1963 underground transvestite romp, “Flaming Creatures.”This Snow White would not follow much of a fairy-tale narrative — no evil queen, no magic mirror, no resurrection through a prince’s love. At one point, two of the Snow Whites, most of the dwarves and McCarthy lay in a moaning, panting, undulating pile on the living-room floor that McCarthy intended as a visual echo of an image in Jack Smith’s 1963 underground transvestite romp, “Flaming Creatures.”
“It’s not about sex,” he told me of his own scene. “It’s about basic human contact. It’s about hanging onto someone else for dear life.”“It’s not about sex,” he told me of his own scene. “It’s about basic human contact. It’s about hanging onto someone else for dear life.”
When they finished, McCarthy hopped up and seemed barely out of breath. He was practically glowing. “O.K., we take five and then we’ll go again,” he announced. “Like yesterday, we’ll kind of start this as a see-where-it-goes. Then we amp it up. We take it somewhere.”When they finished, McCarthy hopped up and seemed barely out of breath. He was practically glowing. “O.K., we take five and then we’ll go again,” he announced. “Like yesterday, we’ll kind of start this as a see-where-it-goes. Then we amp it up. We take it somewhere.”

Randy Kennedy writes about the art world for The Times.

Randy Kennedy writes about the art world for The Times.

Editor: Sheila GlaserEditor: Sheila Glaser