COHEN
GALLERY
John
LeKay's
recent
two-part
exhibition
"The
Separation
of
Church
and
State"
tried to
make the
viewer
confront
issues
that are
either
taboo or
"socially
embarrassing":
religion,
homelessness,
race,
disability,
bodily
functions,
and
domestic
violence.
His
sculptural
amalgamations
are
self-contained
tableaux
composed
of
objects
that are
either
useless,
broken,
or just
plain
garbage.
The two
sculptures,
shown in
the
first
part of
the
exhibition,
appropriate
Christian
iconography.
The
Separation
of
Church
and
State,
1991-93,
takes
the
shape of
a
cruciform
over a
stained
piece of
carpeting.
At the
center a
wheelchair
sits on
top of a
Raggedy
Ann &
Andy
mattress
with
Guns N'
Roses
playing
from a
tape
recorder
on the
seat.
Mops,
brooms,
curtain
rods,
and a
charred
piece of
wood
form the
axis of
the
cross
connecting
the
central
image to
four
collections
of
household
junk: an
open and
filthy
kitchen
cabinet
topped
by a
teetering
stainless-steel
sink;
the bowl
of a
leaning
toilet,
its seat
sporting
an
ornate
basin
held up
by putti,
on top
of which
sits an
old
black
and
white TV
crowned
by a
headless
Madonna-and-child
sculpture;
an open,
beat-up
trunk
with a
box fan
blowing;
and a
glass
vase
duct
taped
together,
containing
silk
flowers
waving
in the
breeze,
that
rests on
a table
missing
one leg.
In the
corner
of the
room,
away
from the
crucifixion
scene,
the
heads of
the
Madonna
and
child
lie
upside
down on
a
pillar.
This
piece
and its
companion
Lazyboy
Jesus,
1991-92,
in which
a
dime-store
image of
Christ
sits on
a
Naugahyde
La-Z-Boy
armchair,
suggest
psychological
disablement,
the
inability
to
experience
the
spiritual
amidst
the
noise of
materialism,
kitsch,
television,
and our
own
laziness.
At the
same
time we
feel the
oppressive
nature
of much
organized
religion,
which
holds
out the
promise
of
spiritual
solace
to those
willing
to pay
up.
There is
a
certain
formal
elegance
to all
these
works.
All five
are
still
lifes
but they
exist in
an
extremely
precarious
position.
They are
all
balance,
an
attempt
to
contain
or
negotiate
anomalous
elements.
Momentarily
frozen,
they
seem
ready to
topple
or
implode
at the
least
provocation.
They
could be
Rube
Goldberg
machines
for the
severely
mechanically
challenged,
and in
fact the
artist
describes
These
Colors
Don't
Run,
1991-93,
(which
includes
an
American
flag
flying
over a
garbage
can
hiding
exposed
wiring)
as a
suicide
machine.
The
question
inherent
in this
exhibition
is, When
is the
pathetic
a valid
esthetic
strategy?
LeKay
attempts
to
shock,
revelling
in his
obvious
poor
taste,
especially
in
Zipperdeedudazipperdeeday,
1991-92,
which
ironically
appropriates
the
voices
of
homeless
black
men.
These
pieces
seem to
want to
provoke
a
visceral
reaction
and
quite
literally
to
extend
the
discomfiting
mise-en-scene
of the
tableaux.
Instead
they are
quite
polite--the
air
freshener
in Who's
Afraid
of Red,
Yellow,
and
Blue?,
1992-93,
had no
smell,
the fan
in The
Separation
of
Church
and
State
barely
kicked
up a
breeze,
and the
soundtracks
were as
loud as
background
noise at
the
mall.
LeKay
has said
that he
works
"on the
fine
line
where
something
can be
really
awful or
really
beautiful,"
a
statement
reminiscent
of Nigel
Tufnell's
wisdom
in This
Is
Spinal
Tap
(1984):
"there's
a fine
line
between
being
clever
and
being
really
stupid."
COPYRIGHT
1993
Artforum
International
Magazine,
Inc.
