by William Powhida
In June of this year I did a performance piece and installation about the ‘death of Williamsburg’. The performance was a reading of eulogy I had written, which follows this preface and the installation was a rather cheap, cardboard memorial with the names and epitaphs for galleries that had re-located or closed. I think Larry was expecting something humorous of even more vitriolic than what I ultimately delivered to the audience, which was basically an autopsy of the hype that overwhelmed Williamsburg. It washed over the community like a wave leaving the debris of unfulfilled expectations.
I never intended the eulogy or the memorial to be comprehensive titling it “William’sburg Memorial” spanning the years 2002-06. While Larry is absolutely correct in citing my relatively short tenure in the community, it was an intense four-year immersion. As William Powhida and Keane Pepper, I wrote an enormous amount of art reviews for The Brooklyn Rail, Artnet, and Freewilliamsburg. During that time, I saw and wrote about hundreds of shows that ranged from transcendent to awful. Usually I would spend two Sundays a month looking at every show in neighborhood, with a few exceptions such as the Dollhouse and Lunar Base. As William, I wrote from a pragmatic point-of-view where I took my cues from the art, and how it asked to be written about; formally, theoretically, or conceptually. I tried to engage the meaning of the work in an intelligent manner. As Keane, I approached the writing from the experience of seeing every show, good or bad, to make it accessible and encourage people to exercise their own judgment by drawing an ugly line in the sand. Despite absurdity of the persona, I still find many artists cite Keane in their bibliographies. There was an unexpected honesty in those judgments, which people actually reacted to.
Regardless of my ‘contribution’ to art criticism, it was an atypical experience. I was immersed completely in the community, exhibiting, curating shows, writing, and of course, socializing. I can’t even remember half the openings I attended or the parties. Christian, one of the ‘dicks’ who is now operating in Chelsea caught me utterly inebriated at a loft party above their old space. He filled me in on my inchoate presence during my next visit to my embarrassment. That was the thing, we actually knew each other and discussed the art regularly. This was the case for the majority of galleries where I developed relationships with many dealers, who also happen to be artists, like Alun Williams at Parker’s Box or Joe Amrhein at Pierogi. They were open and accessible, which added a dimension to the art that became more like a community not merely a commodity to be bought and sold. There was an inclusive warmth to the neighborhood that I never felt in Chelsea where exclusivity and perhaps snobbery seemed to be the indicators of success.
While that sense has been diminished as I spend more time in Chelsea, I still don’t think I’ll ever be chummy with Larry Gagosian or Mary Boone, but that’s quite alright. I’d much prefer to write about work at galleries like Postmasters that ought to be written about. That’s what I still try to do for the Rail when I can find the time. I look for work that asks to be understood, examined, and challenged. I don’t want to be a descriptive cheerleader or a cynical gatekeeper. I’ve made about 200 dollars from my writing over the last four years, so it’s not about the money. It is for me about maintaining a dialogue with art, to inform others and my own practice. In the end, that was what was special about Williamsburg, not a particular aesthetic or attitude, but the accessibility and openness of the community. Williamsburg of course lives on, but the hyperbole has passed and many of the characters I knew have moved on.
Everything changes and I don’t want to hold on to the past or be overly sentimental about a place. Williamsburg in many ways was my real education in art, perhaps more important than my experience at Hunter. Despite the changes, the people who made Williamsburg a viable alternative are now spreading out and working in Chelsea, bringing their experience and artists to a broader audience. Larry is taking his artists, including three of my favorites, Jim Torok, David Kramer and Linda Ganjian to Aqua Art in Miami this year. He’s not finished, he’s growing and spreading out like Joe who opened a Pierogi outpost in Liepzig, Germany. Perhaps Williamsburg was a beginning, not and end, to a means.
Eulogy
We have gathered here tonight to celebrate new art in defiance of the sad fact that the Williamsburg art scene is dead. We are also here to mourn the loss of a vibrant community of galleries that have passed on to greener pastures across the magnificent East River. Some simply expired. The Williamsburg I met in the spring of 2002 died prematurely due to a series of crushing illnesses, including rampant hype, arterial congestion, hyperinflation, egotism, greed, gentrification, and collector anemia. The neighborhood was just reaching its prime, having had a wild youth filled with parties, openings, drugs, and experimentation. When I met Williamsburg, it was developing a relationship with Paris and in the early stages of cleaning up its image like a hipster whose tattoos just show beyond the cuffs of a long-sleeve t-shirt.
Personally, this a loss of a way of life for me, and yet I take some comfort in the fact that the Williamsburg I knew and loved is survived by a few remaining galleries; Pierogi, Parker’s Box, Jack the Pelican, Dam Stuhltrager, and of course, the omnipresent man in the hat, Larry Walczak…though they are now like orphans in a cruel, unforgiving art world fueled by greed, power, and desire. I wish them well in their struggle to bring their artists to the attention of the art world, hell, to have anyone see their art. To you I say, Good luck in your endeavors and make sure you apply to the art fairs. Now that I have become an art fair sellout, er sensation, I can make some recommendations to the right people. When Williamsburg died, something died in me as well.
You see, once you start selling art, your not really welcome back to Williamsburg. You have to follow the money, which only seems to end up in Joe’s hands. If you’re here tonight Joe, not in Liepzig, please don’t burn my drawings. They’re probably buried anyway, but who cares.
I want to reflect on Williamsburg’s early years when artists spurned off by the exclusionary, commercial gallery system in Soho and turned away from the East Village by high rents; decided to open their dingy lofts and exhibit their work. These intrepid souls took the reigns of power and sidestepped the art world hierarchy. No, they would not ‘wait’ for acceptance and recognition of their genius by Mary Boone and Larry Gagosian. Instead, they said “Fuck those rich assholes, we don’t need their permission,” and those open studios slowly transformed into artist run galleries, like Joe Amerhein’s beloved Pierogi and Larry Walczak's and Annie Herron’s eyewash. The loss of Annie, who I never had the opportunity to meet, as a late comer to Williamsburg, was tremendous blow to the neighborhood. It was artists, curators, and dealers like Annie who gave Williamsburg its energy.
In those heady days of anything goes experimentation where performance and exhibition still co-existed freely and openly, a great number of galleries opened and closed. Williamsburg’s resident chronicler Ward Shelley mapped all these changes in his seminal drawing I first encountered at Schroeder Romero’s group show, Decade. Out of that shifting terrain; Sideshow, eyewash, Schroeder Romero, Roebling Hall, Dam Stuhltrager, Parker’s Box, Holland Tunnel, and Bellwether had firmly established themselves when I pulled my head out of my ass, where it had been firmly rooted during a period of my life I like to call graduate school. By that time they had become the heart the Williamsburg. My studio mate had shown me a copy of Daniel Aycock’s WAGMAG, a folded sheet of yellow paper with a map dotted with galleries. It was the first time I got a sense of what Williamsburg really looked like, beneath the dirt and grime.
To get to know Williamsburg better, I set out to write a piece about the galleries for purely selfish reasons. I wanted access to the spaces, and to know who was showing what. I wanted to find a sympathetic ear. Larry still hates that piece of writing, calling it ‘uninformed and wrong’, because I didn’t know Williamsburg’s past yet. Still, it was during that time that I ran into Phong Bui of the Brooklyn Rail, one of Williamsburg’s closest allies. When no one else would write about its shows, there was the art heavy Rail full of reviews. I was in Richard Tempiero’s Sideshow gallery looking at some big, abstract paintings when Phong asked me what I was doing. When I explained the article I was researching he immediately asked me to write something on the Paris-Brooklyn Exchange. I agreed, it seemed like a natural step in getting to know Williamsburg.
It was at that moment, no matter how awful the French artists were or how unhappy the dealers were, that I felt a sense that Williamsburg was being taken seriously, even on an international level. I wasn’t seeing exchanges in Chelsea happening on such a large scale, but I was naïve. I wasn’t thinking that Chelsea is a giant international art exchange. Nevertheless, I thought Williamsburg could actually de-center Chelsea just enough to draw the art world over the river. Very quickly, a tsunami of hype threatened to overwhelm Williasmburg with wild rumors that blue-chip dealers like Gagosian and infante terrible Jeffery Dietch were set to open spaces around Bedford, the main artery of Williamsburg. Becky Smith, like a born politician brought the galleries together overcoming fierce ideological differences and codified the rules of professionalism in the neighborhood to create two classes in Williamsburg. The WGA galleries set out to prove that there was substance to the hype, while many smaller galleries could not afford the membership fees. Eventually it led to the short lived WAC, or WHACK galleries, as I fondly recall its existence.
I remember one evening in particular about Williamsburg. It was the first time the WGA galleries decided to stay open until midnight following a series of concurrent openings. The neighborhood was flooded with drunken hipsters in a haze of smoke. (By the way, I’m definitely not a hipster. No tattoos, short hair going gray, never wore a wrist band or trucker cap, and only ride a skateboard because it’s downhill to my studio) The apex of the evening for me, and in retrospect, the apex of all the fucking hype, was the opening at David Hunt’s Space 101. Hunt, a sleezy opportunist, had opened the temporary gallery to mount massive group shows of trendy, slick art. The opening was packed and had all the attributes of a ‘success’. Did it really though? Or was it a symptom of the underlying illness that would eventually lead to the collapse of Williamsburg, now a mere shadow of its former self. While I am happy to say I don’t know David Hunt other than a few brief conversations, I also knew I didn’t like him or his fucking frat boy look and shallow take on beauty. He seemed like a vulture, swooping in to feast on the hype. His shows were awful with ridiculous curatorial excuses to hang work he thought would sell. They were like eating cotton candy in Coney Island, and as quickly as he showed up, the gallery closed. In fact, after that evening, the galleries never had such a successful WGA late night. The crowds at openings grew smaller and fewer people came out to revel in front of emerging art. The reason for Mr. Hunt’s rapid and welcome departure. I can only speculate but I’d hazard a few guesses. (A) No one showed up to but the work, (
the rent was ridiculous on the space and he’d gotten some deal on it initially, and (C) people despised his presence. The first two reasons are causes of what would eventually kill my neighborhood.
Dietch never did open his Williasmburg gallery, and according to popular mythology, it became Fischer Spooner’s rehearsal space. Only a handful of new dealers like Priska Juschka, Jessica Murray, Foxy Productions, and the dreaded Monya Rowe opened spaces in Williasmburg. Pathetically, they were merely dry runs for their inevitable move to Chelsea. Becky Smith, who founded the WGA, was the first major defector following Foxy Productions brief stint on Bedford, driven by her ego and need for recognition as an equal to Zach Feuer and John Connely. Again, I don’t know the reality of the situation, but rumor had it there was a backer, or maybe all the money she made when Jaquain Phoenix bought his friends entire show, but she moved her Grand Street gallery one more time to Chelsea. Once the floodgates of perception that Williamsburg was on the decline were opened galleries began to defect at an alarming rate. Nearly all of the major players have either moved to Chelsea or shifted their focus elsewhere. Roebling Hall’s Brooklyn space will soon close outright, and how long will Tatyana waste time showing anything in Brooklyn? These ambitious dealers have waived their white flag, and surrendered a dream of creating a viable alternative to Chelsea. While I’m fairly certain that Joe will never close Pierogi, even he has expanded his vision that leaves less room for Williasmburg.
What killed this dream I ask? I recently saw long time village voice critic Kim Levin’s show at Ronald Feldman Fine Art. During her career as an esteemed critic, she never failed to document her viewing circuit. Sadly, I noticed that Levin didn’t go to Williasmburg, ever. Not once in all of the notes and itineraries did I see “Williamsburg” anywhere. It broke my heart, and made me realize that it was never on many critics’ maps, let alone the collectors. Levin’s negligence sums up the critical and commercial reception of Williamsburg, which was luke-warm and intermittent at best. Somewhere I think Holland Cotter must be weeping softly. He was one of the few who made it a point to look at Williasmbrug. It’s hard to blame them though. When the city and the MTA corroborated to make the L train their automated guinea pig, it began to shut down in 2004 for entire weekends. Williamsburg’s main artery to the world was severed, and all it takes is one downed train to sour a potential traveler for life. I mean, there isn’t any logic or reason to it, but I hate Queens, particularly Astoria and I never go there unless there is a serious reason. One thing I hate about Queens is that there is no art beyond Long Island City, which I see as a suburb of Williamsburg. Without art, Williamsburg will slowly transform into a whiter, plainer version of Astoria.
Anyway, even if by some miracle called a taxi, they made it to Williamsburg, outsiders would be surrounded by a startling sameness of white, fop haired tattooed hipsters who seemingly never have to work. The gentrification of Williamsburg from dangerous and affordable to Yuppie Neverland, where even Peter Pan could raise a child, was already complete by 2004. Rents soared and the once unimpeachable logic of cheap real estate was long, long gone. Collectors never really bothered with Williamsburg anyway, so there was almost no reason left for remaining in Williamsburg or opening a new space. Many of the newish spaces that have popped up the wake of the neighborhoods demise are also dealing in kitsch or fashion. Sorry Tomoko, AG gallery is place to glance some art while you shop for clothes.
In the end, the rise of the art fair has made location irrelevant, as my old friends Cris and Leah proved with their stunning commercial success at ScopeMiami where they sold more in three days than in half a decade in Williamsburg. Now, their renovated space is home to strong, yet largely unseen shows while the artists and the dealers alike wait in eager anticipation of the next art fair. The exhibitions have become a proxy, something to kill the time between weekends of commodified exchange in a conceptual and contextual vacuum. I could open a gallery in my kitchen, or in an empty garage next to a dance club, and apply for the fairs. I might be able to sell 40 or 50 grand of unknown artists from Bushwick, but I don’t want to sell my soul. Sadly, the gallery system as a whole has been diminished by the art fairs, though you wouldn’t know that from the booming sales and the rapid ascent of art stars like my nemesis Dana Schutz and her dealer, the humorless Zach Feuer.
So, If you have a drink, like this glass of self-destruction and career killing whiskey I am holding, let us toast the memory of my William’sburg, where I could see twenty or thirty shows, catch a drink or twenty, all within a mile of my shitty little, overpriced apartment. It was a great reason to suffer living in East Williamsburg on a street that looks like Cleveland.
Ah, well, it was a good run, and I’ve sold out like David Kramer, whose going to get up here and rant about his life for awhile, for Schroeder Romero and the possibility that people will actually see my work. I don’t know about you all, but my fucking memorial is absurd. I should never make sculpture again. Larry, I’m sorry. I urge everyone tonight to turn my blasphemy into something else by bringing your mementos, photographs, invites, reviews and tape them up on the walls, over the memorial itself, until there is nothing but the once glorious future of Williamsburg’s past.
Visit William Powhida at http://www.williampowhida.com
