{"id":15511,"date":"2011-05-12T08:00:53","date_gmt":"2011-05-12T12:00:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=15511"},"modified":"2018-12-12T14:40:34","modified_gmt":"2018-12-12T19:40:34","slug":"the-road-to-harburg","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/05\/12\/the-road-to-harburg\/","title":{"rendered":"The Road to Harburg"},"content":{"rendered":"

The passenger looked down at the map in his hands, printed on the back of an exhibition invitation. \u201cI haven\u2019t seen her in more than ten years,\u201d he said, referring to the artist Marilyn Minter.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s really nice of her to invite you,\u201d I replied while downshifting and turning off the autobahn.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

We\u2019re thirty minutes late, driving to Minter\u2019s first exhibition in Germany, an ambitious survey of her work over the past two decades, as well as early photographs she took\u2014while still an undergraduate art student\u2014of her mother, a drug addict. (These photographs caught the eye of Diane Arbus when she visited the class.) Their portrayal of Minter\u2019s mother, surrounded by instruments of vanity, would set the precedent for the artist\u2019s critique of glamour, artifice, and the cult of beauty.<\/p>\n

I first saw Minter\u2019s work on billboards around Manhattan in 2006, when Creative Time commissioned the campaign. The painting Stepping Up<\/em> (2005), a close-up of a woman\u2019s dirty ankle and blackened sole, balancing on a bejeweled Dior heel, was among the most memorable for me: it was a feminist hijacking of high-fashion marketing and lifestyle propaganda.\u00a0That same year, a work by Minter was selected as the coveted cover image for the Whitney Biennial<\/a> catalogue. Minter\u2019s art, both glamorous and gruesome, portrays the trappings of a particular elite milieu. It\u2019s both seductive and self-destructive, decadent and voracious\u2014a mix of high society, profane beauty, and eroticism in today\u2019s culture of consumption.<\/p>\n

Minter\u2019s paintings are created with layers of enamel paint, applied directly to aluminum. Cold and crystalline, the resulting images are part Impressionist, part photo-realist: they beckon to the viewer, drawing you in until what is\u00a0recognizable\u00a0collapses\u2014what was a lipsticked mouth at ten feet away blurs into a shiny, slippery mess of abstraction.<\/p>\n

\u201cMarilyn\u2019s work,\u201d said Dr. Dirk Luckow, director of the Deichtorhallen Museum, \u201cis not speculative. It comes from real-life experience. And you feel it.\u201d\u00a0Born in Louisiana and raised in Florida, Minter arrived in New York in 1976. In the late seventies and early eighties, she was a fixture in the New York City nightclub scene. Her work during this time was infused with a pop-art sensibility and brazen sexuality, both still indicative of her prevailing aesthetic. By the end of the eighties, she had begun appropriating pornography; in 1989, she ran her own television ads, titled 100 Food Porn<\/em>. \u201cThe most debased imagery around is pornography and fashion,\u201d Minter told<\/a> the New York Times<\/em> last year. \u201cThe problem was, in the beginning I was touching on things that were way too loaded and it almost killed my career.\u201d<\/p>\n

Across the uncertain terrain of the art world there exist unforeseen obstacles\u2014one false step and you can disappear completely. The going is treacherous, to say the least. Wearing heels makes it decidedly more so. That Minter, who was once considered a critical flop, is celebrated as an artist today for her still-provocative work attests to her\u00a0resilience\u00a0and faith in her creative impulse. She has since collaborated with Madonna and Pamela Anderson and has joined the faculty at the School of Visual Arts in New York.<\/p>\n

The opening is the same day as the royal wedding, and, while driving the three-hour stretch between Berlin and Hamburg, I am reminded of the nuptials ad nauseam by German disc jockeys. What a fitting parallel event to Minter\u2019s show: the ultimate display of consciously crafted sophistication, a plebeian becoming a princess, a fairy-tale smoke screen of pomp and decorum. The wedding was so demur it felt impotent. Minter\u2019s work is precisely the opposite.<\/p>\n

When I arrive in Hamburg, something is wrong. Why is no one at the Deichtorhallen? I panic. Surveying the museum\u2019s surroundings, I spot a trim, well-dressed man holding an invitation to the Minter show, looking equally bewildered. I call out to him and ask if he knows where we\u2019re supposed to go, having neglected to print out my own invite. His has a map. We quickly realize that the show is actually twenty minutes away at the Sammlung Falckenberg, a partner museum of the Deichtorhallen that\u2019s located in a suburb named Harburg. I offer the man a ride, as he has no means of transport and we are already thirty minutes late. The road to Harburg, I quickly find out, is paved with good intentions.<\/p>\n

And so here I am, driving as quickly as I can to Harburg with my passenger, who I now learn is an art dealer. He is turning over the invitation in his hands. He tells me that he and Marilyn once worked together early in her career. He tells me the working relationship ended abruptly and that they haven\u2019t spoken in over a decade\u2014over what, I never learn, and I decide not to press the issue. She does not know that he is coming. His invitation came via Falkenberg, a collector he\u2019s known for years.<\/p>\n

The art world is a \u201cgentleman\u2019s industry.\u201d Contracts are scarce and most deals are confirmed with a handshake, ensuring a considerable margin for conflict. When relationships end the emotional and financial toll can be debilitating, even disastrous.<\/p>\n

I begin to wonder if offering this ride was a good idea.<\/p>\n

We finally arrive at the opening. The postindustrial brick building is draped with ivy, making it seem more romantic, more feminine than it should. Inside, the passenger sees someone he knows. They make terse small talk. I am not introduced. I find out later that the man is Marilyn\u2019s husband, William. When I finally introduce myself, his mood brightens and he immediately brings me to meet the artist.<\/p>\n

Marilyn casts a commanding presence; she\u2019s easily over six feet tall in heels. Her auburn hair is cut short, her lips painted a deep merlot. I notice a tattoo on her forearm of two M&M’s, one red, one green. \u201cOur twentieth-wedding-anniversary present,\u201d she tells me. William has the same tattoo. The green M&M is upside down, so it appears as a W<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve been married for twenty-five years and our families have never met,\u201d William says. He looks like a bohemian banker, tall and lean with an air of easy defiance. We take a seat next to Minter\u2019s current New York dealers, two stylish and beautiful women with French accents. William points out that, in an act of solidarity, the gallery owner has painted her toenails green: they peek out flirtatiously from strappy python-skin stilettos. The color, he tells me, is in reference to one of Minter\u2019s photographs, a portrait of dirty bare feet and toenails polished with lime green.<\/p>\n

William speaks of Minter\u2019s gallerist, whose exhibition space is the first floor of her home, with utter admiration. \u201cThe gallery used to be an orphanage,\u201d he says, clearly attuned to the symbolism. These women are Minter\u2019s adopted family, her protectors from the art world\u2019s many predators.<\/p>\n

I show Marilyn my passenger\u2019s business card and give her fair warning of his presence, a futile attempt to compensate for bringing him in the first place, however inadvertently. When he finally approaches her, she is prepared. This is, after all, her night. Her success. Her vindication.<\/p>\n

\u201cDarling,\u201d he gushes, \u201cYou haven\u2019t changed a bit! You look fabulous!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou look shorter,\u201d she replies.<\/p>\n

In this gentleman\u2019s industry, almost no one is a gentleman, but that doesn\u2019t excuse bad behavior. Marilyn patiently listens as the passenger grovels, but she stands her ground. His efforts are eventually crowded out by a string of giddy German admirers, lining up for autographs. Marilyn signs their catalogues, smiling with knowing self-assurance, thanking them for their support.<\/p>\n

Emilie Trice is a writer, translator, and curator based in Berlin. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The passenger looked down at the map in his hands, printed on the back of an exhibition invitation. \u201cI haven\u2019t seen her in more than ten years,\u201d he said, referring to the artist Marilyn Minter. \u201cThat\u2019s really nice of her to invite you,\u201d I replied while downshifting and turning off the autobahn. \u201cShe didn\u2019t.\u201d We\u2019re […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":172,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[35,1102,247,2269,2268,2270,124,67,100,180,179],"class_list":["post-15511","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-art","tag-feminism","tag-germany","tag-harburg","tag-marilyn-minter","tag-mother","tag-new-york","tag-painting","tag-photography","tag-pornography","tag-sex"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Road to Harburg by Emilie Trice<\/title>\n<meta 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