Larry Bell ARTlines cover, 1980 |
This
month, opening on September 17 and running through December 5, the Museum of
Fine Arts in Santa Fe presents a retrospective of the work of Larry Bell, Larry
Bell/The Sixties. During those years,
Bell was a prominent member of that generation of Los Angeles artists who first
commanded serious attention from critics, collectors, and curators from all
over the country, especially from New York which has held the scene in a
headlock. By the mid-1960s, artists such
as Bell, John Altoon, Peter Voulkos, Robert Irwin, Ken Price, Billy Al
Bengston, and Ed Moses, to name only a few, challenged New York’s and the rest
of the world’s, tunnel vision. Deep,
inbred prejudices softened for the moment, and barriers were, if not broken
down, at least breeched.
The
serious non-seriousness of these artists presented a riddle to the Eastern
sophisticates. They just couldn’t get a
fix on how les enfants terribles fit
into the staid world of their unsullied art galleries and museums. The wide range of their concerns – Pop, Op,
Light/Space, Perceptual, Conceptual, etc. – defied categorizing, and each
presented a strong individual persona and artistic style that the art world
(read “New York”) just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put their finger on. Larry Bell, though he has lived in Taos for
the last decade, still is a prominent member of that vanguard generation of LA
artists. His works in glass and on paper
are in the collections of virtually every major contemporary art museum in the
world.
I
first met Larry Bell, the inestimable Dr. Lux (as he is known to distant
acquaintances), late one night about four years ago outside his Taos
studio. (He moved to Taos with Janet
Webb in 1973.) I was with a friend who
introduced us, and Larry took us into his studio where, for about two hours, he
explained in mystifying detail the process of his work with the vacuum
chamber. He had just begun his series of
Vapor Drawings, and was continuing his work on large scale sculpture projects
constructed of large sheets of glass arranged in simple compositions by
yielding complex matrixes of actual and reflected images. His graciousness and generosity in presenting
and discussing his work and ideas with me, a total stranger, was disarming. His intense excitement and pleasure in his
work was obvious and impressive. Now and
then, he would stop and ask if we were understanding what he was saying. The abstract nature of the work and the
process left me confused, to the point where I couldn’t think of an intelligent
question to ask that might reveal a light in this forest of what I considered
high technology voodoo.
After
that, our relationship found a basis in a mutual love of guitars and music,
folk music to be more precise. Indeed,
Larry performed as a folk singer at the Unicorn on Sunset in LA while going to
art school before deciding to devote full time to his art. I always thought it odd, and perfectly
suitable to the good Doctor’s sense of irony and proportion, that he could go
from his space-age vacuum chamber to a vintage 12-string guitar and Leadbelly
or Woody Guthrie. That’s Dr. Lux (Lux
from Latin, meaning “light”) all over.
I ride an old paint, I lead an old
Dan,
I’m goin’ to Montana for to throw
the houlihan.
They feed in the coulees, they
water in the draw,
Their tails are all matted, their
backs are all raw.
Ride around little doggies,
Ride around them slow.
For the fiery and the snuffy are
a-rarin’ to go.
(I Ride an Old Paint, trad.)
Larry Bell in Venice, CA studio, 1970 |
One
night this summer, Larry and Janet invited me to joint them and some friends
for a Sunday evening barbeque. I arrive
and find the Dr., pipe firmly clenched in his teeth, scientifically preparing
the chicken in the kitchen. “Hi. How you doin’?” says Larry, barely looking up
from his work. “Great,” I lie. “That’s funny,” says he. “You look like shit.” Straight deadpan. As he leaves the kitchen with the platter of
pullet, he invites me to sample one of his numerous guitars in a case nearby. I play and he reenters the kitchen, after
greeting arriving guests outside. He
putters around the sink. “Can I do
anything to help, Lar? He looks at
me. “Yeah, you can leave.” He doesn’t miss a beat. I chuckle nervously. He glances at me obliquely,
elliptically. A sinister grin curls
around his pipe. Ah yes, the Dr. is a
great joker . . .
A
few weeks later, Larry and I get together for an evening of guitar playing and
informal conversation. I enter the
kitchen where he, Janet, and a neighbor, Jody, sit and talk around the kitchen
table. Zara, Larry, and Janet’s eldest
daughter, age 8, and Sadie, Jody’s 5 year old, watch T.V. and play in an
adjoining room. Oliver, their 1 year old
son, is tucked away for the night.
Rachel, the youngest daughter, age 2 ½ , struts into the kitchen to find
out who the intruder might be. She is
immediately concerned with what is in my shirt pocket (a felt-tip pen) and
directly asks me for it. I give it to
her, and as we “grownups” visit, Rachel begins a series of drawings on paper,
destroying the pen in the process. The
Dr. thinks this is very funny. (It’s the
only writing instrument I’ve brought with me.)
She does portraits of all of us at the table, each in turn. Squiggly lines, circles, dots. She finishes with a self-portrait. We all admire the art. The Dr. starts them early. He finally says offhandedly, “I’ve got
something to show you a little later,” and says no more for the moment.
Jody
and Sadie leave, Zara and Rachel are put to bed, Janet vanishes, and Larry and
I sit quietly. I spot a snappy new hard-shell
guitar case propped against the far wall of the kitchen and I wonder what new
gem the Dr. has uncovered to add to his already formidable collection. Finally he says, “Take a look in that case
over there.” I kneel at the case, open
it, and find a magnificent 12-string. It
looks so comfortable in its case I hesitate to pick it up for a few
moments. “Don’t just stare at it, pick
it up,” says Larry mockingly. I do,
appraising the seductive shape of the body.
The style looks very familiar, and I comment on the shape. “Like Mae West,” says the Dr. Through the sound-hole, on the label inside,
I spot the maker’s name. Lundberg. I sit down at the table and strum as Larry
watches. The tone is bright, brilliant,
and perfectly balanced. Looking at it, I
finally recognize it. “This is just like
the one Leadbelly played. One of those
Stella, Sears, and Roebuck jobs.” The
doctor nods. “Just a little better
made,” he says. “I found it in Oakland last week at this
guy’s shop. Lundberg. He made it a few years ago. I was in San Francisco, at this seminar, and
happened to go by this place, and there it was.
Just got it last Friday,” say says with a kind of diffident pride. I play it for a few minutes. It’s a beauty, the finest 12-string I’ve
played in the Doctor’s house. I
relinquish it to the new owner.
Gorgeous, the Bell’s bulldog, snores and sputters in the corner, adding
percussion to Larry’s playing. He
fingerpicks it tentatively, then into a full strumming riff in E. A famous Leadbelly lick. We both smile, and he begins to sing . . .
All I need to make me happy,
Two little girls to call me Pappy,
One called Sop it, one called Gravy
The one gonna sop it up,
The other gonna save it.
(Green Corn, trad.)
I
feel a bit lonely sitting empty-handed as Larry continues to play. Another guitar case in the living room. I’m up and opening it and find another
majestic 12-string guitar (God, how he loves those 12-strings!). Larry relights the pipe he has been playing
with since I came in, and laughs at my awed reaction to the guitar – a thinner
neck, the body fatter and larger, ornate and exquisite styling on the
crown. I take it back into the kitchen,
sit at the table, and we begin to play one tune we’d end up playing sooner or
later anyway.
Old Bill Jones had two daughters
and a song
One went to college and the other
went wrong.
His wife she died in a poolroom
fight,
Still he sings from morning ‘til
night.
Ride around little doggies,
Ride around slow,
For the fiery and the snuffy are
a-rarin’ to go.
(I Ride an Old Paint, trad.)
I
stumble trying to find Larry’s rhythm.
“Jesus, I can never follow you, Larry.
Your timing is, well . . . idiosyncratic. Like playin’ with Lighnin’ Hopkins.” The Dr. laughs. “It’s true.
I never could get anybody to play along with me.” he says, and laughs hard. We both laugh hard. “The perfect condition and instrument for the
solo artist,” I reply. We play some
more. A blues in D. I jot down a few notes now and then with my
mutilated felt-tip. He smokes his pipe,
I chew a cigar. Suddenly, he says to me,
“What the hell do you keep writing down there?!” “I’m taking notes, Larry. I’m supposed to be doing this article on
you. You know, the show down at the
Museum of Fine Arts?” He pauses. “Yeah.
That’s going to be to be a very
interesting show. Very interesting to
me, anyway. The work from ’59 to
’70. I’ve never seen all that stuff in
one place at one time before. Some of it
has never even been seen before. Stuff I
made then, but it’s been in storage since.”
He gets an abstracted look and continues. “They were just some of the most incredible
shows. I don’t care if this sounds, you
know . . . but they were just fantastic shows.
All those cubes in a room – just the cubes. Some of the pieces were choppy, individually,
but all together they were really . . . The good ones had a way of making the
choppier ones look really good when they were all together in one room. That was ’65 to ’68, ’69 maybe. A lot of the pieces, I wasn’t too crazy about
‘em, but they were very calming to the
viewer, you know? Some of the ones I
really liked, as pieces, were just too good to put in some of the shows,
because your eye would go right to ‘em . . .”
“Were
they bigger?”
“No,
size didn’t matter. They were all about
the same size anyway, and the tops were all 60” off floor level, just below the
peripheral eye-level of the viewer. But
I’d put some of the really good ones in a show like that they’d just destroy
the whole thing. So, some of the best
ones I never put in, and they were some of the only things I ever did that I
always liked. Then I just stopped being
in the gallery scene so much. I’d have a
show now and then, but I started doing things that you just couldn’t put under
your arm and walk out with. Bigger
things.
Larry Bell installation, 1968, Walker Art Center |
He
stops. I scribble. “Look at all these flies in here!” he
yells. “They weren’t here before you
came. Did you bring ‘em with you, or
what?” he laughs.
“Of
course, that was a crazier time then,” he continues. “A crazier time in my
life, in . . .”
“Did
all of that craziness that was happening then find its way into the work you
were doing? Did it affect you at the
time?”
“Sure!” he says, his voice rising, stiffening in his
chair. “Christ, Venice at that time was
crazy. Everything was crazy! The war, the whole damn art scene,
riots. It tore me up. How the hell could I not be affected by
it. Of course I was affected by it. I looked around at all the artists I knew,
artists whose work I respected and liked, and it wasn’t showing up in their
work. They weren’t doing anything about
it. And the artists who were trying to
do something about it, reacting to it in their work, I just didn’t like their
work. I didn’t like it. So, what the hell was I supposed to do? “I
can see it is a real question for him, still.
A look of pained confusion flickers across his face. “I don’t know,” I answer lamely. “What do you do?” “I worked. I worked hard. I like work, and so when it was all crazy I
just stuck to the work. It was the only
thing I had any control over. I couldn’t
control the cops, the killings, the war, anything. The work – my work—was the one thing I could
control, and have complete control over.
It’s what always saved me. I like
work, and so when it was all crazy I just stuck to the work. It was the only thing I could control, and
have complete control over. It’s what
always saved me. I get a great deal of
pleasure out of work, you know. That’s
why I hang around the studio so much, ‘cause I know as soon as I leave the
studio I can get in trouble . . .”
I’ve worked in the city,
And I’ve worked on the farm,
All I got to show is the muscle in
my arm.
Blisters on my feet, callouses on
my hands
I’m goin’ to Montana to throw the
houlihan.
(I Ride an Old Paint, trad.)
The
guitars are forgotten for the moment as we each replay the ‘60s in our own
psycho/historical memories. Images of
T.V. footage, Watts, Newark riots, assassinations, Vietnam. Larry continues, “I couldn’t be over there
with those guys in the other camp, and I sure didn’t want to be over there with
those other guys in that other camp, ‘cause their work was just . . . “ his
voice trails off. “The whole art scene
was disgusting at that time. Artists,
galleries, gallery directors, everybody happier than pigs in shit. Things were really turning over, really
selling fast. People were making a whole
bunch of money, and that’s all the whole thing was at the time. Disgusting.
I couldn’t stand it. It was
terrible. It made me sick. The war, my personal life, Venice, the whole
damn art scene – it was crazy. Around
that time, seven people were murdered in one week in a two block radius of my
studio in Venice.” Pause. “One week, seven people!” We look at each other. He nods, relights his pipe. Sighs.
“It made me crazy. I mean, really crazy. I had to get out, and finally, in ’73, I
did. It was almost too late. He stops and reaches for the Lundberg nearby. As I pick up the other guitar, I ask, “You
mean you knew you were really crazy, then came out here?” “No,” he says emphatically. “I didn’t realize I had gotten really crazy
until I left and got out here.” There is
a long pause, and the Dr. strums a D chord and says, “Here’s a good one. Do you know this one?” He begins . . .
Well, I just got up to my new-found
land,
My new-found land, my new-found
land.
I just got up to my new-found land,
And I’m a-livin’ in the light of
the mornin’.
(New
Found Land, words and music by Woody
Guthrie)
He
stops, smiles, and says, “Isn’t that a beautiful line? ‘I’m a-livin’ the light of the mornin’.”
We both play and the burden of painful
memories lifts with the song. The
Doctor’s timing is impeccable as usual.
“Now what else do you want to know?” he demands in feigned irritation,
after we finish Woody’s tune. “Well,
where did you get your machine? How did
you end up doing them yourself?” “Getting
a little personal there, aren’t you,
Collins?” It’s late now. The Dr. is obviously bushed, but he begins
the story. At one time, in the mid-‘60s,
he had a show of the cubes in New York.
One of the pieces arrived cracked and in need of immediate repair for
that evening’s opening. The Dr.
remembers, “I had to get the piece recoated and the only place in New York that
anybody knew of was this fella down in the Bronx. Until then, all the vapor coating was done by
this one guy in LA. Anyway, I took the new piece of glass to this guy in the
Bronx –Dr. Koenig was his name, I’ll never forget it – and I asked him to do
it, and I paid him $1,000 for the short time it took him. Actually, the gallery paid for it, and he was
astonished at what he got when I paid him. He wasn’t used to getting jobs that, you know,
‘art’. Anyway, he suggested that I learn
how to do the process, use the vacuum chamber myself. See, he let me go back in his shop and watch
him when he did it, and it didn’t look like it was too hard once you had the
equipment and all. The guy in LA never
let me in the back room where he did it, you know. But Dr. Koenig let me back there. I’d never even seen one of those things (the
vacuum chamber) before.
“Well, the show was a success, and I had some money in my pocket, and Dr. Koenig offered me a piece of equipment so I bought it and a guy came down on Sunday to set it up.” Larry shakes his head and laughs softly at the memory. “I’d never even had a wrench in my hand before hardly. A couple of days later, Dr. Koenig came by. He’d promised me that he would teach me how to operate it. A real formal German guy, you know. And we’re standing up there in this empty, cold, depressing loft, and said (in a thick German accent) ‘This will do very nicely here.’ And he was standing there with his hand stuck in his coat like this (Larry sticks his right hand in the breast of his shirt, assuming a Napoleonic pose) and he pulls out this book, Vacuum Deposition of Thin Films, and he says, ‘Now for your first lesson. Here. Start on page 1.’ And he hands me the book and walks out. I’m standing there with this machine and this book in this cold loft. Man, I was depressed.”
“Well, the show was a success, and I had some money in my pocket, and Dr. Koenig offered me a piece of equipment so I bought it and a guy came down on Sunday to set it up.” Larry shakes his head and laughs softly at the memory. “I’d never even had a wrench in my hand before hardly. A couple of days later, Dr. Koenig came by. He’d promised me that he would teach me how to operate it. A real formal German guy, you know. And we’re standing up there in this empty, cold, depressing loft, and said (in a thick German accent) ‘This will do very nicely here.’ And he was standing there with his hand stuck in his coat like this (Larry sticks his right hand in the breast of his shirt, assuming a Napoleonic pose) and he pulls out this book, Vacuum Deposition of Thin Films, and he says, ‘Now for your first lesson. Here. Start on page 1.’ And he hands me the book and walks out. I’m standing there with this machine and this book in this cold loft. Man, I was depressed.”
He
stops and strums a chord on the guitar.
“I was afraid to turn the damn thing on.
And these plumbers and electricians are coming in working on it, setting
it up and all, and I just sort of stood around pretending like I knew what I
was doing . . . not knowing what to do.
I read that book maybe twenty or thirty times. It’s a beautifully written book for such a
technical subject. It’s regarded as very
old-fashioned these days. But there’s
only so much it can tell you.”
“You
just gotta do it, huh?”
“That’s
exactly what the book said! That’s
it. The only way to learn how to do it
is to do it.”
A
week after our evening of guitar playing I visited Larry in his studio. He was entertaining a couple of visitors from
out of town, once again graciously explaining his process. He greeted me with, “Where have you
been? I tried to get ahold of you last
night to do some more playing, but I couldn’t find you. Come on in.”
His
studio more closely resembles a clean industrial factory than an artist’s
studio. Vapor drawings hang in a large
gallery adjoining the working area with its two vacuum chambers – the small one
he now works at, and a huge chamber in which the large pieces of glass for
sculptures are coated. Trays of nuts,
bolts, washers, clamps, and a set of socket wrenches are scattered around the
floor and table tops. The Dr. sets up an
improvisational elliptical vapor drawing, grabbing a few sheets of paper from a
low shelf, and arranging them just so.
“You see?” he asks rhetorically.
I doubt if they do. I’m not sure
even I do. He suspends the virgin
construction at the back of the small chamber, clamps the doors shut, front and
back, and stands at the relay/remote control unit – a 6 ½ foot free standing
bank of red and green lights, meters, switches, buttons, etc.—that is attached
to the chamber. He fiddles at the unit
for a moment. “Shit!” he mutters as the
chamber belches all the air out. “I
pushed the wrong button again,” he looks at me savagely. “Collins, the good craftsman never blames his
tools, he blames his assistant!” The two
visitors glance at me accusingly. “Sorry
Doctor,” I say pretending to be the incompetent assistant.
The
machine is on now, the whole internal process is underway, and only Dr. Lux and
his God know what the results will be. I
half expect the whole place to blow up.
He grins at me quickly, shyly from behind the controls He goes to a
nearby workbench and unwraps a fresh cigar.
He leaves the room and returns immediately with a long, snaking, coiled
length of black cable. With a socket
wrench he hooks up the cable to the chamber and remote unit. Cigar jutting from his face, bent down
playing with the tools and cable, he looks like a precocious kid putting
together his erector set. Indeed, there
is a Mickey Mouse sticker on the side of one of the relay units. He monitors the drawing in the machines from
glass portals at the front and side of the chamber. “I’ll do one more shot of quartz from back
here,” he says to one of the guests. “To
stabilize it?” the guest asks. “For the
hell of it. For the pleasure of it,” answers the Dr.
He
continues, playing with the dials, buttons, switches, monitoring the quivering
needles of the meters, peering through the portholes. “See,” he says to us all, “that’s all I
do. Stand here and push buttons and look
through windows. That’s all.” Ah, yes.
The Doctor’s a great joker.
When
it’s all over, and the doors swing open as if by magic after the machine has
been depressurized, we all reverently gaze upon the demo-art. The Dr. appraises it with a trained eye and
hangs it on a nearby wall with pushpins.
“That
was so much fun,” he says, “I’m gonna do another one.”
The
guests leave and Larry looks at me.
“Collins, what the hell are you doing here anyway?”
A terrific joker.
--Thom Collins, September 1982
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