Ron Athey’s works over the years have not only challenged his audience, but also his endurance. From having his lips sewn shut to balancing himself in a proctologist’s chair while pulling strings of pearls from his rectum, his productions are, needless to say, demanding. While recently attending his first solo exhibition at Western Projects, I was amazed at how even in video stills and set pieces — seeing just the documentation of his work, still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up — well that, and interacting with the characters a show like this usually attracts.
I arrived late with my buddy Pete, an artist friend of mine who usually takes me to these things. After we got in, we checked out the photos and stage pieces from Ron’s latest performance. “Which one do you like best?” I turned around recognized one of the guys working at the gallery was standing behind me. “I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ve seen most of these shows in person so, of course, I’m just looking to see if they snapped a picture of me in the audience.” I was joking but I don’t think the he got it. “Okaaaaay . . . ” he said, turning away to find a REAL art critic to chat with.
Earlier, there had been a larger crowd, but by the time we arrived it had whittled down to a small, loyal group outside the gallery on the back patio. I visited with Ron there and he introduced me to some folks. Most of my time spent there was talking about the show and drinking with Pete and a few other people. One of them was an odd, older fellow who looked as though he just woke up, threw on some dirty clothes and hurried to the show. Pete pulls me over and whispers, “Hey Kurt, come here, this guy is fascinating!”
The old guy looked like Mr. Magoo, short and round, wearing thick, coke-bottle glasses that lay crooked on his face. He’s talking to the guy I just tried to joke with inside, about how he worked as a child actor and was in movies with Peter Lore, Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe. “I used to take naps on her lap,” he told him. “And she had these big, hairy arms, like a monkey.” By then, he had us all eating out of the palm of his hand. The evening went on like this with the old guy telling us about all his exploits during the Golden Age of Hollywood and of his extensive art collection until a slight breeze kicked up and, being downwind from the him, we got a nose full of . . . hobo — the sour, alley-soaked stench of cheap vodka, wine and the Salvation Army. I took a closer look and noticed his clothes were stained and his pants crammed full of complimentary bottles of beer and water. “Holy crap!” I thought, “this guy’s homeless, and he’s pulling one over on all us art snobs!” It was then that he kicked it up a notch told us he was Skeet Ulrich’s father. Oh boy. “You know” he says, “I hear there’s more food over at Newspace. It’s their last show and tonight’s the big send off.” Pete overhears and agrees that we should all go.
We got outside and, magically, out of nowhere, the old guy was holding two huge duffle bags. Pete and I looked at each other. It was confirmed, he’s homeless and, apparently brilliant. This guy walked in off the street, filthy dirty, and convinced everyone he was a collector, and I couldn’t even get a laugh out of the help. Here it comes. He looks at us, “Can I get a ride with you guys?” Pete and I start to stammer and look around. “Well, I think I’m just dropping Pete off at home and calling it a night,” I said. “No problem,” he said. “Just drop me off at Sunset. I’ll call Skeet and have him come get me.”
Posts
