Peter Schjeldahl at GSU

Whitney Stoepel

On Friday, when more than 2 million Chicagoans flocked in exodus to the Loop for the Blackhawks celebratory parade, a few made like salmon and fought their way upstream to University Park. An hour outside the city, University Park is home to Governor’s State University (GSU) where The New Yorker’s chief art critic Peter Schjeldahl was accepting an honorary degree and presenting a guest lecture. Schjeldahl is the kind of writer every aspiring (and perhaps accomplished) art critic wants to be. His writing is elegant, his tongue is sharp, and he’s never afraid to use polarizing declarations like “bad” and “world’s greatest” even when commenting on GSU’s cherished Nathan Manilow Sculpture Park.

Prompted by GSU President, Dr. Elaine Maimon, Schjeldahl—in his white boot-cut slacks and top button on his shirt casually forgotten—reflected on his day spent in the Park. It is a collection of 26 works by many impressive artists but what Schjeldahl seemed most struck by was the landscaping. He praised the sightlines and groundspeople and complimented the “witty mowing.”

After his musing on the landscaping he talked about Tony Tasset’s “Paul,” an oversized Paul Bunyan, is part of the park’s collection. Tasset’s sarcastic and hyperbolic work—like the 30-foot eyeball coming to Pritzker Park next month—has conjured some controversy and plenty of commentary. Schjeldahl’s personality as a thoughtful intellectual who doesn’t take himself too seriously revealed itself when he shared his thoughts on “Paul”: “I understand there’s been some controversy over “Paul” [but] I’m for it. It seems to me you have to have a pretty sour view of life to think ‘I don’t like that.’” At which point he shouted, “Come on, man! It’s gorgeous! It’s funny! You don’t have to look at it.” He also asserted that Bruce Nauman’s House Divided is his favorite piece of contemporary sculpture in the world and added that its proximity to Mark Di Suvero’s “Yes! For Lady Day” makes for the two best contemporary sculptures near each other “anywhere on the planet.”

Schjeldahl doesn’t sugarcoat. Even though the room was full of proud GSU staffers that excitedly applauded while he praised Nauman and Di Suvero, he included a lengthy list of dislikes as well: Mary Miss’ “Field Rotation” was better when there was less around it, he’s not crazy about the “visiting Icelanders” (referring to Steinunn Þórarinsdóttir’s “Horizons”), and Joel Shapiro’s bronze, expressive human form, “Untitled” really needs to be nowhere: “You can’t be looking out at a handicapped parking spot…it’s really lost where it is. It’s a wonderful sculpture. I think it should be right smack in the middle of the sidewalk so you have to deal with it,” he said. When Dr. Maimon reminded Schjeldahl they have to worry about the safety of the students, Schjeldahl grinned and said, “That’s not my problem.”

After reading some passages from his book Let’s See: Writings on Art from The New Yorker, it was time for the frequently underwhelming question and answer portion. When someone in the back demanded, “Help me with Jackson Pollock,” eyes may have rolled but Schjeldahl’s response was not only surprisingly helpful but also showcased his unrehearsed and raw love for the artist. Full of thoughtful pauses and large hand gestures, he explained: “The goal for American artists—any young artist—was to get beyond Cubism. And what happened with Pollock was he blew it open with that drip and painting on the floor. He was getting a sense of his own infinite depth. There’s just something shocking by the ambition of it. Only a knockabout, struggling, momentarily dry drunk American from the west would have done that.” After some laughter, he continued, “The formal breakthrough was called all-over painting where the emphasis is distributed across the surface. Think of the intensity of a brushstroke by Van Gogh. Take that intensity and spread it out to 16 feet so every part of what you’re looking at is doing that. Looking at Pollack is like leaning on a wall that isn’t there. You’ll fall straight through. Take it in as a whole. It’s that openness and energy which is pretty damn American.”

Schjeldahl is no stranger to thinking about what it means to be American. In Let’s See, he wrote, “Americanness is nobodiness. Deep down, I feel like nobody; and this void in me is the earnest of my belonging.” On the day when Chicagoans swarmed together to feel like they belonged to something bigger, to glorify an athletic achievement—the most American of celebrations—a smaller number of people gathered to hear a fantastic author and poet who is quintessentially American in a totally different way.

 

photo: Michael Kappel  http://www.flickr.com/photos/m-i-k-e/3261872192/in/photostream/