Carroll Dunham

New York

at Gladstone


A “peculiar blend of slapstick idiocy and gallantry” is a phrase that captures the spirit of Carroll Dunham’s new paintings. Tellingly, it was written by Dunham himself in a review of Picasso’s late “Mosqueteros” oils (Artforum, Sept. ’09).

Indeed, paradoxical lunacy taunts us from every crazy treetop, wacky flower, hairy armpit and pneumatic nipple. Yet each painting is exquisitely formally balanced. Everywhere, irrationality and control are trying to screw the daylights out of each other. As thin, stained-glass-like washes of cobalt, viridian and ocher are often deliberately smudged with a dirty gray, so each quixotic attempt at spontaneous sincerity is undermined by a calculated, self-conscious gesture.

Three paintings portray “trees” in extremis. Toppled, windblown or smooshed, these obvious male surrogates, with foliage heads and limbless bodies, either look as though they have been ravaged by storms or suggest genetic experiments gone awry. Strange geometries collide with organic form. But while meriting analysis, these “Late Trees” are dramatically overshadowed by the six “Bather” paintings.

In each of these, a sole female bather is composed of outlined, subtly shaded, organic shapes created from the painting’s white ground. And unlike the other forms in the painting, she is not filled in, which emphasizes the constructed nature of her presence. Sexualized but faceless, voluptuous but unerotic, she sports features that might belong to a specific woman without representing a real person. Her depiction veers from intellectually formal to adolescently sarcastic, as Dunham makes our point of view feel surreptitious, as if she were Susanna and we, peering at her from behind a tree, the judgmental Elders.

Why bother with a naked bather? The subject seems so hopelessly archaic that the foolishness of considering it is anathema for contemporary painters. But Dunham’s writing on other artists can be clarifying. In another review (Artforum, Summer ’10), he refers to the “voluptuous, mad-looking muse with vividly rendered body hair,” in Otto Dix’s Self-portrait with Muse (1924). This description also characterizes Dunham’s bathers. Reimagining the artist’s muse in the digital 21st century is the sort of absurd endeavor that would attract Dunham. It provides just the right note that makes these paintings simultaneously uncomfortable and brilliant.

At 8 by 10 feet, Large Bather (quicksand), 2006-12, was Dunham’s signature work here. Seen from behind, the bather is leaning forward, her limbs spread in all directions. Hands and feet disappear or are amputated by trees, the ocher quicksand or the edge of the canvas. She is formally suspended but supports the whole structure of the painting. A bearded pink cartoon face, composed of anus and vulva with horizontal labia, smiles grimly between her buttocks and stolid spread legs, which could be seen as ham-fisted arms rubbing sleep out of eyes.

Further examination reveals a faint penciled X behind the concentric circles of the anus: the intersection of two imaginary diagonals marking the painting’s center. A typical Dunham conflation of formal and corporeal.

But reigning over everything is the bather’s hair. It protrudes in large tufts from her armpits and spreads out in dreadlocks and tendrils from the inky mass of her head, which acts as a black hole mocking the spiky cartoon sun to the left.

What finally elevates these paintings is Dunham’s interrogation and uneasy embrace of willful pictorial decision-making. Dunham directly challenges high painting’s prevailing dogma of wimpy indifference, arbitrariness and accident, and dares to insist it is time to move on.

Photo: Carroll Dunham: Large Bather (quicksand), 2006-12, mixed mediums on linen, 96¼ by 119 inches; at Gladstone.

Carroll Dunham

New York

at Barbara Gladstone


In the general scheme of Carroll Dunham’s work, this show could be said to represent his Nocturnes and Pastorals. In place of Dunham’s usual postulators, renegades, caballeros and assorted other big mouths, the subject of most of these new paintings (all 2009) is a woman—and she seems to be Woman, or at least a version of the female archetype. In most instances, she is on her stomach or knees, and seen from the back. We catch glimpses of landscape and sky either over her shoulders, under her arms or between her legs. Her environs seem to be the desert. Often, it is night.

Dunham makes all these elements iconic, or so reduces them to their simplest form that they actually bear little resemblance to what they represent—but we always understand what they are. The pink double humps in almost all of the paintings are buttocks. With the addition of a circle (anus) and a flattened oval below (vagina), there is no mistaking a female figure. Her shoulders, head (seen from the back or top) and extended arms complete the picture. Occasional surrounding flowers are depicted as if drawn by a child (or Japanese cartoonist). As for vegetation, three green humps indicate a cactus, and a brown rectangle stands for a tree trunk; foliage is a green curlicue—a kind of improvisatory Roman key. The sky is mottled light blue and white (daytime) or ultramarine with small white or yellow circles (nighttime, with stars). The figure’s hair, cranial and pubic, is also codified and always black. Above, Dunham renders it as a series of scalloped forms with blunt extensions, sort of a cross between a geisha and a Rastafarian; below, the hair is an unruly little black cloud.

The six paintings titled Hers (Night and Day) are variations of a single subject: a woman seen close up and from behind, sometimes with a breast visible on the side. Some are tightly cropped to zoom in on a particular area. With its convincing expression of the feeling of flesh in water at night, Bather/Night (32 by 41¾ inches) has a surprising visceral impact. Depicting the same subject, the much bigger Bather (one)—roughly 6 feet square—has a spacious tranquility. Tree with Red Flowers and New Time Storm (each 77¾ by 92¾ inches) both feature a single tree and its immediate surroundings, which is a barren landscape in the first; the second has more lush foliage, and the wood grain painted on its rectangular trunk seems a reference to the artist’s early paintings.

Dunham is intimately aware of the 50-year (at least) history of acrylic painting, and takes full advantage of many techniques that have come and gone. With a crazy but solid design sense, he works wet on wet, using hastily blended paint, thick or washy, and colors that range from straight-from-the-tube yellow ocher to tenderly blended white-to-rose. The effect is brash, like nothing we’ve seen before, and strangely affecting. Mood and feeling are achieved, and strongly, in all of these paintings with the least likely means. It’s like having an episode of “The Simpsons” make you really cry.

Photo: Carroll Dunham: Bather (one), 2009, mixed mediums on canvas, 71 inches square; at Gladstone.