Bad Boy by Eric Fischl

Author:Eric Fischl [Fischl, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7704-3558-5
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2013-05-07T04:00:00+00:00

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CONFLICT

1984

“I DON’T know how you make the paintings you make.” The voice—reedy, plaintive, provocative—belonged unmistakably to Julian Schnabel.

I was sitting on a fifties-style couch in David Salle’s exquisitely remodeled White Street loft talking with a friend. We were at a party that David had thrown to celebrate the opening of one of his early shows at Mary Boone’s SoHo gallery, and I was buzzed. Partly it was the champagne that David was serving. But I was also drunk on the atmosphere. That evening marked for me a change in the attitudes of the art world. Young artists, suddenly flush with cash, were shedding the gritty bohemianism of the seventies and embracing a modish upscale urbanity. In addition to the sleek modernist decor, David’s affair boasted a catered buffet and the moneyed din of polite conversation and gently clinking crystal. Sean Penn and Madonna lounged nearby.

So I didn’t react at first to Julian’s baiting remark or his huge shadow spanning the couch. In my relaxed state, it took me a second to realize I was under attack. And even when I looked up and saw him looming over me, practically straddling my legs, I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or serious. But then the room went quiet and I knew I’d been dragged against my will into one of Julian’s creations. I stood up, prepared for an old-fashioned Cedar Bar–style tussle. I thought he was going to take a swing at me.

Julian and I had our differences. When I first arrived in New York, I turned down an offer to exchange paintings with him. I just didn’t see anything of his that I wanted. He had such a grandiose personal style—so blustery and nakedly ambitious—it felt like a pose. I didn’t trust it, and it influenced the way I looked at his art, which I felt was derivative of European expressionists like Beuys, Gaudí, and especially Tàpies. It was actually shocking to me. After so many American artists had fought to overcome Europe’s cultural hegemony, to develop an American voice—not only in art but also in music, film, ballet, and literature—he was handing back power to Europe, power that we’d wrested from them in the postwar years.

His work seemed nostalgic for the good old days when men were men and painters were men and their paintings, larger than life, were worth fighting over. For Julian, the history of twentieth-century art went something like this: Picasso, Pollock, Schnabel. End of discussion, period.

Not trading pictures with him was probably dumb. That kind of rebuff would have pissed off any artist, no matter how humble or thick-skinned. I can only imagine how Julian took it. What’s more, I’d made no secret of my opinions. I was a lot feistier in those days and the art world a lot smaller. We all knew each other, hung out with each other, watched each other’s work and careers closely. There was no way Julian wouldn’t have gotten wind of my criticism of his work.

That’s what I thought as I waited for the first punch to be thrown.

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