By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
Like break dancing, beatboxing and all things hip-hop, graffiti is back, and that means graffiti artists such as McGee are making their way into galleries. In April the Village Voice earnestly dubbed the San Francisco art school grad "the new real thing."
But this phenomenon is not an instant replay. Just because the art world turned away from graffiti for a decade or so doesn't mean graffiti remained in a state of arrested development. It's more sophisticated, complex and popular than ever. Tags such as Article and Next, both used by Houston graffiti writers, co-opt and mock media and advertising, and taggers read and interpret graff as if it were a community newswire service. McGee's work doesn't look anything like those old-school tangles of Carribbean color or the lithium-happy figures of Keith Haring's doodles. Instead, the gallery, which looks as if it has downed one of those minimart vitamin packs for night drivers, is decorated with McGee's trademark sad-sack, unshaven faces. As if to emphasize that the gallery wall is once again virgin territory, there are but a few tags and throw-ups (a tag is a quickly scribbled writer's name; a throw-up is the larger, balloon-lettered version).
McGee's faces, which he has drawn so many times indoors and outdoors they're beginning to look like clip art, are surprisingly anachronistic, less like what one might think of as graffiti and more like '50s cartoons of hobos or drawings from Mad magazine. Usually they are droopy, generically ethnic, urban characters -- the people you might find standing around in front of a wall of graffiti in the 'hood. But at Rice, McGee has given the largest of the faces a cowboy hat. The name of the show is "Hoss," and the cowboy seems to have something to do with McGee's romantic notion of Texas, which is about as clever as going to Ireland, say, and doing an installation called "Drunk." I know most everyone comes to Texas with visions of Bubbas and longhorn steers, but I always think artists are going to be smarter than that.
In the main gallery, McGee has at least been smart about scale. The large wall drawings and scrawls are countered by a cluster of small framed photos and sketches on one wall, and an arrangement of flask-size liquor bottles logoed with little versions of McGee's faces on another. Despite the installation's graphic pop and sizzle, the small vignettes made up of drawings and found objects make only a dispirited attempt to coalesce into anything substantial. McGee, like the skulking little man he has drawn onto a small garage-sale painting of the Rice University quad, would clearly rather be someplace else: outside, bombing walls with spray paint. So why isn't he?
Unlike a lot of other graff writers, McGee goes by his name instead of his tag for gallery shows. While the art world blurs the line between McGee the graff writer and McGee the artist, McGee himself seems to be trying to keep his tag from being contaminated by legitimacy. He'll do pieces in the art world but explain publicly that he's in it only to get money to continue his streetside work. "Every time I do something indoors I have to do something 100 percent outdoors," McGee told the Voice, which applauded him for keeping it real.
The truth is, graffiti doesn't need galleries nearly as much as galleries need graffiti. McGee can't explain why he's attaching a name to an art form dedicated to anonymity. His uncertainty manifests as a coy modesty that is, in the end, stingy. At a lecture he gave on the history of graffiti in the '90s, he flashed past slides of his own street work quickly, muttering, "I did that" and ignoring audience pleas to back up so they could see, which left me wondering why the slides were in there in the first place.
"Hoss" can't decide whether it's a museum exhibit on graffiti or an art piece that uses the graffiti vernacular. "I'd like [graffiti] to be accepted as I'm not sure exactly how I'd like it to be accepted," McGee says. In the smaller gallery room, he has set up a hokey Smithsonian-like display, presenting an apocalyptic arrangement of cans of spray paint burnished down to the bare metal, a jacket whose inside pockets are filled with spray cans, and a sign, presumably stolen, warning away taggers, who tagged it anyway, of course. More aura than information, the jacket and its accessories do nothing more than try to prove McGee has street cred, and everyone knows that those who have it don't need to prove it. In this clean, polite place where the liquor bottles are empty, the jacket plays up the graff writer's absence rather than approximating his presence.