Curatorial Introduction to the book The Poached Pack by Irving Sandler, Professor Emeritus at SUNY Purchase
Dr. Irving Sandler is one of the most respected art historians and critics of our time whose illustrious career spans five decades. His life work as an art-world insider has established him as supporter of emergent artist groups, advocate critic, as well as professor and mentor. In 1956, he became the director of New York’s legendary Tanager Gallery, Program Chairman for the Artist’s Club, and a reviewer for the esteemed publications ArtNews and Art International. After teaching at New York University throughout the 1960s, Sandler earned a Ph.D. in Art History in 1976; for the rest of his academic career he taught at SUNY Purchase, with occasional visiting professorships at other institutions. In 1972, he organized “Artists Space,” an alternative exhibition space in New York City to support contemporary and emerging artists and to encourage experimentation. In the 1970s, he began writing books; his publications are many and groundbreaking, including The Triumph of American Painting: A History of Abstract Expressionism (1970), The New York School: The Painters and Sculptors of the Fifties (1978), American Art of the 1960s (1988), Art of the Postmodern Era From the Late 1960s to the Early 1990s (1996), among others. In addition, he wrote monographs on individual artists, such as Alex Katz and Mark di Suvero. ************************************************************************ I first met Thomas Cressy, Charles Krauss, and James Valois squatting among the stacks of art history books in the library at SUNY Purchase. They had amassed a small fortress of books that were piled in front of them, and they poured through them. They indiscriminately put post-it notes on various pages with the speed and agility of a factory worker. I was trying to get to a book that was clearly in their line of fire. Rather than clearing my throat or trying to work around them, I slinked away, resolving to check out the book at a later, less populated time. When I returned to the library at eleven pm that night, the young men had not moved, had not stopped reading the books with their avigorous fervor, and seemed as if they had not even changed their seating positions. For the following three days, I continued to go to the library to check out the book—one on the art of the indigenous peoples of Mongolia. And for the following three days I was continuously thwarted by this pack of undergraduates that, for some inexplicable reason, cared deeply about indigenous art as well. It was not until a month later, when I attended an opening at the student-run Triangle Gallery on campus, that I understood those mysterious challenges I faced in the library. The three young men had put together a show entitled “Treasures of Hidden Zhezkadan!” The show was, apparently, an exhibition of the collections and findings the three students had made on a recent monthlong trip to the old city of Zhezkadan. The exhibit included an array of ephemera, including newspapers, clothing, trinkets, and posters, all of which embodied the humbleness, modesty, and playfulness characteristic of folk art. There was just one problem: Zhezkadan doesn’t exist. I knew they had not just arrived from the fictitious city because I very poignantly remembered seeing them in the library during the month they were on apparent “safari”. Regardless, I wanted to believe in the illusion. Each
object was beautifully crafted and lovingly made; the entire set-up of the exhibition, including the wall-text, was more sophisticated and intricate than anything I had ever seen at Purchase. I was shocked that three undergraduates had poured so much time, dedication, and research into a student show. Years later, I see that the same dedication and fervor that I witnessed in the library has not left the three artists. In fact, it has grown—their efforts have progressed in size, in scale, in scope, and in sophistication. Their move to Philadelphia and establishment of the art collective the Poached Pack is only fitting for such energetic producers. They have capitalized on their youth and their seemingly endless vigor, inviting not only four other artists to join them (Elsie Edwards, Carlos Hynde, Manya Scheps, and Blake Wallace), but an entire city to partake in their production with them. It is this youthful, can-do attitude that harkens back to the beginnings of modernism and contextualized the Poached Pack within a grander scheme of contemporary art history. When Martin Luther famously announced “Here I stand,” he overturned an entire universe of order. What was once the simplicity and straightforwardness of group mentality was suddenly questioned, critiqued, and overturned. Suddenly, the individual had credence. The individual had sovereignty. The group conformed to the individual, as opposed to what was formerly vice-versa. Similar shifts occurred in art history. Painters were not restricted to religious subjects—they were free to paint a common girl, a horse, a landscape, simply because it deserved to be painted. Fast forward a few centuries, and Luther’s radical declarations were taken even deeper to heart. The early 20th century saw the birth of true abstraction. Kandinsky’s paintings were inaccessible to anyone but himself. We could stare at them for hours, days, or years, and we would still never be able to truly understand them. The 1950s took this notion and made it even more excessive. Abstract expressionism was the pinnacle of the worship of the individual. That the artist’s gesture was the art itself was a revolutionary (and, to some, revolting) concept. It was the ultimate ego-trip, the ultimate proclamation of independence and individuality. Art throughout today continues to respect the individual author. However, in the past few decades, a radical alternative to the obsessive individuality and uniqueness of the artist has bubbled up and taken form: collectivity. In some sense, the establishment of the art collective is a big, radical, “take that” to Martin Luther and the like. The notion of working as a unit, of being recognized for the organization as opposed to the individuals that comprise it, is particularly radical in the age of digital technology. Today, we tread new ground with the concept of authorship. It is both at an all-time high and an all-time low. With advancements in technology, both in terms of equipment and accessibility, the ability to be the author of something—to have your voice heard—is greater than ever. It no longer takes much networking, schooling, or skill to reach a substantial audience. It also no longer requires much money—anyone is easily transformed into a filmmaker or documentarian, a photographer, a journalist. Yet these authors often remain anonymous; we refer to them by a pseudonym or the name of the website. Though we are curious, we are not ravenous to discover their identity. We are content with their existence alone. It is highly unlikely, even among a group of art-educated individuals, to find someone who could name the individuals in PaperRad, AntFarm, or any other semiprolific contemporary art collective. It’s not that we don’t care—it’s that we don’t need to know. Who cares what the individuals do? Who cares what their names are? They
are subservient to the entity of the organization, and what matters is that we know the organization’s name, the organization’s identity, the organization’s future. We have reverted back to a pre-Lutheran time in which individuals gladly gave themselves up to a greater identity. Sure, there’s some new-age mechanics mixed into the management of a collective. Such organizations are, as the name indicates, collectively run, without a hierarchy of authority. Individuals collaborate with each other and decide on various tasks in a purely democratic form. But, ultimately, the contemporary art collective shies away from the 20th century art historical models, particularly that of the artist as being a supremely important person. This might contradict certain notions about contemporary art, particularly alternative and radical art. A group of young artists, living in a warehouse, doodling the day away leads one to imagine such people as narcissistic and self-impressed kids out of touch with the operations of the real world. In fact, though, almost the opposite is the case. These young artists are keenly aware of the workings of the art world. They see the Chelsea gallery culture as being the ultimate in vanity and superficiality. They see the auctions of Jeff Koons paintings for 5 million dollars as disgusting, not inspiring. On the periphery of this world, they band together like herds of animals. Turned off by the competitive and fierce nature of the art world, they choose a more friendly, altruistic (though no less clique-y) approach. They want to help each other, they want to learn from their peers, they want to make art because they love it. So they establish an alliance among themselves, and, later, after their unit has gained some notoriety, with other units similar to themselves. Networks of such groups appear, working in similar manners with similar aesthetics. The entire process seeks unity as opposed to individuality, encouragement as opposed to competition, and alternatives as opposed to the norm. It is from this tradition that the Poached Pack makes work in Philadelphia. The Pack, like its predecessors (and soon-enough followers), employs this same rejection of Lutheran egomania and embraces the same dedication to the unit. Though all seven members have diverse styles, careers, and lives, as the public, we are not necessarily interested in what they produce on their own time. We see the exhibitions, we read the reviews, and we attend the events—all of which are concerning the entity. This book will inevitably shed light on the individuals of the collective and their relationships with one another. Ultimately, though, its purpose is to document this particular group at this particular juncture in time. Their optimism is bold, undeniable, and contagious. We too want to be a part of a group as closely-knit as this. We are inspired by their successful relationship with one another, which makes their work (already exciting enough) even catchier. This book aims to document the collective at a time of their irrefutable popularity, both in Philadelphia and on a global scale. From the moment that I, a tenured stodgy old professor, slinked away from three twenty-something undergraduates, I knew something was up. Over the past few years the Poached Pack has time and time again accomplished such feats of both intriguing and disturbing the academic and art-world authority. What does their future hold? I leave it to them, as a group, to decide.