By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
Karen Kilimnik has a knack for picking at the scab of the national psyche.
Beneath the deceptively saccharine blush of her artistic production oozes celebrity-addled America's obsession with Page Six gossip, fashion glossies, purple tabloid prose, and Court TV.
Her complex work reminds us why a has-been wreck like O.J. Simpson can still dominate the 6:00 news.
The first American survey of Kilimnik's career is on view at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MoCA) and features more than 90 works spanning the past 20 years. These include paintings, drawings, photographs, assemblage, and installations, snazzily arranged to peel the layers off of this perplexing artist's insatiably inventive mind.
Kilimnik has become known for rifling 19th-century Russian ballet, British romantic painting, classical literature, popular consumer culture, and even the Brothers Grimm to feather her image nest.
She effortlessly mixes childlike naiveté with sordid fantasy in a messy collage in which polar opposites seem to simultaneously contradict and complement each other. It's a heady brew.
Consider her many twisted historical trails in the first stop at MoCA, The red room in the modern Architecture, a white cube within a white cube near the museum's entrance. It's a Kilimnik backhand to the minimalist convention of displaying contemporary art in a pristine white room.
Step through the cracked door and you'll find yourself in a twilight zone, part Victorian parlor, part Best Little Whore House in Texas.
It houses a survey of the artist's kooky figurative paintings hung salon style on red brocade walls. A poofy, guava-tinged circular divan anchors the space.
Some might dismiss the derivative hokiness of her paintings; others will embrace their Barbie-brained charm.
Curl up on her gaudy couch and it's easier to become sold on Kilimnik's romantic hooey, given the suspension of belief the instillation invites.
Ornately framed works depict Leonardo DiCaprio as Prince Charming, while others serve up the artist as jet-setting minx ready to party in Moscow with a friend. A photo of a dead squirrel contrasts with a portrait of Mary Shelley before she wrote Frankenstein. Saint George stomps on a dragon outside the Kremlin in one work, while another offers a strangler's point of view of a headless woman's exposed neck. References to fairy tales, witches, and precious pictures of animals abound.
Throughout the exhibit, Kilimnik juggles schizzy identities and dipsy-doodles between time periods and genres as she concocts a baroque potion that elaborately mixes fiction with fact. We are left wondering what gears are turning in the artist's head and why she goes to such lengths to draw us into her Mittyesque world, only to dissolve into thin air when we think we've pinned her down.
Ultimately Kilimnik leaves it to viewers to drink the Kool-Aid, embrace her skullduggery, and jump aboard for the magic carpet ride. Make no mistake, though: An unbridled passion for her subject matter and wicked paint skills ring clear as a church bell in her work here.
An interesting new wrinkle at MoCA allows visitors to use their cell phones to dial up commentary by curators, artists, collectors, and critics discussing Kilimnik's influences from art history and pop culture. The 12 audio tours range from one to two minutes in length and even include film director John Waters's take on the work. It's a nifty way to bone up on the artist's oeuvre.
Next up is The Hellfire Club episode of The Avengers, 1989, one of several of Kilimnik's "scatter" installations that first brought her attention.
She emerged in the early Nineties as part of the scatter generation of artists such as Félix González-Torres, Mike Kelly, and Cady Noland, whose work of the period was known for spit-together installations cooked up with every conceivable material from the scrap heap these artists could lay their mitts on.
Kilimnik's tribute to the Sixties British TV show was modeled on an episode called "A Touch of Brimstone," on view on a monitor at the rear of the museum.
In it the dashing John Steed and a hyperhot Emma Peel are seen fighting a wormy cabal of aristocrats who get their jollies through murder and mayhem. Inspired by the 18th-century Hellfire Club, the episode features period sets and costumes.
Kilimnik uses a trashed chandelier, photocopies, fabric, candelabra, toy swords and poleaxes, gilded frames, shattered mirrors, fake cobwebs, and a solitary riding boot stuffed with a string of pearls to stage her version of the secret agents' escapades. Madonna and the Pet Shop Boys warble from a battered boombox on the floor, fleshing out the tableau.
Another early installation that gets under the skin is I Don't Like Mondays, the Boom Town Rats, Shooting Spree, or Schoolyard Massacre. It riffs on the 1979 shooting spree in which 16-year-old Brenda Spencer opened fire on an elementary school playground across the street from her San Diego home. She used a rifle her father had given her for Christmas the month before.
A janitor and the school principal were killed when they tried to shield the kids; a policeman and eight children were wounded. At the end of a six-hour siege, Spencer told cops: "I don't like Mondays," adding she favored victims wearing red or blue jackets.