California State University, Northridge
The Future Is Malign
A Graduate Project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for
The degree of Master of Arts in Art, Visual Arts.
By
Garrett Pointer
August 2014
The thesis of Garrett Pointer is approved:
Professor Ron Saito
Date
Professor Christian Tedeschi
Date
Professor Samantha Fields, Chair
Date
California State University, Northridge
ii
Dedication
Dedicated to my mother, father, and sister.
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Table of Contents
Signature Page
ii
Dedication
iii
List of Figures
v
Abstract
vi
Introduction
1
The Farm
2
Abject
5
Sports
9
Found Objects and Mana
13
Conclusion
15
Biliography
16
Appendix
17
iv
List of Figures
Figure 1.1 “Carrot (The Future Is Malign)”, 2013, 60 x 16 x 16 inches.
4
Figure 1.2 “Earth Angel”, 2013, 24 x 12 x 12 inches.
6
Figure 1.3 “Critique”, 2013, video still.
8
Figure 1.4 “Sexy Boy”, 2013, video still.
11
Figure 1.5 “Crying”, 2012, video still.
12
v
Abstract
The Future Is Malign
By
Garrett Pointer
Master of Arts in Art, Visual Arts
As part of my thesis culmination I will present three sculptures in a series collectively
titled “The Future Is Malign”, accompanied by a written thesis of the same title. The
sculptures will be interpretations of three vegetables, including: a carrot, radish, and
tomatoes on a vine. I will make efforts to present my visual character in the sculptures
while exploring similar allegorical themes between farmer and artist.
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Introduction
If I am only animal
Then I can do no wrong
But they say I’m something better
So I’ve got to hang on
- Darby Crash, Manimal
I work to be Mickey Mantle, chasing the Babe, stepping in a drainpipe. To bludgeon like
George “The Animal” Steele. To be cunning like a bunt lay off the bat of Brett Butler.
The way in which I manipulate materials in the studio is inspired by the experience of
working on a farm, George “The Animal” Steele, the pace and the intertwined tragedies
and glories present in sports best highlighted by Los Angeles Dodgers announcer of 67
years Vin Scully.
My work encompasses concerns pertaining to: popular culture, post 9/11 politics,
American war culture, pollution, food safety, corporate dominance, and media slop. I
wish to salvage humor out of these terrible things while stripping them of their power.
Concepts of the abject, such as those proposed by Julia Kristeva inform my work and are
mashed with icons to expose vulnerability, futility, and defeat. I utilize found objects, or
better, orphaned treasures and trophies of insignificance to execute conceptual pieces. I
infuse energy into my work through touch, using repetition, bastardization, and my sweet
caress to implant the desired energies into sculptures.
1
The Farm
Working with my hands connects me with primordial dilemmas. I believe manipulating
materials with these basic tools connects me universally and with artists of the past. My
parents keep a small farm and their ways of building and fixing has imprinted onto my
own practice. Fences were stitched together with bailing string, in the rain. Quickness and
ingenuity is an advantage, when traditional methods are abandoned. A farm demands a
lot of maintenance and attention to be frequently paid to animals, plants, and structures.
Structures fall, animals die, and vegetables rot if you don’t pick them in time. Death is
something that often occurs on the farm and I have been witness to many animals
passing, chicken massacres, and drowned squirrels in water buckets. Undoubtedly, these
experiences formed my views in life. A sense of independence is achieved when you
stack fresh chicken eggs in your palm and when you cradle vibrant vegetables piled in a
sun hat. Not only independence, but a real disdain for the blend of our government’s
influence over American society, the marketplace, laws, and concepts of morality.
Standing under the expansive blue sky striped with chemtrails, holding tomatoes, I
capture a Nihilistic stance for the values of popular society and the hyper-politicized
environment that has infected my life since the event of 9/11. Much of my work concerns
itself with methods of oppression. I was 17 when 9/11 happened. I had my eyes open
enough to see how the world changed because of that tragic event. Unifying collective
empathy in the shock of the aftermath quickly faded and post 9/11 politics and the
accompanying mass media aimed to divide thought, endlessly presenting issues that
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polarize people, keeping our boots stuck in the mud, hung in a corrupt time that
consumes life spans, up and down two steps on the stairway that leads to a dark room.
Collecting squashes, it is a grinning malevolence towards things that encompass so many
wrongs in this world. It is a stagnant bitterness and laughing cynicism. This brooding
mood is akin to and was so effectively present in the growling bass lines of Will Shatter,
in a musical dogfight that was the band Flipper, smashed with the acerbic wit of Bruce
Loose whose confrontational vocals confront and sarcastically criticize listeners while
exposing plain, sad, irony, chanting, “That’s the way, of the world.”
My series of vegetables represents ideas of independence, still lifes, and antiestablishment ideals. A furious freedom is caught holding the eggplant under the sun.
Breathing life into a coolly vile hatred for sticker residue. This sustenance came from a
seed, of the watered soil. I wipe the caked dirt off of the squash, wipe my sweat, and say
“fuck you” across the land, over the mountains, the wake wrapping around the world
infinite times. In the studio, there is the same sentiment sent out to demolish corruption,
doomed to hit unnoticed like a pebble. From a seed to the fruit, allegorical cases are ripe
in the practice of farmer and artist. The historical reference to a still life is replicated in
my own fashion, emphasizing abject thoughts of dead moments. Like the farmer I strive
to accomplish in a traditional sense. I nurture, I make, I am prideful, this is mine.
3
fig. 1.1 “Carrot (The Future Is Malign)”, 2013, 60 x 16 x 16 inches.
4
Abject
A squirrels’ corpse at the prongs of my wire rake, roadkill, and sun-basked power stations
are abject reminders of the horrors of life and death. Julia Kristeva’s Powers of Horror
An Essay on Abjection has influenced the themes of my work and her ideas align with
ways in which I perceive the world. Kristeva describes the abject as “what disturbs
identity, system, order” (4), the border stands in defense of “Religion, Morality, Law”
(16). The abject exists in a contradictory relationship with the system of Christianity that
disseminates moral codes while establishing a collective social order in what is termed
the “symbolic system” (65). The attacking force, the abject is “immoral, sinister, a terror
that disassembles, a hatred that smiles” (4). The corpse, seen without God and outside of
science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life. Abject” (4). Roadkill. A
combination of decayed materials, the representation of my hand, and often-iconoclastic
themes, I incorporate ideas of abjection into my work.
My work “Earth Angel” utilized the scattered feathers of a dead goose that was eaten by
coyotes. The remnant of the killing was a circular pattern of scattered feathers spread in
an empty lot. I was drawn to the site that almost looked ceremonial and discovered small
particles of goose flesh and blood stained white feathers. I salvaged the small collection
of feathers and used other materials I had found in the landscape of my town, a rusted
piece of hardware from a large machine and a split ax handle. I intended to emulate the
circular pattern, the bit of beauty in an abject thing. With my sense of humor as I
approached the divine circular mosaic of blood stained feathers, I broke into song.
5
I enjoyed how the title “Earth Angel”, references the song of the same title. The concepts
and era that the song represents is mashed with the visceral nature of the feathers.
Imagining the ripping apart of the goose by one coyote or more, manically yipping and
yelping, collides with the waxy notions of love, destiny, and beauty presented in the song.
The broken mirror the piece stands on reinforces the idea of false concepts of love and
the afterlife. I intended to combine the horror and lovely nature of the title and materials.
fig. 1.2 “Earth Angel”, 2013, 24 x 12 x 12 inches.
6
I explored themes of moral goodness, obedience, and absurdity in my seven-minute video
performance “Critique”. This piece is about the origins of critique itself and how we
judge our actions in a faith dominated society. Foucault argued that our conclusions to
what is good and bad is rooted in scripture. In The Politics of Truth Foucault said, “The
Christian Pastoral, or the Christian church inasmuch as it acted in a precisely and
specifically pastoral way, developed this idea-singular and. I believe, quite foreign to
ancient culture—that each individual, whatever his age or status, from the beginning to
the end of his life and in his every action, had to be governed and had to let himself be
governed, that is to say directed towards salvation, by someone to whom he was bound
by a total, meticulous, detailed relationship of obedience” (43). From that, I wanted to
make this action of pursuing a moral ideal and have that quest be funny, odd, and violent.
The steak substitutes for the body of Christ, while offering ironic qualities being that of
dead flesh that was slaughtered, packaged, and displayed to be purchased as a wholesome
American manly meal. The ambiguity that forms between whether or not I’m pulling
myself up, something that figuratively seems like a positive, or whether I’m on the floor
eating like an animal, acts as a question that the viewer wants to figure out just to resolve
their own perspective looking at it. The question of those two possibilities is what I
intended the video to be about.
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fig. 1.3 “Critique”, 2013, video still.
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Sports
The fashion of the wrestling used by George “The Animal” Steele is one born out of
primordial maliciousness, unrelenting ignorance, and superior strength. Stomps, The
Flying Hammerlock, and the usual nonsensical interlude of eating the turnbuckle are the
successful components of a victory for The Animal. My pursuit in the studio is of a
similar fervor, relying on force and straddling the line of a graceful refinement, or being
merely a product of simple brute actions. And further, the improvisation, values, and pace
set in sports is an inescapable influence in my studio practice. As a lifelong fan of the
four major American sports I have idols that I directly draw inspiration from, whether in
the studio or out. I admire those with class that treat their game with utmost respect and
dignity for those that came before them and for those they share the field with. Also, I
admire competitive passion that can sometimes spill over into misguided nastiness. I
seize inspiration from regal poster boys riding the surge of their own seemingly destined
glory and villains that reject admiration out of their own cursed dysfunction, flourishing
mostly when they are the subject of biased vindictiveness, showered in a chorus of boos.
Sport demands ability to execute in clutch situations, to repeat an action that adheres to a
long secure history, with no wasted motion, in an effort to succeed in a traditional sense,
but still borne out of one individual’s unique skill, memorialized into a glorifying
moment, erected in fleeting seconds, cemented in the past. My studio is my batting cage.
I’m a possessed Jerry Rice sprinting up a mountain in the offseason, chasing a futile
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moment that has no promise. Delusional or not, this mental state extends into my
everyday life and infests how I view the world. A linking trait in these phenomena that
inspire my work is the element of play. Undeniably, my work in the studio is play. Like
sport, art is imbedded into a history, personally and professionally, of play. I embrace the
process, which is a lot of fun. Art making is my own ritual, executing forms I imagine
and that is a joyous act. However cynical themes might emerge, the ultimate goal is a
celebration of how odd, funny, and doomed the despicable things are.
Video offers a direct outlet for themes in my work. In the video “Sexy Boy” I was
inspired by my boyhood recollection of the spectacle of professional wrestling. The
impression of what a man must be to be sexually appealing to the opposite sex was a very
serious consideration for a boy in awe of a character’s flamboyance, squeal inducing
good looks, and ultra-cool demeanor. With that memory, I attack machismo. Reversing
the gaze, I place myself in the role of boyhood idol and sex icon, professional wrestler
Shawn "The Heartbreak Kid" Michaels. Jumping on a bed, I push against notions of
machismo and sex appeal. The false facade of masculinity that professional wrestlers
represent is as sheer as the glean of sweat hanging on the ridge of my brow. Nervous,
clumsy, hairy, fat, and vulnerable, I am an anti-hero in the shadow of a rampant, juvenile,
abject masculinity.
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fig. 1.4 “Sexy Boy”, 2013, video still.
In a similar video work, “Crying” I expose a moment of vulnerability as I sing along to a
Roy Orbison song, challenging the taboo of male grief, while emotionally eating chicken
with ketchup, and watching a game of basketball. Roy Orbison was given glasses because
he was deemed ugly. Behind the shades his beady close-set eyes became mysterious,
dangerous, and sexy. The pained songs of this ugly-velvet-voiced-crusher have a special
place in my soul, amen. The sunglasses serve as a mask to my true emotions. I intended
to present myself in a disheveled, vulnerable, and miserable state. Unshaven, greasy
haired, shirtless, sad, lonely, feeling behinde, at the end of my wits. I like to emphasize
beauty in tragic things.
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fig. 1.5 “Crying”, 2012, video still.
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Found Objects and Mana
I believe in an object’s ability to hold a significance, capable of becoming imbued with
residual energy like Mark McGwire’s steroid aided 62nd home run ball of the 1998 MLB
season; a home run that surpassed the immortal Roger Maris, robbing his title, adding to
Maris’, ever loved, melancholic figure. Through sports I understood and accepted ideas
of fetishized objects at a young age. I now operate with a constant compulsion to pick up
any bottle caps, pennies, and balls I come across.
A piece of art can be potent with the creator’s energy through the manipulation of
materials, frequent handling, and song. The term “mana” is given to a belief that
permeates through many cultures, commonly African and Polynesian regions. The New
Zealand Oxford Dictionary places it as of Maori origin, stating: “the supernatural power
pervading a person or thing.” As explained in a lecture by Dr. Peri Klemm, mana is a
force, a person’s energy that can become infused with inanimate objects such as idols or
frequently handled tools. A maker of an idol will become entranced, locked into a state of
making that can last long periods, chanting sacred songs, in an effort to make a charged
object. Learning this concept strengthened an allure to found objects. I feel a residual
charge from items that I pick up. They serve as relics of another’s experience and as a
deep source of wonder. The dejected remnants are saturated with evidence of all
conquering time, decay, and finitude. The wonderfully abject patina of these orphaned
treasures and trophies of insignificance has led me to trek over and through the desert
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hills and riverbeds of my hometown. Once a buzzing mining town, I now oddly take the
role of a sort-of-miner, of nothing, twisted, befitting of the time I find myself living in. It
enriches my artistic process to reach remote plateaus where outsiders perch, breaking
empty beer bottles, shooting guns, and throwing ignorant fists; rambling through the
riverbed collecting the societal sediment that has become ensnared in a Juniper tree,
rusted piles of cans lying on the bank of the shore, beaten for decades by the burning sun.
The sun has an ability to erode and make once durable materials brittle, reminding us of
the skeleton and mortality. I find the abandoned remains leftover from by-gone strangers
and I act as a savior to these tragically beautiful, irrational, worthless items. As the
nomadic-anarchist-artist Al Hansen once roamed La Brea Avenue collecting cigarette
butts with the intention of elevating the disposed litter to art, found objects also inspire
me to imagine forms utilizing or building off of the existing structures I encounter. Found
objects are of the right caliber for my work. They are Remus and Romulus sent down the
river. I make sculptures to express poetic observations on oppressed contemporary
moments, displaying my methods of building and aesthetic choice, using the things I
make to serve as milestones to my existential consciousness; charged objects through the
investment of time and handling, serving as abject relics.
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Conclusion
An AWOL teen jumps a VW Bug through the dark night’s air, heavy with the smell of
moist dirt and fresh manure. The atmosphere of my small town informs my work through
it being a place where misfits and skepticism gather in what feels like the outside more
than within; where the misfits retreat to their perch to feel that much more removed,
starring out onto different hues of darkness.
I represent forms that express an elusive abject hilarity in the oppression of the human
animal. By focusing on this I hope to expedite a greater freedom and dismantle
illegitimate powers.
I work to be like Ty Cobb sliding into third base, spikes up, sneering.
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Bibliography
Crash, Darby. Manimal. The Germs. Joan Jett, 1981. Vinyl recording.
Foucault, Michel, Sylvère Lotringer, and Lysa Hochroth. The Politics of Truth. Los
Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2007. Print.
Kennedy, Graeme D., and Tony Deverson. The New Zealand Oxford Dictionary. South
Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford UP, 2005. Print.
Klemm, Peri, Dr. "Polynesian Art." California, Northridge. Lecture.
Kristeva, Julia, and Leon S. Roudiez. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New
York: Columbia UP, 1982. Print.
Loose, Bruce. Way of the World. Flipper. Will Shatter, 1982. Vinyl recording.
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Appendix
Driving, I’m in fear. People I knew have died in cars. Celebrities, idols, and even people I
knew in real life. My Mother and I drove into windy East Lancaster to find a replacement
for a dead goose. The woman who sold us the female white goose with a limp had
kennels filled with dogs and a large flock of geese, goose paradise, Xanadu. She told us
how kids feed birds rice to make them explode. We promised this white goose would be
going to a good, happy home. She would have a partner goose boyfriend that honks when
I make popcorn late at night, honking outside the kitchen window, in the backyard, at the
foot of the slope, underneath the neighbors bedroom window. Our property is loud, they
must hate us, they do. We were the yellers on the street, the whole street knows down to
the bottom home, and so does the town. The house has a beautiful view. You can see
almost everything the small town offers. Mcdonald’s, Jack In The Box, 76, AMPM,
Shell, Don Cuco, and Fox Hay Feed and Grain. Our guy that delivered the hay was
named Clemente. My Mother would talk to Clemente about women and finding the right
one, while he loaded all the new hay into the shed, she always tipped, too, it was more
common that people didn't. He died at Fox, some old woman backed into him with her
truck. He was crushed between the truck and stacked hay bails. They put a coffee can
with his picture on it in 76. My picture is in the 76, too, a team photo of the Acton A’s,
the perennial shittiest baseball team in the league. I try to recognize myself when I go in.
You can see it all, the four way stop from our house, and the 14 freeway that divides the
town. Late at night, I exit the freeway and approach the stop sign. Maybe because it’s so
familiar, I sometimes think that I crashed and died driving home, a dirty rap song is
17
playing talking about dicks and pussy, a punk-hick kid blows through the intersection.
The white goose is in a carrier, in the bed of my truck. My Mother and I talk about a guy
I went to high school with, that died on the same road. He played football and had a
really big ass. Others would grab a handful of it, in practice. He forgot his mouth guard
one day and chipped his tooth. When we were kids, we were in 4-H together. His horse
had a baby. Me, my Mom, and my Sister went to go see it. The mommy horse was not
responding to it like she should have. The next day they found the baby horse with it’s
head submerged under water in the bucket. Chris was sobbing so hard, I was crying, but
not as hard as my Sister and Chris. His dead horse lay in the barn. Chris was never the
type that stood up for himself, and nobody ever did either. His girlfriend was a bitch,
wanting him to make more money. He died when he was 27, on that road. Mom said,
“What a rip off.” It gave me chills. We drove home.
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