In Pursuit of Genius

In an era of artistic doubt, it is proper to hold the
occasional memorial. At times, such memorials are personal-- elaborate rituals concerning the moribund anniversary of the passing of a favourite goldfish, a return to the lost Twinkie^tm source of great inspiration from one's youth. At others, however, the exorcising values of memorials are far more universal. Such is the case with this column, where I aim to address the passing of an integral influence of a new generation of art, a primordial launching pad, as it were: namely, the all but complete disappearance of the Valentine Six.

Who could ever forget the innovations these brave six brought unto the art world? Who will ever be able to say with certainty that he knew them well? These six persons guided us selflessly into the movement, and yet, now, just two short years after they came onto the scene, they have, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. Sure, there are theories; aren't there always? One member recently had an aliased opening in Milan, another was outed as a full-time conspirator in a shady anti-Hirst cartel... But where are the originators, the idealists, in all their group force today?

I, like all interested persons, do not have the answers to these and other questions, but I do wish to contribute as best I can to their further investigation with a species of personal homage, an homage through which I hope to bring a lost message to the children of a generation so infinitesimally split from my own that its sole distinction may be just this: that it was never allowed the opportunity to grow from the actual presence of the Valentine Six.

As we all know, the world of art is a world of moments. A movement will rise and fall in the length of a brushstroke, in the time it takes to decide on the ideal adjective for a given iambic line. Nonetheless, even with this minute time frame, the Valentine Six managed to leave their mark, to shape the future of contemporary art (even this mighty sextet never dared propose that they shape the future of the past), to imprint their hallmark rebellion in the very foundations of all that is Fraud. In so doing, perhaps the most important thing they have left us is curiosity. We thirst to know just who they were, why they disappeared and why so suddenly, how they came to be, and if there are any underground plans in the works awaiting us at the next obscure Eastern European exhibit.

Perhaps a bit of history is in order. I would like to begin with what, after years of research, distinguishes itself as the indubitable starting point: the Italian proto-Frauds. It is a well established fact that such literary luminaries as Italo Calvino and Umberto Eco could claim a certain measure of influence on or by the divine Fraud. Calvino, for instance, once discussed the concept of how we categorise books. He deigned to include, among more familiar, socially acceptable categories, "Books we have not read but pretend we have" and "Books we have not read but think we have." Perhaps these are not his exact words, in part because his exact words were in Italian, but nevertheless, Calvino was right on track. With this excerpt alone, he demonstrates his recognition of a great and useful truism: we need not actually waste our younger years in pursuit of expertise simply to garner the posthumous title of expert; a simple decision to present oneself as an expert from the beginning will do.

In other words, society is gullible. No matter how weakly we might unveil our personas, society will latch onto them, re-enforce them with interviews and critiques until, if only by the sheer power of popular opinion, as the annals of history show, they have become actual persons. Once this is the case, one need not justify one's arguments, for the great masses will assume that any doubts they might raise will only be cut down with snappy rebuttals, based upon facts far more obscure than those contained within their inferior internal reference libraries. Rather than embarrass themselves in front of the academic public, they prefer to bow down to the genius, citing him in their own arguments and dissertations. Such that, step one: already there.

Art is a world of moments.
A movement will rise and fall
in the length of a brushstroke,
in the time it takes
to decide
on the ideal adjective
for a given iambic line.

Eco, then, a further and more contemporary development along these same lines, enters into this movement from a different angle. Rather than talk about the false categories whose alleged "reading" qualifies as us as omniscient experts, he bypasses the concept of reading altogether, and goes straight to the more pedantic exercise of university lectures. There, as his characters would have it (in an honesty far greater than the majority of deans, professors and assistants in Academia possess today) we should enrol in such truly useless classes as Oxymorons and Splitting Hairs. Acknowledging such divergences is as integral to the development of Fraud Art as Calvino and, of course, the Valentine Six.

For our heroes, the Valentine Six, did not emerge from a vacuum. On the contrary, they matured in the radical student chaos of Italy in the early latter half of this century, migrating to New York only just before their plans for an art revolution finally, suddenly seemed within reach. There, in the now diminished Little Italy, disguised behind elaborate masks of anonymous café, restaurant, and small shop assistants, they began to weave what would, within the next two decades, come to be perhaps the most significant realisation of Fraud Art in the entire final quarter of this century.

They began with publicity, but in contrast to typical marketing schemes and shenanigans, theirs was a subtle experiment in reverse psychology. Soon, the Big Apple was literally peppered with their propaganda, which screamed for their own deaths, presenting them as bona fide public enemies, even crossing linguistic boundaries to ensure that their seemingly odious presence would be attacked not only by the nation’s dominant Anglo culture, but also by the entire world. Within a year, their black, yellow, and red signs were notorious, and public opinion was roiled up about... it knew not exactly what.

So it was that, with a fair amount of fame, or infamy, behind them, they mounted their first, intentionally disastrous show. Trendspotters from the art world over arrived at what was expected to be an iconoclastic event. Not so. The pieces exhibited were merely traditional portraits, with nods to Da Vinci, Titian and Rafael. Certainly, their execution was masterly, belying the true skill upon which the group’s innovative self-marketing rested, but in a world that increasingly valued shock over talent, the beautifully contoured hands and pensive brows, the shadowed backgrounds and fine eye for perspective were all ignored. With the waves of disappointed spectators, who left the recently-opened and soon-to-be-closed gallery far faster than they had rushed to arrive, they achieved their second goal. They had now escaped from the strangling clutches of the Art Establishment, the socialite group of Hamptons-going self-proclaimed critics who, with a snap of the fingers and an open or closed wallet, could easily determine the success of failure of any new movement or idea.

What was left then were the few truly sharp-witted admirers who, upon applying the simple two-plus-two formula of eccentric publicity and true skill, quickly realised the awesome presence before which they stood. These six artists who, blending in with the crowd of spectators, "missed" their own opening were a force to be reckoned with and one from whom we would hear again. It didn't take long.

Soon, New York was alight with their fly-by-night exhibits and notorious celebrations. Members were secretly inducted and the Valentine Six became, in actuality if not name, the Valentine 17. Of course, the driving force continued to be the original members who, with occasional visits to the fatherland, expanded the horizons of the group into the all-important playing field of Europe. In 1996, seven of their gallery shows and fifteen of their excellent and cutting-edge parties were hosted in New York. The same year, similar exhibits arrived in Milan, Florence, Nice, Munich, and Paris. There seemed to be no stopping them. Their names dangled from the tips of a hundred art critics' pens; their sly and short-lived shows were must-see events from Prague to Paris, Pensacola to Portland.

Then, suddenly, at the end of this culminating year, they disappeared. Friends in the know could no longer contact them in their former Little Italy walk-ups; scholars and dilettantes alike could no longer learn through even the most improbable means of any new show or soirée; gossip columnists began to hint at a scandalous demise.

The truth, however, is neither so dire, nor so clear. Had their end been a true collapse (of friendship, dedication or funds) the disappearance could never have been so complete. And many of their one-time admirers and patrons, including such notables as Lumami Juvisado, Samuel S. Pierce and Rrandom Bodega, have continued in their footsteps, calling upon the truer, deeper meanings of the Fraudulent legacy they left behind. Some speculate that they will return, that this, like so many of their previous acts this is but a time of planning, moving and, eventually, shaking and stirring of an art world once more on the verge of narcolepsy. We can only hope it is so, and in the meantime, remember.

SUPERCOOL

What is SUPERCOOL??

SUPER COOL is a popular energy plasma ingested by teens in other galaxies. it gives them superhuman strength, and on rare occasions, the ability to fly. Caution: SUPERCOOL takes ten years off your life everytime you use it. Most people can only do it about seven times before they expire prematurely. Otherwise it's a blast!

Messages from Victims of SUPERCOOL

hello there little peoples whom get this lil' messgae thing. This is your friend WhiteRainbow warning you about Supercool. Stay AWAY FROM SUPERCOOL. The student bodie doesnt get it, please help your children through this crisis. THIS IS NOT A JOKE! Your children could die in YOUR arms!! Thanks!

FROM painfreak@hushmail.com

I need help. I'm not sure how to address the subject but I am currently addicted to supercool. I don't know how to stop. I see that there are others out there who once used it and now don't, I need to be like that. I need my life back. I didn't think that supercool would be addicting, but everyday I sit here at work just wishing I had some supercool to do. I need to be supercool. PLEASE HELP, I NEED ADVICE.

LETTER FROM AN EX-SUPERCOOL ADDICT.

I WAS JUST LIKE YOU. I THOUGHT IT WAS COOL GOING TO PARTIES AND GET "SUPED-UP" ON SUPERCOOL WITH ALL MY FRIENDS. IT WAS A LOT OF FUN, AT FIRST, BUT NOW I WISHED I NEVER SAW THE STUFF.

THE FIRST TIME I TRIED IT WAS WITH MY FRIEND CHUGGER. SEE, HIS DAD WORKS FOR THE PENTAGON AND HE HAD A WHOLE BARREL OF IT IN HIS BASEMENT. CHUGGER'S PARENTS WERE IN BERMUDA ON VACATION AND WE WERE TRYING TO FIND THE OLDMAN'S SCOTCH WHEN WE CAME ACROSS A GLOWING CONTAINER MARKED, "SUPER-ENERGY PLASMA". SO ME AND CHUGGER DECIDED TO DRINK SOME. IT WAS FREAKY! ALL OF SUDDEN I STARTED TO FEEL ALL STRONG AND SH*T AND CHUGGER STARTED TO FLOAT. SO WE BOTH WENT OUTSIDE AND STARTED TO FLY. IT WAS GREAT! WE FLEW TO THE MALL AND AS A JOKE, WE PICKED UP PEOPLE'S CARS AND SPELLED OUT DIRTY WORDS WITH THEM IN THE PARKING LOT. THEN WE SET FIRE TO OURSELVES AND RAN AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD SCREAMING., "HELP WE'RE ON FIRE!" EVERYTIME SOMEONE TRIED TO PUT US OUT WE'D RUNAWAY AND THE FIRE DEPARTMENT CHASED US ALL OVER TOWN. IT WAS A BLAST.

AFTER THAT WE STARTED CALLING THE STUFF "SUPERCOOL" AND ALL SUMMER WE HAD SUPERCOOL PARTIES. ALL OUR BUDS WOULD COME OVER AND WE'D PLAY ULTIMATE FRISBEE WITH SEWER CAPS OR A BUNCH OF US WOULD FLY UP TO A JUMBO JET AND SIT ON THE WING AND FREAK THE PASSENGERS OUT. OR SOMETIMES ME AND CHUGGER WOULD FLY UP TO MOUNT RUSHMORE AND DRINK URANIUM SHAKES AND PLAY CATCH WITH TEDDY ROOSEVELT'S HEAD. BUT THEN, AFTER A FEW WEEKS, I NOTICED SOMETHING WEIRD WHEN I LOOKED IN THE MIRROR. I WAS GETTING OLD. MY HAIR WAS COMPLETELY GRAIR AND WAS STARTING TO FALL OUT. I FELT TIRED ALL OF THE TIME. CHUGGER'S SKIN ALL LOOSE AND LEATHERY AND COVERED WITH LIVER SPOTS. AND HE WAS ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT HIS RHEUMATISM. IT SUCKED BUT WE KEPT ON GETTING SUPED-UP AND WE KEPT ON GETTING OLDER TOO.

AFTER ABOUT SIX OR SEVEN TIMES WE DISCOVERED THAT DOING SUPERCOOL MADE YOU LIKE TEN YEARS OLDER EVERYTIME YOU DID IT. WE TRIED TO WARN OUR BUDDY KEVIN ABOUT IT, BUT HE JUST KEPT ON DOING IT. HE MUST HAVE DONE IT LIKE TEN TIMES. ON THE ELEVENTH TIME HE JUST TURNED INTO A PILE OF DUST! AFTER THAT, WE FINALLY STOPPED DOING IT. NOW ME AND CHUGGER ARE SENIORS AND WE'RE LIKE EIGHTY YEARS OLD. IT REALLY SUCKS. EVERYONE MAKES FUN OF US. SO TAKE MY ADVICE AND JUST SAY "NO" TO SUPERCOOL. SURE IT GIVES YOU SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH AND SOMETIMES YOU CAN FLY. BUT BEING OLD IS REALLY UNCOOL.

---

SUPER COOL IS TEARING AWAY AT THE MORAL THREADS OF OUR SOCIETY. A LONG STANDING EPIDEMIC, SUPER COOL HAS BEEN RESPONSIBLE FOR MANY OF THE TRAGEDIES THAT WE SEE IN OUR DAILY LIVES. OUR SOCIETY HAS HAD ITS BATTLES WITH PCP, COCAINE, AND CRACK AND WE'VE FOUND OUT THE HARM THEY'VE DONE. SO NOW IS THE TIME FOR ACTION. WE NEED YOU TO HELP FIND OUT "WHAT IS SUPER COOL?" CALL UP THE MEDIA. ASK THEM:

"WHY HAVEN'T WE HEARD MORE ABOUT SUPER COOL?" "WHAT'S BEING DONE TO STOP THIS EPIDEMIC?" "WHY AREN'T YOU DOING MORE STORIES ON THE TRAGEDY CAUSED BY SUPER COOL?"

WE DESERVE AN ANSWER. YOU CAN GET ONE. CALL THESE MEDIA OUTLETS AND ASK THEM.

SALLY JESSY RAPHAEL - 212-244-3595 xt. 58 or 13
LARRY KING LIVE - 1-800-676-2100
MONTEL WILLIAMS - 212-989-8101
IMUS SHOW - 1-800-370-4687- 5:00AM-10:00AM
RICKI LAKE - 1-800-467-4254
TALK BACK LIVE - 1-800-510-5226
BILL MAYSER SHOW 212-244-1050 -5:30AM-10:00AM
NEW YORK & COMPANY 212-669-8460
SAM GREENFIELD SHOW 212-244-1050 9PM-11PM
ON THE MEDIA - 212-669-8110 4PM-5PM
OTHER STATIONS

LET US KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE. SEND US TAPES FROM YOUR ON AIR BROADCAST OR PHONE CONVERSATION. WE WANT TO HEAR WHAT YOU FIND OUT.

---

kband@kband.com
developed from UCB's Agent Mission Feed

Red Umbrellas

What is truly phenomenal about Vokali Constent's new novel is its timing. The 90s have been a decade marked by collapsing borders and disintegrating frontiers. In Europe, countries are uniting; increasing numbers of people are traveling to increasing numbers of places; certain tongues have begun to emerge as truly international languages. The expansion of the Internet into the private sphere, the masking over of ancient, unspoken rivalries, even the homogenizing effect of the new mass media have all contributed to shrinking the world into a palm-sized planet or, at least, to lifting it off Atlas's shoulders and placing it by his side as a peer. In the midst of it all stands Red Umbrellas.

The title of Constent's sixth novel is, in keeping with his most distinctive characteristic, purposefully deceptive. From To Meld Western and Eastern Perspectives, his first essay (published backwards), to his phantom opus, Novel 2 1/2, to his brief forays into the visual arts, Constent has always played with his enthusiasts' minds.

"Reading," he once said, "has returned to its mid-life reincarnation: a pastime for the bourgeoisie... that, and a few duty-free Grishamite thrills at the airport. We need to challenge ourselves, keep our brain cells from being sucked down yet another cathode ray tube into yet another insidious Dan Rather eyebrow." With Red Umbrellas, he has demonstrated just how universal this call to arms really is: the words "red" and "umbrella" are the only two to appear in English... or any other known language.

Of course, to say that the text is not written in any known tongue is not to say that it is written in no tongue at all. The tender nuances of Constent's prose belie any accusations of gibberish or farce. Think Lewis Carroll, think Anthony Burgess, think, even, of some new incarnation of the familiar, excusable guile of Huckleberry Finn. Then remember: the narrative of Red Umbrellas is no dialect, nor is it slang, nor even the Latinate invention of Tolkien's Elves. It is one of a kind, and it is real.

Turn the page. The novel's first phrase is breathtaking: "Jy rzed pjy azf qem rja dazf qyqatoyd nu pjy nvevj," or "He was the old man who sold memories by the beach" [my translation; the Vokali Constent Authoritative Scholar suggests, "She swept her old memories into the surf"]. It only grows lusher from there. In a phosphorescent wash of syllables and stops, we are whisked through the first chapter into the fourth.

An editor's error? Hardly. On separate occasions, Constent has admitted to the admiration he feels for such mix-and-match authors as Cortázar and Burroughs, not to mention his penchant for the adolescent Choose-Your-Own-Adventure series. Besides, reading the book requires the sudden, spontaneous and unconscious absorption of an undefined language, an über-sensitivity to the texture of sound and to the colors of consonants and vowels. Linear time is simply not an issue.

Constent himself has taken reactionary criticism in stride, with published comments such as, "I have never in my life tried to swindle anyone; I have never written a fraudulent word." Of course, one might be tempted to cry irony.

Throughout the late 80s and into the first years of this decade, the vast majority of his efforts were concentrated on promulgating the early Fraud Art movement. Indeed, the title 'Red Umbrellas' is most likely a blatant nod to the creativity and early development he experienced during that time spent in the company of other original group members. Only in 1993, when he found himself in sharp dissent with the others' suggestions for a formal name for the group, did he actually cut his ties with them, and, even then, it was with contradictory feelings.

"I can only grieve for the loss of the potential collaboration, criticism and advice that my parting will most likely cause me," he stated in an interview at the time. "It is only the name I cannot abide. There is so much in a name after all, and whether one thing actually becomes two upon a second christening is yet to be proven."

(Critics were quick to retort that this was nothing more than his little personal consultant speaking: the label "Fraud," they asserted, was not going to help a known iconoclast-- one who had already intentionally (and openly) failed to produce a similarly intentionally (and openly) over-hyped new novel-- market his future efforts.)

But Fraud, and fraud, are not the same, and for the countless time in countless years, Constent once more delivers, and he delivers big. In more than one interview, he has shyly corrected the pronunciation of a certain phrase, the stress of a multi-syllabic word or even the unique manner in which his punctuation is intended to be observed, interspersing such corrections with witty tributes to Nabokov and his colorful alphabet spectrum and references to Emily Dickinson's passion for dashes.

Yet after, he always maintains that the beauty of an invented language is that it exists for everyone, from the Eskimos, with their many words for snow, to the British, with their many words for drunk. There is no alienation, no target group. In fact, his is the anti-marketing statement of the year, an observation that leaves most of his more scathing retractors hard-pressed to defend their attacks.

And the truth is, he is right. Ingesting the final crisp rounds of Red Umbrellas is the literary equivalent of watching the last currents of water spiral from the tub. We stare transfixed as they leave us behind, a whirlwind of motion that transcends the physical limitations of our own flesh. We are tangibly aware that we could never move fast enough to stop them and that our only hope is to gaze upon their clear beauty and reflect, or-- delicious treat of all treats!-- to run ourselves another bath. Likewise, with each read, Constent's prose grows richer, his characters more vibrant, the surreal details of the vignettes that connect the dots of their lives, more symbolic. We are, in short, reminded that reading is a journey of all the senses, of the self, not a mere mechanization of the eyes.

Of course, the essence of the story line, for all of its ambiguity and disguise, is also, quite literally, a gem. In a recently published biographical essay about Constent (The Modern Iconoclast, by Agnes Till), we are told of what appeared, until the publication of Red Umbrellas that is, to be an insignificant event in the boyhood of the author.

"On the beach with his father that day," Miss Till explains, "he was suddenly pierced by the sharpest pain his sand-smoothed foot had ever known. Upon further investigation, its source was found to be a semi-smooth piece of blue bottle glass. As the boy's father extracted it, the slightly bloodied edge caught the light of the fading day, and the young author whispered to his father in amazement, 'This must be the memory stone; it didn't want me to forget where I was going.'"

In light of this incident, we can easily identify the essential human soul of the characters who populate Constent's book, and perhaps of the prose itself. We grow even more attached to Jyffu, our mariner's half-remembered daughter, to her somnambulant dog Dsetl, and to the René Magritte beach on which, and over which, the plot unfolds.

Or maybe we don't. Maybe we've never read of Jyffu or Dsetl in the history of our literate lives. Maybe we've fallen through the sieves of the dreams of a parrot-cum-bard named Zyvp instead, an avian inspiration that circles above the ships of many a famous poem and recounts the moments that were not deemed worthy of mention: the off-duty sailor scratching his foot, the cook and his struggles to keep his sole good kettle clean, the seemingly trivial creaks of a particular wooden plank or the slippery smell of a dank, discarded rope. That is the beauty, not the fault, of Red Umbrellas: what some have denounced as inanity is, in fact, the longest step yet taken toward bridging the cultural, linguistic and geographical gaps that have kept us apart since the dawn of mankind.