Late last month, Richard Prince's retrospective “Spiritual America” opened at the Guggenheim in New York City. The glittering array of sculpture, painting and photography, chronicling three decades of work, catches the shiny surfaces of America at its most banal: Playboy cartoons and Borscht belt gags, Sponge Bob Squarepants and naughty nurses, cowboys and cars line the museum's walls. (Here's an unauthorized look at the show.)
Reviews have been mixed; depending on how one feels about appropriation (Prince's stock in trade), irony (his longtime muse) and bricolage (his much-used method). But few have tackled what the show's conceit means to Prince or his audience—that is, what, why and how might art have something to say about the nation's soul.
Some reviewers made a slight nod in that direction. Writing in the New York Sun, Daniel Kunitz wonders if Prince's “polished mirror reflect(s) something empty in the spirit of America.” Likewise, John Haber, noting the irony of the title, finds it, nevertheless, “thoroughly dispiriting.”
But there's little explanation beyond these embedded complaints, and the paper of record makes no mention at all of the rationale for the retrospective's title.
Thankfully, The New Yorker's Peter Schjeldahl lets it all hang out, noting the reference is to Prince's “1983 photograph of an infamous Garry Gross photograph, published by Playboy Books, in 1976, of a naked Brooke Shields, aged ten, her prepubescent body oiled and her face given womanly makeup. Prince applied the title—which comes from Alfred Stieglitz, who coined it for his 1923 photograph of a gelded workhorse's rear end—to the work, to a show consisting of nothing else, and to the one off gallery in a Lower East Side storefront, that first hosted it.”
Interestingly, the photograph is not given pride of place. In fact, it's a little hard to find, hung off the beaten track opposite a woman's bathroom. In the curator's notes, Nancy Spector refers to it “as a portrait of desperation,” which—pimping a child's body as an intersection between innocence and experience—it certainly is. Still, as I looked (or looked away) from the image, I wanted to know more about why Prince had chosen spiritual America as an organizing theme.
It's easy to read into the exhibition. Photographs of Marlboro men, biker chicks, perfectly arranged rooms and sensuously displayed products reflect our soul's mediated desires. But the critique is a little too easy—Manhattan elite yet again skewers the masses—for comfort.
Perhaps reviewers take Prince's critique for granted: his work reveals the pretense, soullessness and dirty little secrets that make sport of our notions of a Christian nation. But I'd like to think there's more there. I'd like to hear from commentators who, understanding both art and religion in America, could say something, well, revelatory about this sobering rendition of our current spiritual state.