SHEDDING THE LUSTER

Swiss director, Pepo Cendrars has rinsed the pollen of hagiography from the Currado Malaspina myth machine. His brave new film will be released this coming spring and it promises to unravel the largely unexamined connection between Currado's chestnut charm his tactical priapic meanderings and his under-merited renown.

ENVERGURE

Hard to believe but at one time Currado Malaspina was known simply as un homme de beaucoup mérite. His first foray into the international art scene was the 1979 Belarus Biennial where he shared the small French pavillion with six other artists. The show was an incoherent mishmash of parched academic miscellany and fortunately, lacking the prestige of other planetary art fairs, the event was scarcely noticed beyond the borders of Minsk.

He was happy at the time to be included in any exhibition and he showed the commensurate gratitude and grace. He impressed his peers by his humility and his professional generosity.

To pinpoint the exact date when Currado Malaspina became the petulant, egomaniacal narcissist bent on advancing his career while destabilizing the reputations of his colleagues is hard to do with any degree of certainty. Some contend that it was about the time he published the Pointed Plunder Manifesto. Others insist it was shortly after the tragic death of his second wife Celeste.

One thing all agree on is that this flawed genius has drifted light years away from that homme de beaucoup mérite. But allow me to indulge in a brief hallucination as I post above one of the drawings Currado exhibited in Minsk. This lovely piece is inscribed to me on the back and has been in my collection for nearly 30 years.

THE WORLD IS A MIRROR OF MYSELF DYING

In the late 1970’s Currado Malaspina initiated an unlikely friendship with Henry Miller that lasted until the great writer’s death. Miller showed the young Malaspina great tenderness and took a keen interest in his work. A few of his early monotypes remain in the Miller estate and are only made available to researchers and scholars.

A few weeks ago Currado shared a few reminiscences with me while we had a wonderful lunch of rein et foie de veau at Bateau Calife on Quai Malaquais:

“’The whores of Montmartre were as cute as buttonholes’, Miller would exhale when the ravishing mists of memory would claw him away from his middle-class present. Seized by an irresistible urge to prevaricate, Miller’s eloquence was most gripping the more ignoble the myth. In a voice as raspy as a tailpipe he would rattle off names like Durrell and Cendrars and recount with excruciating detail episodes of inspired dissipation. To Henri, life was a book and the only pretext to living was to find something to write about.”

I’m not so sure I trust Currado’s account.

THE COLLECTED LETTERS OF CURRADO MALASPINA

"Desire," Currado wrote to me in a letter dated March 21st, 1993, "is both blind and brief and I'd best vanquish this impulse early and decisively."

The graceful dignity in Currado Malaspina's youthful correspondences shows a young man struggling with a tempestuous spirit. Calming what were then unutterable impulses took a heroic and ultimately hopeless discipline of self-denial. He taught himself a soft, perfect pitch in which to frame the daily crucible of his deferred raptures.


Malaspina continues to be a devoted epistolarian and his collected letters are soon to be published by Caillot Press. Clotted with vivid imagery, artful prose and philosophical insight, rarely has such a painful document of moral frailty been such a pleasure to read. Lustily illuminated with casual pen and ink jottings, this new volume will add much to the already rich catalog of Malaspina's oeuvre.

Lautréamont

Foundation Domy Morgane, The Zurich based organization founded by the Swiss collector Pierre Hertzberg, has recently announced the publication of Lautréamont, a folio of prints by my dear friend Currado Malaspina. Dizzying in its range, the works are subtle reflections on the encyclopedic reservoir of erotic French literature.

In the United States, Malaspina has seen armaments of prudential cultural gatekeepers raining blows upon his reputation. In the eyes of one American academic, Malaspina is "... a sinking barge of ossified European libertinism." This new publication is being viewed in France as a gallant slap at the shrieking mice of political correctness.

I salute you Monsieur Hertzberg!

עבודה קיץ

Micah Carpentier, 1968

To tour the Louvre with Currado Malaspina is to be subjected to an erratic and idiosyncratic reading of art history that can be in turn both illuminating and annoying.

Take for example his description of Cimabue’s “Maestà”


“The first credible depiction of Hebraic pain from the world’s most famous yiddishe mama”.

Or Poussin’s “Saint Frances of Rome Announcing the End of the Plague in Rome”


“Cirque de Soleil on 17th century quaaludes”

This summer, Malaspina was given by the Louvre the distinct honor of curating an exhibition that to my mind was long overdue. Micah Carpentier: Les Autoportraits explores an under-appreciated aspect of the Cuban master’s capacious oeuvre. Including painting, drawing, film, photography and printmaking, the show delves deeply into the epic narcissism of this deeply flawed genius. The work is stunning in its scope and in its subtlety. Never has shameless self-aggrandizement seemed so lyrical.

The catalog is equal to the task as well. Written and designed by Malaspina, his pithy annotations are true to the characters of both the author and the subject. The caption under the photo reproduced above reads:

“The famously tone-deaf Carpentier photographed as a norteño balladeer in a straw (Le Bon Marché) cowgirl hat”

LE VIOLON D'INGRES

Like Hans Hoffmann, whom he knew quite well, Currado Malaspina likes to work in the studio naked. Unencumbered by cloth, ungartered of the smocks and aprons and all the other protective garments of the trade, Currado functions best within the lightness of his flesh. In fact, all who dare visit him at his capacious rue Gassendi studio must equally repair to the sheerness of skin.

Such was the occasion for the now famous mural-sized painting, Dix-sept which proudly hangs in the Elysée Palace’s Salle de Clairvoyance in the northeast Coeur de Tremblement wing. Composed of 17 separate panels, the painting depicts the unmistakable Malaspina in various postures of vitality and repose interspersed within a rascal’s gallery of several unidentified women.

At a recent reception for the foreign minister of Israel, Delphine Frizot, sous-préfet of the famously verdant Mésange-sur-Seine was overheard sneering “il semble que la pornographie est le nouveau passe-temps de l'état.”

THE ATELIER

"The hideous work of painting offers grace to those who greet its drudgery, not with groans but with gratitude." Thus wrote Gayland Fix in his preface to the catalogue raisonné of Currado Malaspina's work, "Malaspina: The Complete Oils" (Gallimard 2002).

To pay a visit to Currado Malaspina's Rue Gassendi studio is to perform a haj to a time-hallowed glade of unguarded passion. Jealously unkempt, the space is an unseemly spring of anarchy. It swells with the stuff of art in an ungainly stillness that haunts even days after one's departure.

Yet it is here where Adona's Motto, was painted and here where The Milky Garment series was nursed to perfection. For thirty years Malaspina toiled on such masterworks as Rightous Guild, Lightly Come The Babes, Don Juan Of Jerusalem, and Une Belle Une Moche. It was here where he and Lita Abruzzi foiled the arc of reason with their savage and accursed love affair.

I am now in Paris, visiting with my good friend Malaspina and we are sharing our painterly thoughts on the significance of flesh, the shape time and the rudded soil of the South.

SATORI IN PARIS

For years Currado Malaspina imagined to himself how he might die. He preferred the prospect of dying peacefully in his sleep but was certain that it would not be the case. Skin hemorrhages and progressive liver failure were much more in keeping with his personality.

His fears mingled so seamlessly with his obsessions that it was hard for him to discern with any clarity which of his fantasies were grounded in rationality and which were symptoms of a neurosis.

At the time it seemed to him that the only possible solution was to become a Buddhist. He had no real understanding of Buddhism, but sensed an equanimity would follow the assertion of faith.

MIDNIGHT'S PROMISE

Portrait of Currado Malaspina, 2009
Drawn by Dahlia Danton

“I was inflamed by him.”

It’s well known that the great love of Currado Malaspina’s life was Dahlia Danton. He would not be spared from the anxious agonies of his longings. To call her a cruel mistress would be to miss the point completely. Malaspina was complicit in the immaculate imperfection of their union.

She visited him at his new atelier on rue Gassendi, a small, intimate space that looks out on the Bibliotheque Georges Brassens. It was their first meeting in 15 years.

“I was inflamed by him,” is what Danton said to me when I asked her why she would subject Currado to such a savage reunion.

“And how did he look?” I asked

COBI ATOYAT

Currado Malaspina’s flimsy grasp on reality was evidenced again in an interview published in the spring edition of La Nouvelle Cosmopolis. He was interviewed by Loquecia McCart, the venerable independent curator known mostly for the succès de scandale surrounding the exhibition “J'ai Touché sa Chatte.” Asked to name his three favorite contemporary artists, he predictably rattled off Micah Carpentier and Dahlia Danton. What shocked McCart was the third artist he named.

“I had the privilege several years ago,” began Malaspina, slowly drawing out his story for maximum suspense, “to spend a week in Smyrna, lecturing at the Beylik Institute to a group of very gifted graduate students. It was my habit to begin each day by walking the three kilometers from my hotel to Konak Pier to a café improbably called Maimonides. Eddie, the proprietor, a portly man with a waxed handlebar moustache, always made it a point to personally serve me his freshly baked börek, pour me his dangerously scalding coffee and sit with me at a table with the most favorable view of the Port of Izmir.

“'In the Karatas,' Eddie said one morning referring to the old Jewish quarter in the city center, 'just off of Dario Moreno Street, there is a small spice shop where I purchase my za’atar and cardamom. Its owner, Yaris Atoyat, a most peculiar man, may be of special interest to you.' Eddie knew I was an artist, but that was all he knew of me, so I assumed it wasn’t the spices he had in mind.

“The following day, after my lecture, I took a cab to Arugete and Sons Spices to see for myself what Eddie was talking about. On the walls of the shop, whose cacophonic pungency wafted into the street in thick, invisible hallucinogenic waves, were literally hundreds of oddly rendered watercolors of nudes. They were the strangest, most disturbing images I had ever seen. They seemed both ignorant of and aloof from any western tradition. I had experienced nothing like this before or since.

“I introduced myself to Mr. Atoyat and asked who the artist was who was responsible for all the beautiful paintings. He beamed when he said ‘my son, my son Cobi Atoyat is the artist'.

“And so to answer your question, my three favorite artists are: Carpentier, Danton and Cobi Atoyat.”

Cobi Atoyat 2009

M E R D R E

When the documentary filmmaker Michel Fédérovitch approached Currado Malaspina with a proposal to collaborate on his interminably deferred Jarry project, Currado jumped at the chance. It had little to do with any affinity with the noted progenitor of pataphysics, nor with any absurd interest in the world of the theatre but rather as a means to avoid confronting a chronic creative block that had turned his Rue Cournot studio into a barren patch of abandoned, half finished, ill-conceived attempts at restoring his unearned reputation.

For the sake of cruel but just brevity let me just state that Currado Malaspina is a wretched embittered has-been whose best work is way behind him. Whether it be Alfred E. Newman or Alfred Jarry, it matters little to a man whose creative intellect is a parched mesa of insignificant confections.

Enter Fédérovitch, flush with the financial backing of the pecunious software developers from Sophia Antipolis, Conjurés & Soldats and Malaspina is off his ass and drawing.

If my tone is bitter it is merely a reflection of an acutely focused resentment grounded in the fact that the image posted above fetched a pagan’s ransom at Sotheby’s in the early spring auction. Sold to an undisclosed New York collector, it broke all previous Malaspina records at € 684,000

Ouch.

B A K A

In typical European fashion, Currado Malaspina ignorantly conflates concepts and images of non-Western cultures, churns them into a torpid mush and calls it art. In a recent group exhibition at the Musée d'Art de Hesian on Boulevard de Clichy entitled “Ragoût Est/Ouest,” Malaspina presented fifteen drawings based (very) loosely on the complex ethos of Japan’s pre-industrial military nobility. Titles like Imagawa, Tokugawa and Shingen suggest direct references to the Samurai, yet the flaccid naked figures with their tightly muffined hair look like caricatures of inactive Sumo wrestlers.

None of this pendulous ambiguity deterred soft drink magnate Tony Ichinomiya from buying up the whole series. He plans to build a wing on his Honshu summer dacha just to hang his substantial yet inconsequential Malaspina collection.

FAILING UPWARD

When the Corsican collector Moisés Natali purchased, sight unseen, the entire portfolio of Currado Malaspina’s Maldoror drawings from the unscrupulously successful Rive Gauche art dealer Samassi Arsène, not a few eyebrows were raised. When Natali returned half the pieces as “unsuitable for the home of my virgin daughters,” a wave of skepticism engulfed the 5th arrondissement like a tropical monsoon.

The dubious virtue of the Natali girls notwithstanding, the drawings themselves were not free from controversy.

When the tainted works were returned to the market, an exhibition was held at the Palais de Cupidité’s sumptuous Hall of Divinities. The critics were divided but the public was enthralled. A record shattering seven hundred thousand visitors were swept up by the art and the accompanying succès de scandale. Gary Hoffmansthal of The Guardian called it a “a crass circus of low-brow hucksterism that would make even Damien Hirst soil his cottons”

Les Chants de Maldoror

It all started on a dare. Georges Perec publicly challenged Currado Malaspina to read the entire oeuvre of Henri Barbusse. From the solipsistic eros of L’Enfer through the horrific violence of Le Feu all the way to the revoltingly hagiographic Staline: Un Monde Nouveau Vu à Travers un Homme.

Malaspina hated Perec with the passion one reserves for those one envies most. So while laboring through the turgid prose of Le Couteau Entre les Dents, Currado decided to do Perec one better. He added De Nerval, Sade, Laureamont and Mirbeau to the pot and in an empty gesture of literary bravado, invited Perec, (who at the time was clearly too obsessed with the barrage of critical attacks on the Oulipo group), to join him.

Twenty years in the making, Currado has recently unveiled his long awaited series of drawings based on some of the French literary canon’s most provocative works.
Exhibited recently at Gerard/Shah on Place Paul-Painlevé, these works show the breadth of Malaspina’s deep penetration into some of the most disturbing literature of our time. He has truly conjured a visual equivalent to the dissonance and beauty these works so strongly convey.

Whether it is true that his wife left him due to his complete absorption in this project is something I cannot verify with any certainty.

SYNESTHESIA

Synesthesia – or the merging of the senses – is an enterprise that Currado Malaspina has devoted himself to sporadically and unsystematically. Each time he attempts to make works of art to be “ingested” through multiple means he has failed with miserable nobility. Like the knight-errant Alonso Quixano, Malaspina is a mythmaker, an unpaid dreamer, a follower of phantoms and ultimately a fool.

He’s in Euboea right now, renting a small cabin on a quiet cul-de-sac on the east side of Chalcis. He told me that he is spending most of his time reading Juvenal’s Satires and listening to Parsifal on his I-Pod. Occasionally, in order to offset the blunting of the senses that comes from forced isolation and habit, he visits Madame Erzulie’s very upscale gentleman’s club where he has taken an unhealthy fancy to the portly nineteen-year old twins Indra and Inemes.

He is also making small sketches of imaginary Greek sculptures and sending them to friends with cryptic annotations written on the backs. I received the drawing above with the phrase “dactylic hexameter covering an encyclopedic range” scrawled in a near indecipherable handwriting as if his hand were a club or a charred twig dipped in brine.