Author: John Knych

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Porter Post-Postmodern: “The Next Artist”

 

In six new canvases, Porter Post-Postmodern uses raw, organic means – his spit – to improvise a variety of motifs. The pieces of paper he spits on represent things that can be spit on, providing a cerebral, one may even say existential, field on which Porter scatters fragmentary drops of liquid…just like water splashing unpredictably on the spiritual shores of your reality and dreams and space and protons and stop reading I’m erudite.

 

The works’ shared title: “I’m spitting on a piece of paper…my rich aunt has connections in the art world and I need something to do,” is consistent with this incoherent show’s look and feel, reminding one of the surrealists’ conversations behind closed doors (when not spouting bullshit about the unconscious mind and chance): how the fuck are we getting away with this?

 

“Man puts his head into a megaphone and at the end it comes out a dinosaur head screaming” by Richard Dingleberry recently sold for $10 billion to a Russian Oil Magnate

 

The art has a child-like, can’t communicate or shit properly in a toilet yet, feel, with cartoonish shapes, scenarios, and more shapes depicting a complex world of messy undergrowth, dirt, parasitic plants, and trash.

 

While there is a lot happening here, bullshitwise, Porter’s denial of explanation or context ensures that the works formal elements are at least as significant as their ostensible subject matter. What does that mean? Shhhhhh, poor sucker, shhhh, give me money and massage your idle ego, shhhh. In every case, the playful action takes place on a piece of paper, which is the background, on which the artist juxtaposes liquid forms (big spit, little spit, is that spit? No that’s the glare from the fluorescent light. Are you sure? No, why are we having this conversation? Because I want to understand this-There’s nothing to understand, it’s just a waste of-), and space on the paper. (Space, ah, space.) Surrounded by empty space, the droplets of spit engage the imagination, while making sure your faith in the world remains broken, distorted, and tainted.

 

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NYC #11

 

After working a few weeks bartending until 4am

And sucking down fried food hastily in a kitchen

The sleep schedule becomes

A little screwy

And the mind tends to become

A little cloudy

So I returned to my time-tested remedy

And ran when I could…and I found myself

At 4:30am in Central Park

With calm and steady strides and my past

Victories reignited in my soul and there I am:

800 meter Olympic final, about to win America the gold

Since Wottle in 1972

When a man passes me and I think,

“Don’t think so, buddy,”

And I sprint past and for the next 30 minutes

We’re racing neck and neck until I break him

And while I run away he yells,

“Thanks brother!” and I keep running

For another 5 minutes until turning into the bushes

And vomiting up chicken fingers, Olympic champion.

 

Next night my muscles are aching, trembling

And I knock a drink over on to a woman’s lap

And she shrieks, “This is a new dress you shithead!”

And the shift manager grabs my shirt and pulls me to the back,

Eyes bulging, “One more dumbass move like that and you’re fired,”

Spittle spraying my face, but I can’t help but smile,

And he asks, “Why the fuck are you smiling?”

And I want to say, “Because I’m an Olympic champion,”

But I say nothing and return to work.

 

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