Hebrew Hammers
I walked the Armory Show ("The International Flair of New Art") and a couple of its satellites in Manhattan last week, and I left feeling officially unmoved. In addition to a whole lot of junky one liners, I saw some beautiful and some clever work, but nothing that really hit me in the breadbasket. Most of the trouble isn’t with the artists—the Armory isn’t a show in the way I normally think of a show (one or a number or artists meditating on a particular topic). It’s a trade show. Galleries bring work from multiple artists to showcase, and more importantly to sell. It’s a strange way to see work, and it felt to me like listening to an eclectic record label’s spring compilation. Every artist’s work is deprived of the context of the other works it was originally created to stand with and then lumped together with other works it has nothing really to do with. All in all, for the casual tourist with a short attention span (like me), it’s not a very good way to see things.
The experience got me thinking about everything that was right about Charles Miller’s “Jewish Boxers”, a show I saw several weeks ago and have been meaning to review. Now you might say that any show called “Jewish Boxers” was bound to hit ‘ol Isenberg where he lives. But as a Jew and a fight fan and someone who has written and thought about the idea of Jewish boxers, I have to admit I was probably more predisposed to rant than to rave. It was in that territory where it’s so far up your alley that if it’s bad you might feel secretly pleased and if it’s good you'll be secretly jealous. “Jewish Boxers” was so good that it just made me happy it existed. If I had had an extra two grand in my pocket I would’ve walked out with a painting—as it was, I had to settle for a postcard and a red leather yarmulke gold stamped inside with the show's opening night details.
The show is up until March 15, and it is mandatory No Mas viewing. It’s at a place called “Think Tank 3”, a small creative agency which occupies a storefront on Hudson street and have converted the front half to a gallery. Why Charles Miller’s work had not already been snatched up and shown by a more traditional Chelsea gallery, I have no idea. But whatever the reason, while her space may lack art world pedigree, Sharoz Makarechi did a beautiful job curating the show and the space fit the work extremely well. I especially appreciated the books lining shelves in between paintings: A.J. Liebling’s Sweet Science and A Neutral Corner, Douglas Century’s biography of Barney Ross, and Allen Bodner's When Boxing Was a Jewish Sport (the book that apparently started Miller on his journey) in a glass case along with some well chosen vintage boxing cards. From the moment I walked in, I knew I was in brother from another mother land.
Two large paintings dominated the room—one of someone called Ted “Kid” Lewis, in a turn of the century training outfit (leggings and very mitteny boxing gloves) clutching a medicine ball. This was an arresting piece, but having never heard of Kid Lewis, the one that really got me was Abe Attell or as he was known apparently back in the day, “The Little Hebrew”. Those weaned on “Eight Men Out” will remember Attell as Meyer Rothstein’s accomplice in the fixing of the 1919 World Series. I’ve always liked “the scene” where Rothstein reveals the origin of his contempt for athletes, (“I was the fat kid they wouldn't let play.”), and then tries to lord it over Attell for having taken dives. At the end of the exchange, Attell insists, “I was champ, and can't nothin take that away.” John Sayles’ characterization of Attell is gritty by 80s Hollywood standards, but Miller is working on a different plane.
He has clearly studied vintage photographs very carefully, and he chooses a defensive posture for Attell, left arm extended, right crossed behind protecting his chin. It is an older Attell, not the young champ intoxicated by victory and feeling invincible. Attell's brow is furrowed, his face is lined with care. Seen in the light of what was coming it seems like he is protecting himself against more than a right cross—he is warding off the inevitable future.
That one, Mr. Miller, got me right in the solarplexus. Congratulations on a beautiful show.
Through March 15th
Think Tank 3
447 Hudson Street
212-647-8595
P.S. For everyone who has ever lamented the steady decline (or rather increase) of the boxing and basketball short inseam, get ready to shed a tear for the world that Hector "Macho" Camacho may have singlehandedly destroyed.
The experience got me thinking about everything that was right about Charles Miller’s “Jewish Boxers”, a show I saw several weeks ago and have been meaning to review. Now you might say that any show called “Jewish Boxers” was bound to hit ‘ol Isenberg where he lives. But as a Jew and a fight fan and someone who has written and thought about the idea of Jewish boxers, I have to admit I was probably more predisposed to rant than to rave. It was in that territory where it’s so far up your alley that if it’s bad you might feel secretly pleased and if it’s good you'll be secretly jealous. “Jewish Boxers” was so good that it just made me happy it existed. If I had had an extra two grand in my pocket I would’ve walked out with a painting—as it was, I had to settle for a postcard and a red leather yarmulke gold stamped inside with the show's opening night details.
The show is up until March 15, and it is mandatory No Mas viewing. It’s at a place called “Think Tank 3”, a small creative agency which occupies a storefront on Hudson street and have converted the front half to a gallery. Why Charles Miller’s work had not already been snatched up and shown by a more traditional Chelsea gallery, I have no idea. But whatever the reason, while her space may lack art world pedigree, Sharoz Makarechi did a beautiful job curating the show and the space fit the work extremely well. I especially appreciated the books lining shelves in between paintings: A.J. Liebling’s Sweet Science and A Neutral Corner, Douglas Century’s biography of Barney Ross, and Allen Bodner's When Boxing Was a Jewish Sport (the book that apparently started Miller on his journey) in a glass case along with some well chosen vintage boxing cards. From the moment I walked in, I knew I was in brother from another mother land.
Two large paintings dominated the room—one of someone called Ted “Kid” Lewis, in a turn of the century training outfit (leggings and very mitteny boxing gloves) clutching a medicine ball. This was an arresting piece, but having never heard of Kid Lewis, the one that really got me was Abe Attell or as he was known apparently back in the day, “The Little Hebrew”. Those weaned on “Eight Men Out” will remember Attell as Meyer Rothstein’s accomplice in the fixing of the 1919 World Series. I’ve always liked “the scene” where Rothstein reveals the origin of his contempt for athletes, (“I was the fat kid they wouldn't let play.”), and then tries to lord it over Attell for having taken dives. At the end of the exchange, Attell insists, “I was champ, and can't nothin take that away.” John Sayles’ characterization of Attell is gritty by 80s Hollywood standards, but Miller is working on a different plane.
He has clearly studied vintage photographs very carefully, and he chooses a defensive posture for Attell, left arm extended, right crossed behind protecting his chin. It is an older Attell, not the young champ intoxicated by victory and feeling invincible. Attell's brow is furrowed, his face is lined with care. Seen in the light of what was coming it seems like he is protecting himself against more than a right cross—he is warding off the inevitable future.
That one, Mr. Miller, got me right in the solarplexus. Congratulations on a beautiful show.
Through March 15th
Think Tank 3
447 Hudson Street
212-647-8595
P.S. For everyone who has ever lamented the steady decline (or rather increase) of the boxing and basketball short inseam, get ready to shed a tear for the world that Hector "Macho" Camacho may have singlehandedly destroyed.
7 Comments:
I always found perplexing that in here, any sign of faith (may it be a chador, a cross or a david's star) is highly frowned upon.
There was a whole controversy about the star on Craig Bierko's character's shorts in "cinderella Man". People still have the stigma of the nazi occupation where jews had to wear those on their clothes.
It's a very interessting thing because culturally, muslims like Brahim Asloum have been advised not to wear any kind of religious sign on him by his sponsors whereas it seems that elsewhere the symbols have been reappropriated by their original owners.
These would go great with my Dana Rosenblatt Fathead.
Are you calling me a Fathead?
Isnt Zab Judah Jewish?
Madsear. Really interesting point. I would love to hear more about the Cinderella man argument. Because emphasizing or deemphasizing or making up ethnic ties was and remains so important to the selling of tickets in boxing, the history of the way fighters show or choose not to show their roots in their dress and entrance is pretty fascinating. With Jews there is a history of Jews pretending to be Irish or Italian (sometimes so there mothers won't know they are fighting) and of non-Jews or half Jews representing themselves as Jewish because it's a good draw.
Kev- he's jew-ish
Madsear's comment is interesting. You know, it's easy to think of fighters with cross tattoos -- I think Maddalone even has a rosary beads tattoo. But wearing a symbol on your trunks seems somehow different, doesn't it? In a weird way, it's more of a statement. At least, that's how it seems to me whenever I see a Bible verse or a cross on someone's trunks. Maybe it's because I expect to see logos/advertising there. Maybe because in other sports, religious symbols almost never appear on uniforms. I don't know. Since I'm working from the most middle-aged, midwestern, Protestant point-of-view you can imagine, I may have this all wrong.
But Miller's art? I wish I could be in NYC right now to see it. Wonderful review.
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