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This quartet of exhibitions, plus a major commission for this spring’s Whitney Biennial, may have been an administrative nightmare. In February, Ray opens two more shows in Paris - at the Centre Georges Pompidou and at the Bourse de Commerce, which houses the private collection of François Pinault - that both include significant new works.
Last month at Glenstone, the serene private museum outside Washington, the collectors Mitchell and Emily Wei Rales premiered the third rotation of a yearslong rotating display of Ray’s work, juxtaposing one of his earliest post-minimal sculptures of steel beams and concrete blocks with a life-size self-portrait cast in a surprising new medium: airy, handmade white paper. (His last significant museum presentation in New York took place in 1998.) Yet this season he’ll have no fewer than four shows on view. One Ray exhibition is rare enough, given the speed at which the 69-year-old artist works. And I had this beautiful piece that just reeked of Japan.” All contemporary art smelled like a secondhand thrift store. When he turned to cypress in the 2000s, Ray tells me, “everyone was using old socks and teddy bears and stuff. But in the 1990s, he shocked the Los Angeles art world by reintroducing the human figure: first through commercial mannequins, and later in exacting sculptures of nude and clothed Americans, carved both by hand and with advanced machines, whose sumptuous surfaces of steel and wood stood out in an unmonumental age. Ray emerged in the mid-1970s as a keen ironist questioning sculpture’s fundamental principles by incorporating performance and process into his abstract assemblages. “Archangel” is the most towering presence in “ Charles Ray: Figure Ground,” opening this weekend, which introduces a new generation to America’s profoundest and most challenging sculptor - as well as its slowest. A single timber runs from his head through his big toe to the floor, and reveals that the figure and the block he stands on are one and the same. There are gentle gashes on the arches of his feet, and his half-visible foot soles. On his Achilles tendons, for instance, which the Japanese craftsmen scored a dozen times each. Lower down the sculpture, though, are breathtaking vestiges of humanity. The waistband of his trousers curves out slightly from the torso. His facial features are soft his hair is done up in a topknot. The surfer dude of “Archangel” is no messenger of God, and yet his body appears almost to be undergoing an apotheosis. The pandemic prevented Ray from traveling to Osaka to approve the final work, and shipping troubles almost kept it from reaching New York - “Archangel” had to be flown to LAX and driven cross-country.Īt last it was here. “Archangel,” 13.5 feet tall and seven years in the making, depicts a seminude young man in flip-flops and rolled-up jeans, carved from cypress by woodworkers in Japan. It was, like every Ray installation, a logistical feat - his strangely sized nudes or eerie wrecked cars can weigh four tons or more - but Omicron breakouts had wrought havoc on the movement of sculptures and technicians, and this one almost didn’t make it to New York.
It was a freezing morning, and Ray and his crew had just finished installing a new work by this Los Angeles sculptor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Charles Ray was instructing me to look at the foot. I was looking up at the head, but I was mistaken.