Nick Cave--the artist, not the musician--belongs to a very exclusive club. Along with Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons, Banksy, and maybe a half-dozen others, he's one of the rare living artists who has managed to escape the cultural enclave of the art world and win recognition in the broader pop consciousness. He has done so by being virtually undefinable.
That was evident this spring at the equestrian-themed performance "HEARD New York," which used life-sized, horse-shaped, moving sculptures vaguely resembling Mr. Snuffleupagus to cause a ruckus in Grand Central Station. And more recently, it's been evident at the Denver Art Museum's exhibit, "Nick Cave: Sojourn." The ambitious, expansive show, which opened last month and runs through September 22, is both a retrospective and a showcase for Cave's new directions. With a smattering of his best work from the last decade alongside some 40 new pieces created especially for Sojourn, the exhibition feels like a coronation--a portrait of the burly, 59-year old African-American artist at his creative peak. Combined with the Grand Central performance in March, another major solo show running this summer at the Trapholt Museum in Denmark, and huge exhibits set for next year in Boston and New York, Nick Cave is officially having his moment.
"Sojourn" sprawls, meandering through much of the DAM's top floor. There is a touchable whole-room installation strewn with inflatable punching bags. There are sparkling stand-alone sculptures. There's a room of video projections, and wall hangings big enough to envelop a minivan. Other walls are glossed with a symmetrical, kaleidoscopic pattern that serves as a thematic coda for the exhibit. It looks fractal from a distance, but turns out to be made by endlessly repeated photographs of plastic birds. And there are dozens of Cave's signature creations, the Soundsuits. Heavily decorated, oversized human figures, they can function as sculptures, costumes, musical instruments, or all three at once.
Nearly everything, too, is constructed from, or festooned by, glittering mountains of consumer detritus. That includes thousands upon thousands of buttons, beads, feathers, metal shards and mop-like scraps of shredded polyester--virtually all of it "found" material, rescued and repurposed by Cave.
Despite all the hallucinogenic color and sparkle, though, Cave's work is not lighthearted. This is Gatsby's "vast, vulgar meretricious beauty" refashioned for an age when the lush variety of life is expressed by cheap, plastic replicas of nature pumped out by dirty factories in China. He never descends to mere irony, or a satire of consumer culture. The meticulous, obsessive placement of every button, sequin, and bead is a sort of pleading--almost maudlin--for us to love what others throw away. There is a menace here, too, powered by the same compulsive mania that makes Hoarders such watchable TV. You can sense eerie danger when viewing the towering Soundsuit covered by stuffed toy monkeys--it's a body entirely made of chillingly identical embroidery smiles.
Despite all the hallucinogenic color and sparkle, Cave's work is not lighthearted. The meticulous, obsessive placement of every button, sequin, and bead is a sort of pleading--almost maudlin--for us to love what others throw away.
With an oeuvre that encompasses so many media, across so many disciplines, the hardest thing about Cave might be figuring out what to call him. He's most often given the vaguely seedy-sounding catchall title of "performance artist"--probably because "sculptor-painter-puppeteer-costume designer" takes too long to say.