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The properties of flesh are the subject of Jim Lutes’ painting retrospective, spanning twenty-six years of the artist’s career. Given the broad range of work on view, we’re able to see various changes in Lutes’ renderings of skin, a veritable transmogrification of cells from squishy meat to wafer-thin crisps of light. Early paintings show a body extended beyond its means, so that a thick neck is blobular, as if throwing itself up. Later, the body piles itself into endless folds and is threaded with blues and greens—sickly colors, no doubt, but alive. Taking cues from Lucian Freud and Ivan Albright, Lutes sees the body as a contradictory thing of beautiful carnage. The latest paintings disperse the flesh’s substance into smoky or ghostlike auras, composed with thinly layered washes of egg yolk mixed with pigment, like steaming piles of the soul. Where did the body go? Look to other forms in the show, such as interiors with floating abstract swaths, for the answer. Paint moves dust mote-like upon the air as if propelled by some blunt spiritual spermatoza alongside dried skin flakes and other airborne waste. If you take a piece of thinly sliced meat and drape it over your eyes so that you can see through it—this is the surface of a Lutes painting circa 2006. Such viscera is no doubt called for here, but given the ethereal aspects also portrayed, one must concede that ritualistic upkeep of the body is the worship of an all-too-knowable god—the self. (Jason Foumberg)

Jim Lutes shows at The Renaissance Society, at the University of Chicago, 5811 S. Ellis, through February 15.

Francis Alÿs, "Bolero (Shoe Shine Blues)," 1996-2007

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Francis Alÿs lives and works in Mexico City where he is known for documentary-style projects addressing economic and social injustices in Latin American cities. “Bolero (Shoe Shine Blues)” is a traditional animation, hand-drawn in 500+ frames, which are also on display. The animation consists solely of a shoe shine: hands move a length of cloth around and across a shoe, syncopated with a minimalistic melody and lyrics written by the artist. Its swaying, repetitive quality draws the audience into a simple and elegant comparison of artistic labor, in the form of drawing, to the marginalized service economy of a global city. One views the frames beneath the loft where the film is projected, in a rough plywood room hung from ceiling to floor in a way that emphasizes the animation’s flipbook aesthetic. The second piece, “Politics of Rehearsal,” is a video that focuses on the rehearsal as a “metaphor of Latin America’s ambiguous affair with modernity.” In a disjunctive central passage a stripper rehearses to a simultaneous rehearsal of a Schubert Lieder, while the voiceover of art historian and theorist Cuauhtemoc Medina performs a cultural critique of economic development in Latin America. The visually striking image of the stripper’s fitful starts and stops, her alienated relationship to the musical production as the operatic duet is begun and paused and resumed, is not enough to save the analogy between the striptease and the promise of first-world development in third-world countries—a suspension of time which never leads to realpolitik and continually ends in deferral—from becoming a cliché about the history of American imperialism and the non-white, naked female body as the privileged sign of that exploitation. (Rachel Furnari)

Francis Alÿs, “Bolero (Shoe Shine Blues)” and “Politics of Rehearsal,” shows at the Renaissance Society, University of Chicago, 54811 South Ellis, through December 14.

By Jason Foumberg 

Polaroid announced in February 2008 they would cease production of both consumer and professional instant-developing film and cameras. Now, as the distribution line trickles to a stop and the price of the film has nearly doubled, photographers are beginning to feel the bite of loss. Two exhibitions in Chicago memorialize the medium’s heyday with fervent nostalgia.

The Polaroid brand is synonymous, or eponymous, with the instant photograph, like Coke or Kleenex. There were two lines of production. The mass-market variety was user-friendly and accessible, a one-of-a-kind snapshot with instantly gratifying results. Its continued popularity, even while other, cheaper snapshot technology existed, often implied retrograde fantasies (say, the 1980s) and was forever associated with amateur porn.

The other arm of production was focused on artistic innovations. Large-format Polaroids, such as the 20 x 24-inch camera, allowed artists to take exquisitely detailed and colorful shots of their subjects, and in an opposite way from the snapshot. These cameras necessitated the artist to slow down and refine their shot as much as possible before pressing the button. Unlike the “fun” cameras, the large-format cameras and film were very expensive, and the results immaculate. In the case of the 20 x 24 Polaroid, special studios were built for artists to rent, and they came with a skilled technician.

I cast a wide net in seeking artists’ reactions to the impending death of the Polaroid. Whereas the younger generation of photographers is swept away by the digital wave and its many manipulating possibilities, an older generation has expressed deep nostalgia and sorrow.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do without Polaroid,” says Chicago’s Barbara Kasten, whose seminal 1979 “Constructs” series pushed the boundaries of the medium. “Maybe I’ll start painting again,” she jokes, nodding to an even older medium that has withstood the photographic revolution. Kasten was one of the first artists to use the 20 x 24 studio to produce large-format, unique pictures along with New York artist David Levinthal, whose “Blackface” series was recently shown in part at The Renaissance Society. These shots focused carefully on racist figurines, such as Aunt Jemima-type characters, and asked viewers to look again and look closely at something we think we already know well. “The colors are far more rich and saturated than any other medium except for dye-transfer prints, which disappeared long ago,” Levinthal says. “Something will truly be lost when the last of the Polaroid film is gone.”

Los Angeles-based Catherine Opie developed much of her career using the Polaroid. She responds wistfully, “I have one case left, one case with a date of when it expires; that’s it. No more click and the sound of the motor and watching the image slowly appear.” In 2000 Opie made the largest known instant photographs, a whopping 40 x 104-inch series of artist Ron Athey, whose extreme performances included body modification and ruminations on AIDS. Like Opie, Dawoud Bey used the singular, unique print to mirror his subject—the singular, unique human. “What can I say? It’s a real tragedy. I’m traumatized!” Bey says.

For Bey and others, using instant technology is a choice pairing of medium and concept. Instant-film technology has a host of associations that is often exploited by artists for maximum effect. “I was fascinated by Warhol and how he brought it everywhere he went in the seventies,” says John Parot, who was inspired to use Polaroids to document party culture. Jason Lazarus and Jonathan Gitelson noted its importance as a sentimental device, but when making their images, they look to the digital. “Makes no difference to me,” says Greg Stimac, “it’s the way it’s always been,” referring to the continual cycle of new technology creating a class of the obsolete.

Two concurrent exhibits in Chicago marked the demise of the medium. “Death + Extinction via Polaroids” at the Chicago Art Department smartly wrapped memory loss, mourning and death within the medium’s demise. One project asked participants to complete the sentence, “Before I die I want to ­­­­­­____” and inscribed their response in the white space below their portrait. Another project played with images of rising condo developments as metaphor—the generic captured by the unique. “Outdated” at the Country Club Chicago, a small project space in Bucktown, showed a (proclaimed) 900 Polaroids over the span of one weekend. Amateur porn, snapshots and multimedia interventions covered the walls like a makeshift roadside memorial.

When asked if the Museum of Contemporary Photography would focus an exhibit on the theme of the dying medium, Director of Education Corrine Rose didn’t think it would happen. “There’s a long list of past-tense media,” she says. Like the Cibachrome and the cyanotype before it, Polaroids have been used as an aesthetic choice, Rose notes, “but the practical application is gone,” and artists cope with the change; many embrace it. Rik Garrett, an artist and curator of the “Outdated” show, thinks the change is “a terrible mistake,” but adds that an investment company owns Polaroid. Their focus is on emerging technologies, not antiques. The continued use of Polaroid is a fantastical regression akin to using candles instead of electricity, but for many that candle has been snuffed.

By Jason Foumberg

Is there a safe place to say the N-word? A new thematic group exhibition at the Renaissance Society pretends that the term can be used without consequence if uttered at a critical remove, or if it is a scholarly concern. That which otherwise has no place in print, on air, or on lips finds refuge when examined under the microscope of the art exhibition. The NAACP recently buried the N-word; this exhibition performs its autopsy. As if in a surgical theater, all parts, from civil rights to stereotypes, are splayed and labeled for inspection. Yet, if one were to open a body to go searching for “race,” you’d just end up making a mess. If one were to open up the culture and go looking for the same, as this exhibition does, you’d turn up with handfuls of gold chains, fists raised in anger and face paint. Here, race is a style. The art gallery is a safe place to say the N-word.

Patti Smith’s acrid punk song from 1978, “Rock ‘N’ Roll N***er,” appropriated the N-word and re-purposed it to connote someone who stood “outside of society,” her turn of phrase, aligning all outsiders—feminists, queers, weirdos and revolutionaries—on the same side of difference. So, Smith claimed Jesus Christ, Jackson Pollock “and grandma, too” under this rubric. For her, all these people could claim the N-word. Did it work? Did all outsiders band together, transcend racism and all other prejudices and gain equal rights? Well, yes and no. It depends who you ask; the N-word means something different to various groups. And it’s all in how you use it. The exhibition’s promotional poster, made by artist Carl Pope, declares, “The use of ‘a’ instead of ‘er’ changes everything!”

“Black Is, Black Ain’t” features some disturbing depictions without much context. We are expected to already know that Daniel Levinthal’s photographs of kitschy porcelain objects, reminiscent of the old Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben brand icons, are bad news. Or that Mickalene Thomas’ photograph of a blaxploitation character—afro, hoop earrings, leopard print, Diana Ross album at her feet and a sultry, desirous look in her eye, tugs at the stereotype. Presumably these are on the “Black Ain’t” side of the equation, but the exhibit isn’t actually structured that way. Either these images are troubling reminders of whacked-out media representations, like pseudo-anthropological records, or they are ironic nods to their assimilation into the mainstream of what some call a Post-Black culture, where they are entertaining, not condescending. The Coon Chicken logo was given this sort of treatment in David Clowes’ “Ghost World,” and Quentin Tarantino’s “Jackie Brown” once and for all romanticized 1970s blaxploitation for popular consumption. So, what else can these figures contribute to the current dialog?

Andres Serrano’s portrait of a man in blackface, Mickalene Thomas’ portrait of a new Foxy Brown, Sze Lin Pang’s tarred-and-feathered Black Panther—these add up to a short history of how blackness is depicted in pictures. The images don’t perpetuate ugly stereotypes; rather they show that “blackness” has a changing face, from servile to strong. Missing from this scheme are Kerry James Marshall and Rashid Johnson, two artists whose work has been incessantly poised to speak about African-American life in Chicago.

William Pope L., who has had a lot of exposure in Chicago lately, shows three works here. A set of word-based drawings appear to get at the meat of an issue of “blackness.” “Black people are for rent,” proclaims one page. “Black people are pure tone,” says another. The message gets confusing when other colors are included, such as “Red people are boner cosmic” and “Green people are deciduous.” Also displayed around the gallery in various corners are small cones of white flour by Pope L. These fragile little pillars are held together only by their own friction, and some are cracking and spilled. Many of the terms of “blackness” in this show are phrased in the terms of “whiteness.” The two must simply coexist for any differences to become apparent.

In a terribly annoying film by Swedish artist Joanna Rytel, the narrator describes the pleasures and troubles of dating a Somalian man in Sweden. The sentiments are embarrassing: “When I’m licking him, I get nothing on my tongue. I think of him like a painted wall.” In a video by Thomas Johnson, the artist candidly explains that he is a massage therapist who likes to rub white women—they’re sexy—and black men—to find out “what all the hoopla is about.” Apparently he likes to inspect their skin. What these artists need isn’t a group exhibition, but group therapy. Their format, straight out of the YouTube confessional, plays out their insecurities for all to witness. Self-actualization through an imagined audience is this generation’s way of identity branding. It’s creepy, selfish and pretentious. If this is Post-Black, bring on the Neo-Black.

“Black Is, Black Ain’t” shows at the Renaissance Society, 5811 South Ellis, on the campus of the University of Chicago, (773)702-8670, through June 8.

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Trisha Donnelly once rode a horse into a gallery. That’s the story that you hear every time you mention her name. Here Ms. Donnelly transformed the venerable Renaissance Society into a reception hall for an upscale cocktail party with free spirits and hors d’oeuvre. The lights were dim, candles flickered on the tables and dance music blared out of speakers. The art, which seemed completely beside the point, was sequestered around the outside of the room. Some small drawings hung on the underside of benches placed in the corners. These were liminal drawings, pictures of windows, doors, cracks that were about to be. There was also a wood sculpture, a leather piece laid over an office chair and a video. All of it seemed entirely perfunctory given the atmosphere. People generally come to galleries ready to look. When presented with something unexpected an extreme feeling of self-consciousness sets in and you begin to evaluate your surroundings. To the bartenders this was just another party but to art viewers it was a choreographed event that was trying to disguise itself as not one. They brought a fourth candle to the table at 5:30pm. Does that mean something? The music was louder after Donnelly’s poem was read. Does that mean something? There was one clear difference between Donnelly’s show and a real party; in art they kick you out at 7pm. (Dan Gunn)

Through April 6 at the Renaissance Society, 5811 South Ellis, on the campus of the University of Chicago, (773)702-8670.

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Katerina Seda’s show at the Renaissance Society is the product of an extended conversation with her grandmother, Jana. Hundreds of black-marker drawings by Jana cover the walls of the gallery from top to bottom. Each of the sketches lists an item from the inventory of her hardware store in the former Czechoslovakia. Following Jana’s husband’s death, Katerina devised the exercise of visually cataloging the store in order to ward off her grandmother’s depression. The rough drawings of scythes, hairbrushes and tractors usually contain a title, a diagram and a price. The exhibition also contains a video of Katerina talking to Jana drawing and a handwritten ledger. The ledger changes the drawings from naive curiosities into pictures of actual commodities and the video makes Jana’s existence poignantly real. Somewhat of a eulogy to her grandmother, Ms. Seda’s show chronicles a life where the most meaningful activity that remains before death is to recite the things you used to sell. Jana’s enthusiastic participation reveals just how comforting the memory of those objects was to her. It is a clear picture of a cloudy world where consumerism and commerce can’t be easily separated from our inner gritty emotional life. (Dan Gunn)

Through February 10 at Renaissance Society, 5811 South Ellis, on the campus of the University of Chicago, (773)702-8670.