Last week, I ended my story on the Whitney by noting how crappy its catalogue for Dawoud Bey: An American Project is. I said I’d write about the show and book before it closed, as I’m headed to Los Angeles for museum visits. It’s unfair to say something’s a flop and not explain why until some later point. So, greetings from Los Angeles, and one more story on the Whitney.
Dawoud Bey is a wonderful artist. He’s a mid-career master photographer, making work every few years that’s new, challenging, and moving, yet part of a coherent trajectory. He’s based in Chicago and teaches there, so he’s removed, by choice, from the Manhattan art scene, which can be a rat race and a creativity-killing bubble. He also finds distance between himself and New York through artist residencies. These give him space to think and grow, the money’s decent, the settings are sometimes plush, and new voices and places can be inspirational. I always make it a point to see his work when I’m visiting a museum that displays it.
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