Keith Haring: the Political
Line, an exhibition of the late artist’s work, opened at San Francisco’s De
Young last week just days after the GOP swept the US midterm elections. This
coincidence is hard to overlook while viewing Haring’s wildly familiar and
celebrated paintings of the 1980s, works driven by his sense of difference and,
as the exhibition emphasizes, a fervent political consciousness with which he
pushed back at the Reagan-Thatcher conservatism of his time.
Haring’s work, made during his
condensed, prolific career — he died at 31 from Aids complications – entered
into broad cultural consciousness with neon colors, energetic line work, and an
urban pulse, though these attributes, the show argues, were just a facet of the
artist’s interests and achievements. The Political Line, then, serves both as
an art historical reconsideration of the artist’s popular output, as well as a
welcome celebration of art with activist inclinations.
The exhibition, organised by
guest curator Dieter Buchhart and the De Young, trades the ebullient,
candy-colored pop sensibility usually associated with Haring for graver images
and somber colour schemes. The works on view tend toward black, ochre and red,
with occasional bursts of more vibrant hues punctuating thematic sections.
These organize Haring’s work according to various political and cultural
concerns: sections of the show are organized by themes of greed, racism,
ecological disaster and disease.
If the last major museum show
devoted to his work, organized in 1997 by the Whitney, focused on the public,
convivial nature of his work, even including the muted thump of club music in
the background, The Political Line has a more solemn, silent vibe – a room
containing small, glowing black light paintings, for example, evokes a darkened
catacomb rather than a disco. The show begins with a human-scaled fibreglass
Statue of Liberty, her robes painted crimson and entirely inscribed with Haring
characters, line work, and tags contributed by graffiti artist LA II. This 1982
work is set in the centre of a room, in front of a large painting of
black-lined figures fleeing an alien ray, and adjacent to a seemingly
blood-spattered early drawing expressing a meat is murder message, adding to a
passionate critical opposition to ominous forces of political power.
The show goes on to provides
humanizing context with works and ephemera that speak to his position and
range. His 1978 Manhattan Penis Drawings for Ken Hicks, works he made in public
places as a display of gay sexuality are seen here, as are ransom note-like
collages made in 1978 from newspaper headlines, many referring to Reagan and
cultural unease. There is a case displaying Polaroids taken by Haring’s pal
Andy Warhol, and spiral-bound journals in which Haring has handwritten his
influences and insecurities. With these inclusions, it’s almost impossible not
to be swayed by the heartfelt ethos.
This is evident throughout the
exhibition, in his infamous subway drawings, in numerous works that depict
surprisingly grisly, almost surrealistic acts of torture, some bringing to mind
the photographs from Abu Ghraib, and in large, orgiastic images of crowds
turned into patterns of primal violence. Of note is a recurring figure with a
circular hole in its center, a form inspired by the 1980 assassination of John
Lennon.
Haring seemed unstoppable at
the time. His prolific work ethic, some conjecture, was driven by a sense that
his life would be cut short. An abundance of material then seems a fitting
attribute for surveys of his work, though within this vast show, the inclusions
sometimes feel repetitive. But then again, Haring’s targets haven’t been
reconciled – making his persistent sense of resistance worthy of this platform.