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| Ox in a China Shop. Leonards Laganovskis Jānis Frišvalds | |
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Even his most vociferous critics (and if you're one of them, you're sure not lonely) would be hard pressed to deny that Leonards Laganovskis has presence. You can see him coming. And even when you can't, most likely you'd need to swallow enough Tamazepam and Tequila to drop an elephant to fail to notice his presence upon arrival. Like him or loathe him, with a forthcoming personal exhibition at White Box in New York and an invitation from White Box to participate in "Poles Apart Poles Together", one of the collateral events at this year's 51st Venice Biennale, there can be little or no doubt that at the advent of the sixth decade of his life Leonards Laganovskis has arrived. Quite where, though, he has arrived, is the subject of some considerable debate.
Of course, Laganovskis arrived in Latvia long ago. However, this is somewhat akin to emerging from the jet plane of art at Culture House Karakums when in fact one's ultimate and desired destination is MOMA. However, to quote the English poet, Thom Gunn, "At worst, one is at motion; and at best, reaching no absolute, in which to rest, one is always nearer by not keeping still." And one can hardly accuse Laganovskis of impersonating a guard at the Freedom Monument. After all, this tall hulking bull of a man has been flexing his muscles within the parochial and notoriously petty china shop that is the Latvian art world for more than a quarter of a century. It has been an ongoing spectacle that dates back to his days as a student at the Academy of Art during the mid to late 70's. Quizzed about his memories of the Academy, Laganovskis reminisces fondly. Perhaps, this is because his time there was not marked by the kind of controversies (both self-inflicted and not) that have periodically dogged him as his fame has grown both at home and abroad. The kind of altercations which have earned him a not altogether unmerited reputation for being "outspoken" and "difficult". More likely, though, having made the leap from the interiorists to the set designers, his contentment with life at the Academy was born of the fact that whilst he was fortunate enough to be taught by the likes of Iltners and Bērziņš, he also fell under the influence of Andris Freibergs. Laganovskis freely acknowledges his debt to Freibergs whose guidance galvanised him to apply an erudition acquired through many of hours of study in his father's library to the development of works of art whose conceptual vein enabled him to parody the "banal nuances" of daily life in Soviet era Latvia and was liberating when compared to the compositional strictures imposed by painting. Having burst free of the academic yolk of the Academy, Laganovskis' restless persona saw him continue his frenzied quest to discover his artistic identity first in Moscow and then back home. In so doing, he crisscrossed across a diverse range of mediums and embarked on a rewarding and life affirming artistic collaboration with the late, great Hardijs Lediņš and Imants ŽodŽiks that is perhaps best remembered for their heady adventures in disco art at Kosmoss. And it is to Hardijs Lediņš that Laganovskis owes perhaps his greatest debt. For it was Lediņš who had the presence of mind to visit Laganovskis at his home accompanied by a German art expert who was the perhaps first foreigner to discover Laganovskis' burgeoning talent. It was a discovery that would lead to Laganovskis' tenure as artist-in-residence at the Kunstlerhaus Bethanien and his first one-man exhibition "Two Rooms" at the Wewerka und Weiss gallery in Berlin during 1991-1992. The years since that initial breakthrough have seen Laganovskis' work exhibited at several personal exhibitions in Riga and further afield in Vilnius, Kiel and Berlin. Connoisseurs of conceptual art have also been introduced to his work thanks to a number of important group exhibitions such as "Avantgarde & Kampagne" at the Kunsthalle, Dūsseldorf in 1992 and "Mare Balticum" at the National Museum in Copenhagen in 2003 that have cemented Laganovskis' status as one of the most important Latvian artists of his generation. Nevertheless, those seeking to interpret Laganovskis' art as a path to understanding the visceral forces that drive this complex and elusive man will obtain only fleeting enlightenment. For, to my mind, his works contain as many "dead-ends" as "doorways". Ostensibly, he would appear to be driven by two of the central motivating forces that are integral to the engine of creativity for so many artists: raw egoism (which I will return to later) and aesthetic enthusiasm. The latter stimulates him to share his perception of worldly beauty, as well as, that of words. His works bears this out through their communication of experiences that are clearly important to him and which he feels that others should not miss. Accordingly, the themes of his early work are inherently linked to his experiences of life in Soviet era Latvia, so much so, that some critics considered his work to be inherently related to Sotsart. Yet, given the tempestuous opportunities provided by Gorbachev's glasnost policy, the development of his art in this direction was almost inevitable since he was living in a period that bestowed an emotional attitude upon him whose shackles will most likely enchain him forever. However, whilst Laganovskis has succeeded in disciplining his temperament, at least in as much as he has managed to avoid getting bogged down in the gluepot of immaturity, his art is still very much shaped by the influences of his youth which taken together are the nucleus of his impulse to create. However, complications arise when examining his art in search of his personal raison d'être. In works such as "Made in Banff" (a series of a dozen paintings on vintage wooden TV screens) and "McLenin" (an ironic swipe at McDonalds' exalted culinary status in Gorbachev's Soviet Union), Laganovskis challenges you to enter the "garden" of his mind. He invites you to edge your way into his domain under the cover of a voyage of aesthetic and socio-historical discovery and then leaves you for dead cast adrift in a maze of symbols. It strikes me that viewed close-up, Laganovskis' works are full of what the American cyberpunk writer, William Gibson described as "semiotic phantoms, bits of deep cultural imagery that have split off and taken on a life of their own, like those Jules Verne airships". So much so, that, lost amidst the passages of art that delineate "Made in Banff" and "Rostrum" (an ongoing series of ink on paper drawings), there appears to be no way into or out of Laganovskis' maze unless you know his secret. Perhaps, one ought not to be surprised by this, since for Laganovskis like so many other Conceptualists, the idea behind a work is frequently more important than the work itself. This reinforces the impression of Laganovskis as the joker, the riddler who thrives on playing intellectual games with the people who view his work. And in this sense, Laganovskis' enigmatic body of work is in keeping with the nature of the man. For he remains a conundrum, sometimes even to those who have known him for years. Speaking to him recently, I was reminded of Nietzsche's comments in "Thus Spoke Zarathustra", whereby, "He who knows the reader, does nothing further for the reader. Another century of readers - and spirit itself will stink...That everyone will learn to read will ruin in the long run not only writing, but thinking too." It struck me that to some degree Laganovskis is not only a conundrum for others who struggle to "read" him; I'd be very surprised if on occasion he doesn't have trouble "reading" himself. After all, it must be a devilishly difficult task for him to focus his attention on the plethora of thoughts, feelings and visceral yearnings that he experiences on a daily basis and then decide which of them are rooted in his own persona, his reality, and which are not. It cannot be easy for him to identify the passions or thoughts that emanate from his personality when he, no doubt, has many others that are born of excess, boredom or routine. The challenge facing Laganovskis, the artist and the man, is to size up his thoughts and emotions whilst staying true to himself. Only, thus can he hope to identify his real needs, aspirations and desires. As long as he rises to meet this challenge, he can rightly hope to continue growing as an artist. And to my mind there is no question that, whilst his art may not overtly reveal this, were Laganovskis to be honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that, setting aesthetic enthusiasm to one side, his needs, hopes and yearnings are fuelled by a raging torrent of egoism. This is a man who craves recognition and respect. Everything he does suggests that he would like to be remembered after his death, to revenge himself on those in the Latvian art establishment who have snubbed him etc. It would be nonsense for him to deny that these are not strong motives since his public actions suggest as much and because egoism is a characteristic he shares with many other vain, self-centred and at the same time wilful and talented people who live for themselves and belong to the top crust of humanity. It may also explain why he is manifestly more respected abroad than at home. Given the socially ironic nature of his work, it is no surprise that organisations such as White Box want to exhibit his work because of his presentation of critical ideas that are of significance to a wider audience (each White Box exhibition is attended by an average of 2,500 people, ranging from tourists to local passers-by right through to curious art students). Yet, it is unlikely that the folks at White Box are in the loop regarding Laganovskis' controversial profile in Latvian society. And even if they are, most likely, for them it is an irrelevance compared to the importance of his art. Unfortunately, in Latvia, the chances are that public perception of Laganovskis is not based on his forthcoming link up with White Box at the Venice Biennale or his receipt of the Latvian Annual Award for Visual Art for the Best Personal Exhibition of 2004 (Tieksme iekārot - Riga Gallery). Rather, it is founded on his tenure as Chief Artist of the City of Riga. Whilst this was an appointment he sought vigorously and one which has provided him with the limelight he so clearly cherishes, his alleged shortcomings and derelictions of duty in the post have been ruthlessly exposed by the indefatigable hounds from the press. Examples include the alleged failure of Riga City Council's City Development Department to harmonise the erection of flagpoles by the Freedom Monument with the State Culture Monument Protection Inspectorate prior to Latvian Independence Day and the unhappy affair of the flags that adorned the Vanšu and Akmens Bridges on Independence Day. A strong wind ripped into their fabric and their colour bled in the rain. Needless to say, these incidents made Laganovskis cannon fodder for journalists already irritated by his haughtiness and unabashed rudeness (he openly admits that he doesn't suffer fools gladly). Subsequently, his regular appearances on the front pages of Latvia's biggest newspapers have cast him as very much the beleaguered man of action or as his critics would have it, "man of torpor" suspected among other things (he denies the charge) of relaxing in his office during working hours with his feet up and a glass of cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other whilst the fulfilment of duties requiring his creative input related to city festivals passes him by unnoticed. Laganovskis claims that he is oblivious to criticism and that for him it is no more than water off a duck's back. However, that does not mean that its authors are about to turn tail or that he is likely to treat them with anything more than the single iota of respect that he feels they are due. Leonards Laganovskis will celebrate his 50th birthday on November 1st this year. If the past quarter century of his life is any guide then his next twenty-five years are bound to be colourful to say the least. To this observer, at least, he currently resembles an artist in an alien bureaucratic environment, all at sea, yet spurred on by pride and an all-consuming desire to fulfil his stated goals such as introducing art into the heart of the city. This cocktail of pride, desire and egoism (always egoism) infuses Laganovskis with the explosive yet perhaps impotent vigour of a Mongol warlord. For now, it has turned him into a creator, who, instead of receiving praise for his orchestration of artistic masterpieces to grace Riga's urban landscape, has found himself assailed from all sides in a wearisome dogfight to retain his personal credibility. It is to be hoped that he retains sufficient breath to draw succour from the fact that at the same time his vision and work are the subject of notable recognition and plaudits from art critics both at home and abroad. As it is, in his darkest hours reduced to warding off the incessant attentions of journalists, Laganovskis could be forgiven for wondering whether they are not by chance the "Mosquito Queen's" personal troupe of parasitical jesters sent to nurture his stoicism and simultaneously bleed him dry of the inspiration that is so vital to his work as the city's "Chief Artist". Undoubtedly, it is a spectacle that makes for absorbing reading. It is also a reminder that the glare from the limelight can burn one's ego and that a provincial china shop is a singularly inappropriate exercise ground for a man with as imposing an intellect and ego as Laganovskis. Especially when his callisthenics shatter the crockery. | |
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