Cover Story

There’s an old saying, usually misquoted, that says "One picture is worth ten thousand words." Artists understandably like this homely truism, suggesting as it does their innate superiority over those whose talents lie in the verbal realm. But it’s often possible for words to suggest or inspire an artist. In Greely Myatt’s case, two words are worth a 15-foot wooden saddle assembled from a dozen various carved pieces. He’ll even throw in five classical columns, cast in — of all things — soap.

The two words are "saddle soap." Which is also the title of the centerpiece of Myatt’s current exhibition at Ledbetter Lusk Gallery. Two little words, usually signifying only a humble preparation of neat’s-foot oil. Responsible for this sprawling expanse of a visual pun?

Greely Myatt’s work has always been a playful puzzle, a juggling act of art history and art itself, of craft and folk art, of wordplay and whittled wonders. His vocabulary often borrows from other artists — Philip Guston, Martin Puryear, Robert Gober, Sherrie Levine, Richard Serra, and (of course) Marcel Duchamp have been obvious honorees in the past — but Myatt always speaks for himself, twisting their "words" to suit his purpose. Myatt is a jolly appropriationist, a homespun Jeff Koons — with a boyish wonder at the potential of art, but without the marketplace cynicism. Myatt puts some much-needed fun into the often dreary creature that is post-Modernist art.

Myatt’s work often seems, on first glance, to be simplistic and easily accessible. This is part of its charm, the same charm that enlivens the folk and yard art that so often acts as equal influence to that of the aforementioned high-art muckety-mucks. But Myatt also layers his work with hidden meanings and references. Which brings us to Saddle Soap and the other work in the current exhibition.

At first glance, Saddle Soap is way over-obvious. A bad pun living very large. But it’s not so simple. I don’t think. I’m not sure. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t get it. I can draw all kinds of allusions, what with the saddle and the columns and soap, what with the classical and equestrian suggestions. Hercules and the Augean stables. The Trojan Horse gone AWOL. The political election as a horse race, politicians peddling soap as if it were classic truth. In the spirit of art-historical influence, Myatt himself describes it as "twelve Henry Moores, which when brought together form one giant Oldenburg." To emphasize the independence of the various components of the installation, he exhibits a series of photographs (purposely reminiscent of old photos of Brancusi’s sculptures) — one of each separate piece, exhibited on a sculpture pedestal, divorced from the whole. (This is also to emphasize the fact that each separate piece is purchasable in an edition of three. Maybe Myatt has a little bit more of Koons’ cynicism — or at least marketing sense — than previously thought.)

But I don’t think of Henry Moore or Claus Oldenburg as I step around and within Saddle Soap (it sits alone in the expansive front room of the gallery). I think only of Greely Myatt, of his consummate craftsmanship, of his wit, of his original imagination. I look at the cinch, at the stirrup, at the horn, and — yes — see them as singular, abstract sculptures. I look at the soap columns and think less of classical pediments than of Southern verandas and plantation porches. (But maybe that’s my fixation.) Overall, I see a Greely Myatt who is working more abstractly, who has found a sense of mystery that he may have missed in the past. A Greely Myatt who not only isn’t giving away the punchline, he probably doesn’t even have one. Because he’s telling stories instead of jokes. Stories that may not yet have an ending. Even if it is just a pun, just a big piece of playful nonsense, it’s a damn seductive piece of nonsense.

This impression of subtle mystery coexisting with nonsense is reinforced by a stroll through the back galleries, through the portion of the exhibit called "And Then Some." The subtitle might spur the suspicion that this is somehow secondary work to the Saddle Soap installation. Heaven forbid. It is merely smaller. And, in a couple of cases, actually stronger. This is the work Myatt does every day, not the stuff of major exhibits or commissions. It’s simple work, relatively small, and human. Common objects abound — light bulbs, nails, whips (hey, whips are common objects to some people…). But the nails are over-sized and cast in bronze. One light bulb is carved out of wood, while others are real and arranged in a "bouquet."

The Whips are — no other word for it — gorgeous. Fashioned from carved cherry and steel, balanced or draped on bronze nails, arranged singly or in pairs, they create fascinating forms and shadows on the white walls. These pieces are, quite simply, Art Deco for the 1990s. This is art at its most delightfully decadent: art for the sheer pleasure of a beautiful object. The fact that they are in the form of whips simply makes the pleasure more guilty and spoken in whispers. Makes you want to jump on that big saddle and say "giddyup."

Another motif Myatt employs is the cartoon word balloon. In three of its four uses, the balloon is constructed quiltlike from recycled wood — layered parquetry, skillfully composed from scraps of old signs and lumber. In Nancy Triptych, Myatt recreates in wood the balloons from actual Nancy comic strips, bearing the symbols of a heart, a storm cloud, and a light bulb. Unfortunately, the actual panels from the strip accompany each parquet balloon; it’s overkill, giving away the punchline, the butler did it.

Far better is The Muse. An invitingly polished piece of wood, oval and head-shaped, is carved to fit perfectly in a corner. From it extrudes a parquet word balloon with something ambiguously geometric to say. The Muse is perfect in its simplicity and its abstraction; the head is derived from Guston but is also organic — a seed, a nut, a polished pit. This is post-Modern abstraction at its most magical.

Magic is intrinsic to Myatt’s work, at least in the sense of illusion. From a distance of only a few feet, I’s Wear appears to be an empty word balloon drawn with pen or pencil directly but sketchily on the wall. Closer inspection reveals that what looked like pencil lines are actually false eyelashes glued to the wall. This is not only classic Myatt wit, it is also classic Myatt appropriation — borrowing (I’m assuming) from Janine Antoni’s Butterfly Kisses, where she "drew" with her heavily mascara-ed eyelashes.

Greely Myatt’s art is almost a performance — he juggles, he tells jokes and stories, he makes giant wooden saddles appear out of thin air. They appear, they float in the public eye for only a brief time. But they linger. It’s not just sleight of hand, although this particular hand is among the most sleight; it’s also keen intellect, it’s honed vision, it’s extensive knowledge. And, what the hell, it is magic.