The Mysterious Metal Monolith & Anonymity in Art
On November 25th, David Zwirner’s social media team was hard at work riding the coattails of one of the strangest news stories of the past week with one of the most misleading Instagram posts of all time. In a vaguely captioned post, Zwirner compares the recently discovered (and more recently disappeared) three-sided monolith in Utah to the work of the late John McCracken, the minimalist sculptor known for his well-known, high-gloss “planks” and other large scale works.
Despite this confusing message, Zwirner has officially stated that they didn’t know whether or not McCracken had created the work, and though countless commenters have jumped on the comparison which, although an admittedly spot-on one aesthetically, is unlikely since the monument was likely installed well after his death. Other artists suggested after ruling out McCracken include Petecia Le Fawnhawk and Max Siedentopf, though no artist has claimed either the installation or the removal of the monument (my bet on the removal? David Datuna.)
But what few people have been asking is why no one has come forward. At this point, barring any elaborate viral marketing campaigns, it feels unlikely that any artist will claim the work. And even if one did, wouldn’t knowing who did it be ultimately disappointing? If McCracken or Fawnhawk had done a large unveiling of the work, it almost certainly wouldn’t have had anywhere close to the same cultural impact.
There are certain works that require the secrecy of their creation to give them a vital importance. Many contemporary street artists rely upon anonymity, most notably the ever-sardonic Banksy. The politically critical nature of his work and his anarchistic views on the art world (and world-at-large) are doubly effective when the creator is seen actively protecting his identity. Calls for revolution ring louder from the anonymous Banksy than some bloke named Robin Gunningham.
The pure anonymity of Banksy is actually rare for street artists at that scale, who generally rely upon monikers to protect themselves from police when first starting out but eventually shed them if they ever want to make more money. After that, the alias isn’t a shield but a beacon, a useful branding device to unite an artist’s work under a recognizable title. And so in all ways, their anonymity is a signal to pay attention.
But what about those who want to hide for reasons other than being seen? Whoever made the missing metal monument in Utah, and possibly whoever took it away, could have done so in secret because the work wasn’t for us. Imagine their panic upon seeing their secret altar, this peaceful obelisk nestled in a natural amphitheater of stone, overrun by people standing on it and posting images on Instagram.
Some art is personal. The prime example of personal art are Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings, a series of oil murals painted directly onto the walls of the artist’s home in Spain. These incredibly dark and morbid paintings are reflections of Goya’s fears of violence, illness, insanity, and death. They are untitled, in some cases unfinished, and were probably unexpected to ever be seen and appreciated by the public.
These reflections of an intimate and dark inner world are part of why Goya is one of the most universally inspiring artists in the canon of Western Art History. The passion with which he painted is evident even in these works that he made to process his own intense neuroses. Goya created them in secret as a way of dealing with the pain he couldn’t share with the world, and I hesitate to say there is a more genuine reason to create art. An authentic secrecy in art, one which doesn’t call attention towards its mysterious nature but rather obscures its nature altogether, calls into question the very act of creation.
We as a global society have become obsessed with credit. There are volumes upon volumes of legalese that are dedicated to the equitable division of this credit. Even as the art world has again and again over the past decades undermined the very idea of dominion over art (See: Richard Prince), we are unable to comprehend that someone may make something just to make it. It’s why the essential question at the core of the mysterious metal monolith is just, who would go to all the trouble?
To whoever created the obelisk, you have either surely succeeded or surely failed in your endeavor. If you wanted to get the whole world talking about your work, and transcend into immortal, mysterious infamy, you’ve done that. If you wanted to be famous, coming forward now might give you that, but almost certainly only in a disappointing, man-behind-the-curtain kind of way.
And if you wanted to have a private space for reflection, an oasis in a red craggy desert, then I’m sorry for what’s happened, and I understand why you moved it even if I don’t understand why you made it. For better or worse, a good mystery can’t go uninvestigated in this world.
