Mark Morrisroe
They are a comely group of men, those gathered in this room. Some are rough-skinned and hard, others almost dainty. Many stare vacantly. You know the type. Slim girlish hips, endless pouts. Sometimes they look at you, more often than not they gaze intently at their own reflection in the air. I see the one I like, the one that reminds me of me when I was a boy. He's leaning against the wall, the way that boys like this do, pulling on a cigarette, his hip jutting up against the wall. A piece of cigarette paper dries on his lower lip, and when he's finished, a patch of skin is pink and slightly raised. He runs his tongue over the spot, enjoying the taste and the pose he cops from a favourite movie.
There is a new generation of artists who will remain young for the eternity of art consciousness. Their remnant, unfinished bodies of work are being perused posthumously. The true end of the search for mastery has arrived - it has become irrelevant, a bone of contention no longer worth picking at. Disillusioned by the glow and shine of the dislocated dogmas that made up the 80s tap dance, the art audience has recalled the 'other' 80s. Such work, most notably the 'Boston Branch' including Nan Goldin, Mark Morrisroe, Jack Pierson and Stephen Tasjian Tabboo!, unveiled a messier, lusher and more problematic existence.
A man of intermediate age is seated on a velvet sofa. His countenance is mildly engaging. Perhaps a bit aloof or preoccupied. He bends his head down slightly, putting his ear to some invisible source. Listening, maybe. Above his tilted body is his second image, a calmer self, resigned to a long drawn-out pose. The picture seems quite old, and a small tear trickles decoratively towards his body.
35 self-portraits taken in the span of 14 years. Gorgeous and stiff, it is the collection of a diligent fan or the documents of one who foresees his disappearance. Much as I'm sure we're meant to be here, we don't really belong. Maybe it's just their size, but the Polaroids seem too intimate to be shared with a crowd. These are the pictures tucked away in dresser draws, under the socks and briefs, glued together by their emulsion. They are the kind of pictures that aren't really looked at, but kept as proof.
Mark on the sofa, watching me watch the other living Mark, is quite aware of my attraction. Counts on it. He knows I can't resist him as two. Knows that it is impossible to look at the other pictures without searching for the double that monitors the room.
Everything in this space is time-lapsed, sped up. The slovenly confidence of youth gives way to the nakedness of terminal loss of control. His body is the poetic vehicle, the thing that furthers our romantic notions of the past. Our own thirst for the iconised dead, for our James Dean, our Frances Farmer, propels us to roll around in the aura of Morrisroe's self-preserved body. It is a practice of visual necrophilia, through which we feel a terrible longing for what is lost as well as deep fulfilment in response to the remaining images.
A collection of Mark Morrisroe memorabilia is laid out in a glass display case. The pickings are slim. Flyers, a few contact sheets, some photos, a postcard, a letter, a diary. Every item, no matter how slight, is momentarily imbued with importance. Again, we want something, when there's no more of it to be had. The diary has been flattened out, revealing a list of categories that describe his 30 years. The third notation after 'School & Unpopular' is 'Prostitution & Celebrity'. The second to last on the list is 'AIDS'. Another note from the case reads 'Sometimes I wish I was a movie star, instead of an artist'. In some ways, he now is.
