Murakami, Mommy, & Me
On Sunday my mom called to ask me if I would go to Brooklyn with her to visit a close family friend who was ill. I was already planning to catch the last day of the Murakami exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum, yet I wanted to see this "auntie" of mine too so I played let's make a deal with mother Ruby and she agreed to go with me to see Murakami and I would go with her to the rehabilitation center. After I hung up the phone I was excited and anxiety ridden. What da hell did I just concede to? My mom is going to hate Murakami with his animated vulgarity. There's going to be hell to pay in the art world or at least in my world come Sunday evening. As soon as we park the car on Eastern Parkway I immediately let loose the goose and tell her that she is probably not going to like Murakami. That his work is a tad fresh and not like Krush Groove fresh, but Playboy fresh. She says that she’ll wait in the car and I feel awful. I convince her to at least see what else is showing at the Museum or in the Botanical Gardens next door. When she sees the crazy long line of folks at the museum’s entrance and the diversity of the masses—old, young, anglo, asian, black, boheme, big-boned big-mammas, and mohawked mulattos, she states "oh hell I gotta see what all of this about" and so we proceed. In the first room we are met by three different versions of this robotic femme whose breasts are exposed and retractable. By the third version her body has morphed into this flat missile like plane. It was outrageous and I loved it! Moms: "eh, that's interesting." In the next gallery there are the canvases for which Murakami is so well known- the skittle hued Louis Vuitton LV’s and his iconic DOB. Both mom and I were under impressed.
Our dulled senses were quickly charged for better and for worse by Hirpon and My Lonesome Cowboy--Murakami's gigantic fiberglass sculptures of a spurting sperm dilznack holding boy and another of a busty Pam Anderson type girl squeezing her nipples and using projectile breast milk as jump-rope. Classy.
But baby when we hit that room with the flowered wallpaper and this beautiful 13-foot resin and fiberglass flower ball it was all smiles. The children that were there (traumatized no doubt by the previous room of body fluids) now yelped with glee. It was the Magic Garden to the nth power. Tan Tan Bo Puking was also crazy fresh! I gotta give my boy M-kami dap for that-- the little details, the colors, the drama of it all. Whoa! Moms and I made a beeline for the giftshop. We just had to get Murakami T-shirts to mark the occasion (cause of course that's what we Moore women do)! So glad I have the kinda mom that can hang and who wants to expand her artistic boundaries beyond Charles Bibbs and Paul Goodnight.
Click here for more photos (Wired)