Spite is a step beyond anger. It happens when anger has hardened,
you’ve polished it shiny, and you’ve fallen in love with it. Now in
dangerous territory, you nevertheless can’t stop, and you decide it
needs a monument. What you do next is inescapably, pigheadedly
wrong—and also epically right. You build a spite house.
There is a spite house at 2022 24th Avenue East in Montlake. It is
pink stucco on the outside and only four-and-a-half feet wide at one
end. Legend has it that a wife put it up after a judge awarded her
husband their house and her just the front yard in the divorce. But
that’s not true. It went up in 1925; the next-door neighbor who wanted
the sliver of land it sits on made the landowner such a low offer that
he responded by building the little house right up in the neighbor’s
face. The spiter won: The neighbor moved.
The neighbor should have fought harder, because the law, dreadful
downer that it is, was on his side. “Malicious erection” (I know)
statutes in many states, including Washington, specifically prohibit
spite houses, giving neighbors the right to an injunction or a teardown
if the foundation is, say, poured in the dead of night (it has
happened). The existence of such laws is a testament to the unstoppable
drive to build spite houses, and most of the laws were implemented late
in the 19th century, including Washington’s. Older East Coast states
had more time to litter the land with their spite. Skinny, weirdly
shaped, charming, divided-in-half houses for spurned wives, rivalrous
brothers, and affronted landowners “uncover our creepy and creeping
psychologies of ownership,” Will Owen writes in a new limited-edition
chapbook called Spite House. They set out in the open the foul
“swell of psychic things that exist despite never being meant to be
placed alongside each other.” They are fights that last forever.
Given the depthless cheer and facade of rationality that pervades
American public life, there is something deeply calming about spite
houses. They are homicidally sincere, wanton, and unwise. As in the
case of Edith Macefield’s Ballard house—which in 2007 she refused
to sell for a cool million to developers, who had to build around her
until she died, inspiring a rash of tattoos depicting her house with
the word “STEADFAST” (after her death it was sold, but not to the
original developers)—these houses are volcanoes of meaning, like
heroes or great works of art. They’re a terrific—maybe a little
too terrific—premise for an art show. The show is spending this
month at Lawrimore Project, curated by Yoko Ott and Jessica Powers.
(The Spite House chapbook is part of Spite House the
show.) It is both a fascination and a disappointment, maybe inevitably.
Little of the art on display has the bilious, committed power of an
actual spite house (and much of it seems peculiarly impersonally
motivated) or the ability to compete with an odd and unexpected
intervention: nature’s own fury.
What happened is that precisely on the eve of the show’s opening, a
house caught on fire in the side courtyard of the gallery. The house
was a work of art called There Goes the Neighborhood by the
performance trio SuttonBeresCuller, and the only thing convincing about
their claim that this wasn’t a performance was the fact that they
seemed genuinely glum—and that the facade of the gallery itself
was broadly singed, its windows blasted out, its insulation melted into
a crawling still-life. Boxes full of an entire earlier exhibition, held
inches away in storage inside, were nearly decimated. “At first we
thought, maybe? Maybe an artist broke in and did this? But arson is not
painting a corner black or something. Arson is going too far,” curator
Powers said later. (The police suspect somebody homeless stole into the
open house—maybe not for the first time? It has sat there for
months—and accidentally set it on fire.) The remaining visual
spectacle is incredibly beautiful (meant both ways, as in very
beautiful and beautiful in particular because it is not quite
believable).
Now, an act of god and poverty does not provide grounds for fair
criticism, but in this case it embodies a level of intensity that is as
difficult to achieve in art as it is in life. Spite House is a
smart show that succeeds best when it displays less good judgment. As
much as I dislike New York artist Aaron Young’s cocky, Viacom-scaled,
I-make-paintings-with-motorcycles-in-an-arena bullshit, his
tumbleweed made of a crumpled-up chain-link fence plated in
24-karat gold—and his intact 24-karat fence obscuring a video by
Vancouver’s Andrew Dadson—hit exactly the right snarling but
formalized tone. Spite houses, after all, are not instantaneous
ejaculations: They take formal planning.
When Dadson goes creeping across the roofs of his neighbors’ houses
in his slightly slowed-down 2005 video, it’s a perfect encapsulation of
what seethes and seeps through every neighborhood, so invisible and yet
so visible. From inside these houses, you might hear his faint steps or
you might not—but outside, Dadson is plain as day. The
photographs of sections of his neighbors’ lawns that he’s
guerrilla-spray-painted black feel easier, less unlikely, less haunting
(though the image of a white picket fence in blackface is a satisfying
symbol). I love his white roses set in a vase of black ink: They absorb
the ink like a disease, the petals taking on black spots, then the dots
join, and eventually the rot becomes mournfully complete. It’s not
spiteful; it’s gothic and melancholy.
Not all the spite is as literal or as contained as Dadson’s
boundary-stompings. The artworks in the show (as in any group show)
spite each other, as with Young’s partial blockage of the view of
Dadson’s video; or they spite you, the viewer. Miami artist Bert
Rodriguez’s thick white wall—an ongoing and rather heartwarming
project wherein he builds white walls with his father, who cannot
understand why his son must be an artist, in various locations—is
here turned mean. It is the precise width of the gallery’s extrawide
double door, so the show rebuffs you with a big white nothing.
SuttonBeresCuller spited the viewer by blocking the entrance to
the white-cube gallery, which people seem to miss entirely, rendering
the spite rather ineffectual.
On your way up to the door, you probably missed Matt Browning’s
contribution: the Seattle artist painted black the pink sections of the
gallery’s exterior, spiting the architects, two other Seattle artists:
Lead Pencil Studio. Christian Kliegel spited them, too, and the
gallery’s owner, Scott Lawrimore. Kliegel, of Vancouver, broke into the
gallery one night before the show was up. He took a look around and
made drawings that were then added as tape marks on the floor for his
suggested redesign of their space.
Eli Hansen and Herman Beans are spiting the human attempt to spite
death with neatness (I think). They made a messy, dirty coffin-house
with windows and a bookshelf (the inverse of SuttonBeresCuller’s
paranoically sterile Homesick, not in this show). They thought
people would rummage through the blankets (which I recommend), but
people haven’t.
What we have here are good artworks not equally served or activated
by the theme. They’re sort of… spited. In the eternal property war
between curators and artists, curators can count this spite house as
their own. Which, in a weird way, works. 
SO SO IMPORTANT.
EVERYTING. SO IMPORTANT.
it seems like a lot of the artists in seattle that have been receiving press have been getting louder and more ridiculous. all-night exhibits in the backs of trucks, dance offs, break ins, shows in curators (too modern) sheds, performances involving yoko ono’s work, and possible, and likely, arson. forgive me if i don’t understand, but it all feels a bit disingenuous. also, it depresses me to see the levels of attachment and dedication to medium disappearing so quickly.
medium: fog machine in jeep.
medium: pizza and nails
medium: spraypaint and bush
it’s a joke that we have already heard.
Ok cujo, give us the kind of art YOU want us to make and we will all happily oblige.
Dear All Seattle Artists Everywhere, how about making something with some soul, something that nourishes the humanity in all off us. The standard Seattle conceptual nihilism, or strategic art objects offer a zero calorie feast and I am starving.
I know you really like the idea of “strategic art objects” well pull out your moleskin and write it down, hop on your fixie and ride to your apartment/studio and start devising the next empty, ironic, conceptual & emotionally hollow work and you might be the next rising star in Seattle. Good Luck!
i wouldn’t say that there is a type of art that you should make, but i confidently believe that this new “stunt” thing will be regarded poorly in the future. i don’t 100% align with the steven pinker “decline of art” argument, but he raises some good questions about academia and public interest. i definitely think that the public increasingly views artists as lazy and that our stock is losing value quickly.
one thing that i have noticed about a good deal of conceptual art is that often times it is not necessary to see the actual shows or objects. the ideas are based in language and critics can describe what the show looks like too easily:
it’s a gold plated chain link fence.
it’s a bunch of strategically placed blue tape.
it’s a blocked entrance.
it’s flowers dying in a vase full of dye.
after reading this show description above, i don’t have to go and see these things. the description is suffice. i get it. quickly and easily made objects that correlate to a curator’s/interior designer’s grand vision about some obscure idea called a spite house. i find that it would be harder to describe the work of a more traditional artist, therefore making it more complex. lets use someone like akio takamori as an example. how can you describe his work in a definitive way? everyone will perceive it differently and therefore the show/critic invites the viewer to come and see for him or herself. a few weeks ago i went to the andrew wyeth show at SAM and felt completely gypped. i wanted more work. i haven’t seen a show that made me feel like that in a long time. there was even a little anger about it. how could they do this big advertising thing and then give me seven pieces? i just got a bite and i want a meal so badly now.
anyways, who knows? this is the visual art page, just wishing that artists around here would do something that was a bit more visual. would love to feel like i needed to see more shows. would love to feel like i needed art.
also, could musicians get away with this?
CUJO U SO AWWWWWWWWW
MAKEING THE SCENE TOO HARD 4 U N SHIT SO I DESCRIBED SUM ART ESPECIAL 4 U::
ITS A PIGMENT ON A BOARD
ITS A COMBINATION OF PIGMENTS ON CANVAS
ITS SHEET METAL CUT INTO A SHAPE
ITS WOOD THAT HAS BEEN PARTIALLY REMOVED
ITS BRONZE PLATED STEEL
ITS A VIDEO
ITS A SONG
ITS MARBLE!
ITS A PIGMENTZ ON A WALLZ
ITS ME WIF A NOBBY STICK AND U WIF HURTIES
ITS CALLED ASSAULT WIF STEADY WEPON
ITS CALLED LUV?
HEY VISUAL ARTS, Y U SO LAM’E!>!>! CUJO CALLS YA OUT
ITS A BLOCKED ENTRANCE
ITS ARSON
ITS SHIT IN A BLANKET
ITS VOMIT OF PSYCHADELIC AND NON-PSYCHADELIC VARIETIES
ITS DASH SNOW!:
“Isn’t this amazing?” asked McGinley. “I mean, isn’t this, like, the most beautiful thing?” He started walking the short distance to his loft. “The thing is, it’s fun to be an outlaw and everything, but if I were a cop? And I had to chase some kid across the 101? I’d fucking beat the shit out of him, too.”
EW, SO LAME. U A POLICE GUY?
ITS FUCK THA POLICE
ITS A XEROX OF ELVIS
ITS A XEROX OF SOUP
ITS A XEROX OF MARILYN
ITS DEAD ANDY WARHOL!!
MEDIUM: STICK
MEDIUM: MURDER
MEDIUM: GUN
MEDIUM: REDRUM
MEDIUM: CRANKSHAFT
MEDIUM: FUN
MEDIUM: ROCK
MEDIUM: MURDER
MEDIUM: KOMPUTRR
MEDIUM: TEDIUM
TEDIUM: LISTENING TO STUPES WIT THA ART TALK.
Sometimes I come here to comment but then the other comments leave me speechless.
What I was going to say was: really excellent piece all around, Jen. Spot on.
#8
Do you seriously believe that shamelessly brown-nosing an art reviewer will advance your art career? Why don’t you compliment Jen’s “Rubenesque” figure while you’re at it.
No, really, that was one of my favorite pieces that Ms. Graves has written as well, bringing out as it does a richness in that particular exhibition, especially complicated as it was by this fire incident. And Yoko Ott’s curations have been really interesting – I’m glad to see this latest addition. I still wish that both Ms. Ott and Eric Fredericksen would do visiting artist gigs at the curatorial program at Columbia. Can’t someone email or get on the goddamn phone?
I write reviews myself, couldn’t care less about brown-nosing, and continue to work from a point of enthusiasm. It’s just that I don’t care for whining: There’s really crisp, effective work and a very strong art scene here in Seattle, and I’m always thrilled every time I come to town.
I love all the well things.
AND WHEN U WRITE GUT OR CURATE HARD THEY WILL REWARD U. WISH I GUT THAT KINDA GR8 DOPE PUB. YOKO IZ GR-HATE CUZ SHE CUN TEACH UR DUMB KIDZ HOW 2 READ N WRITE. DAVE EGGERS TM.
i make conventional paintings and usually don’t like art that only speaks to the initiated through artworld tropes. John Baldessari said something along these lines: we (artists) can’t wander around in a poetic trance all the time brushing your teeth and paying the bills has to be part of it to. But it’s a field of infinite variety …you can’t make lazy generalizations about what conceptual does or doesnt do. it works when both sides (artist/viewer)take the right time and it helps to have an inquisitive mind, imagination.
white kitty, i recommend thorazine. stop snacking on the local mushrooms
JON WHO BALDESSARI HIRED OTHA PEEPS TO DO HIZ ARRT AND PAINTED SOME ROOM OR SOMETHING I SAW AT MOOZ.
THERE’S MILLIONS IN THA FIELDS ROUND HERE YOU KNOW. ENUFF FOR A WHOLE ARMY. JUST NEED THE TEST SUBJEKT.SWEET SOAPY, I’M CLEANING PIPES WIF U!!!
wow, comments like these make me glad i made the choice to leave Seattle for Chicago and LA to study art. I’m sure you’ll all think to yourself “good riddance you pretentious asshole”, but seriously, this discussion is embarrassing …..
so, the review was perfectly good, aaron young is shit, you always have to see a work of art no matter how “conceptual” it is, artists have been regarded as lazy freeloaders for going on 500 years now, visual art was never about “nourishing humanity” (Medici, Guggenheim, Broad, and Saatchi would like to have a word with you…), and i’m leaving now to spend 12 hours in my studio working my ass off like all the other serious artists i know in this city.
but i do miss the food, the literate people, and the mountains of Seattle. You guess got that us, for sure.