Anton Prohias Comes in from the Cold War then Goes Back Out: “Spy/Spys” vs “Spy vs Spy”

In the 5th Century BCE, Sun Tzu's "Art of War" pointed out that "All warfare is based on deception." He later added, "Deception. That's what spies are good at. That's why I don't trust those lying, sneaky bastards." Gallery/Shmallery's recent exhibition of Anton Prohias' work clearly proves both points quite clearly. Or does it?

Prohias' art on the gallery walls answers that question. It speaks for itself. But I'm still going to talk. Visually, what did I see while observing said art?

Two enemy Spies. Two pointy-headed figures, unceasingly ripping, tearing, slashing, gouging, and clawing each other. Their lethally savage techniques are considered by many to be evil and cruel. But whom or wham is Prohias' attacking with his ink-stained fists of fury? His art answers this question as well. As will I, yet again, for as long as I have to. Because I'm being paid by the word.

From January, 1961 until now, Prohias' "Spy vs. Spy" has relentlessly memorialized, mocked and deconstructed the Cold War's spurious duality with these two Manichean figures locked in "eternal" combat. One "Spy" wears black clothing, the other "Spy" wears white. Aside from this performative aspect of their costume display (and the intentional self-representation the Spys tacitly communicate via the identity/tribal signifiers explicitly implicit in their respective choice of clothing and/or uniform) these figures could be twins. Ironically, the line work defining these antithetical icons is identical. They are polar(ized) opposites, as different as black and white. Yet each is a mirror image of the other. "Spy vs. Spy" is the official title of Prohias' recurring sequential art feature. Visual statement refutes this textual labeling. The inescapable and ineluctable conclusion? They are truly the same Spy. There is only one Spy. And that Spy is at war with him/herself. Or non-gender-specific self. The brutal and bestial futility of the Spy/Spy's self-self, other-other struggle (and Prohias' parallactic critique of the dualistic-yet-artificial cycles of violence in the Cold War's neverending East-West conflict) repeats and reiterates throughout the artist's transgressive body of work. Deconstructed as murderous slapstick long after Vaudeville's death, Cold War tragedy turns endlessly to farce in the Spy/Spys' ultraviolent, yet anti-heroic, expression of mindless eternal recurrence. These vicious circles are vicious indeed. Prohias also thinks it's funny when the Spy/Spys find cleverly sadistic ways to hurt each other.

—Jackson DeVoe, Visual Art Critic at Large

The Duchampian Endgame

Duchamp pointed out that the "fine art" game was a capitalist scam (imposed by critics, academics and other gatekeepers) designed to artificially limit supply and pump up demand in a target market of wealthy art collectors who might as well be speculating in pork belly futures. How good is the art? Who cares? The quality of the art doesn't matter. If it did, art forgery wouldn't be a crime. What counts is the artist's genuine signature! If your signature sells, your work is ergo art, not matter how shitty it is. Hell, a big name artist could sign a toilet and turn it into art! If it sold, the critics wouldn't object. To prove this point, Duchamp signed his name to a toilet. It sold. The critics applauded. Checkmate.

Having proved his point, Duchamp got bored of the art game and spent the rest of his life playing chess.

Music really was better in the old days.

Tampa Stadium, 1974. David Bowie, was doing his thing. Wailing away at the microphone. Graphic behind the stage of a burned out city. Nuked, like London in "1984." And this was the 1984 tour, so that kind of made sense. 

Feedback, dissonance, screaming crowd. So much for “Diamond Dogs.”

Another feedback squeal. Bowie’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen … I sincerely apologize for the technical difficulties.”

Crowd scream.

“We’ll have it sorted out in a minute.”

Crowd scream. 

Then his stomach felt like, you know, like that thing when you’re on a roller coaster? When it drops?

Wait. What? Huh?

Yeah. Like that.

Then a man and a woman were standing behind him. They both kinda looked like David Bowie. Blonde hair, cheekbones, really skinny. Like ... what was the word? Androgynous? Yeah. And wearing these? Silver jump suits with big lapels like that guy in that movie. “The Day the Earth … Something.”

He turned around and looked at the two posers. Like, not out of the corner of his eye? Like, looking at them right in the eye? And then he laughed at them. High out of his mind. As usual.

He had a suspicion. It was so fucking stupid. But he had to ask.

“Are you … Are you guys …”

They both smiled, patiently waiting for him to complete his thought.

“Are you, like, from the future?

“Yes,” the man (or maybe the woman) said. “We are.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” said the woman (or maybe the man).

“Aw. Aw. Hey …ahhhh. Come on. No, no, no. You’re fucking with me … right?”

“No,” said the whatever. “I assure you, we are not.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the future look like, then?”

“Like that,” said the other whatever. 

While pointing at the painting of the blasted city behind David Bowie. Who was now doing his level best not to have a fit while a sweaty engineer messed with various wires connected leading from the amplifiers to the massive speaker column.

A cute girl in a sequined, studded REBEL REBEL leather jacket bit her lip and squealed. But he didn’t let it distract him. From the question, right? The question he was going to ask these future people. 

“So, OK,” he said. “Sorry. But … like … Why are you here?”

They both laughed. 

The future person on the left spoke first.

“Logically … If time travel existed, where would the time travelers travel to?”

The future person on the right answered the question.

“To rock concerts,” of course.

“Bowie.”

“Cream.”

“Woodstock.”

“Monterey Pop Festival.”

“Etcetera, etcetera. The menu is long.” 

The guitarist whanged out a chord.

“Well, that’s better.”

“Hang on. No, no. That doesn’t make sense. Don’t you have, like, better music in the future?”

“No,” said the future person on the left. 

“Music in the future sucks,” said the future person on the left.

“Why?”

“Intellectual property …. your primitive mind wouldn’t understand.”

“Fuck you, OK?”

They laughed again. Laughed at him. It pissed him off.

“This is bullshit,” he said. “I know you’re fucking with me. Time travel’s impossible because …”

Think, think, think …

“Because you’d like fuck with history and shit.”

The future people laughed a final time.

“Nah. We’re in a causal bubble, you tit.”

“Once we vanish, you won’t remember a thing.”

Then the future people vanished.

A D-minor chord rattled the cage of his brain. There were more chords to come.

Bowie’s band went into “1984.” The crowd screamed.

And he didn’t remember a thing. 

The Writing Process Made E-Z

Writing, as writers like to write, is re-writing. Here’s a simplified breakdown of the typical steps in the process …

• Bullshit draft.
• Draft that stinks on ice.
• Draft that sucks donkey d**k.
• Draft that merely sucks.
• Draft that sucks slightly less.
• Draft that a late night talk show host could crack-up audience with.
• Lifeless, flat, numbingly boring, sleep-inducing draft.
• Draft that’s slightly less boring, but rotten with errors.
• Accurate draft that starts to read well.
• Accurate draft that sings.
• Draft you suddenly realize you’ve written before.
• Go back to square one …
• Bullshit draft.
• Repeat as often as necessary. 

Dr. Zaius' Lonely Heart's Club Band

Dr. Zaius' Lonely Heart's Club Band

(to the tune of "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band")

It was 7,000 years ago today

Lawgiver taught the apes his way.

“Ape shall not kill ape,” he said.

And that’s the reason we’re all not dead.

So may I introduce to you

The apes you've know for all these years

Dr. Zaius’ Lonely Hearts Club Band.

We're Dr. Zaius’ Lonely Hearts Club Band

We hope you will enjoy the show

Dr. Zaius’ Lonely Hearts Club Band

Please stay out of the Forbidden Zone

Dr. Zaius’ Lonely, Dr. Zaius’ Lonely

Dr. Zaius’ Lonely Hearts Club Band

It's wonderful to be here

It's certainly a thrill

You're such a lovely audience

Please keep the humans off the bus

Tell Charlton Heston to go home.