ALBERNHEIT

In all the years that we have known one another, Schoffman and I have shown our work together only once.

In the spring of 1990, Berlin was a city marinating in adolescent exuberance. Art galleries were opening everywhere and in the most unlikely places. Gallerie Kunstbrauerel 17 on Zionskirchplatz, under the ominous shadow of the crumbling evangelical church was one such place. It was run by Claudia Musil, the flamboyant doyenne of the German avant-garde, whose chiseled features and colorful hats became an emblem for Euro-hipness.

She asked David and I to design a collaborative exhibition based loosely on the theme of Habermas’ theory of communicative reason, a fashionably obscure post-modern war-horse. Neither David nor I knew anything about Habermas, (which probably made us uniquely qualified for the endeavor), but a friend of mine, a professor at Heidelberg University explained that it had something to do with language.

Well, to be brief, Schoffman and I bought a small German phrase book, a bunch of stencils and some imported Krylon spray paint. After getting furiously drunk, we went to the gallery and got to work painting long German sentences on the crisp white walls, laughing so hard we were in agony. When we were done, the room looked like the aftermath of a verbal food-fight.

Non sequiturs dripped aimlessly next to declamatory broadsides. Fractured syntax squatted defiantly beside eloquent lyricism. Rhymed couplets were paired with garish profanity. The place was a mish-mash of random gibberish, a disconnected, poorly executed hodgepodge of driveling dreck.

The critics loved it.

Schoffman and I have been pretty successful in Germany ever since, but inevitably, whenever we show, our latest work is always compared unfavorably to that legendary frolic at Kunstbrauerel 17.

Bête Comme Un Peintre

David Schoffman draws with the fixed certainty of a caliph but I wouldn’t call him a natural draftsman. His confident line is ruffled by a sense of reckless speculation.

I recently saw an exhibition of David’s drawings and was struck by his poetic sense for the page. Silent intervals give way to scrambled agitation invoking the messiness of thought with the clarity of articulation. His true debt is to the tussled sheets of Frederico Zuccero, those rough sketches cluttered with pentimenti.

In a recent interview with the art historian Toshiro Oh, David described his connection to Italian Mannerism as “a prayerless captivity.” It was a typical Schoffman comment, empty, pretentious and obfuscating.

David, if you are reading this: Shut up and draw!

SINCE UNSUNG

Since the inception of this blog I have received innumerable e-mails with specific questions about David Schoffman’s life. I must admit, I’m a bit envious of his allure.

Many of the inquiries are silly, like, “What does he look like in pajamas?” or “Is it true that his back is covered with pastures of white hair?” Some of the queries are beyond my area of expertise, like, “When is his birthday?” or “Does he use oil or acrylic gesso?”

But certain questions come up time and time again, so I’ll begin to address those that seem to be on many people’s minds.

Dahlia Danton from Los Angeles was apparently one of David’s students at UCLA. She wondered if there was any truth to the rumor that at one time David was a member of a punk rock band.

Well Dahlia, the real story goes as follows: In 1979 David lived in Dublin and dabbled in music, particularly drumming. He was particularly taken with the Takhas, a central Asia percussion instrument made from bamboo and llama hides and sounds like the dropping of cans. Through friends he met Kevin Daley, one of the original members of the Saucerspoons. (This was long before the ‘Spoons’ recorded their “Live in Bethlehem” album). One night in a pub in Doolin, Schoffman scrawled on a beer napkin the lyrics to “Tongued By Philomel,” which was recorded by the Saucerspoons in 1984. The Spoons performed it on “Vin Geller’s Top Pops,”and the song rose to number 38 on the Billboard charts.

He never wrote another song but of late he has been struggling on a contemporary rendering of Kol Nidre, the Jewish prayer for rain.

RAIN MAN MEETS REMBRANDT

In a 1999 review in “Cahiers D’Ivers,” the writer Raymond Quineau described David Schoffman’s paintings as “outsider art performed by an insider.”

An atypically apposite observation by a typically undistinguished critic.

From the late 80’s “The Shape Of Sleep” through “Cohanim,” “The Loom Of Minerva,” and “Rattling Traffic” of the 1990’s and on to the current series of one-hundred paintings, Schoffman’s work looks like the product of a highly sophisticated lunatic.

On the one hand the work is steeped in art historical allusions. On the other hand his projects are always disturbingly unique. Schoffman inclines toward an aesthetic of repetition and like many “outsiders” he has an unnerving patience for detail. He is fervently devoted to the diminutive dot. Monumental pieces are painted with #00 brush. Layers of complicated patterns are composed of tiny, tic-tac size brushstrokes. His pictures trill with an insect-like drone and being with a group of these works can be a profoundly disturbing experience.

I recently ran into Quineau in Rome where he was working as a consultant for an anonymous American art collector. I asked him if he was keeping up on the vicissitudes of Schoffman’s erratic career. He answered me with an icy glower. “These days, Malaspina, I don’t look at art … I just buy the stuff.”