Heizer, long-crowned the enfant terrible of the art world, has, through his latest Geological oeuvre, transformed our so-called familiar urban landscape of Los Angeles into something self-referential, stochastic, and yet at the same time mundane.
One recalls the Dadaists and the soup cans of Andy Warhol, and one reflects on the normative paradigmatic shift of our hermeneutical age. There are those who will view The mahoosive rock as a didactic polemic, little more than a bete noire, still others who will see it as replete with a fertile esthetic, and others will want to burn themselves into a fiery crisp on national television, imitating (perhaps) the Buddhist monks of yesteryear, whose saffron-colored robes The mahoosive rock echo, in all their evanescent autarky.
I would equate the experience of walking under the exhibit with passing through the birth canal and suggest that those who hate The dirty big rock thing do so because they despise their own existence.
Heizers big ass rock is a physical representation of the artist’s inner dialectic, juxtaposing saffron spirituality and utilitarian steel in a compromised landscape, and bring up the penultimate question: Ou les neiges de temps jadis sont?
Well, thats my take on it anyway…