I enjoy Francis Picabia’s work the same way I’d enjoy a sampler platter at Chili’s. From southwest eggrolls, to chicken crispers, to sliders and mozz sticks, there's something for every mood. And all with the feeling of naughty, reheated, over-processed indulgence. Such are the many flavors of Picabia. From his early days as a third rate impressionist (forgoing the en-plein-air tradition in favor of postcards as source material), to his clunky foray into cubism, and late career abstraction, an overwrought, rehashed, wrongheadedness prevails. I can’t help but enjoy it. I’m not so sure Benjamin Buchloh felt the same when he said that Picabia’s work is haunted by the “spectre of derivativeness.” Spooky indeed.
For Picabia, a fellow Aquarius, ruled by Uranus, the planet of sudden upheaval, style was a wardrobe to be changed from act to act: “If you want to have clean ideas, change them like shirts,” he said. And so he did, shifting gears rapidly through artistic styles, and his collection of 127 sports cars. From the aforementioned pseudo impressionism, to the Mechanomorps (based on exploded mechanical drawings à la Duchamp) and the coquettish Espagnoles (which were bafflingly paired together in an early show), genres and styles were borrowed and applied like TikTok filters, alluding to conventions with detached glibness. Is Picabia’s versatility the privilege of great freedom or the burden of great doubt? A woman I briefly dated told me Picabia gave her “gay vibes.” Touche. There’s a shapeshifting, campy acknowledgement of artifice that runs through it all, confusing notions good and bad, high and low, and mocking aspirations to originality. Does Picabia’s work nourish my soul? I might not catch goosebumps or feel deeply moved, but let's be honest, sometimes you just need to lighten up, crack a smile, and savor a good cheese pull.
-Eric Brittain