A POST-MORTEM ON OUR ART HEIST

By

Tyler Stoddard Smith

May 22, 2008, 12:55 p.m.
From: dr_art@state.edu
To: Graduate Students
Subject: Guggenheim Debacle


Let me first say that I'm happy we all made it out of the Guggenheim alive. Well, technically. Word on the street is that the heat's still on, but with that show of incompetence in there last week, I'm surprised we're not all strung up already. That said, I'd like to address a few other concerns:

Timing
This was supposed to be a smash-and-grab job—in and out in seven minutes—remember? But, by my calculations, we managed to spend a total of just over four hours inside the Guggenheim. Now look (Friedrich, Joe) there is a time and place to discuss the merits of Rothko over Reinhardt and vice-versa, but during an art heist, just take them both and we'll consider issues like the optical effects of simultaneous contrast and the diminution of color boundaries later. Right now, I'm looking at Rothko's Untitled (Violet, Black, Orange, Yellow on White and Red and what appears to be fecal matter) and I have to ask, Friedrich, I know you're partial to Reinhardt and I can run a test, so don't lie—you relieved your bowels on a multi-million dollar painting to illustrate your disdain for "flat forms," didn't you? You get points for enthusiasm, but that's not going to get my daughter through Stanford. Hustle it up next time and Friedrich—please—remember that asking passers-by if they agree with the notion that Joe (and Rothko) are "dick-faced philistines" may be provocative but ultimately it runs counter to our goal.

Logistics
Nobody is really sure what this word means, but I can tell you this much, Joe: Logistics is not delivering an impromptu lecture on the "haunting shifts between representation and reality in Pistoletto's Broken Mirror" while simultaneously attempting to enter the "fourth dimension" illustrated within the piece. You looked like an ass and what's more, drew unwanted attention to yourself. It's a heist, not a goddamned symposium. We're all sorry you didn't pass your Ph.D. orals, but get over it.

Location
I am certain that in my previous e-missive I specifically indicated that this heist was to take place at the Guggenheim. I thought we were clear on that. Perhaps then somebody would be kind enough to explain why Basil thought this was going down at the MoMA? I'm sorry to say that, according to the news report, he eventually starved to death after losing his bearings in the notoriously complicated fifth-floor. We went over this time and time again, guys. And we agreed after the practice run in October (in which I'm sure you all recall Basil's roommate Demetrius spent two nights trapped in the MoMA maze, subsisting on nothing but saltines and a Kandinsky frame) that the MoMA was too dangerous. On a positive note, the paper indicates Basil was clutching Mondrian's partially-devoured Broadway Boogie Woogie, which is more than I can say for the rest of you.

The Art
Friedrich, despite your loathsome treatment of the Rothko, I was overjoyed to see you made off with Yves Klein's, Blue Sponge. However, upon further examination it seems you just took a blue sponge from the maintenance closet and jammed it on a stick. What do you take me for, a second-year graduate student? Do you think my guy in Antwerp is for one second going to buy this abomination? For starters, this sponge is not the venerated "International Klein Blue"; it's just a garden-variety blue that says more about the state of janitorial insouciance today than about the physical manifestation of cosmic energy floating uninhibited in the realm of our preconscious. You can get yourself killed for this kind of stuff, Friedrich. Damn. And Joe, I wonder if you might have been better off in the 4th dimension. What I'm looking at here is not, as you would have us believe, a Warhol—this is a "Koala Bear Kare" baby-changing station. When the heat dies down, I want you to go put this back in the restroom like a civilized person.

Now, as I mentioned, I'm relieved we all escaped relatively unscathed. So I have my own confession to make: I opted not to boost de Kooning's …Whose Name Was Writ in Water. Instead, I decided to make off with de Marco's Rainstorm in My Backyard. Who is de Marco, you ask? That's why I'm the Ph.D. here. Enrique de Marco is a third grader at P.S. #148 in Queens, whose broad impasto strokes recall a daring and existential insight only dreamed of by de Kooning. And for your reference, "A Year With Children 2008," the top-notch exhibit showcasing the finest art by children grades 1-5 in New York City's public schools is right down the hall from the infantile, inane and ridiculously overpriced de Koonings.

Like right down the hall. 

—Prof. S