PRELUDE TO A GROOVE
LEE QUINONES AT P.S. 1

It’s difficult to shake off the graffiti label. Unlike it’s contemporary countercultural counterpart skateboarding—which has become, for the most part, an acceptable extra-curricular activity—graffiti remains still very much a crime. And while a certain amount of hipster cache is afforded to some of today’s young up and coming artists who have dabbled in graffiti, most old-school writers, regardless of their personal evolutions, are generally relegated to footnote status in the annals of art history. Even for well-established historical figures like Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring, being referred to as a “graffiti artist” still can imply certain negative undertones. Battling this kind of subtle cultural chauvinism, painter Lee Quinones has never tried to hide from his past self-made apprenticeship in the train yards of New York City–nor has ever rested on his legendary status.

For his Prelude series, which were recently exhibited at P.S. 1, Quinones manipulates the inherent limited expectations associated with graffiti-inspired paintings. Starting with basic abstract grounds—successful themselves as perfectly adequate decorative over-the-couch paintings—Quinones constructed internal framing devices by employing two hands to hold the central figurative work: an LP cover. The painting inside the painting is a reproduction of a reproduction. In this case, key 12” record covers from some of the most heavily sampled LPs from the early days of Hip Hop—which, suspended in the act of shoplifting, are displayed clandestinely within the folds of a jacket or sticking up from out of a waistband . Executing these central images with spray-paint is a sort of heroic gesture which not only reminds us of the inherent skills of the man with the can in his hand, but of the triumph of an entire culture that rose from some of the most dilapidated inner-city conditions America has ever seen.

Back in 1994, when these works were created, Hip Hop was slowly but surely stamping out its place as the dominant cultural force it is today. The fact that Lee’s compositional device induces nostalgia for a simpler time of petty crime and outlaw block parties speaks more to the slippery issues of cultural theft then perhaps the artist ever originally intended. Fourteen years later, Quinones produced bootlegged miniatures of his own paintings—replicas sized as LPs. The faux “studies” helped to construct a de-facto retrospective in the converted corner classroom at P.S. 1. Their placement in this particular institution easily evoked memories of Diego Cortez’s seminal group exhibition New York/New Wave in 1981. That same year Blondie’s video for “Rapture” had already provided a primer course in New York City’s graffiti and street art culture. At age ten I was too distracted by Debbie Harry to really notice Jean-Michel Basquiat or Lee Quinones—but there they were and will remain, forever young, and forever cool. Conspicuously, Lee is the one who is actually painting in the video (along with Fab 5 Freddy)—or at least he’s pretending to, while Ms. Harry saunters on by. Basquiat remains rather impassive and awkward, a record spinning unattended in front of him.

What starts out as an identifiable style for a painter often becomes a burden: a tag that sticks. For instance Jackson Pollock, despite numerous forays into figuration, was almost exclusively pegged an “Abstract Expressionist.” Likewise, Andy Warhol was almost always labeled a “Pop Artist.” While these monikers are convenient at first in helping to classify the moment and movement to which a particular painter belongs, ultimately they can become severely limiting and serve to pigeon-hole artists. Also, the so-called signature style that is a necessary tool for self-promotion and originality can quickly become the successful painter’s curse. Once a certain amount of acclaim and financial reward is achieved through the perfection of this signature style, attempting to venture outside of one’s own self-made shtick can be a dangerous thing for an artist—in terms of both public acceptance and that nasty old bottom line. Not everyone is lucky enough to be a Picasso…not even Picasso. And then there is the critical reaction. That which a painter is initially praised for so often becomes fuel for the critics’ backlash. This treacherous playing field in which Lee Quinones has toiled makes his Prelude series even that more compelling. His canvases operate on so many levels that it’s remarkable to me that at some point he didn’t just up and bomb them all over.

Lee is finally free from the restrictions of formalist graffiti styles—even though he is, in point of fact, the origin and innovator of many of these said styles. His concerns now are the same as any other 21st Century painter. And while he is steadfast in his belief in an art “without a reference point to art history,” in point of fact, the work Quinones continues to create is historical. “A true art movement never goes by the script,” Lee has eloquently said, “…it flips the script, faithfully reinventing itself.” That movement, to which Mr. Quinones is certainly a charter member, has seeped into both mainstream culture and the occasional college text book. However, so many second generation Mannerist Graffiti artists and their like-minded hipster contemporaries need to be schooled a bit by someone like Mr. Quinones. Flipping the script does not necessarily mean ignoring the lines. In other words, while it’s great to be young and ambitious, longevity is almost always a necessary element of the successful painter. Of course, Haring and Basquiat disproved this theory; but Lee remains a beacon for the paradigm of a master artist having a full life and a full career. He is clearly a survivor—and is presently thriving in his so-called mature years. And respecting your elders is not some quaint platitude to be tossed aside or bombed over: to know where you are going, you must remember where you’ve been—and who and what came before you.