Life, compressed

All of these things make Johnson's room feel metaphysical as well as physical. It seems to compress the time of his life and his life as an artist into a self-contained space that can be entered by no one, but in which his presence is everywhere

As much as the overall effect is a self-portrait of the artist, his imagery is archetypal rather than personal. The human figures are stand-ins for the entire human race, miniature surrogates for all of us that recline, stand up straight and dangle from cords.

Johnson has made a serigraph print for the show, displayed outside his room. Its lone image of a knife slicing through a painter's palette hints at the struggle involved in being an artist. The image is stencilled as well, repeatedly, on the outside of “Smoking Room.”

His concept of the room itself emphasizes the idea that artists, with a few celebrated exceptions, remain marginalized figures – even in an era when art itself, as a lucrative commodity, has become big news.

“A smoking room,” he says in an interview in the exhibition brochure, “is a place to isolate people with questionable habits.” He might have a bit of his tongue in his cheek, but the original artist is still a kind of peripheral figure in America.

Putting the societal question aside, this exhibition is a visual and conceptual delight. Seeing it you are likely to be persuaded that he's made awfully good use of his studio time.


