There are between 10 and 30 new exhibits each month among the museums, galleries, and alternative spaces that make up the Crescent City art scene. The beauty of writing a monthly column is that I am never compelled to review a show that I don’t care for—there’s just too much good stuff out there. The down side is that I’m wearing out my repertoire of superlatives. There are a lot of wonderfully dedicated, accomplished, even brilliant artists around here. And then there’s Douglas Bourgeois. Bourgeois, like horn man Wynton Marsalis, is one of those home-grown geniuses that humble us ordinary aspirants.
Bourgeois recently exhibited two years worth of paintings in the large front gallery of the Arthur Roger Gallery, and the show was the best thing I expect to see in 1994. Bourgeois’ paintings are as dense as black stars and as busy as beehives. No detail of cracked bathroom tile, speckled butterbean or five o’clock shadow goes unnoticed and no square millimeter of canvas goes unexploited. Bourgeois implodes into the cramped spaces of his paintings. He is splendidly, frighteningly obsessive, and equally skilled. Bourgeois insists on accuracy. He chronicles the appearance of shimmering magnolia leaves, rusting faucets, handsome women, and gorgeous men with the eye of an old-fashioned encyclopedia illustrator.
Yet Bourgeois is unburdened by stale academic conventions. His paintings contain some of the fresh, mind-baffling eccentricities of the art of children, of folk artists, and aboriginals. No, his shadowing, perspective, and modeling do not always add up to realistic spaces—and his paintings are so much the better for it. Bourgeois’ style is unique—you’d never mistake one of his paintings with anyone else’s—but it is also subtle. Bourgeois employs no conspicuous distortions of form or dramatically expressionistic color. Bourgeois is a realist, but he uses his command of realism to tell wonderfully strange, dream-like tales, tales of the contemporary Louisiana-gothic mindscape.
Search Bourgeois’ paintings for myriad themes. Roman Catholic imagery is everywhere: Christ within a ring of thorns, Saint Michael in a mirror, and a levitating Infant of Prague can be found within this body of work. Bourgeois uses these resonant images as metaphors for passion, devotion, and even latter-day superstitiousness. The Savior and the saints are rendered as carefully and lovingly as Greek Orthodox icons, but so are Bourgeois’ symbol-laden portraits of Queen Latifah, Aretha Franklin, and Madonna. Bourgeois gives himself over to fandom; he acknowledges the psychic import of pop idols. Bourgeois also occasionally dabbles in Americana/kitsch, including tiny portraits of Roy Rodgers, and Nancy and Sluggo. This is not sophisticated satire; Bourgeois—like most of us—actually holds these minor deities dear.
Bourgeois speaks out about social ills. In “Mistaken Identity” a black man is ambushed in his own home by a white cop. The painting seems to suggest that one black arrestee is pretty much as good as another. But notice that when Bourgeois speaks out, he does so quietly and thoughtfully. Here Bourgeois somehow manages to convince us to empathize with the naked black innocent without giving us quite enough ammunition to damn his persecutor. Bourgeois’ images are provocative without becoming propagandistic.
Bourgeois similarly draws our attention to the state of the environment, particularly the environment of the River Parishes. We find refinery stacks looming here and there, and suburban orderliness encroaching on rural serendipity. But again, Bourgeois trades in the ironies of man’s disunity with Mother Earth, not in the outraged polemics of green politics. Bourgeois clearly loves the natural world. No one could give as much of his life to the rendering of Louisiana’s flora and fauna without being truly moved by life’s diversity. Notice that in his self portrait, he depicts himself with a paintbrush in one hand, and a dirty garden trowel in the other.
But wait a minute. I’m becoming way too analytical about this stuff. I’m not trying to send anybody to school, or to church for that matter. Douglas Bourgeois’ show is a free ticket to the circus. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen; cast your eyes upon “The Woman from St. Gabriel.” Once the most beautiful woman in all of the Mississippi river delta, she was transformed by an evil magician into an enchanting monster. A monster, ladies and gentlemen, her hair a mass of slithering snakes: coral snakes, rainbow snakes, and salt and pepper king snakes, her body covered with insects of all sorts. The Louisiana Medusa. Gaze upon her at your own risk!
And get a load of “Poets on an Island.” Imagine Emily Dickinson romantically longing her life away on a tiny island in a sea of blue natural gas flames, accompanied only by rapper Rakim (of Eric B and Rakim) perpetually churning out waves of coarse rhyme. Imagine a musical suitcase filled with a miniature cypress swamp, calming the fitful sleep of a stunningly beautiful traveling saleswoman in the tawdriest of tawdry motel rooms. Imagine a very buffed gallery owner (Arthur Roger) as Samson pulling down the temple. Imagine that! Better yet, go see for yourself. Get down to Arthur Roger gallery. The show will be over, but ask to see a piece anyway. They’ll have one or two hanging around.
Most of us artists try very hard to create art that will pass the test of time, but the truth is, most of us are just making curiosities that have more to do with various trends than burning personal vision, and we know it in our hearts. You, Douglas Bourgeois, are different. You are preserving the psychic truth of our time and locale for posterity. We are proud to know you.
