DECLASSIFIED: Psychedelic Jesus vs. the Rude Flag

In the printed zine-journals of 2 Gyrlz Quarterly, DECLASSIFIED was a recurring feature exploring censored and suppressed artwork and literature.  From the journal archive, here's Cortney Harding talking to two Portland artists, Thomas Rude (creator of "American Standard," left) and Joshua Camozzi Milligan about psychedelia, religion, and political content keeping their work from its intended venues.

DECLASSIFIED: Psychedelic Jesus vs. the Rude Flag
by Cortney Harding
Originally appeared in 2 Gyrlz Quarterly/2GQ No. 3, Portland, Oregon: 2005, pp. 34-38.

The word "censorship" usually refers to situations in which the government officially keeps something from being viewed, read, performed, or otherwise distributed. But those whose work sends uncomfortable messages, asks confrontational questions, or just plain gets too messy may find themselves without any outlet for distribution, exhibition, or publication—especially when conservative attitudes and fear of economic survival are on the rise. It may not be official censorship, but this situation breeds an atmosphere of suppression in which controversial concepts, imagery, and words are safely relegated to the margins or shoved under the rug. We hope that DECLASSIFIED will offer some insight into the difficulties surrounding the creation and dissemination of such work, and the tough decisions facing the gatekeepers who must decide what to publish, distribute, or show. —Ed. (TLB)

The art world has not remained untouched by America's pervasive post-September 11th climate. Even in a progressive state like Oregon, artists who dare to make political statements or use religious imagery find their work censored and their intentions called into question. While Joshua Camozzi Milligan and Thomas Rude haven't experienced physical violence as a result of their work, unlike a San Francisco gallery owner who exhibited portraits of Iraqi torture victims, both of these Portland artists have experienced censorship in Oregon—part of a larger trend to depoliticize art. I spoke with the artists about the suppression of their work.

PSYCHEDELIC JESUS
Joshua Camozzi Milligan: "Sweet Jesus… A Reaction to a Stolen Water Bottle"

Josh Milligan honestly never thought his ode to a lost water bottle would be so controversial. A few years ago, Milligan bought a multicolored Jesus sticker in a Zupan's vending machine and affixed it to his omnipresent Nalgene water bottle. A few years later, the Nalgene was stolen while he played a show, and Milligan was inspired to recreate his favorite sticker. The representation of Jesus is surreal, to be sure. But it seems, to me, no more blasphemous then Mel Gibson's multi-million dollar epic, The Passion of the Christ. In fact, while the painting involves both blood and skulls, it is not overly violent, and makes no real “anti-Christian” statement.

I sit under the painting while I interview Milligan at his eastside Portland home. Milligan is a sweet, shambling, laid-back guy; not unlike many of the other creative types in town. He grew up in the Bay Area and received his formal art training at the California College of Arts and Crafts and the Pacific Northwest College of Art, where he graduated with a BFA in General Fine Arts. In addition to his visual creations, Milligan plays music with Spacefairy and Mugwort, as well as in a solo project called Tokage. His work has been featured in numerous solo and group shows, and he is a regular participant in “live painting” exhibitions in Oregon and California, both with the Pacific Artistry Collective and at 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts events.

Milligan gives me a brief rundown of the history of the "Psychedelic Jesus" piece, officially titled "Sweet Jesus…A Reaction to a Stolen Water Bottle," and his efforts to show it in Portland. When Milligan was asked to be part of a show produced by 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts, to be held at the now-defunct Medicine Hat Gallery on Alberta Street, in a racially and economically mixed neighborhood experiencing change and strain, he submitted the Jesus painting for the show. Citing concern that members of a local church would be offended and try to block the Medicine Hat's pending liquor license, the Medicine Hat asked him to leave the piece out of the exhibit. He was, however, allowed to exhibit several female nudes.

Milligan’s second attempt unfolded similarly. Caffe Scozia, a coffee shop on East Burnside street in Portland, requested he not hang his psychedelic Jesus on the grounds that several nuns from a nearby abbey were regular customers. He was, again, free to show his female nudes. Neither the coffee shop nor Kenneth Wright, the curator of the Medicine Hat show, returned our calls about this article.

Milligan's third attempt to show the work could be used to define the expression "catch 22." Optic Nerve, a tattoo parlor and gallery on Alberta Street (see p. 42), commissioned a show of Milligan's works. They wanted something edgy, something that would give observers pause. When Milligan brought in "Sweet Jesus...," it was rejected as being too tame and not controversial enough. The curator of the Optic Nerve gallery, Amy Von Rautmann, says she does not to remember the incident.

The ultimate irony comes when Milligan explains how he finally showed the piece successfully. The Red and Black Café, a worker-owned cooperative coffeehouse in Southeast Portland, allowed him to show the painting. Apparently, only Communists were okay with Jesus.

Had Milligan's work been another "Piss Christ," a work created with provocation in mind, the concern of the galleries and curators might have been justified. It is difficult to imagine Vera Katz or Tom Potter behaving as Rudy Guliani did when "Piss Christ" was shown in New York City, by threatening to pull funding and causing an uproar, though the current political environment and tenuous funding situations might give them justified pause. But Milligan's painting is a more neutral work. He explains that the skulls in the painting represent the skull of Adam, and the swirling shadows represent “shadow people,” a concept that recurs throughout his work. Milligan doesn't think that his representation of Jesus in and of itself causes galleries to reject the work. He thinks that there is a fear surrounding the discussion of religion, and that while the naked female form is no longer taboo, a Christ figure still is. Though Milligan says he has never received negative or hostile comments about the piece, many gallery owners would still rather not chance it.

One wonders if a painting of another deity, rendered in the same style, would cause as much consternation. Would a psychedelic Buddha or a psychedelic Vishnu be rejected by gallery owners? It is interesting to note that, while Milligan considers painting itself a religion, few of his other works deal with the subject of Christianity. The psychedelic Jesus painting, in and of itself, makes no statement or judgment about Christ.

Milligan has never shown the work outside of Portland. When I ask what he thinks the response would be in a more devout city, he tells me he would be worried. Might anti-religious sentiment be to blame for his lack of luck exhibiting the work? Not an overt prejudice, of course; I'm sure many curators and gallery owners would express tolerance for viewpoints different then their own and express a desire to make others comfortable by not exhibiting work that could jeopardize the success of their galleries. But in this post-Karen Finley, post-"Piss Christ" era, is anything really shocking?

For secular artists, God might very well be the last taboo. Yet religious imagery pervades our society in so many ways that there is no escape from the watchful eye of God the Father--even if one distances oneself from organized religion. Explorations of faith seem to be out of the question. The mainstream community seems to say, “You're either with us, or against us.”

Milligan still hopes to exhibit "Sweet Jesus..." again, and perhaps one day sell the piece. In the meantime, he says he's “gearing up to bust some serious ass.” In April, he showed at the Pos Gallery, debuting a series of masks with what he describes as a "Don Quixote-esque" theme. He recently moved his studio and expects to keep working, showing, and selling.

On my way out of Milligan’s house, I consider the fact that maybe it's time to invest in some local art. I ask Milligan how much he's charging for his Psychedelic Jesus. He replies, “Six hundred and sixty six dollars.”

THE RUDE FLAG
Thomas Rude: "American Standard"

Thomas Rude is an established woodcut artist who has shown his work all over Portland and in Northern California. His work is represented at the Waterstone Gallery in the Pearl District, and he sells woodcuts and postcards at Saturday Market every weekend. But last year, his piece "American Standard" started a major controversy when it was removed from the Oregon Governor's office.

The piece is striking in its simplicity. The American flag is re-created with bombs serving as stars and coffins as stripes. Rude says the piece was a way of expressing his feelings after combat operations started in Iraq. He tells me that he was frustrated by people's lack of willingness to be outspoken, and had a desire to create a serious political work. “Political cartoons are too easy to laugh off and dismiss,” he says. “I wanted to do something different.”

Rude was invited by the Oregon Arts Commission to hang some works in the Governor's reception room at the Oregon State Capitol. Hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists and visitors pass through the room on a daily basis. The Oregon Arts Commission is headed by what Rude calls a “somewhat naïve” older painter, Nancy Lindberg. Says Rude, “I was a little nervous when I hung the work, but Nancy assured me there wouldn't be a problem.”

The first day the woodcut was displayed went by without any comments, positive or negative. Then a staff member in the Governor's office filed a complaint and requested the work be removed. Other staff members stuck up for Rude and an inter-office battle quickly developed. An aide called the Oregon Arts Commission and again [why finally? wasn’t this already requested? should this be “again”?] requested the piece be removed. While all this was happening, no one from the Arts Commission or the Governor's office called Rude. He found out everything second-hand though a friend in Salem who checking on the piece.

After two weeks, the piece was taken down. The explanation offered to Rude was that Governor Kulongoski felt uncomfortable speaking at memorials for soldiers who had lost their lives while the piece hung in his office. Rude believes Kulongoski, who had supported the war, was being forced to justify his position. Rude says the piece is in no way meant to insult the troops. Rather, it makes a statement that they need to be sent home and the war needs to end. After speaking with the Governor's office regarding the removal of his piece, Rude picked up the phone and called every newspaper he could think of.

To my surprise, both the moderately conservative Oregonian and the very conservative Salem Statesman Journal were supportive of Rude’s right to show his work. Of course, in his post-9/11, Iraq war climate, people often fall on surprising ends of the spectrum. The Oregonian was less interested in the censorship issue surrounding the removal of the woodcut and chose to focus instead on how polarized our county has become in the wake of the Iraq occupation. The Statesman Journal wrote that the piece had divided Salem, but that it had also sparked an important discussion. Rude was invited to appear on right wing radio talk show host Lars Larson's show, but turned him down, knowing that Larson would be more interested in attacking him than in having any sort of thoughtful discussion. Larson discussed the piece anyway, but Rude was not the focus of his criticism; rather, he attacked the Governor for displaying the piece. Rude did agree to appear on another show [Larson’s show?], after the host agreed to a fair discussion. Rude says the host was respectful and thoughtful, and was then summarily attacked by his right-wing listeners for not attacking Rude. It is no longer acceptable for people to simply disagree with each other, Rude says.  Everyone feels the need to protect someone, be it a soldier or a child.

This was Rude's first experience with having his work physically removed from a space, but it isn't his first brush with censorship. While working as an EMT in Northern California in the early 1990s, Rude began to think about encounters with death. This lead him to consider works about religion and the afterlife, and he developed a particular interest in the cross. The cross is a symbol predating Christianity, though it’s now commonly associated with that religion. Rude created several pieces that used the cross as a center. One featured a bible suspended from a cross, and another featured a photocopy of Rude’s hands at either end of the cross with a copper heart and a skull in the middle. The works were displayed in a local gallery and while they were referred to as “disturbing,” they ultimately served as starting points for conversations. Rude says this was a perfect example of art doing its job: serving as a means to provoke thought and discussion.

Rude also created a postcard depicting an American flag with gravestones replacing stars and bombs replacing stripes.  Rude tells me that when he first started selling the flag/bomb postcard, people asked him if the US Postal Service would turn them in to the FBI, or if they would be tracked down by the Office of Homeland Security. This paranoia is sometimes interspersed with reason: Rude tells me “a soldier bought one of the postcards and told me he plans to hang it in his office.” [Related story, see 2GQ #2, "Exquisite Language" issue, "DECLASSIFIED."]

Rude's recent experience has not soured him on creating political art. His next work is a series of masks, including one that says “lie to me” over a blindfold. He says he often encounters shoppers at Saturday Market who say things like “what a terrible thing to do to the flag,” then, on closer observation, admit that Rude might be onto something.