LOVE IS HELL - Sam Havadtoy website

SAM HAVADTOY
LOVE IS HELL
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An artist is born. I am touched by the magnificence of his work. He has dipped into the old
Hungarian spirit and culture and created a work that is very now. It is very Hungarian, very
yoko ono
Sam Havadtoy and it’s beautiful.
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Everything is about love, and love is hell. Love is hell because
love is forever, love is eternal. SAM HAVADTOY
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It’s strange that I should be using words to present the conceptual paintings of Sam Havadtoy
to you for reasons that will become apparent as you slowly uncover his work. You may not
know by looking, but each one of Sam’s paintings has a story behind it—quite literally. So to
introduce you to Sam’s converse, cathartic works (which in a sense are nothing more than
wrestling matches with his own brain), let’s start at the conception point of every artist’s first
impulsive need to be creative: the realization that if they don’t start to make things, they’ll go
nuts!
It goes without saying that art is nothing more than therapy for those who can’t hack the couch.
Sam’s works are birthed from his running. They come screaming from his therapist’s recommendation that he write down important memories from his life on paper to act as a kind of
cranial balm. Since higher minds often stumble into entirely new aesthetic visions while avoiding the analyst’s office, Sam’s aversion therapy, naturally, was instead to turn the suggested
exercise into a body of work. And presto change-o! An original thinker once again dodges a
lifetime of once-a-weeks at the psychotherapist’s lair and, in its place, an artist’s new vision is
born unto the world. Hey, don’t knock the process! How do you think human evolution got this
far?
Each of Sam’s paintings starts with a raw canvas onto which a specific memory from his life
is then written. If there isn’t room for the whole story, Sam just begins writing at the top again,
obliterating the words he already wrote at the beginning. Readability by others is not the point.
The exiling ritual of translating past memories from amorphous brain waves into words which
convey an approximation of an event—bringing the past up to the present, where it can be
symbolically tended with in the tangible realm—is what’s important to Sam.
When adequately scribed, the words and all they represent are then forever entombed under
a hearty layer of paint. Words: gone. Emotional attachment: frozen. The canvas is then
wrapped in a layer of lace and more paint until it hardens into a scabrous, protective shell.
Groupings of shapes or subtle washes of colors are then added over the surface, often mirroring the lace’s patterns. And, as a final adornment, many of the works also have brief words
or phrases bluntly exclaimed across the front in large Helvetica type.
Obscuring the written word has been practiced by civilizations since recorded history. The
ancient Egyptians kept hieroglyphics on the walls of sealed tombs hidden from mortal eyes at
all costs for no other reason than in an attempt to establish a direct line with their almighty
Gods. Extremist religious groups who burned books in giant bonfires to save people’s souls?
Similar concept, different God. What about those giant blocks of black ink the C.I.A. uses to
censor parts of top-secret documents? Same thing…very different God!
I find it appropriate that Sam uses something as hushed and gentle as lace for one of the sentinel layers, a bandage guarding his mummified memories. When I asked him why, Sam told
me that he is simply very fond of it. It’s actually fitting, seeing as one of the acknowledged origins of lace comes from ancient Greek and Roman garment makers, who conceived the practice fixing the frayed edges of worn garments—twisting, tying and stitching up the hanging
threads into decorative patterns, the tidying up of loose ends into things of beauty.
Although on the surface, I don’t think exorcising demons or imprisoning secrets is Sam’s goal.
To try to halt them is to offer a sacrificial appeasement to them, before banishing them back
to where they originated…the abyss. Covering things up is a way of helping one feel in control of their perceived powers. The minimally chosen words imprinted boldly across the front
of Sam’s paintings? Mere epitaphs. “Love Is Hell“ might as well read, “Here lies the beloved
body of what led me to believe Love Is Hell.“
I’d love to look at Sam Havadtoy’s paintings in the traditional sense, but the fact that he’s playing passive aggressive peek-a-boo with the hidden moments of his life acts as a strange
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attraction to my own uncensored, internally voyeuristic mind. In public, viewers of Sam’s work
may wonder aloud, voicing polite theories about the stories locked behind each one. But their
subconscious will undoubtedly be plunging deep into primordial depths and therein lays these
works’ magnetic yank. The endoderm of Sam’s paintings acts as a lightening rod to our own
secret curiosity. These works are subtle trick mirrors offering kaleidoscopic refractions of what
is hiding beneath our own hairy scalps. They force us to contemplate which memories from
our own lives we might like to keep permanently imprisoned from public view…or even ourselves. It’s like two-way suspicion that leads to a speculative implosion. Are these paintings
simply Surrealist? If the original Surrealist movement’s goal was to tap into the viewer's subconscious, then Sam may have simply found a more direct route.
Sam told me that he will never reveal the stories buried beneath his works. One buyer
demanded to know the story written under the work he had just purchased. Sam gently told
him to trust his vibes: if he felt a good emotional connection to the work, it was obviously a
happy story; if it was a negative one, then perhaps the reverse was true. Such is the arena of
truly conceptual painting. Let the (mind) games begin!
If you’re the kind of person who is blind to all but the first three letters in the descriptive phrase
“conceptual art,“ rage not! Your suspicion is healthy—nothing more than a latent instinct to
explore, which Sam’s paintings will no doubt encourage. But since my need to excavate is
more pronounced, I’ll confess I have inspected Sam’s paintings carefully in my hands, turning
them every which way, squinting my eyes along the sides…peering at the back as I hold them
up to the light. Their surprising thickness, despite their light weight, makes them seem almost
like food (bon-bons of Id smothered in a layer of the Superego?) or even giant pills. One
almost expects to turn them over and see the logo “Pfizer“ embedded on the back—anxiety
medications for the Gods perhaps.
I must confess that I could find no evidence of the naked confessions written underneath. It
looks like the only way to read them is via an x-ray. But of course, while we’re at it, we might
as well just plop Sam inside a C.A.T. scan machine and gawk at his squishy insides…or perhaps extract his DNA. I’m willing to bet that thought makes Sam a bit nervous, as naturally it
might. The act of reversing his insides onto the outside is a concept that probably runs against
his Transylvanian roots. Hungary, as a nation, has been through marauding Magyars sweeping across the plains; endless wars; pulling-aparts and putting-back-together-agains; a dual
monarchy; German occupation; and then eventual “freedom“ from all that.
Hungary’s erratic history line is one that has led its people to being categorized, psychologically, as one of the most insular populations in the world. Sam feels that the almost universal
American need to share innermost secrets for the outermost spotlight, as on TV’s “The Jerry
Springer Show,“ is luridly fascinating—almost horrifying. Surprising?
“Hungary had the highest rate of suicide anywhere in the world until very recently,“ Sam
remarked. The facts are that, from roughly 1900 to 1997, Hungary DID have the highest suicide rate in the world. As of this writing, the number one slot has been snatched by Lithuania.
Hungary has slid rapidly to number eight, a fact that Sam attributes to all the prescribed medications floating around in people’s bloodstreams these days.
I consider myself an optimist, a Hungarian optimist.
SAM HAVADTOY
Did you know that one of Hungary’s most renowned exports is the song “Gloomy Sunday?“
Composed by Rezsô Seress in 1933, it has become known over time as “The Hungarian
Suicide Song“ and has developed a (slightly urban) legend as having the ability to actually
induce suicidal feelings (or acts) in listeners. Artists as diverse as Ray Charles, Billie Holiday,
Serge Gainsbourg, Diamanda Galas and Lydia Lunch have all recorded versions…each trying to plug into its ineffably fatalistic croon. The song’s energy and legacy seem to channel
and encapsulate what many, including Sam, believe is one of Hungary’s defining contributions
to the world of expression.
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“In Hungary, many people have no choice but to become an artist or poet,“ Sam has confessed to me. Oh, by the way…did I mention composer Rezsô Seress jumped to his death in
1968 for reasons that aren’t exactly clear? Sam has told me that, much like himself, “Seress
was a true Hungarian optimist.“ Sam…whatever you do, PLEASE DON’T STOP MAKING
PAINTINGS!
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But before you assume that Sam’s strange, quiet process is mocking television shows like
“Oprah“ and drugs like Paxil® and Effexor® (things that we, as Americans, consider brazen
badges of honor), first examine his take on Western pop culture (or the inadvertent history of
it) in another body of work.
The individual works in Sam’s “Icons“ series look, from a distance, like uprooted slabs of concrete from the stars along Hollywood’s “Walk of Fame.” Styled after 18th Century religious
icons, they pay homage instead to rock and roll immortals that became all-powerful in the
Eastern Bloc of the 1960s despite the mid-20th Century Communist desire to suppress their
influence. The template for each star cut-out in the center was taken from an old “Five Year
Plan“ sign that Sam found outside of a factory. The inside of each piece is gold leaf, which
Sam polishes meticulously and obsessively by hand.
Two of Sam’s influences are Russian-born portraitist Alexej von Jawlensky and Italian still-life
painter Giorgio Morandi. Both generally preferred small canvases and the meditative ritual of
repetition on one theme was more or less central to their work. Sam likes the compact nature
of his works. He believes a small painting can be a large picture and that a large painting is
often a very small picture. He claims that if no one finds an emotional connection to his works,
physically they can be filed away easily. This is in sharp contrast to some of the mammoth gargantuosities by late 20th Century “masters“ that currently hoard prime real estate in some of
the world’s finer museum storage facilities.
What’s that Sam? You say you DON’T want your emotional catharsis to be hogging the spotlight front and center at all times? OK Sam, you’ve proven it: an American you certainly ARE
NOT!
Is Sam a nihilist? Anyone who wonders if two similar snowflakes can find a connection or who
concocts a bazillion shades of pink to capture the color of Cherry Hill in Central Park must be
a believer on some level. But the modern skeptic is indeed embedded in him. When he told
me of two neon signs he planned to install in an upcoming gallery show in Budapest, one
above the entrance to read “Only want your money“ and one above the exit to read “Only want
your body,“ I asked him if this was a comment on the political climate of the city itself. “Imagine
them in the entrance and exit of a church“ was his pithy reply.
I’m convinced Sam Havadtoy will continue to make painting after painting, as he proceeds
through the obstacle course of a life lived. Each work will lay to rest a memory or pay tribute
to one. Each painting will be different, but each will resemble another enough to be like individual leaves on a tree. If you choose to excavate your own past through Sam’s conceptual
paintings, please do so…and enjoy the trip! But if you just want to look, feel free to adorn the
walls of your life with Sam’s homages to the traversed hallways of his own. They are perfect
luminous confections, brilliant swatches of sweetness and light, and are capable of brightening
any
room—
perhaps on some Gloomy Sunday.
Mark Allen
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So he demanded of me, “Look into my eyes and count to three…one, two, three…and
then tell me what you see.”
I did as he asked and answered, “Wrinkles.”
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The Properties of Lace
“Unhappiness is immoral,” said D.G. Rosetti,
right before he was committed to an institution.
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When I say “love is hell”
you hear, “love is immortal.”
Either way it shunts us both
into deeper opposites of bliss.
Embrace the tiny knives,
nobody ever bled to death from paper cuts
The slow, operatic failure of something essential,
a solid connection disintegrating
like the curtains in an abandoned farmhouse
shielding empty rooms from the penetrating light
anything left out in the weather
will finally fall apart
Erase the marks inflicted
on the hide of the past.
Despair is a cold thing
cold as the stars in January.
Inhale the melancholy
like a cleansing rain
polishing every leaf in the garden
to a fine green glow
fresh air touching your face
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Afternoon light slants lower
the sun heads down
into deep freeze and darkness
turn the lamps up high
bank the fires
only the work you do
will save you from yourself
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sharp knock of winter in morning breeze
summer a distant memory, the void gaping,
the battered heart’s battery running down.
This is where you walked in
This is where you left
Round and round the Oktogon
in this spectral Eastern twilight.
This city might have been romantic in wartime
or when Red Army tanks
rolled down Andrassy Street
Reality a dreary square of sky
seen through a rainsoaked window
bleak skies to match the curdled mood
the self regarding itch
you cannot scratch,
heart closed like a fist.
Harry Houdini stares from a stamp
As if he knew something
The letter never gets mailed
the words remain unspoken
all pity and no muscle.
Do something with this dolor
drooling on the lapels of your evening suit,
the silk facings charred
like fish in a burning barrel
no-one settling in beside you
on the long ride across the night to Tokyo
Tud segiteni?
Cut the slack from the rope
and the boat floats away along the Danube
blue heart blue boat blue river
Back then you thought you understood
the beauty of small things
bread and flowers, white wine
cool as her lips
Dreaming of maps, Atlas mountains
running down to the sea at Agadir,
embroidered mouthpiece of the burkha
concealing so much beauty.
Beneath the veil the heart beats,
blood flows.
Sodden weight of sweat damp sheets
alone in the vastness of the bed
drowning in Egyptian cotton and goose down,
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blankets like coils around your body,
entombed like a pharaoh.
Four in the morning is when
the doom devils tear aside the veil,
dance in tiny hobnailed boots
around your unprotected head
and everything seems more sharply lost
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‘you have been replaced’
Words scribbled on canvas
retain their secret power
even buried under layers of oil and lace.
The cured paint cures everything.
Max Blagg
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All works are mixed media on canvas, 50.5 X 50.5 cm.
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These works are about people who made me realize that Love is Hell
and dedicated to those who made me understand that Love is Forever.
Special thanks to Eileen Boxer for making her talent available to me at all times, never getting tired of my problems—big or small—and Adam Boxer for being so supportive of my
project—stepping in and helping whenever it was necessary. Together, they made this catalogue a reality.
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Design: Eileen Boxer, BoxerDesign
Photography: Gabor Benedek, Arttypo Studio
Printing: Timp, Budapest
Printed and bound in Hungary
All works © Sam Havadtoy, 2005.
Texts © Yoko Ono, 2004; Mark Allen, 2005; and Max Blagg, 2005.
This catalogue was published by Galeria 56, Budapest.
www.galeria56.hu