Last year when we spent the year slacking around Rome, we were fortunate to spend many of those hours wandering the streets with photographer and activitst Dona Ann McAdams — the artist best known for Caught in the Act, a book of photographs chronicling the work of performance artists such as Karen Finley, Eric Bogosian, Blue Man Group, Meredith Monk, Ethyl Eichelberger, Ann Magnuson, Bill T. Jones, and Allen Ginsburg, among others. McAdams, a street photographer in the tradition of Henri Cartier Bresson, was a pretty funny companion, riffing on everything she saw. But what we didn’t always notice is that even while she gabbed, she was skillfully zeroing in on her surroundings without breaking pace or even stopping the conversation, snapping away with a three-decade old Leica. “Ninety percent of what I shoot is crap,” McAdams once remarked when we happened to see the hundreds of rolls of black and white film in her refrigerator. Despite what she may say, her filter nonetheless manages to catch startlingly beautiful, humorous, unguarded moments that are intended as much to be chronicles of McAdams interest in social activism as pure beauty.

The work is now the subject of a Some Women, a comprehensive mid-career survey (a sampling, McAdams calls it) at the Opalka Gallery in Albany. The show centers on McAdams longstanding interest in women as subject matter and it’s is well worth the drive, especially this coming Wednesday, December 9, when Paul H-O’s film Guest of Cindy Sherman in which McAdams appears, will be shown in conjunction with the show’s final week. To promote the exhibit and the film, McAdams has agreed to submit to our interrogation.

San Suzie: What’s the biggest stereotype about photography?
Dona Ann McAdams: That it can illustrate an objective truth, and bear witness to an event. You can’t look at a photograph and know what’s going on. It’s just one person’s point of view.

If you could change one thing about the art world what would it be?
The way it’s looked at. Art should be in grocery stores. I’d like an exhibit at Sam’s Club.

What artist, living or dead, would you most like to party with?
I’d like to be at a jazz club in Harlem with Roy DeCarava and Tina Modotti. We’d be listening to Miles.

If you could have any work of art to hang in your bathroom, what would it be?
An original panel of Windsor McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumberland.

What two artists would you like to watch duke it out in a celebrity death match?
How about Caravaggio and William Burroughs dueling with pistols? But I’d rather see Walter Benjamin and Susan Sontag play chess.

If an alien from another galaxy landed on Earth and wanted to take back a single work of art to represent all of humanity, what would you give them?
Duchamp’s ready-made urinal. It says it all.

What imagery do you think is overused in art?
The self-portrait.

If you were to die and come back as a piece of art, what would it be?
I’d be Louise Bourgeois’ giant spider Maman and live in the Cortile at the Capodimonte Museum in Naples.

If you could vandalize any work of art, what would it be?
It would have to be Damien Hirst. But then he’d get even more press he doesn’t need. If you’re not going to eat the animals, put them in the ground or leave them in the ocean.

If art could kill, how would you like to die?
Listening to Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis. That kills me every time.

There are years so transformative, they stand out on name alone: 1492. 1776. 1968. On the surface, 1959 would not appear to be one of them. But 1959: The Year Everything Changed, by Slate regular Fred Kaplan, begs to differ. This was the year, after all, that Miles Davis recorded Kind of Blue, ditching the rigidity of bebop for a freer style of improvisation. It was when Fidel Castro and a gang of barbudos took over the island of Cuba. And it was when a tinkerer-engineer named John St. Clair Kilby introduced the microchip, a thumbnail-sized piece of technology that would revolutionize the world of computing (and allow for the eventual dissemination of LOL cats to the universe). Not to mention all of the era’s other significant cultural happenings: the Guggenheim Museum opened its doors to the public, Robert Frank’s book The Americans arrived in the United States and MoMA unveiled an exhibit titled Sixteen Americans, a show that helped give rise to artists such as Robert Rauschenberg, Allan Kaprow and Jasper Johns.

“I’ve generally been suspicious of books like this — Cod: The Fish That Changed the World — the idea that everything is affected by one event,” says Kaplan of his broad survey. “But so many of the things that we associate with the late ’60s and the Baby Boomers, they were rooted in the late ’50s — and instigated by a generation that came of age during war and became disgruntled at the phony period that followed.”

1959 is definitely one hell of a yearbook (and one hell of a dishy read), featuring appearances by Norman Mailer, John F. Kennedy, Lenny Bruce, Herman Kahn, William Burroughs, John Cassavetes and Margaret Sanger. (Interesting fact: old Mags got around.) The book captures the era’s high creativity, as well as the high anxiety generated by the Cold War. “[Mort] Sahl put it this way,” writes Kaplan, of the period. “Whenever he saw an airplane approaching, he never knew whether it was going to drop a hydrogen bomb or spell out ‘Pepsi-Cola’ in skywriting.”

With the Gugg celebrating it’s 50th, Frank’s photos on display at the Met and Kaprow’s tires being rethought by William Pope L. at Hauser & Wirth, we figured that there was no time like the present to talk to Kaplan, a veteran jazz writer, who was kind enough to submit to our questioning. Here, he reveals his distaste for art skulls, the type of Picasso he’d like to hang in the loo and why he’d like to dump pig blood all over Robert Indiana’s Love sign.

C-M: If you were to die and come back as a piece of art, what would it be?
KAPLAN: Calvin Tomkins, in his biography of Robert Rauschenberg, wrote that when he went to the Sixteen Americans show, he saw a piece by the artist called Double Feature. It had a man’s shirt with a pocket, so [Tomkins] mischievously dropped a quarter into the pocket. I want to come back as that — so that people can mischieveously drop quarters into my shirt pocket.

If you could change one thing about the art world what would it be?
I’d make it a requirement that to be exhibited in public you have to show craft or wit. You see a lot of art that doesn’t have either.

What artist, living or dead, would you most like to party with?
Dali always looked like he was having a good time. He’s someone I’d want to go trotting around with.

If you could have any work of art to hang in your bathroom, what would it be?
One of two kinds: either one of those really pornographic etchings by Picasso — the really dirty ones. If not, something incredibly calming, where nothing is going on at all, just a strip of color.

What two artists would you like to watch duke it out in a celebrity death match?
I think Schnabel versus Pollock would be good. They both have that rousing tough-guy macho thing. I’d let them go at it.

If an alien from another galaxy landed on Earth and wanted to take back a single work of art to represent all of humanity, what would you give them?
I think it would have to be one of those incredibly mournful, emotional Rembrandts — that’s if you want the aliens to think that we have humanity, something that would say, don’t hurt us.

What imagery do you think is overused in art?
Skulls. Warhol’s skulls should have ended the whole thing. There should have been nothing to do with skulls after that. It’s death and Warhol made it into a pop death. It’s a comment on a comment. There’s nothing else to say about it.

If you could vandalize any work of art, what would it be?
Those gigantic Love things by [Robert] Indiana. I would pour buckets of pig blood on it and I would spray scatological graffiti all over it. They’re offensive works. Love is not about total control.

What type of art do you like to look at when you have the munchies?
Those [Wayne] Thiebaud cakes. On some of them, you just feel like you could reach in and grab one.

If art could kill, how would you like to die?
I think I would like to die by Pollock’s One from 1950. I want to be sucked into a cataclysmic explosion of the universe.

In 1993, Paul H-O (short for Hasegawa-Overacker), along with a few comrades in arms, launched an arts-focused public access program in New York City called Gallery Beat. For 160 half-hour episodes, H-O and his esteemed colleagues — Walter Robinson, now of ArtNet, Spencer Tunick, of nekkid people fame, and Cathy Lebowitz, of Art in America — crash landed at gallery openings all over Manhattan, armed with nothing but a TV camera, a microphone and probing questions such as, What is it?  “Admittedly, half of those episodes are shit and should have never been made,” says H-O. “But there’s some great moments with people in galleries.” Including one with a lot of vagina.

H-O is working on putting the old shows online (a couple currently reside on YouTube), as well as resuscitating Gallery Beat for an internet audience. “There’s a recession going on, which means it’s time for me to come back,” he quips. His priority these days, however, is the theatrical release of his film, Guest of Cindy Sherman, which he co-directed with Tom Donohue, and which will premiere next week at Cinema Village in NYC and the Film Center in Santa Fe. The highly intriguing doc, which chronicles the rise and fall of Gallery Beat alongside the rise and fall of H-O’s romantic relationship with Sherman (expect to see rare footage of her at work), has been making its way through the festival circuit since last spring and is now set for a broad public airing. The footage of H-O & Co. at an early Vanessa Beecroft performance at Deitch is worth the price of admission alone.

To shill the flick, H-O proved willing to submit himself to our pat interrogation methods, revealing who he’d like to see in an artist girl-fight and why he thinks a tube sock and a tin can represent mankind.

C-M: What’s the biggest stereotype about art?
H-O: That tremendous macho attitude that someone like Picasso embodied. Martin Kippenberger established a certain style for himself that way, too. Then there’s Schnabel. People don’t think I like Julian Schnabel, but, in fact, I adore him. He’s given me great material. He is that larger-than-life figure. He adopts the attitude of being Picasso, and since he’s such a visible figure, Hollywood people see him and say, “Here’s an artist!”

When you were a kid, what did you draw?
Soldiers, wars, planes, boats, battleships, war planes, B-40s, B-25s. I was a war monger. I also remember that I once saw the movie version of Moby Dick and then did a drawing where Moby Dick is wiping out all the whalers and they’re flying all over the place.

What image do you currently have as your desktop wallpaper on your computer?
On my laptop: this piece of highway in Panama that I shot when me and my friend Bruce were surfing there. I go everywhere to go surfing. As soon as the film stuff is wrapped, I’m going surfing.

What’s your favorite color?
Seafoam, that kind of an aqua color — the color you see when you’re surfing and the wave is going over you and the sun is going through it. We call it “the green room.” You can see it sometimes surfing in the fall in Long Island when the waves are the color of jade.

If you were to die and come back as a work of art, what would it be?
A psychedelic poster by Mouse & Kelley.

If aliens landed on Earth and wanted to take back a single work of art to represent all of humanity, what would you give them?
One of those sculptures by B. Wurtz made with a tube sock and a tin can. They’re these stripped-down encapsulations of a minor signature of human existence. It’d be a real baffler. The aliens would really have to think about it. It’d definitely be something modest like that. I wouldn’t give them a diamond-studded skull.

What type of art do you like to look at when you have the munchies?
Those really big installation pieces by Jason Rhoades, the ones with the disco lights and garbage.

Which artists would you like to see duke it out in a celebrity death match?
Tracey Emin and Cecily Brown. I’ve seen girl fights before—and two British chicks facing off against each other? I’d want to see that.

If you could vandalize a work of art, what would you do?
Those big Jim Dine Venus pieces on 6th Avenue in midtown Manhattan. I would just knock them over and leave them like that — and then I wouldn’t let anybody touch them.

If art could kill, how would you like to die?
I would like to be, literally, transported into death through the aesthetic experience. There have been times I’ve been deeply touched by a Rembrandt, and when I was in the Prado, I saw a Hieronymus Bosch that brought me to tears. My death would be of love: I’d be so struck by the work, that’d I’d just drop dead.

What piece of indispensable advice can you give the current crop of MFAs?
Go out and get a real job. Give yourself some grounding in life.

Do you believe what you say?
I believe what I say if it’s not a joke. But there is not that much that isn’t.

***

Read Paul H-O’s blog here. Guest of Cindy Sherman debuts on March 27.

Okay, so this has nothing to do with art. But I dig the Daily Show. And last week, at a very crowded, very noisy downtown bar I assaulted Larry Wilmore, the program’s Senior Black Correspondent, and managed to rope him into helping us kick off a new, irregular feature for the blog: the C-Mon Questionnaire.

It didn’t hurt my case that Wilmore is promoting a new book, I’d Rather We Got Casinos and Other Black Thoughts. The comedian has done time as an ink-stained wretch before, serving as a writer on programs such as In Living Color and Bernie Mac – and he is now in the process of developing a show for HBO. He was kind enough to answer our incisive questions about who he’d like to see duke it out in a celebrity death match and what kinda chocolate he’d like to be. 

* * *

When you were a kid, what did you like to draw?
Rocket ships. I was a huge space fan. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid. It didn’t happen because I have bad eyesight. Plus, at the time, NASA wasn’t very brother-friendly.

What’s the desktop wallpaper on your computer?
I have an image of a lone helicopter in the sky. It was during the writer’s strike — on Hollywood Boulevard, last year. I just shot an image of the sky and there was one lone helicopter there.

What was the last picture you took?
It was at the Inauguration. It was of the crowd — which was bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t usually like huge crowds, but I made a commitment to go because this was a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

Who is your favorite dead artist?
Marx and Lennon. Groucho and John. Very funny, very influential, very talented and they both influenced me a lot.

If you were to die and come back as a work of art, what would it be?
I would not want to come back as a work of art. I don’t want to be an imitation or a representation of something. I want to come back as something that is alive. And I don’t want to come back as something that can get eaten. I’m all about top of the food chain.

What two artists or entertainers would you want to see duke it out in a celebrity death match?
Jada Pinkett and Will Smith against Beyonce and Jay-Z. In my mind, Jada can take all of them, including Will. She’s feisty. She’s like a little pit bull. On the other hand, Puffy and Kanye could have a punk-off. That’d be good, too.

If there’s one thing you could change about your profession, what would it be?
I would take all the executives out — by the knees.

What’s the biggest stereotype about comedians?
That they’re funny. Many comedians are very horrible, dark, depressive people. Many are joyless and mean spirited. They’re just good at doing comedy.

You say that you prefer the term “chocolate” to “Black” or “African-American.” What kind of chocolate are you?
An Almond Joy. You could have half of me and still have a whole.

Do you believe what you say?
I don’t believe anything anybody says — especially myself.

For five days during the Frieze Art Fair last month, Miami artist Bert Rodriguez rubbed feet. His performance piece – Where You End and I Begin, for Miami’s Fredric Snitzer Gallery — consisted of giving art patrons 10-12 minute foot massages over the course of a week. The piece was a spectacle, attracting a full roster of clients (including Guardian critic Adrian Searle), as well as hundreds of onlookers. When he undertook the project, Rodriguez didn’t know the first thing about massaging, much less feet. But he quickly learned, consuming loads of lavender-scented massage oil in the process. Earlier this week, he made himself available via telephone to answer a few probing questions about the experience, including what it was like to rub his gallerist’s toes and which culture has the grossest feet.

C-M: How were the feet?
BR: Some were incredibly fucking disgusting. There were times where I honestly felt like I was going to vomit.

How bad was it?
Some of the feet I rubbed were swollen and bruised and there was black shit under toe nails. I was like, “Can’t you take a sponge or a toothbrush and scrub underneath that nail? I don’t think those colors exist in nature.” There was one man, his skin was falling off in my hands. His feet were fossilized. And then there were the odors. In some of the photographs, you can see that I’m turned away from the person.

Who had the best feet?
Mostly Asian women. They were perfectly smooth and well-kept. They were the most hygienic when it came to their feet. The Italian women also had very nice feet.

And the worst?
I don’t want to be an asshole, but the British really don’t take care of themselves. That’s always been a stereotype. Just like the teeth.

How does this experience lead you to regard the women who work at nail salons?
I was thinking about that while I was doing it. This is hard work. You deal with some nasty stuff. I found that a lot of people also use this as a way of airing their grievances. I became the hairdresser or the bartender.

What did you learn about feet by doing this?
I thought a lot about the metaphors. There was the relationship between artist and patron. Then there’s the idea of Jesus rubbing the feet of his disciples. That was something that a lot of people brought up. What’s interesting to me is that I appeared to be in this subservient position, but I was really in control. The people were a tool for me to create my work.

Did you rub any well-known feet?
No. But I did rub [my gallerist's] Fred [Snitzer’s] feet. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But there was this Italian television crew and they wanted to do an interview and needed an image of me massaging feet. So I rubbed Fred’s feet.

So what kind of feet does Fred Snitzer have?
They were old people feet. [Laughs.] They were wrinkly and the nails were a little longer than they should have been.