It’s a collage set upon a world map. In each corner, there are four black and white nudes of himself and lover/mentor Peter Hujar; in the centre, a stencil of men kissing within a pool of water; beneath it, a drawing Wojnarowicz found on the street in New York of crude stick figures with one saying “fuck you faggot fucker” to the other.
It’s a fitting name for McKim’s documentary (produced by World of Wonder of Drag Race fame), which tributes Wojnarowicz’s collagist practice. Weaving together archival footage, artworks, images, interviews, voicemails as well as Wojnarowicz’s own, thanks to the artist’s obsession with audio recordings, Wojnarowicz is a pointedly patchwork doco, attempting to echo the artist’s punk leanings with slightly cringe scrapbook visuals. But while the film’s edginess can be a little overbearing in moments, Wojnarowicz’s singularity as an artist and the sheer rage within his work shines through.
“When I was diagnosed with [HIV], it didn’t take me long to realise I’d contracted a diseased society as well,” Wojnarowicz says at the film’s opening. It’s a powerful statement which McKim sets over a distorted scream.
McKim begins the film in 1989. Wojnarowicz is at the centre of a media storm after a national arts body threatened to pull funds from a group exhibition he was in, calling a catalogue essay he wrote that criticised several right-wing figures too ‘political’ . Wojnarowicz was frustrated by the argument itself: not only was the exhibit’s work about HIV—which was, at the time, highly political—but so was his very existence.
A year prior, he donned the now-famous denim jacket at an ACT UP protest emblazoned with a clear message: “If I die of AIDS—forget burial—just drop my body on the steps of the F.D.A.”. In Wojnarowicz, he continues to speak fury to power from the grave through recordings that offer countless blistering one-liners against economic and state-sanctioned violence.
The quality of the archival footage in the film is astonishing and McKim compliments it with interviews with Wojnarowicz’s contemporaries and friends, including Fran Lebowitz, gallerist Gracie Mansion and his lover Tom Rauffenbart. When combined with David’s own audio recordings, made in New York during the 1970s and ‘80s, the doco captures a great sense of place, time and community.
In 108 minutes, Wojnarowicz flies through David’s 37 years at rapid speed to cover all bases, but the somewhat frenzied viewing experience can be forgiven as a testament to an artist who who worked tirelessly, passionately and achieved so much in a short space of time. And despite the rage that shapes Wojnarowicz’s work, and the documentary itself, McKim’s understated thesis is that David was primarily guided by empathy despite having experienced a lifetime of injustices. As Wojnarowicz documents, David endured a horrific childhood in the suburbs of New Jersey at the hands of his abusive father before his ‘unstable’ mother moved away to Manhattan with the children. At age eleven he began hustling in Times Square, work he would continue into his twenties. The maelstrom of pity and disgust David felt toward his Johns guides his early work: stencils of burning houses and military invasions depicting Manhattan as a warzone.
While David’s work shifts from photography to music to collages to painting, it’s all created from detritus. Regardless of whether he was dumping pig bones and blood down gallery stairs in protest of the bourgeoisie art scene, painting on old maps, or using street-recordings in his performances in ‘80s punk-noise band 3 Teens Kill 4, David seized opportunities and made art out of available materials. Community, too: finding a pier warehouse near where he had once hustled as a teenager abandoned, he transformed the space into a collective art studio free for all in the early ‘80s, before it was shut down by police.
But in its attempt to capture everything, Wojnarowicz stays in the shallows regarding David’s relationship with Hujar—arguably, his biggest influence. We are told it is among the all-time great, perplexing love affairs and commentary from Rauffenbaut that David told him his priorities were “Peter, his art, and me, in that order” supports that. We hear their undeniable closeness through Hujar’s messages on David’s answering machine, filled with in-jokes and lively ramblings. In one regard, it’s sweet that we only get a glimpse.
After Hujar dies of AIDS in 1988 and David is himself diagnosed with HIV a year later, Wojnarowicz’s art becomes increasingly antagonistic and ambitious. We celebrate his solo exhibitions and retrospectives before his death in 1992, but the enduring image of David’s last days comes from Rauffenbaut.
“[The doctor] said the real person comes out when that person gets into dementia. If they’re nasty at the core, they’ll be nasty,” he says. “But David was as sweet as he could be.”
Wojnarowicz made furious art only by necessity, spewing back hatred to highlight its ugliness. McKim’s documentary unearths the kindness David never had much time to publicly display, while still screaming ‘fuck you’ at those responsible for his death.
It’s a collage set upon a world map. In each corner, there are four black and white nudes of himself and lover/mentor Peter Hujar; in the centre, a stencil of men kissing within a pool of water; beneath it, a drawing Wojnarowicz found on the street in New York of crude stick figures with one saying “fuck you faggot fucker” to the other.
It’s a fitting name for McKim’s documentary (produced by World of Wonder of Drag Race fame), which tributes Wojnarowicz’s collagist practice. Weaving together archival footage, artworks, images, interviews, voicemails as well as Wojnarowicz’s own, thanks to the artist’s obsession with audio recordings, Wojnarowicz is a pointedly patchwork doco, attempting to echo the artist’s punk leanings with slightly cringe scrapbook visuals. But while the film’s edginess can be a little overbearing in moments, Wojnarowicz’s singularity as an artist and the sheer rage within his work shines through.
“When I was diagnosed with [HIV], it didn’t take me long to realise I’d contracted a diseased society as well,” Wojnarowicz says at the film’s opening. It’s a powerful statement which McKim sets over a distorted scream.
McKim begins the film in 1989. Wojnarowicz is at the centre of a media storm after a national arts body threatened to pull funds from a group exhibition he was in, calling a catalogue essay he wrote that criticised several right-wing figures too ‘political’ . Wojnarowicz was frustrated by the argument itself: not only was the exhibit’s work about HIV—which was, at the time, highly political—but so was his very existence.
A year prior, he donned the now-famous denim jacket at an ACT UP protest emblazoned with a clear message: “If I die of AIDS—forget burial—just drop my body on the steps of the F.D.A.”. In Wojnarowicz, he continues to speak fury to power from the grave through recordings that offer countless blistering one-liners against economic and state-sanctioned violence.
The quality of the archival footage in the film is astonishing and McKim compliments it with interviews with Wojnarowicz’s contemporaries and friends, including Fran Lebowitz, gallerist Gracie Mansion and his lover Tom Rauffenbart. When combined with David’s own audio recordings, made in New York during the 1970s and ‘80s, the doco captures a great sense of place, time and community.
In 108 minutes, Wojnarowicz flies through David’s 37 years at rapid speed to cover all bases, but the somewhat frenzied viewing experience can be forgiven as a testament to an artist who who worked tirelessly, passionately and achieved so much in a short space of time. And despite the rage that shapes Wojnarowicz’s work, and the documentary itself, McKim’s understated thesis is that David was primarily guided by empathy despite having experienced a lifetime of injustices. As Wojnarowicz documents, David endured a horrific childhood in the suburbs of New Jersey at the hands of his abusive father before his ‘unstable’ mother moved away to Manhattan with the children. At age eleven he began hustling in Times Square, work he would continue into his twenties. The maelstrom of pity and disgust David felt toward his Johns guides his early work: stencils of burning houses and military invasions depicting Manhattan as a warzone.
While David’s work shifts from photography to music to collages to painting, it’s all created from detritus. Regardless of whether he was dumping pig bones and blood down gallery stairs in protest of the bourgeoisie art scene, painting on old maps, or using street-recordings in his performances in ‘80s punk-noise band 3 Teens Kill 4, David seized opportunities and made art out of available materials. Community, too: finding a pier warehouse near where he had once hustled as a teenager abandoned, he transformed the space into a collective art studio free for all in the early ‘80s, before it was shut down by police.
But in its attempt to capture everything, Wojnarowicz stays in the shallows regarding David’s relationship with Hujar—arguably, his biggest influence. We are told it is among the all-time great, perplexing love affairs and commentary from Rauffenbaut that David told him his priorities were “Peter, his art, and me, in that order” supports that. We hear their undeniable closeness through Hujar’s messages on David’s answering machine, filled with in-jokes and lively ramblings. In one regard, it’s sweet that we only get a glimpse.
After Hujar dies of AIDS in 1988 and David is himself diagnosed with HIV a year later, Wojnarowicz’s art becomes increasingly antagonistic and ambitious. We celebrate his solo exhibitions and retrospectives before his death in 1992, but the enduring image of David’s last days comes from Rauffenbaut.
“[The doctor] said the real person comes out when that person gets into dementia. If they’re nasty at the core, they’ll be nasty,” he says. “But David was as sweet as he could be.”
Wojnarowicz made furious art only by necessity, spewing back hatred to highlight its ugliness. McKim’s documentary unearths the kindness David never had much time to publicly display, while still screaming ‘fuck you’ at those responsible for his death.
