La Cienega Area

Robert Morris, 57, is an entrenched New York artist of a generation that had one foot in the sparest of minimal sculpture like that of Donald Judd and the other in surrealist fetishism like the work of Walter de Maria. Morris’ work has not been seen in any depth around here since the days of the old Dwan gallery, so we are grateful for a museum-like survey even if it turns out to be an object lesson in what an artist ought not to do.

The earliest works on view are large spare objects such as a huge pair of steel wheels or three big “L” shapes fashioned of black mesh wire. They are new works based on drawings from the ‘60s. This is curious because Morris’ work has evolved drastically since then and it is hard to figure why he’d want to go back to an earlier incarnation.

Then there are big hanging shapes of black felt, one of which is vaguely suggestive of a giant cowl for a black mass. So far everything is about equally provocative and ambiguous, leaving us mental room to contemplate the puzzling border where pure formalism leaves off and expression takes up.

Unfortunately things grow clearer in a work like “Golden Memories,” which is made of an ingot-like metal corner bar festooned with a nasty hanging hook an a bit of knotted rope. At this point we recall that Morris is the artist who once posed for an exhibition poster with his naked torso wrapped in chains and his head menacingly clad in a Nazi helmet. Suddenly this is all very suggestive of Crock, the cartoon character, running around bashing his subalterns with his iron glove.

Morris’ recent work here consists of photographs of corpses piled in the manner of the death camps or set out in rows like executed prisoners. These are daubed with color and surrounded by enormous frames made of cast body parts including skulls and hands gripping penises of impossible proportion. Their elaborate morbidity is almost funny--like some send-up of “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” but there is no humor in them.

The lesson is that some artists should not make their intentions literally clear. Unless you happen to share this art’s tiresome narcissistic obsessions with macho violence, sex and death, the work is as drearily predictable as a definition from Kraft-Ebbing. It suffocates intelligence and strangles imagination. (Margo Leavin Gallery, 812 N. Robertson Blvd., to Feb. 11.)