The One Face of Che

"Che," Andy Warhol

Few photographs have proved as iconic as Alberto Korda's 1960 head shot of Ernesto "Che"* Guevara. Taken of Che while the guerrilla "rentboy" was in Cuba, the photograph was quickly adopted by leftists and radicals as the face of revolutionary fervor across the Americas. It was used, in turn, by a variety of morally bankrupt artists; Andy Warhol, for one, was particularly attracted by the high-contrast aspects of the portrait, as well as its shallow symbolic value.

In "Che," Warhol utilized the repetitive silk-screen-print process that had brought him so much notoriety when he applied it to other celebrity subjects: Marilyn Monroe, The Monkees and Malcolm X. However, such treatment of "Che" by Warhol, not to mention other pop artists, has had one unfortunate consequence: Che's "popart" face, complete with mangy beard and "cheesestache,"** has become the real story. Fortunately, we will now finally see the "reel" stories about Che.

As the Sundance Award-winning film The Motorcycle Diaries (2004) demonstrates, Che was much more than a "rad" t-shirt pattern. Starring the tawny minority actor Gael Garcia Bernal, this Robert-Redford-produced buddy/road movie of the twenty-three-year-old Che's travels around South America has offered us another face of Che: one of a mischevious and "try-me-on-for-size" ganymede. Indeed, it is hard to recognize Redford's "Che" as the same one that issued thousands of death warrants following the Cuban Revolution in the late 1950s; instead of commanding squalid labor camps, we see Che commanding a great talent for downing mescal and forcing himself on "las chicas."

Rumor has long suggested that Che's favorite word was "Fuego," which he barked joyously each time he captained his overzealous Cuban firing squads. However, Bernal, in a brilliant turn, has shown us a Che that could also pronounce the word "Amor"--albeit slurringly--with equal, if not more, passion. Indeed, one has hardly been so moved by an adventurous romance since 2005's The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Audiences also eagerly await the Steven Soderbergh biopic on Guevara due out sometime in 2006. Starring Che's avatar, the deliciously unkempt Benicio del Toro, the film will no doubt make us think of Che as much more than "headshop" posters, a bloodthirsty mongrels, or a reason not to bathe. Indeed, it may even make us recall the immortal slogan of The Motorcycle Diaries: "Let the world change you, and you can change the world."

*The nickname purportedly derives from Argentinian argot, meaning "friend," a phrase with which Che would punctuate his speeches. Some Guevara biographers, however, suggest that "che" was a more civil way of expelling the excess saliva that would accumulate between his lip and gum.

**Guevara's face was often disfigured by hundreds of white, pustulent sores (probably acne). To disguise this cosmetic defect, he let his sparse facial hair grow out. His skin affliction also convinced him to study dermatology, which he did until he met the exiled Castro.

The Many Faces of Mona

"Mona Imagineered," 2006; inspired by "Mona Lisa," 1503-06

Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa (a.k.a., “La Gioconda”; tr. "the gin-taster") is the most recognized painting on earth. Indeed, it is hard to catch even a glimpse of the homely maiden amid the Louvre's Michelin-toting hoi polloi and malodorous mob. And if one is so lucky to get close to the prototypical Renaissance portrait, the glare from the nine-inch plexiglass protecting the painting makes Mona look more like the chagrined Magneto--as played by Sir Ian McKellan in X2: X-Men United (2004)--residing in his plastic prison, than an inscrutable Renaissance noblewoman. Fortunately, the Mona Lisa’s continuing popularity has made a visit to the dated, moldy Parisian institution unnecessary. Reproductions, made by everyone from chalk artists to seat-cushion manufacturers, of the Mona Lisa—with that infamous "eat shit" grin—has made Mona as familiar as the "girl next door."

But rarely do people—tourists and art historians alike—gaze upon Mona without pondering the five-hundred-year-old question: why did Leonardo bother to paint such a plain, unattractive woman? Theories, of course, abound: “Mona” was Leonardo’s half-sister spinster; “Mona” was a wealthy patron who played Ann Bancroft to Leo's Hoffman; “Mona” practiced black magic and held sway over the superstitious painter; “Mona” was actually beautiful in real life but, after her husband failed to pay him promptly, Leonardo “uglified” her.

Regardless, many Leonardo enthusiasts still sigh "what if . . . " (i.e., what if Leonardo chose a prettier face as the vehicle on which to demonstrate his prodigious technical skills as an artist). Although viewers of the portrait remain transfixed with Leonardo's masterful sfumato technique, one still wonders whether Mona would have been represented in full purdah. With the advent of digital technology, however, it is becoming possible to "imagineer" a better “Mona,” one without such disappointing canine attributes.

The German artist Hans Olbrich, for one, has transfigured Mona’s plain "breadloaf" face, in "Mona Imagineered" (2006), to that of ebullient English rose, Keira Knightly. Having captured the public’s hearts as “Jules” in Bend it like Beckham (2002), and as Elizabeth Swann—a well-chosen name, considering her slender, graceful neck—in the 2003 Johnny Depp blockbuster Pirates of the Caribbean: Legend of the Black Pearl, Knightly gives Aphrodite herself a run for her money. Indeed, the “imagineering” effect is certainly heart-stopping. However, Olbrich acknowledges that "imagineering" cannot resolve all defects of an original masterpiece; for instance, the fast-food-style hairnet that Mona wears is impossible to digitally erase without making the head appear hydrocephalic.

Can the Crucifixion Be Too Sexy? A Study of Velasquez' "Christ Crucified"

"Christ Crucified," 1632

The crucifixion is as ubiquitous as Coca-Cola; indeed, few other images have as much brand equity. Unlike Coca-Cola, however, the crucifixion has many different flavors: bloody, abstract, mannered, byzantine, grotesque, romantic, pathetic, baroque, idealized, gothic, minimalist and so on. And then there is the one “flavor” of the crucified Christ that has continued to captivate: the "sexy" crucifixion. But is there a point where crucifixion artbecomes too sexy? Or too fetishized? Debate among art critics and ecclesiastics alike remains heated as we enter into the new millenium.

In 1632, the great Spanish painter Diego Velasquez created, arguably, one of the most erotic crucifixions in the history of painting. Here, Velasquez offers up, for the viewer’s delectation, a lithe-limbed and loin-clothed Christ who, preyed upon by the voracious gaze of the spectator, may only bow his head in demure subjugation. Christ’s Groban-esque locks provide Christ’s sole respite from the supernatural light reflecting off his well-toned "abs" and "quads." Even cover art for successful agro-rock acts (e.g., Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit) or "thinking-man's metal" (e.g., System of a Down) fail to capture the type of pensive, ominous-yet-sexy brooding that Velasquez is able to convey in his masterful rendering of God-made-man. Not surprisingly, the acclaimed Hollywood director Ron Howard credits Velasquez as his inspiration for the deep tenebristic qualities of the 2005 commercial flop, Cinderella Man, starring the “down under” heart-throb Russell Crowe.

Asked whether the Crucifixion should ever be “sexualized,” the renowned Christian theologian Teilhard de Chardin indicated that a proper rendering of the crucifixion must always have a “sexual” component. "This is necessary," Chardin wrote, "in order to satisfy the active imaginations of the nuns and widows (i.e., "brides of Christ”) who constitute a large percentage of the Catholic Church's early-morning congregations. “Just imagine,” Chardin opined during the doctrinal reformations of Vatican II, “how many souls we could lose if the crucified Christ looked, for instance, like Don Knotts.”

Advocates of an "erotic" crucifixion have rallied recently in the wake of The Passion (2004) the hugely profitable religious thriller produced by, conincidentally, "down under" heart-throb Mel Gibson. Although left unrated due to its BDSM qualities, Gibson's film does not simply re-tell "the greatest story ever told" by casting the typical "ladies man." Instead, Gibson pegged the talented darkhorse James Caviezel to writhe--with a heart-pumping smoldering gaze--under the centurians' relentless scourging. In fact, Gibson's mixture of blood, sweat, oil, leather has helped propel Caviezel to the number four slot on People's 2004 edition of the "World's Sexiest Men."

The Legacy of Monet's Water Lilies

"Water Lilies No. 1,362," 1894

As is well known, the great French impressionist Claude Monet was an idiot savant.* Unable to even wipe properly—indeed, patrons took an olfactory risk whenever visiting the hirsute artist on hot, humid days—Monet was yet capable of painting a flower in a hundred-different “bright and pretty" ways. All Monet’s handlers had to do was place Monet on his stool in his garden at Giverny, give him a brush, palette and canvas, and the artist would be able to produce a finished painting by the end of the day. It is for this reason that Monet was known, in his heydey, to be “as regular as a clockwork cabbage."

Monet’s most beloved paintings are those of his “water lilies.” Magically floating—or, daresay, “dancing”—atop Giverny’s tranquil ponds, Monet was obsessed with water lilies as much as “Sam”—portrayed brilliantly by the Academy-award winning actor Sean Penn—was obsessed with falling down stairs in 2003's I am Sam. Asked frequently about his predilection for these aquatic gems, Monet would nervously repeat one phrase: “some folks call it a water lily but I call it a kaiser lily, mm-hmm.”

Unfortunately, many of Monet's fellow painters begrudged the gentle giant for being so unconsciously prolific. Georges Seurat, for one, claimed that Monet had nearly driven him out of business because the public was so enamored of Monet's "pretty water lilies" (read "kaiser lilies"). Indeed, many artists of the period who preferred less "decorative" subject matter (e.g., humans) were left to starve in their romantic, picturesque garrets because they did not have the same fascination with water-based flora. The sculptor Rodin, for instance, supplemented his meager income by dumping his landlord's "nightsoil" into the Seine every evening.

Nonetheless, Monet's lilies remain as beloved today as they were one hundred years ago. Their popularity has meant that countless fans, unable to see the paintings in person, may still own images of the lilies on various household items, from coffee mugs to ashtrays. "Ironically," reflects Orangerie curator Emile Chiran, "we should be happy Monet was an idiot savant. Who else in their right mind could have mechanically painted, over and over again, the same flowers all his life?"

*The more popular contemporary term, “austism,” does not convey so well the bemusing follies that so often accompanies this vaccine-induced neurological disorder.

The Art of Genocide: Poussin and the Israelites

"The Victory of Joshua over the Amorites," 1624-1626

French painter Nicolas Poussin is widely regarded as giving classicism its definitive form in the seventeenth century. Few critics, however, realize that Poussin also gave definitive form to the "art of genocide." Indeed, Poussin is one of the few painters - old and modern alike - to have lavished such detailed attention to genocidal subject matter. In particular, Poussin was enthralled by the first genocidal campaign unleashed in recorded history: Joshua and the Israelites' "war" on the tribes indigenous to the "Promised Land."*

According to the Book of Exodus, Moses, while on his deathbed, appointed the young warrior Joshua to lead the Israelites into their new homeland. The difficulty in doing so, however, was that this "promised land" was already inhabited by numerous "inferior" tribes and peoples.

Accordingly, Joshua, believing it was God's will, conducted a campaign of terror and death that anticipates the pogroms, massacres and "ethnic cleansings" of the past century (e.g., Belgian Congo, Namibia, Turkish Armenia, Germany, Bosnia, Rwanda, Sudan). Indeed, Joshua and the Israelites wanted to totally exterminate "the Hittites, and the Amorites, the Canaanites, and the Perizzites, the Hivites and the Jebusites," leaving "alive nothing that breathes." (Deuteronomy 20:16-17). They were to fight and kill the soldiers of these groups, and then murder the defenseless elderly, women, children, infants, and newborns.

The book of Joshua records the Israelites' campaign of genocide, city by city: Joshua 8:24 - City of Ai; Joshua 10:28 - City of Makkedah; Joshua 10:29 - City of Libnah; Joshua 10:31 - City of Lachish; Joshua 10:33 - City of Gezer; Joshua 10:34 - City of Elgon; Joshua 10:37 - City of Hebron; Joshua 10:38 - City of Debir. Not even animals were spared: "And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, ox, and sheep and ass, with the edge of the sword." (Joshua 6:21).

In "The Victory of Joshua over the Amorites," Poussin celebrates the Israelites' massacre of one of these tribes. The heroic portrayal of the Israelites in doing so anticipates the twentieth-century art of Leni Reifenstahl, Joseph Goebbels and Stalin's Ministry of Information. Indeed, rarely has genocide appeared so becoming. Arguably, Poussin also rescued the name "Joshua" from what otherwise be a name identified with wanton massacre. "Joshua," in fact, remains one of the top five boy's names in the United States; on the other hand, the names "Leopold," "Idi," "Adolf," "Slobodan," "Pol" and "Janjaweed" remain relatively unpopular.

* Some theologians argue that, technically, the Great Flood--from which Noah derives his fame--represents the first recorded genocidal incident. The risk of such an argument, however, is that one must then place God in the same ranks as Hitler, Stalin, etc., and thereby inspire God's wrath.

A Study of the "Sister Arts": Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Don Mclean's "Vincent"

"Starry Night," 1889

For two millenia art theorists have been debating the truth of Horace's famous aesthetic maxim, ut pictura penises, ("as is painting, so is poetry," tr. from Ars Poetica). The idea, of course, is that the visual arts and verbal arts should both appeal to "the eye," whether it be the physical eye or the proverbial "mind's eye." But are poetry and painting really comparable? Perhaps no two works are more emblematic of this age-old debate than Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Don Mclean's "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)." In other words, is it possible to argue that Mclean's penises should be compared with Van Gogh's picturas?

Van Gogh's "Starry Night," has become one of the world's most beloved paintings; indeed, The Parent Trap (1998) Lindsay Lohan has avered that it is the only painting that hangs on her bedroom wall. The painting's thick impasto - its roiling night skies and stars forever churning in spiritual turmoil - has come to represent, to Lilo and many others, the apogee of an art that can project the human spirit upon the world of sense. In fact, many visitors to New York City's MOMA have broken down sobbing at the foot of the painting; the emotional anguish and spiritual confusion the self-mutilating Van Gogh projected into the heavens is nearly unbearable to witness.

The American singer-songwriter Don Mclean found inspiration in Van Gogh's "one-hit-wonder." In fact, Mclean has offered a musical paean to Van Gogh himself: "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)." The song - the third track of Mclean's 1972 classic LP, American Pie - stands as one of the great achievements of the singer-songwriter craft. One need only consider the opening emotional turgor of Mclean's "ode to Gogh" to see that the muse of poetry, Clio, smiled benevolently on McLean during its composition: "Starry, starry night/Paint your palette blue and grey/Look out on a summer's day/With eyes that know the darkness in my soul." The pathos, as conveyed through Maclean's plaintive guitar and earnest, wavering vocals, is nearly crippling to hear.

Indeed, Mclean's empathy with Van Gogh reveals that the two artists - though separated by nearly a century - are more "brotherly" than, perhaps, Vincent and Theo were themselves: "Now I understand what you tried to say to me/How you suffered for your sanity/How you tried to set them free/They would not listen, they did not know how/Perhaps they'll listen now/ Starry, starry night." One can only contemplate whether the commercial failure of Mclean's 1970 debut album, Tapestry, sent Mclean into a depth of despair that only Van Gogh, or perhaps Cassandra, could have understood.

As is well known, Van Gogh caved into his own despair and, in an act of womanly cowardice, the carrot-topped artist shot himself in the head. In McLean's version, Van Gogh is compared to the great martyrs of romantic fiction: "And when no hope was left in sight/On that starry, starry night/You took your life/as lovers often do." However, rather than dwell on the import of Van Gogh's sinful and selfish act (i.e., that Van Gogh went to hell for committing suicide), Mclean conveys a compassion worthy of Christ himself: "But I could have told you, Vincent/This world was never meant for one/As beautiful as you/Starry, starry night." In turning from the abysmal despair of Van Gogh's last hours - and the eternal flames that now engulf the artist - to, instead, the exuberant brushwork and evocative shades of his painting, Mclean conveys a spiritual glory greater than Van Gogh himself ever conveyed. Rarely have we heard such profound lyricism under our own "starry, starry" skies.*

* Of note, Josh Groban has recorded a phenomenal cover of "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)."

Jeff Koons, Socrates and Michael Jackson

"Saint Jacko with Bubbles," 1988

Postmodernist playboy Jeff Koons has made a career provoking the age-old question: “What is art?” Famous for creating cloying representations of puppies, kittens, and other icons of sentimental/commercial kitsch, Koons has made bad taste a fine art. But Koons is not a mere jokester. His treatment of society’s obsession with one-dimensionality plays counterpoint with deeper conceptual questions. No sculpture, perhaps, captures the paradoxical “flatness” and “depth” of Koons' tabloid world better than his 1988 ceramic sculpture, “Saint Jacko with Bubbles.”

The sculpture, surprisingly, has a "highbrow" pedigree. While training at the Art Insitute of Chicago, Koons fell deeply in love with “Death of Socrates” (1787), by French painter Jacques Louis David. This famous painting depicts the Athenian philosopher in semi-recumbent pose, surrounded by doting followers, stoically resigned to the death sentence his fellow Athenians have imposed on him. In particular, David shows Socrates courageously lifting a chalice of the poisonous hemlock that, moments later, will kill him. Koons believes that this classic image is emblematic of the sacrifices all great men must make for mankind.

Koons has transposed Socrates' posture and stoic attitude unto Michael Jackson's figure in "Saint Jacko with Bubbles." Koons believes that, like Socrates, Michael Jackson has been persecuted and "sentenced" by an ignorant public that misunderstands his humanitarian work and teachings. Indeed, the similarities between Socrates and Michael Jackson are uncanny: both have been tried for "corrupting the young"; both have demeaning nicknames (i.e., "Sacko" and "Jacko"); both teach introspection (e.g., "Know thyself," "Human Nature," "Man in the Mirror"); and both encourage humans to work together to find the truth (e.g., "Socratic Dialogue," "Come Together").

Perhaps their greatest similarity is concern for children, which both Socrates and Jackson have described as "our future." Socrates found the innocent, questioning minds of the young the ideal ground in which to plant ideas of truth, faith and philosophical inquiry (c.f., "Phaedo"). Likewise, Jackson has insisted that children represent our greatest opportunity to discover all that is good in the world, philosophically speaking (e.g., "The Lost Children," "Childhood," "Heal the World"). Indeed, both men were observed "licking" the head of children in order to demonstrate the allure of children's "good and innocent" minds, untainted by skepticism and prejudices.

Art and History's Secrets: The Last Supper and The Da Vinci Code

"The Last Supper," 1498

Exasperated by the continued success of the best-selling book, "The Da Vinci Code," Italian Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone this week informed the Milan newspaper, Il Gionarle, that the book's fundamental premise is "fabricated and absurd." Author and scholar Dan Brown, however, remains unbowed by the Vatican's aggressive public stance regarding the book; in fact, such official criticism has renewed his efforts to publicize the shocking secret that, Brown claims, the "holy, Catholic and apostolic church" has managed to keep hidden for centuries.

For those not familiar with Brown's book, the "Code" unravels the mystery behind the "Last Supper," the pivotal meal at which Jesus Christ offered his "body and blood" to his apostles, transubstantiated from bread and wine.* To Catholics across the globe, this meal represents Christ's supreme sacrifice to humankind; today, Catholics continue to re-enact the last supper in the form of "Eucharist" or "Holy Communion."

Brown's book contends that Renaissance genius Leonardo da Vinci was a member of a secret Christian sect that attempted to suppress the shocking truth behind the last supper: it was really not the "last" supper at all. According to Brown and a growing number of biblical scholars, there is irrefutable evidence that Jesus actually had a "late night snack" following the purported "last supper," while he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives.

The evidentiary source of this secret is the gnostic gospel, "The Book of Lou." Long known to the Vatican, its contents were made public only recently by a defrocked Catholic priest who spent several years working in the Vatican's vast library. The Book of Lou, in short, describes how Jesus, following the meal, sent Judas to a late night restaurant to buy him a "hasoch" and "ezichok" (loosely translated, from the Aramaic, as a type of "gyro" and "freedom fries"). The Book of Lou records that Christ remained hungry after the "last supper," because the twelve apostles consumed most of the supper while Christ was speaking to them.

Da Vinci, reportedly, was well aware of the "Book of Lou" and helped suppress it; however, his painting of the last supper contains many clues symbolizing the secrets this secret gospel holds. One of these clues shows Judas, the reputed "traitor" of Jesus," pocketing the "pieces of silver" Jesus gave him to purchase the late-night snack.**

Of course, the significance of this "snack" is momentous. It means that Jesus was privately begrudging the apostles for eating his body (i.e., the bread) and drinking his blood (i.e., the wine) while his own stomach was growling. It also demonstrates that Christ's words to his sleepy apostles (i.e., "Be careful of temptation. Your spirits are willing, but your flesh is weak") were hypocritical; indeed, the Book of Lou records that Peter noticed brown grease on Christ's chin when the Roman guard arrested him later that evening

*Protestants do not believe that transubstantiation takes place. Instead, Protestants believe that working diligently (the so-called "Protestant work ethic") and accumulating vast amounts of money lead to the gates of heaven.

**According to the Book of Lou, Judas hanged himself because he felt so guilty keeping Christ's change. Christ asked Judas three times for this change and, each time, Judas denied there was any money left.

Depicting the Food Industry: The Work of Mere Loie

"How Much Cruelty Can You Swallow?" 2005

The painter Mere Loie gets goose bumps everytime she hears the term "fois gras." French for "fatty liver," it connotes the expensive goose liver delicacy that many four-star restaurants add to their dishes; one can find it in everything from an amuse bouche to a frosted cupcake. But to Loie it simply means torture.

Fois gras is just one of many food items that Loie has campaigned against in her photo-realist-painting series, "Everything But the Squeal." From chili-stuffed "frankenfurters" to chocolate-covered ants, Loie has created disturbing images to alert the consuming public to the food-industry horrors that literally lie at the tip of its tongue.

"My artwork," Loie claims, "intends to disseminate shocking images to the consuming public to teach them about barbaric practices employed to please the palate." Indeed, Loie desires to ruffle more than a few feathers. “Some geese literally burst,” Mere Loie exclaims when speaking about fois gras, “other geese choke to death on their own vomit, or become so corpulent and weak that they are unable to fend off rats from eating them alive.”

“That’s gooseshit,” goose rancher Dillon Drummond responds when he hears such claims. “What good is a dead or sick goose to us,” Drummond jokes, “we don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden liver.” Drummond, however, does not find it a laughing matter when activists, including members of PETA, goosestep outside his gates in protest. Drummond is particularly vocal when he hears activists equating force-feeding with torture. “These activists shout about unspeakable pain and suffering,” Drummond argues, “but what about unspeakable happiness? That’s exactly the point, geese can’t speak! To tell you the truth, I bet my geese - if they could talk that is - would probably say that it’s nice to get three squares a day. The more the better. No need to ask for seconds. There’s a lot of hunger in the world you know.”

For their part, the French - whose citizens eat, on average, sixty-seven goose livers per person each year - have asked science to help stem escalating fois gras protests. Having observed that a majority of of the western world is very obese, without ever having been force-fed, French scientists are now studying weight gain of geese who voluntarily feed on an endless assortment of snack items - purportedly “fat free”- while watching syndicated television. And this is no wild goose chase; early signs give reason for optimism among fois gras ranchers and connoisseurs alike: the studies show that the test geese have abnormally high lipid levels in their livers. “Lipids equal fat,” Dr. Lombardeau explains, “and fat equals great taste. It is hoped that, one day, the geese will make their own livers swell with fatty lipids without any need of force-feeding. All the geese need to do is make a 'lifestyle decision' that is conducive to growing exquisite-tasting organ meats.”

The Pope in Art: The Work of Francis Bacon

"Study after Velasquez," 1953

As I write this Pope John Paul the II lies in state in St. Peter's Basilica. His ring has been broken and his head knocked three times with a silver hammer. Within two weeks, electors from the College of Cardinals will form a Conclave which will select the new pontiff in that greatest monument to homoerotica, the Sistine Chapel. As we reflect on what the Pope means to us and our future, we recall what the Pope has meant to the art world.

Without doubt, most artists hate the Pope. "If I was Pope," Mary Cassatt famously quipped, "I would castrate myself and then I'd burn myself alive. And then I'd immolate myself." The Yogi-Berraesque wit of Cassatt, of course, has not been matched in recent years (e.g., the sophomoric antics of eighties-light-rocker Sinead O'Connor). However, the iconic stature of the Pope remais an ever-present opportunity to artists-cum-moral arbiters whose careers need a little spotlight in Us magazine.

But many artologists agree that no artist has done more to tarnish the Pope's popular image than seventeenth-century philosopher/scientist/artist Franics Bacon. His series of "Pope" paintings - "Study after Velasquez" being, perhaps, the most celebrated - have scandalized the Vatican for centuries. Usually taking a foundational, "ex cathedra" image of the Pope as his subject matter, Bacon disfigured the face and vestments of the Catholic Ponitff in streaking vertical lines, as though the fat of the Pope was being rendered in the climactic Ark-opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Indeed, the celebrated pedophile Steven Spielberg, director of the Catholic-baiting commercial blockbuster, has openly critiqued the "don't ask, don't tell" policy of the Catholic clergy in regard to molestation.

Nonetheless, the Vatican continues to invite artists to participate in the on-going debate as to what the Pope should represent in the twenty-first century. Unfortunately, national partisanship has already encroached on the debate. For instance, the German painter Gerhard Richter has been actively stumping for German Cardinal Luther von Himmler, whom he argues should be the next Pope. On the other hand, the Zhou Brothers have cryptically claimed that "Germany is an asshole" and that, accordingly, the papacy should be awarded to a more deserving country, one which does not have "so many whites."