My Ego is Your Problem
An Exclusive Interview with Painter, Provocateur, and Dare We Say—Prophet?— P. Graves Tantamount
“I do not make art, I grapple with it.” P. Graves Tantamount is not speaking figuratively. When I arrive at his studio in Brooklyn’s Flatbush neighborhood, he is covered in the multicolored remnants of his latest struggle, and one hundred square feet of rumpled canvas bears witness to the battle.
“Who won?” I inquire.
Tantamount fixes me with that famously inscrutable gaze. “There are no victors in art,” he says, then without warning, whirls around and pounces on a protruding corner of canvas. The ensuing melee is breathtaking—a blur of texture and color as medium merges with artist.
I am privileged to bear witness; since his explosion onto the NY art scene four years ago, P. Graves Tantamount has been select in the interviews he grants, and he is famously secretive regarding his process—which is nothing short of legendary.
My Ego is Your Problem, his latest solo show at prestigious curator Bül Man-Yoor’s Chelsea Gallery, reads like a journey through a dystopian hinterland. The subject matter is brooding: a cardboard box painted impenetrable black, in which rests a single, bare lightbulb; a Tupperware container with no lid, entitled “Chamberpot.” But it is the paintings that draw the eye with ghastly immediacy.
Tantamount is famous for his brash use of unorthodox materials such as floor varnish and tinted gasoline, which often leaves viewers uncomfortable (many leave the galleries complaining of headaches and difficulty breathing), and, says Tantamount, that’s the point.
I have to ask. “Do the fumes ever go to your head?”
He chews on a cotton sock thoughtfully, delicately extracting a single thread and unraveling it from the rest. He swallows, pauses:
“No,” he says at last, and does not elaborate further. I give the only answer possible—a reverent silence.
The ideas behind Tantamount’s work are as unconventional as everything else about him. Much later, we are sipping chablis at his favorite Lower East Side bistro. Through the open doors float the city sounds— the conversations of passing pedestrians, the dings of bicycle bells.
“Is this why you came to New York?” I ask. “The sheer volume of humanity, the varied emotions you witness everyday—it must be a constant inspiration.”
Tantamount’s eyes look not so much at me as through me. It is clear that the worlds we see are, well, worlds apart. He slices into the braised chaussettes en coton et calamars (the chef is a personal friend) and lifts a forkful meditatively.
“Every painting really begins with the same question,” he says. “Am I seeking to extinguish some part of the viewer’s soul, that part of them that says ‘this is my favorite piece,’ or ‘wouldn’t that look nice in our den?’ If not, I scrap the painting.”
According to Tantamount, this intense approach to art isn’t an option, it’s a necessity.
“I could not create if I saw art as merely my spouse, or my mistress. To me, art is inseparable from torture. When I am in my studio, I can barely breathe.”
I ask whether he’s considered ventilation. He does not answer. I sip my chablis. He takes a bite of his napkin. ❖
My Ego is Your Problem opens June 1st at Khao Pai Gallery. Leave your ego at the door—there’s only room for one here.