Pope.L, at 68; performance artist, provocateur
Pope.L, an uncompromising conceptual and performance artist who explored themes of race, class, and what he called “have-not-ness,” and who was best known for crawling the length of Broadway in a Superman costume, died Saturday at his home in Chicago. He was 68.
The death was confirmed by his gallery, Mitchell-Innes & Nash. No cause was given.
By 2001, when he began “The Great White Way: 22 Miles, 9 Years, 1 Street, Broadway, New York,” as the performance was ultimately titled, Pope.L was already well known in the art world for a career that comprised every medium from writing to photography, from painting to sculpture, and from performance to straight theater.
His abiding themes were the intersecting difficulties and distinctions that he experienced as a Black American and a son of the working class. But the impact of his work came less from the literal sense of its surface contents, which could be difficult to decode, than from its sheer intensity, and from his willingness to say and do things others wouldn’t. Especially when performing, he used his own bodily presence to shock viewers back into their own.
His first “crawl,” as he called them, took place in Times Square in 1978, when he moved on his belly across 42nd Street in a pinstriped suit with a yellow square sewed to the back. Getting horizontal in a relentlessly vertical city was a simple gesture that punctured most of the collective delusions that made that city run, at once lampooning and rejecting the pose of an upright citizen. It dramatized, with a potent mixture of satire and resistance, the experience of subjection particular to Black Americans. And the incongruity of a man in business attire sprawled out on the sidewalk drew attention to the homeless and disenfranchised people the average upright citizen habitually ignored.
The same year, in New York’s SoHo neighborhood, he performed “Thunderbird Immolation a.k.a. Meditation Square Piece” in front of the building where influential dealers Leo Castelli and Ileana Sonnabend had their galleries. Sitting cross-legged on another square yellow cloth, surrounded by a circle of loose matches, Pope. L poured alcohol and Coca-Cola over his head, using a fortified wine heavily marketed in poor Black neighborhoods and evoking the Buddhist monks who had famously immolated themselves in Vietnam. Provocative, ambitious, and more than a little funny, it was emblematic of his practice. (When someone came out of the building to complain, he politely gathered his things and left.)
“Today, people often want art to have a clear and even redemptive political message, but Pope. L gave us neither,” Scott Rothkopf, director of the Whitney Museum of American Art, said in an interview. “He had a brilliant capacity to distill difficult, even horrifying truths about American society into strange and challenging work. It can be truculent, or funny, or both, but it’s never easy.”
In a 2019 video interview for the Museum of Modern Art, which acquired a number of his early performance works before “member,” his retrospective that year, Pope.L spoke about creating another crawl in Tompkins Square Park in 1991. “I had been writing a lot,” he said. “I mean, that’s all I did. I was sort of getting written out, and I needed to find a more direct way of making things happen culturally.”
What he encountered, critic C. Carr wrote in an essay included in the 2002 book “William Pope.L: The Friendliest Black Artist in America,” was another Black man, a local, who rushed over to ask if he was all right; to upbraid the white cameraman hired to document the performance; and finally to exclaim, in tears, “I wear a suit like that to work!”
For “The Great White Way,” which he began in 2001 and continued through 2009, Pope.L crawled the length of Broadway, from New York Harbor to the Bronx, in segments as short as just a few blocks depending on what his elbows and knees could take. He wore a Superman costume, minus the cape; gardening gloves; and a skateboard tied to his back.
Among a broad range of other performances that curator Valerie Cassel Oliver, writing in the catalog for “member,” called “existential spectacles of absurd anxiety,” Pope.L ate pieces of The Wall Street Journal while sitting on a toilet; marshaled volunteers to pull an 8-ton truck by hand through Cleveland; and copyrighted another mordant jab as an epithet for himself: “the friendliest Black artist in America.” He was also a longtime teacher at Bates College in Maine and for the last dozen years taught in the visual arts department of the University of Chicago.
“From its very earliest beginnings,” Pope.L told Interview magazine in 2013, “the crawl project was conceived as a group performance. Unfortunately for me, at that time, I was the only volunteer.”
Earlier this year, Pope.L built an impossible-to-enter white room in the middle of the 52 Walker gallery in Manhattan, as part of “Impossible Failures,” a show that also included work by artist Gordon MattaClark. A current show, “Hospital,” at the South London Gallery in London through Feb. 11, centers on a group of collapsing white towers. A toilet was atop the middle tower.
“In the course of two hours at an opening,” his gallerist, Lucy Mitchell-Innes, said, “he came up with what he wanted to do, and then it sort of transmogrified into this incredible new piece. It did what he always does, which is give it relevance for today. It became a metaphor for collapsing social structures: the collapsing economy, the collapsing international politics, the collapsing of the rich world and the poor world. You thought of all those things when you looked at it.”
Pope.L was born William Pope on June 28, 1955, in Newark, N.J., to Lucille Lancaster and William Pope. He spent part of what he remembered as an unstable childhood in nearby Keyport, and part of it in the East Village with his grandmother Desmonda Lancaster, an artist who showed quilt pieces at the Studio Museum in Harlem in the 1960s.
He leaves his partner, Mami Takahashi; a younger brother, Eugene; and a son, Desmond Tarkowski-Pope.L.
According to Mitchell-Innes, “Pope.L,” a portmanteau of the artist’s original surname and his mother’s, was coined by his students at Bates College in the mid-1980s. He adopted it and went by “William Pope.L” for nearly three decades before dropping the “William.”
Jessica Stockholder, a fellow professor at the University of Chicago, described Pope.L as a deeply committed and effective teacher.
“He was wide open to all different kinds of people,” she said by phone, “and very empathetic and concerned about people’s well-being.”
Ebony Haynes, who curated “Impossible Failures,” concurred.
“He has this way of listening to everybody,” she said. “He gave you the floor — without even knowing you, he knew that in the very least you, and everyone, deserves to be heard.”
Legacy friendships are important, and if we’re lucky enough to have one, then we’re lucky enough. These are the people we’ve known forever, the people who remember our parents, our acne, our romantic woes. Like a good therapist, they know all the details. And they’re a lot cheaper, too.
Sometimes, you need the people who remember your ugliest prom dress.
In May, Surgeon General Vivek Murthy declared that the United States was undergoing a loneliness epidemic. About 44 million adults experience significant loneliness; interestingly, that number is highest in New England, according to Gallup. Maybe because it’s colder. Maybe because we’re stereotypically standoffish. Maybe because we’re so busy all the time — sitting in traffic. Worldwide, that number is roughly 1 in 4.
Regardless of reason, it makes sense: Modern life is geared toward productivity. Achievement. Moving forward. Progress. Parenting as a verb. The flip side of all that stress is the self-care movement and those introversion memes: You’ve seen ’em, the ones about the glory of canceling plans and hibernating inside, rotting in bed to recover. What about a happy medium? A little bit of work, a little bit of friendship, a little bit of zoning out to “The Great British Bakeoff ”?
Friendship and community-building take effort, of course: It’s a delicate dance, making new friends.
Does this person like me? Do I like them? Do our spouses, if we have them, like each other? Do I text? Do I send a meme? When do you cross over from school drop-off hellos to “let’s have coffee”? It’s awkward, putting yourself out there.
And that’s why legacy friendships — or what one reader calls “charging stations” — are so important. These are the people we’ve known forever, maybe even since elementary school. The people who remember our parents’ names (and quirks); the ones who’ve seen us through acne, romantic woes, unfortunate semiformal attire, and into adulthood. Because they’re probably the same age, they’re going through the same passages at the same time, whether it’s marriage and kids, or struggling at work, or getting divorced and dealing with aging parents. Like a good therapist, they know all the details. And they’re a lot cheaper, too.
“Shared history keeps the intimacy of the friendship. When you’ve helped each other through various life stages, it can keep you connected and close if you put the effort in,” says Franklin’s Rebecca Goddard, who’s still close with a half-dozen of her college friends.
This is not a Hallmark movie. There are plenty of people who want to move on from the past and with good reason. Not everyone is drinking chardonnay around a fire pit with their third-grade bestie. But, for so many, legacy friends know the backstory and the current story; there’s an automatic shorthand that makes reconnection — and ego-bursting — easier.
Look, I might think I look awesome in my new Spanx faux leather leggings and brand-new highlights, but my best friends remember when I was plucking a white wispy chin hair in the bathroom before my junior prom … because they helped me do it. And that’s comforting, actually. We’re all like Russian nesting dolls, and these are the people who can see right down to the very smallest one. I can drop the act and artifice because they’ll see right through it anyway. As Medford’s Hilary Buxton put it about her high school friends: “I can be completely, utterly myself when we’re together.”
And there’s something reassuringly grounding about people who knew you when you were young that makes getting old a little less scary; people who’ve seen every version of you and, for some reason, love you anyway.
“I think because we met so young and we were still growing as people, it helped make [these connections] last, and maybe also wanting that tie to our past selves and to keep those memories alive has helped solidify the friendships for the long run,” says Needham’s Robyn Stanley, who still has five close friends from childhood. “I think it’s been cohesive because we have that understanding that we don’t have to talk every day or see each other often to know we would always be there for the others. Those friendships are so much different from others I have.”
And even though many of us came of age long before iPhones (remember call-waiting?), tech makes it easier to stay in touch, especially for guys who never talked much on the phone, says Michael Fenn. He grew up playing Little League with seven pals in West Bridgewater. Now they’re 61, and they still meet up for a guys’ trip twice a year and text regularly about hometown news, sports, and bad music.
“We have been in each other’s weddings. We’ve been to all our parents’ funerals. … We have made it a priority to check in on each other on a weekly basis. In a lot of ways, modern technology has made this so much easier. We’ve bonded over sports, music (a lot of them have horrible taste in music!), and as much as I hate all the gadgets and technology of today, it’s definitely helped keep in touch,” he says.
So many people contacted me for this piece, with tales of friendships that flourished in kindergarten and are still going strong, college roommates who go on trips every year, and connections that rekindled after moving back to a hometown. I wish I could quote them all. But some pieces of advice stood out:
Legacy friendships might not be as active as your other friendships, but they don’t have to be. You might go months without talking, but it doesn’t matter, because that money is already in the bank, ready for a withdrawal when you need it. “My oldest friend and I have kept in touch despite going in very different directions at times. We’re not always best friends, but we’re always there for each other, because I think we both know we have a shared fundamental understanding of each other that’s hard to find elsewhere,” says Cambridge’s Ali Carter.
A little bit of maintenance goes a long way. “Even as we evolve, we still get each other and have a shorthand of communication. It’s super important, and I carve out the time, even when life is too busy, to send a quick text when I hear a New Wave song or when something triggers a memory of someone, or just to say, ‘How are you? I love you,’” says Acton’s Samantha Gould.
They transcend geography, interests, and life choices. These people understand your past, even if they don’t mirror your present the way newer friends might. They don’t live your day-to-day, but they know how you got there. “As we age, it becomes so important to keep in touch with people who understood your childhood, what your parents were like, and your struggles. We’re constantly evolving, and those first connections shaped who we are today,” one reader says.
They offer grace and space. These friendships mold to fit your life, not the other way around. “We don’t set any expectations. … We do what we can, if we can. If life and other conflicting priorities happen, we simply move our meet-ups forward or cancel! No hard feelings! Because our vibration is a strong circle of love, we give each other grace, and that goes a long way. Ultimately, we have an authentic, no-expectations, unconditional love for each other while remaining true to our new normal of family and jobs, plus responsibilities towards our aging parents,” says another.
They can’t fulfill every gap. “We recognize that we can’t be everything to each other, and each have local friends, activity friends, mom friends, et cetera, [who] fill in other needs,” Wayland’s Sabrina Picariello says of her childhood friends. “We’re there for each other when needed but also don’t hold grudges if things get so crazy busy. We always pick up where we left off with understanding. I so value their loyalty.”
But they’ll give it to you straight. “I truly believe these relationships keep me grounded, humble, and authentic to me and my identity. There is no shield or veil when you’re with them, as they knew you for exactly who you were at a young age. All the ‘noise’ around doesn’t impact [us], and you chose these friendships based on similar values and morals, spending time with each other’s families growing up. As you navigate careers, money, homes, marriage, and children, they know you inside and out and can always put truth to any situation, as they know who you are at your core,” says Amesbury’s Lindsay Harvey.
So, as you head into 2024, think about your legacy pals. Send the funny meme. Start a group text. Check in. And if you don’t have any? Put yourself out there — at soccer practice, at day care pickup, at the work meeting where you both roll your eyes at the exact same time whenever a certain person speaks up. All legacy friends started as strangers. While you might feel older now, there will come a time when you’ll look back and remember how young you still truly were. You’ll need others who remember, too. And who tease you about it.