“I have the job mainly because I can say ‘No, thank you’ in about a thousand different ways,” she jokes. His studio manager and archivist, Juliet Myers, whose hot-pink-and-orange hair style is a Santa Fe landmark, drives out every Wednesday. A hand-lettered sign just inside the door to Rothenberg’s reads “ HI HONEY YOU’RE HOME!” In Nauman’s, which is about sixty feet long by thirty feet wide, mounds of leftover detritus from completed art works take up most of the floor space, along with heavyduty tools, empty cartons, extension cords, and a small enclave harboring two battered armchairs and a table piled with assorted books: two Ross Thomas paperbacks, Gabriel García Márquez’s “Memories of My Melancholy Whores,” Ezra Pound’s “Cantos,” Xenophon’s “The Art of Horsemanship.”
Nauman’s and Rothenberg’s studios are in separate buildings behind the functional one-story house they designed for themselves. “ PAY ATTENTION MOTHERFUCKERS,” he suggests, in a 1973 lithograph that spells out this message in large mirror-image capitals. Art lovers looking for beauty or visual pleasure are advised to look elsewhere they find much of Nauman’s work boring or irritating, and sometimes highly offensive.
His primary medium is sculpture, but he has used such a wide range of materials and media-including film, video, drawings, prints, performance, sound, and neon light-that his work has no signature style.
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Nauman, who is four years older, and well over six feet in his made-to-order cowboy boots, has the watchful reticence and the physical bearing of an old-time Western movie star. Rothenberg, a painter whose imagery hovers between abstraction and figuration, is sixty-four, high-spirited, talkative, small, easy to like. Photograph by Steve Pykeīruce Nauman and Susan Rothenberg have lived for the past twenty years on seven hundred acres of open, windswept land near Galisteo, New Mexico, south of Santa Fe. Probing relentlessly into the darker aspects of American life, Nauman helped to break the grip of Minimal art.
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