Art: Sculptural One-Liners

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Even in the '80s and '90s, much of Ray's work came down to a worthy but not particularly stimulating kind of cutting-edge activity, which hit the buttons of insecurity (sharply, sometimes) without generating much in the way of aesthetic pleasure. This is especially true of his sculpture involving generic store-mannequin figures. The blankness and not-quite-humanness of shop-window mannequins, and their eerie reference to the real human body, have been among the standard tropes of modern art since Surrealism in the '20s. When Ray takes one, models his own face on it and then dresses it in his sailing clothes--or takes another and grafts a replica of his own genitals and pubic bush onto it--he doesn't seem to be doing much, despite the catalog's claim that the results are "profoundly disconcerting."

More effective--and genuinely disconcerting--is Ray's more abstract work. In Rotating Circle, 1988, a disk the same color as the gallery wall is set flush with the wall. You'd hardly notice it except for the hum that issues from it. This, it turns out, is made by an invisible motor: the disk is spinning so fast that you can't see the motion, and it would burn your hand if you touched it.

The sharpest piece of sculpture as frustrated interaction, however, is Ink Box, 1986, a big black cube that sits on the gallery floor doing absolutely nothing--minimal, gloss-lacquered and inert. Except that the top of the cube is the surface of 200 gal. of black printer's ink, which would muck you up thoroughly if you so much as touched it. This is one of the few times that Ray's work seems almost as nasty as Bruce Nauman's. It sums up the smart, nerdy, passive-aggressive character of Ray's imagination. Sometimes a minor artist will produce a truly unforgettable image, just one. Meret Oppenheim's Surrealist fur cup and spoon, for instance, or Jeff Koons' stainless-steel rabbit. Ink Box is one of those.