The first broadcast of CNN was on June 1, 1980—a little over a year after Brian Lamb and John D. Evans started the Cable-Satellite Public Affairs Network—and it began with David Walker and his co-anchor (and wife) Lois Hart. It was a pretty slow news day. The lead story was President Jimmy Carter’s trip to Fort Wayne, Ind., for a “brief visit” with civil rights leader Vernon Jordan, who was hospitalized with a gunshot wound. They also covered the launch of the CNN network, replaying footage from a press conference given by Ted Turner. He thanked the cable industry, “whose pioneering spirit caused this great step forward in communication.” From then on, America would be inundated by a constant flow of information, all presented by a stern, brow-furrowed newscaster as breaking and important.
It was then, during the rise of the 24-hour news cycle, that the husband-and-wife artist duo Edward and Nancy Reddin Kienholz—known collectively as Kienholz—created The Ozymandias Parade, which is currently making a rare appearance in New York at the Pace Gallery on West 25th Street. The exhibition was supposed to coincide with the week leading up to the election, but Hurricane Sandy set it back, and it didn’t open until the day after President Obama’s re-election, another event that fed copy to the cable news programs.
That the work didn’t go on view until after the dust was already settling on a $4 billion election year made it even more ominous. The Ozymandias Parade has traveled to galleries and museums around the world. Wherever it is displayed, a public poll is put out with the question, “Are you satisfied with your government?” The answer is almost invariably, “No,” and that word ends up pasted on the faces of the life-size plaster figures in the piece. One of them represents a president, saddled to the underbelly of a rearing horse, a sword in one hand, with a deflated globe draped on its point, and the Moscow-Washington hotline phone in the other. Behind him is a thin “overtax payer,” her face just an exposed skull, holding a cane in each hand and carrying the military general—who holds the button that launches a nuclear warhead—on her shoulders. Pulling up the rear is the vice president, wearing a necklace of broken radio speakers, his saddle on the belly of an overturned horse (which has ice skates on its front legs and roller skates on its hind legs). The work is rigged so that the flag of whatever country it is being exhibited in flies high above them all. The “parade” itself looks more like a mythological funeral procession, and it’s all the more frightening because everyone involved is frozen in place; by design, they perpetually fail to do anything at all.
“I don’t see how it’s changed any, really,” Ms. Kienholz said. She was comparing the political climate in 1985, when The Ozymandias Parade debuted at the Henry Art Gallery in Seattle, to the present. “I mean, it’s gotten worse. What we’ve just been through with the election has been … horrific. It’s been going on for a year and a half. It’s awful. It’s worse now than when we made the piece. For foreign corporations to donate to candidates would have been unimaginable at that time. And we just accept that now. I guess everybody’s so busy just trying to survive.”
“Tough” is the first word that comes to mind in conversation with Ms. Kienholz. She has bright red hair and a sarcastic smile. Walking to a coffee shop across from the gallery last week, she put on a black cowboy hat and sucked down a cigarette in a gasp as she crossed 10th Avenue. She talked about the previous night’s election results like she had just dodged a bullet. “Like we’re gonna go back to the 1950s and Leave It to Beaver, and the women are all gonna stay at home and wear aprons and dresses? It ain’t gonna happen. That’s a different time, and you can’t go back. You can never go home again.”
Since her husband’s death from a heart attack in 1994, Ms. Kienholz, 68, has been steadily reintroducing America to their work, predominantly made up of life-size dioramas, with the help of the L.A. Louver gallery, their sole U.S. representative since 1981. After Edward’s 1966 retrospective at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which was almost shut down after the County Board of Supervisors deemed it pornographic, much of the work was dispersed in Europe, where it traveled extensively. The couple started collaborating after that, and soon decamped for West Berlin, generally returning to the U.S. seasonally, to a farm in the bucolic town of Hope, Idaho, population 86. A number of their works, like the monumental Five Car Stud (1969-72), which depicts a violent racial encounter and had never been seen in America before last year, are known to New Yorkers only through stories or images. The works are too enormous and scattered in collections around the world to bring together in one place. The New York Times review of their 1996 retrospective at the Whitney, which included some 90 works, stated outright that a Kienholz show of that scale “will never happen again.”
Edward and Nancy met in 1972 at a party for the writers Jean and Irving Stone at Ms. Kienholz’s parents’ house in Los Angeles. Her father, Thomas Reddin, was the chief of the L.A. Police Department. She didn’t mind that, and she was a fan, in particular, of the family’s box at the Hollywood Bowl. By that time, Edward was already at the center of the L.A. art world. In 1957, he had co-founded, with Walter Hopps, the Ferus Gallery, which would go on to debut Warhol’s soup cans. The new business partners bought a space together on La Cienega. They went across the street to eat lunch one day at a Pink’s Dog hot dog restaurant and wrote down their plans on the paper that their chili dogs were served on and signed it. That was the contract. Kienholz showed his first major work at Ferus: Roxys (1960-61), a re-creation of a Nevada brothel he’d sneaked into as a kid. It’s a room-size installation, and the interior is all conservative parlor-room fare, but the figures inside are warped and mutated. (David Zwirner Gallery presented that work in New York two years ago.)
In 1959, Virginia Dwan, the sole heir to the 3M fortune, opened the Dwan Gallery nearby. The two galleries were basically the only show in town. Dennis Hopper was around a lot, as were the artists Sam Francis and Wallace Berman. Richard Cohan, who began working with Kienholz as his assistant at the age of 15 (his first task was sweeping the brush out of Kienholz’s yard so it wouldn’t catch fire), remembers days when he’d unload the art at Ferus with his friend Johnny Romain, then run over to Dwan to change into black pants and a black vest and serve Ritz crackers with cheese at an opening. In 1964, Ms. Dwan gave Mr. Kienholz his largest exposure up to that point, presenting a work called Back Seat Dodge ’38 (1964). The titular car has a truncated chassis, and inside is a couple—a plaster cast of a woman and the silhouette of a man constructed from chicken wire—clumsily having intercourse.
“There were three people who kept coming back to look at this piece,” said Mr. Cohan last week on the phone from California. He had helped cut the Dodge in half and was working the desk at Dwan a lot in those days. “Steve McQueen, James Garner and Paul Newman. They were all car nuts. Steve McQueen hadn’t made it yet, so he couldn’t afford it. James Garner didn’t have a place to put it. Joanne Woodward wouldn’t let Paul Newman buy it.” It was Back Seat Dodge that caused all the controversy at the 1966 LACMA show. It was an election year, so local politicians turned it into an issue of family values. Famously, it was displayed with the door shut, and it would only be opened at the request of a museum visitor who was at least 18—and even then, there couldn’t be any children in the room. People lined up.
WITHIN A YEAR OF MEETING, Edward and Ms. Kienholz had moved their children from different marriages in together and left for West Berlin.
“Back when East and West really meant something,” Ms. Kienholz said. “Like when the KGB was the KGB. And there we were.”
Edward had just finished the notorious Five Car Stud, one of the last works he’d make before beginning his collaboration with his wife. The piece is a life-size installation, exhibited on a dirt floor, of five men wearing Halloween masks. They’re carrying guns and knives, pinning down and castrating a black man while his white girlfriend vomits in a nearby corner. It is illuminated only by the headlamps of the five cars that encircle the scene. It was shown inside an inflatable dome at Documenta 5 in Kassel, Germany in 1972, and twice right after that, but until an exhibition at LACMA last year, had not been seen since 1973. For years, much of what the public knew of the piece was gleaned from a few blurry black-and-white photos taken from a distance by Mr. Hopps. The work was purchased by the Kawamura Museum in Sakura, Japan, but as it went through customs, the officials took chainsaws to it, removing the guns. It languished in storage for 40 years until Peter Boris, the executive vice president at Pace, working with L.A. Louver, sold it to the Prada Foundation in Italy, after a months-long restoration by Ms. Kienholz.
“It has a mojo to it,” she said. “Ed bought all the masks at the Hollywood Magic Store. And he was buying a whole bunch, and the owner left the room and called the police, because he thought, ‘This guy’s up to something.’ And the police came in and looked at him and said, ‘It’s just Ed. He’s okay.’ So instead of wearing hoods like they were KKK, they wore these masks.”
It’s an eerily domestic detail, a kind of everyman’s racism that also buffers the palpable terror of the scene with a more campy, drive-in horror movie vibe. Mr. Cohan helped pull the engines out of the cars, and was also asked to model for the plaster cast of the man doing the cutting, but declined.
“But I asked Ed, ‘What are you gonna make the cock out of?’” he recalled. “And he said, ‘I’m gonna use the hardest steel I can find. If someone wanted to cut this thing off, they’d have to take a sledgehammer and a chisel, and then they’d probably have to burn it off, because I’m gonna cover it in fiberglass.’”
When Edward began working with Ms. Kienholz, the pieces became more self-assured, stronger in a physical sense. He was known for being a highly skilled craftsman, and his wife matched his abilities. (He also had a reputation as a staunch perfectionist. A bent nail would cost you your job.) They were building houses and making art together and churning out work like The Art Show (1964-77)—a caustic re-creation of an art gallery in which everyone inside has a face made of different kinds of hot air vents—and Sollie 17 (1979-80), maybe the only Kienholz work that feels sentimental. It features a group of men living in the squalor of a single room occupancy hotel, their glum faces cast in literal frames as they go about their business casually.
Their whole operation became a family affair. When they finished building the large triangular base on which the figures rest in The Ozymandias Parade, the Kienholzes invited their friends to their home in Hope and used it as a table for a dinner party. The general is a cast of Ms. Kienholz’s father, their friend and collector Monte Factor posed for the president, Bill Chatham, Edward’s son-in-law, is the vice president, and the overtax payer is a cast of Edward’s mother (who insisted the figure be labeled “overtax” and not just “tax”). The work is currently for sale, if you could imagine a place to put it, for a price that sources believe to be in the $5 million range.
The Kienholzes’ work became such a major part of their lives that when Edward died at the age of 66, Ms. Kienholz buried him, embalmed and sitting upright in a Packard coupe, which she drove into a big hole dug near their home in Idaho. Edward’s gambling buddies came and threw dollar bills into the grave. When they were starting to dig, one of her assistants said he had to run home and get a transom because the hole needed to line up perfectly with the house; “Ed would never forgive me if it was crooked,” he said. Ms. Kienholz had promised her husband she would do all this and made good on her word. “But I put him in the passenger seat,” she said. “I just couldn’t imagine going through eternity with him driving.”