It is standing room only in the Basement Theatre-cum-Gallery, being a sizeable opening night crowd and also because there are no seats.  Apart from the worn old wooden one Jesse Griffen’s latest comic persona ‘Clifton the Artist’ is standing on in a white hospital gown (and nothing else!) with his long hair and beard and hands held out all Jesus-like.  

An array of paintings and sculptural type exhibits and installations populate the somewhat dimly-lit space and we’re afforded some time to regard them in our own way before our squinty-eyed, buck-toothed protagonist’s presentation begins proper.  

Beginning with his inaugural Messianic performance piece before changing in front of us into his smart-casual pooh-brown civvies, Clifton walks and talks us through the selected works on display.  Comprising samples from nearly a decade’s worth of projects, eclectic in both form and theme, we are treated to an abridged showcase of the artist’s work augmented with descriptions of intent and a few personal insights. 

The paintings range from literal deconstructions to purely abstract impressions of familial memories and traumas.  Sculptures on plinths resemble literally found objects but he puts us right on what’s really going on there.  3D works are hung from the roof and meaningfully placed on the floor, his verbal explanations thereon both enlightening and frightening.  Some of his more out-there conceptual pieces are video-documented public experiments, plus a hilarious ‘installation’ he posted onto Stuff.co.nz “without them knowing”. 

Clifton seems pleased enough with himself, even as he bravely revisits the abuse his father dealt him growing up.  Softly spoken to an almost sinister degree, with unsubtle overtones of self-importance, his pseudo-academic puffery carries an expectant tone that seems to assume we are fully on board.  And we are – though with Jesse rather than Clifton, at whom we laugh derisively albeit light-heartedly, almost sympathetically, though perhaps also mildly resentful of the commissions he’s received for a number of these ‘jokes’.   

On a few occasions we’re asked if we have any questions, generally fielded with due comedic expertise.  Two I don’t think of asking till later are “Where is your frequently mentioned neighbour-and-long-term-collaborator Janine tonight?” and “Why is this show called Centaur?”  Either I missed something or it’s a classic non-sequitor, echoing the theme of a couple of mid-period works exploring the concept of pointlessness. 

We chuckle as we marvel at his ability to take a common, banal object like a beer carton and create a whole kind of Warholian narrative around it, with a twist.  Yet to anyone who wishes to notice, even as we mirthfully judge Clifton’s earnest pretension, we are contemplating his artistic query simply by virtue of it being raised. 

It is conceivable I may just have the exact kind of continually enquiring and/or second guessing mind that charlatans like Clifton readily exploit for their own credibility, and/or funding.  

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