Commentary : AN ARTLESS EXHIBIT OF LENNON

The Coretta King of rock, Yoko Ono is a vigilant keeper of the flame who ministers the legacy of her late husband John Lennon with devotion and dignity. But alas, the rubbernecking masses got the best of her at the opening of an exhibition of artworks by Lennon which she hosted at the Dyansen Gallery on Friday. The only thing missing from this shamelessly tacky soiree was Robin Leach.

Continuing through June 30, the exhibition includes Lennon’s infamous “Bag One” series of erotic drawings that were confiscated as indecent by Scotland Yard in 1970, sketches done in the late ‘60s, serigraphs and sculpture. Using Ono as the central subject in drawings designed to celebrate human communication and love, Lennon’s art could make for an interesting exhibition, but it’s handled so poorly here that the show is nothing less than a blight on the memory of the best-loved Beatle.

The work is badly matted, and carelessly over-installed. Clearly, the point was to have as much salable merchandise on display as possible. Yes, when there are bones to be picked, someone will invariably turn up to pick them, and table manners be damned in the picking.

The show had three strikes against it from the git-go due to its location; you needn’t be Marshall McLuhan to grasp that Beverly Hills represents some kind of nadir in taste. A haven for out-of-towners who never quite caught the satire in “The Beverly Hillbillies,” this ostentatious burg is a thriving testament to the belief that if it’s expensive, then it must be good.

The main drag in this city of “Dynasty” dreams is Rodeo Drive, the site of the Dyansen Gallery’s Lennon-fest. The three-ring circus of Friday’s premiere began in the street where aging Beatlemaniacs stood patiently in line waiting to be shoehorned into the stiflingly overpopulated gallery.

The only recognizable faces in Friday’s pack of ill-mannered men and overdressed women (most of whom smelled as though they’d just gulped a quart of cheap perfume) were artist and ladies man Ed Moses, ‘60s guru Timothy Leary and celebrity newscasters.

The real draw of the evening was the promised presence of Ono who showed up two hours into the event which commenced at 6 p.m. By that point the room was so crowded that it was impossible to actually see Ono, but various signs signaled her arrival; the noise level in the room decreased noticeably, the crowd formation shifted in a manner that brought The Parting of the Red Sea to mind, and a voracious phalanx of video cameras and microphones could be seen moving through the room hot on the trail of the diminutive star.

Accompanied by her son, Sean Lennon, companion Sam Havadtoy and enough security personnel to safeguard Fort Knox, Ono made her way through the room like a splinter of the true cross come to life, momentarily silencing the chattering art lovers who gaped with curious fascination.

The plan was for Yoko to address the crowd from an upstairs balcony that opened onto the main room, then grant brief interviews with press persons who’d reserved three minutes of one-on-one chat. After witnessing the ordeal Ono was forced to endure simply walking through the room, it seemed inconceivable that anyone would consider further inflicting themselves on the poor woman, but of course, there are people make their living imposing on beleaguered souls and Ono’s itinerary of interviewers was chomping at the bait.

Catching an occasional glimpse of Ono in the safety of her upstairs parlor, one began to understand the justice in the elitist idea of backstage passes--one of which was required to get upstairs and gain an audience with Pope Yoko.

Needless to say, Lennon’s charmingly unpretentious artwork was upstaged by the hubbub of Friday’s party. Combining as they do Thurber’s sense of whimsy with Picasso’s approach to line, his drawings are nothing if not subtle and they buckled under the weight of the pointless theatricality the Dyansen premiere subjected them to.

Relatively inexpensive by art world standards--prices range from $600 to $5,000--Lennon’s touchingly personal drawings could hardly have been conceived with Dyansen-style mass-marketing in mind. Silk-screened onto souvenir plates, shopping bags and T-shirts, interpreted in neon and made into rugs, Lennon’s sketches have been parlayed into a cottage industry that did booming business on Friday. It’s probably not what he would’ve wanted, but as Elvis Presley and Jim Morrison can attest, it’s not his ballgame anymore. The way the song goes when Lennon comes to Beverly Hills is “All you need is loot. . . . “