I’ve wanted very much, and failed completely, to avoid making this blog into a sycophantic love letter to artists who I feel compelled to jerk off with man crush adoration. I know trash talk pleases the crowds, and who wants to smooch ass but… At best all I’ve been able to do thus far is temper these quasi crits with a seesaw of “yes buts.”
Pretty Puke, AKA Miller Rodriquez… Fuck. Having pulled this motherfucker from the hat, I don’t see any of that changing. Time to spit in my palm cause this guy wins a happy ending for sure.
I’ve been obsessed with Mr. Puke for about two years. I’ve been really into collecting art books lately, and every time I see his work I frustratedly go searching for some indication that he’s published something even though I already know he hasn’t. After years of starting at a screen, I crave the physicality of paper and ink. Like someone who’s lived off a diet of Cheese Puffs and Skittles, I feel malnutrition for something real and his photos lend themselves to that. He’s a self-professed Luddite who claims to not even own a computer. This kid is all old school analog, baby. Snap away, who knows what you’ll get pray for results and wow, Mr. Puke sure can’t loose…
I kinda loath the “look at me be being ironic,” Myspace era moniker that Rodriquez uses, (yeah sure Mr. dusted off Sniveling Goat) but god damn it if it isn’t so fucking apropos.
Did I mention spitting on my palm?
Yeah, and that’s my metaphor for Pretty Puke. His images are point and click nugs of photo diesel that reeks with the stink of muggy summer sweat, of dried saliva and old lip-gloss, of stale beer and cum. His work encapsulates the “I don’t give a fuck” black out moments that young party people have, which will inevitably turn into the Walk of Shame, the Check Your Texts Dread, the Hung Over Self-Loathing Spiral. His photos feel like baby powder shits, like gutter morning cotton mouth, like dirty latex scented dick cheese and cream pie panties, like distillery smell nausea. They are the wet spot on the bed, the unknown bra in the corner, mascara stains on the toilet seat and a puddle of glamorous someday-but-not-really-ever-rockstar, pretty, pretty puke; clumped in the cat box.
Do I need a step back with a “yeah but?”
Sure, I have one. There is an obvious ascetic redundancy in his snapshot-flashbulb nature and the grotesque quasi-porn feel to his images. Like, there really, really is. Yup, I’m talking about the highly problematic Creepy Uncle Terry. The similarity between Rodriquez and Terry Richardson is just too close to not make the comparison. Deep down the word “derivative” chokes up into my rational critical mind, but in the end, I can’t dismiss Puke. Even if his obvious influence borders on copycat, he’s still so damn good I can’t complain. I would go so far as to say that if the only reason that Rodriguez hasn’t skyrocketed to Richardson’s level of success faster is because Richardson already exists.
Now let’s seesaw another “yeah but” in the other direction. Puke has an authentic quality that Richardson is lacking. Richardson’s MO of inviting movie stars and prostitutes into his studio and jacking them up on so much Molly and Tussin that his cock ends up in their mouths, is a contrived content strategy that opens him up to some very serious and real questions and accusations about consent.
Puke’s work feels spontaneous, you believe these are his friends and fuck buddies playing dress up in their shitty studio apartments on a Friday night, doing shit they pray that mom and their dickhead manager down at Urban Outfiters doesn’t ever see. Some other write-ups have aimed his work towards “an examination of the youth of today blah blah blah” but that’s bullshit. Anyone who has spent their twenties submerged in the gluttonous party scene knows this subject matter is timeless, it’s only the participants that age out. In that sense Mr. Puke has more in common with Larry Clark than with Richardson. “This is what we do, this is how we do it.”
Celebrities are starting to clamor to hire Rodriquez because a party at Pretty Puke’s pad just looks so damn fun. Which is sad, because once that becomes the norm, the authentic nature of his clique will die and he really will just be a Richardson clone. Until then, I’m going to absorb every dirty, sweaty fucking image I can and keep praying to the dark gods that a real, physical book gets released before then.
-Jack Mongoose
