Out There Factory Fresh

If this season MoCA Los Angeles seems to be flirting a bit too demonstratively with the über-commodifiable dimensions of high art — Exhibit A: projects conceived by James Franco and Mercedes-Benz — “The Painting Factory,” which opened on Saturday night, approaches this territory from a stance that is more expected of a museum. Not that doing the expected is an objective of the museum’s director, Jeffrey Deitch, who also curated the show. Cynics could say this factory churns out trendy paintings, Europeans might say American paintings, and dealers could call it a mint. The designation Deitch applies here, which has been hidden in plain view for years, is that all of these artists have revived abstract painting through production methods handed down from Warhol’s Factory.

The tone is set by an assortment of Warhol’s 1970s and ’80s nonfigurative canvases, blasted with diamond dust, Rorschach smears, camouflage patterns and a paint approximation of shadows. But the work that makes the most immediate impression is the artist Rudolf Stingel’s creamy carpeting, which is installed throughout the entire exhibition space. Visitors’ feet in turn make their own impressions on Stingel’s “canvas,” which will absorb pedestrian traffic and various stains over the coming weeks. The aroma of “new car” or “model home” rising off of the piece was practically intoxicating. But for some artists and dealers, the piece was a point of contention: at the opening, there was considerable debate as to whether the carpet was white enough.

Another potential point of contention is the number of women included in the show: only 4 out of 15 artists. But women have never found equal footing in the industrial sector. To Deitch’s credit, he gave Kersten Brätsch and Adele Röder’s collaborative painting enterprise Das Institut probably its most extensive exhibition opportunity at an American institution to date, and Tauba Auerbach’s trompe l’oeil renderings of hypercolor creases and crumples hum mellifluously right off the walls. The boys club looks good, too — Seth Price, Mark Bradford and Josh Smith among others. The award for biggest painting is a tossup: Sterling Ruby’s XXL Ab Ex grimy haze or Wade Guyton’s spartan ode to piano keys? Both are gargantuan. Scale plays a part in shaping this conversation, not just size but output. The number of works amassed here does cause the museum to resemble a factory showroom — or a gallery out of a Hollywood film. And it is this persistent element of ambiguity that makes Deitch’s curatorial gesture most interesting.

In a matchmaking masterstroke, the opening-night dinner was hosted by the interior design doyenne Kelly Wearstler at her home in Beverly Hills. Haute, goonish juxtapositions abounded — lobbed-off limestone feet stomping on coffee tables, Art Deco chairs shaped like inverted peacocks, hallucinogenic marble, cacophonous, fun excess everywhere. The house from the film “Beetlejuice” came to many minds. “Watch out!” one guest cautioned, “that sculpture is going to come to life later tonight and strangle someone.” Given interior design’s dubious interest in contemporary art, and abstract painting in particular, the perversity was noted and enjoyed. But to give credit where credit is due, the house was one of the better installations I’ve seen this year!