Abandon the Concept of Authenticity, Jason Lujan’s first solo exhibition in Toronto, assembles a disparate array of the artist’s rectified readymades—from vintage pachinko machines and consumer electronics, to classic toys and museum postcards, to allegorical symbols and personal memories. Shifting between the visual elements of traditional and commercial design rooted in Asia and North America, the works are tasked to perform Lujan’s critique of cultural revitalization as part of indigenous reconciliation efforts. Questioning concepts of “categorized aesthetics,” the works trouble notions of authentic self-expression and stereotypical assumptions about cultural representation. 

Duchamp originally described selecting a readymade as a matter of chance—an encounter between the artist and a manufactured object without recourse to the artist’s hands or his or her taste. It’s an arm’s length operation that elevates everyday objects as is into the realm of aesthetics. The rectified readymade is a subcategory that Duchamp retro-invented to justify the use of his hands to alter manufactured objects and images, and accordingly their meanings. In Lujan’s terms, rectification designates a process of restoration and “all restoration is the process of invention.” The vintage pachinko machines and consumer electronics on display in the exhibition, restored in their appearance, all remain functioning devices, though suspended in their usage. Lujan’s focus is to re-aestheticize—in some instances replacing the device’s original casing with a newly fabricated transparent one. All details remain intact, exposing the architecture of the electronic components or information system (e.g., the label appearing on the photo wheel inside the View-Master). In other instances, the artist subtly replaces an original design with Indigenous visual elements (e.g., the spinners and tulips on the Japanese pachinko machines); elsewhere, he adds literal value to these objects, replacing the device’s original plastic knobs and switches with gold-filled ones. Ironically, the operation of re-aestheticization can destroy the function of the object—where its original value lies—for example, a gold-filled battery is no longer able to hold a charge, permanently paralyzed.

Lujan’s restoration process is meticulous and laborious. After sourcing and acquiring the devices, he studied the objects and worked with specialized product engineers to make 3D models of them. He then had selected parts re-fabricated in desired materials, before re-assembling them on his own terms. Lujan uses his working process to understand the unfamiliar. Besides studying the design of these devices, as a Native American artist originally from Marfa, Texas and recently relocated from New York City to Toronto, he also takes the opportunity to study the First Nations’ Woodlands style and applies this learning in the objects’ restored appearances (for instance, the Madison colour wheels on the pachinko machines). 

Assemblage is a common strategy of customizing readymades in Lujan’s practice. In the cutting mat series, the idea of assemblage can be implemented either spatially or graphically. If spatially, transparent cutting mats are fixed on TV mounts, resembling the look of computer screens. Aligning with the mat’s grid lines, the artist attaches museum postcards (the Met’s buddha statue, the Frick Collection’s court portraits), a ticket stub (Jimmie Durham talk), and personal photos (empty street in Brooklyn) to the mat’s front and back sides. Examples of graphic assemblage works, on the other hand, include the artist printing a Japanese soy sauce label on one mat while overlaying a graphic pattern borrowed from Southwestern Native American style to replace the original design; on another, Lujan seemingly printed a decal sheet for a North American fighter aircraft model, but on closer examination one can also locate symbols borrowed from Indigenous and Asian culture. In this way, assemblage becomes a tool for Lujan to generate new narratives via unexpected encounters of visual materials; at the same time, he short-circuits stereotypical readings of cultural symbols. One can also find a similar approach taken to Torpedo, which is a tabletop battle game. The game’s play field is covered with a beaded carpet, almost resembling the original graphic pattern except for one detail—an additional white colour is subtly blended into the design. 

In Lujan’s text-based works, he extends the domain of the readymade into the dimension of language. In No Memory is Ever Alone, an advertisement for a vintage YAMAHA mixer is appropriated and silkscreened on acetate paper mounted on a wooden frame. Using the same typeface deployed in the ad, Lujan carefully embeds a personal message into the picture plane. The sentence “No Memory is Ever Alone,” aesthetically amplifies a poetic note in the otherwise industrial feeling of the graphic design, while conceptually playing with the original product that the ad tries to sell: a sound mixer.  

Text by Yan Wu 

Jason Lujan is originally from Marfa, Texas. As an artist, he creates tools for understanding and interpreting the processes by which different cultures approach each other as a result of travel and communication and are later homogenized. Largely integrating visual components rooted in North American and Asia, the work focuses on the possibilities and limitations of the exchanging of ideas, meanings, and values, questioning the concepts of authorship and authenticity.