Devendra Banhart's 'Mosquito Drawings'

Devendra Banhart is known for whimsical and stream-of-consciousness lyrics. But words are not the only thing spilling out from his creative impulses — he's also a prodigious visual artist. He's actually been drawing longer than he's been writing songs.

Last month, Banhart's first solo gallery show went up on Manhattan's Upper East Side, just off Madison Avenue, at the Roth Horowitz Gallery. Not far from where Carrie Bradshaw lived, and pretty far from where you'd expect to see Devendra, there is an exhibit of his recent drawings on view until mid-December. Billed as a collection of "mosquito drawings," the little line drawings feature many mosquito-like creatures, but also images of vines, hands, hands turning into vines, open-mouthed faces and, if I'm not mistaken, even a puppy's face.

The opening night (November 5) was a cold and soggy one: the kind of night that keeps most New Yorkers on their sofas eating take-out. But still, the Roth Horowitz gallery was filled with Banhart fans and friends. People milled around talking more about how great his new CD, Niño Rojo, is than about the art on display. Until Banhart showed up; then the praise started to flow. He walked in with his bearded entourage, all of them quite the opposite of the group of guys from the HBO series "Entourage." Banhart's gang was au naturel, with long hair and beards rather than plucked eyebrows and fruity moisturizers.

Was Banhart happy with the opening night? "Yes," he said over the phone a few weeks later, "except it rained and there was no bar." But, the rain was also kind of fitting, he said. "I was in tune with nature. When it rains it releases, and with the opening, all of my stress was released."

All of the work was done while Banhart was staying in Maries de La Mer in Southern France. He says he spends about three days on each drawing or painting. Instead of canvases, he often uses the blank insides of old book covers and other found bits of paper. The drawings, small and quiet like his music, fit nicely in the one-room gallery. Each was made up of tiny lines, sometimes uniting to create a shadow effect, sometimes to make borders and often forming odd creatures with wide-open eyes and mouths. On a lot of the pages there were dark splotches that looked like spilled wine, coffee or, perhaps, bong water.

None of the drawings were of a concrete thing; all are open to interpretation. Even Banhart is at a loss to describe them. "I have no words for what they are. That's why I draw them," he said. In other interviews, he's said that he sings what he can't draw and he draws what he can't sing. In our telephone conversation, he said that the inspiration or "seed always comes in a different form. It isn't a vision or aural. You tailor it to whatever fits."

One of the drawings that piqued my curiosity was made of big thick lines, instead of the tiny little ones, and seemed to be nothing more than a crude illustration of roots or antlers. When I asked about it, he said it could be either — or the chin of a weird tropical fish.

In the center of the gallery there was a glass case displaying Banhart's more grown-up side. On stage, in his music and in most of his visual art, Banhart has a very boyish and innocent quality. He sings about sparrows and spiders; he draws fish and plants with a childlike hand. But he has a more defined and grown-up hand, and with it, he makes illustrations that look like they're from the Kama Sutra or some other ancient sex guide. Banhart said that one of his biggest influences is Ana Mendieta, a Cuban-born body artist, whose work included leaving a "silueta" of herself in the earth, or covering herself with earth (mud or flowers) and then taking a photograph. Her work offers a tantalizing combination of innocence and sexuality, and like Banhart, is very much in tune with nature.

If you live on the East Coast, and have the time or inclination to see his art, Banhart's drawings are on view until December 18. The Hirshhorn Museum in Washington D.C. has an exhibit of Ana Mendieta's work until January 2. — Lori Miller Barrett [Tuesday, December 7, 2004]