By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
Apparently, the art thing doesn't pay so well. And without commercial successes like, say, art toys, Johnson is doomed to poverty. For that reason, she fully supports designer toys and what they could mean for struggling artists. She's also pleased that 10 percent of proceeds from the Munny show will go to the Humane Society, as she's got her own Faktura dog rescue business.
In the story, people begin breeding with and gradually turning into fish. Olsen's doll is about 30 percent human salesman, 70 percent blue, scaly fish, and it will be holding a briefcase and wearing a nametag. Olsen expects that with all the science-fiction lovers who frequent Tate's, someone will get the reference.
Painting a plastic object is actually a first for Olsen, who has long rebelled against vinyl toys. "It seems like a lot more plastic crap choking up the planet," he says. He also doesn't respect a lot of what's coming out, believing the intention is no longer to create meaningful art but to make money. "A lot of great painters are jumping on the toy bandwagon and cashing in," he says. "They know this market will eat up all this stuff."
But hey, South Florida may be just the perfect receptacle for pseudo-inspired, plastic crap, he says.
"It's probably as good as any of the best places [for art toys] because it's mostly younger, trendy people with some disposable income that buys those things," Olsen says. "That makes up a big part of our population. And I think these toys go with the attitude of South Florida. Always changing. Always edgy. Plastic, trendy, and temporary."
Still, Olsen and many others have a soft spot for the Munny doll, and it's markedly difficult to condemn the synthetic creature. The Munny provokes creativity and has a way of uniting different sectors of the art community, a main reason that Magnetta chose a Munny show as her first.
Besides, they're just so damned cute.