Rob Kelly and Zena Sakowski are audacious artists in every meaning of the word. They will define the limits of any opportunity they are given by  exceeding all expectations. They show little regard for constraints of scale, architecture, or the moral boundaries of their audience. In short, they worry us. Is this lack of manners and restraint a good thing? In their case, absolutely.

Few artists take greater advantage of an invitation. In 1999, Temporary Services asked Rob and Zena to create work inspired by commercial sandwich-board signs for a guerrilla public art project titled Mobile Sign Systems. The two of them contributed almost as much work as all of the other artists in the show combined. Not content to create one or two signs as was  suggested, they delivered nine new works. Each sign was convertible into a miniature golf course when flipped open and laid flat on the ground. A ball and putter were attached to the sides of each sign. During the opening night and the weeks that followed, their signs turned half of the 2800 block of North Milwaukee into a depraved ramshackle version of Putt Putt. The obligatory windmill got replaced with statues of Beavis and Butthead. Neighborhood children played their games for hours. They chased after balls in the street and nearly gave me a heart attack. Neighbors mostly looked confused.

When the time came to disperse the signs all over the city, Rob and Zena gave Oprah Winfrey's Harpo Studios their most contentious work: "Oprah Nation." The sign was based on the classic board game "Operation," where children must carefully remove plastic bones from openings in a patient's body without setting off a buzzer. In Rob and Zena's version players had to aim for food-shaped holes cut into the crudely painted, fat naked body of Oprah. Players scored points based on which hole the ball fell through. A label next to each cut out indicated whether the food caused Oprah to gain weight or lose it. What did Miss Winfrey think of all of this? No one knows. The sign disappeared from the sidewalk in front of her building within two days.

Earlier this year Temporary Services organized a project that surreptitiously placed one hundred artist's books onto the shelves of Chicago's Harold Washington Library. With feelings of excitement and trepidation, we invited Rob and Zena to participate. Months passed and when I periodically called to check up on them, they refused to offer any useful information about the books they were making. Zena insisted, as always, "It will be a surprise."

They turned in seven books. Three of the books were collectively titled "White Lame Eh" (think Canadian for lamé fabric). Each thick hardbound volume contained an attached garment that was handmade from a white plastic tarp-like material. The clothing unfolded when you opened the book. One volume provided pants (the covers spread across your ass when you wore them). Another book became a coat, and the third was an oversize balaclava hood. Though different in shape, the tall white mask bore a creepy resemblance to the hoods worn by the Ku Klux Klan. It also resembled a caricature of an S/M bondage mask, with velcro closable openings for the eye and mouth holes.

Another trio of books was "Little Lolita Girls." Inside the front and back covers of each book were mug shot photos taken from a police website showing all of the registered sex offenders that live in the couple's Bridgeport neighborhood in Chicago. A creepy acquaintance was among those included. Affixed in between the portraits of these often embarrassed and humiliated looking men was a disturbing 'pop up' element - a crude, handmade inflatable bunny rabbit blow up doll. Unable to leave well enough alone, nipples, vaginas, and anuses were drawn on the dolls with a marker. The bunnies seemed to tell the men: "If you must molest something small, cute, and defenseless, fuck this crappy toy and and keep away from the kids!" The books offered a solution as perverse as the problem.

Rob and Zena's seventh book contained three separate passages: a series of challenging and obscene rebuses that spelled out pretentious critical jargon, some caustic cartoons that made fun of art theory and museums, and a lengthy message of love. To spell out the love text, the artists created a photographic alphabet with a separate square picture for each letter. In a gesture that was shocking even by their standards, each letter was drawn with a puddle of semen that Rob deposited on different parts of Zena’s body. The letter 'O' was displayed on her tongue. Appropriately, the text was about the beauty of being able to share
something special with someone you love. When Zena and I talked about the book she assured me, "We had a lot of fun making it."

These works can be quite sensational, but they should not be confused for gimmicky novelty products. Most of the things that Rob and Zena make are rough hewn and formally inventive objects that get used in ephemeral situations. When an appropriate context doesn't already exist for these objects (such as Oprah's sidewalk, or a thoughtfully chosen section of the library), they will create their own environment by painting walls or altering the architecture that surrounds the work. In one instance, Zena laid live sod on the concrete floor of her studio and watered it with a sprinkler. These objects tend to get used and then stored away, dismantled, or discarded, rather than becoming expensive fake dog shit for collectors. Sometimes the objects fall apart before the end of the project they were made for, as was the case with some of the miniature golf sandwich boards.

In addition to being used, or enjoyed for their inventive formal qualities, these objects strongly deflect back onto their audience. They poke and prod at taboos and test our own comfort levels, boundaries, and limits. Walking into an installation of their work can be like boarding a big colorful ship - a brightly painted and imaginative vessel that seduces you immediately. Once you start to explore, however, it doesn't take long to realize that this ship is infested with rats, the deck is covered with the unwashed vomit of previous sea-sick passengers, and your captain is a drunken pirate with an eye patch and a peg leg. By now the ship has left the dock and you are sailing away whether you like it or not. The man that helped you onto the boat moments ago is now flipping you off from the dock and shouting "Bon voyage, you fuckers!"

Ultimately this fun and abrasive journey is well worth taking. This work is loaded with visual delights and invested with real passion and vigor. It also has a rotting stinking underbelly that is stuffed with bad color choices and even more dubious moral decisions. You can't get your pop culture pleasure without the pungent aftertaste of disease. The obnoxious and indefensible title of this show, "Biggest Fags Ever," is typical of the feelings of ambivalence these artists can arouse. The title seems like this pair's way of squeezing yet another impropriety into newspaper exhibition listings, mailed and emailed announcements, and every other nook that is unable to contain the actual show itself.

Rob and Zena originally hail from Winnipeg, Canada. They are both 33 years old and have known each other for 20 years. Zena Sakowski moved to Chicago from Canada in 1996 to attend the M.F.A program at University of Chicago. Rob Kelly moved here in 1999 after completing his M.F.A. at Glasgow School of Art. The two got married shortly thereafter. They have been quietly working - alone and collaboratively - in the relative isolation of their Bridgeport space. Aside from Rob and Zena's previously described projects with Temporary Services, much of their recent work has taken the form of spontaneous, unannounced events that were staged for the people that live in their neighborhood. With the exception of those ephemeral evenings, this is the first concentrated presentation of Rob and Zena's work in Chicago.