David Hammons in his Harlem studio in the 1980s (Michael Blackwood/Greenwich Entertainment)

In the age of internet oversharing and overexposure, is elusiveness just another gimmick? It’s one of the questions raised by The Melt Goes on Forever: The Art & Times of David Hammons, a portrait of an artist who likes to stay out of the limelight while sometimes teasing it Banksy–style. “The more he tells the art world to fuck off, the more they want him,” says poet Steve Cannon. It’s a challenge to sum up Hammons’s eclectic work when the artist aims to defy categorization, but this sometimes baggy, talky, but smart documentary does its best with some creative use of unconventional resources.

Hammons got his artistic start in Watts during the civil rights era, and he later put down roots in Harlem. His output has spanned conceptual art, Duchamp–style ready-mades, and more old-fashioned drawing and painting. Several pieces of his found art are based on humble but potent material like Black hair, a symbol of racial identity: Hammons keeps Black visual culture at the forefront. A casual art lover may know the artist from his rendition of the American flag in the Black liberation colors of black, green, and red. (We see the original flag being sold for over a million dollars at auction, a sign of the artist’s power in the market.) A more playful side of the artist appears when he sells snowballs for a dollar apiece.

Hammons rarely appears on camera, so it is up to a parade of curators, collectors, gallerists, and friends to describe his work and artistic goals. For example, scholar Bridget R. Cooks says Hammons makes “ridiculously profound statements…about race and art and esthetics and the absurdity of the art world.” The documentary positions Hammons as a provocateur, but much of his work seems to come from a quieter, more thoughtful place. Sometimes rough-hewn and homespun, it is a springboard for thought and multiple interpretations. “What seems to be a simple gesture, you can peel it back and come up with all these different meanings,” says critic Antwaun Sargent. The filmmakers also rely on fanciful yet elegant animation to tell parts of his story. Elsewhere they play jazz poetry over footage of Harlem.

Hammons likes to keep his gallerists guessing what his focus will be up until showtime. Art heavyweight Dominique Lévy tells how he kept his show a mystery until the last minute. She describes how blown away she was by the work, but footage reveals an underwhelming room full of fur coats. “Was this a joke?” she asks. It sort of feels like one, only not that funny. Elsewhere a section of winking lights and a meandering camera and meandering voice-overs dilute the film’s focus. Hammons has been a recipient of honors and sought-after events, but it can be hard to follow his career in an arc that tends to wander. Viewers are encouraged to let down their guard and just go with the film’s unstructured approach. 

The number of experts here at first feels overwhelming. After a while, any possible resistance gives way to acceptance, as the filmmakers have assembled a collection of sophisticates with lots to say, like creators Lorna Simpson and Betye Saar. These veterans provide valuable context: Artist Fred Wilson points out that the White art world kept out Black artists for decades, and a photo of grinning 1980s art stars proves his point (and there’s nary a woman in the bunch either). Hammons and others pioneered hostile territory and kept creating, come what may.

In one of the few clips revealing the artist, he declares about his work, “You must have a dream, a fantasy, a vision. That’s our role. To keep this thing moving on a positive note.” Going beyond some of the in-jokes, that statement of mission rings true about this artist who is always making something new with materials (and ideas) at hand.