Rusel Parish is a 31 year-old Brooklyn-based artist who is unabashedly obsessed with Michael Jackson. And Dash Snow. And some celebrities still living, and possibly but probably not Jon and Kate Plus Eight, but definitely Lindsey Lohan and Brittney Spears and American celebrity cultdom in general. His work—which often takes tabloid photos and album covers as its premise—is pop art in its purest sense, but it also has ties with pop art’s deadbeat dad, Dadaism. In fact, Rusel’s online Museum of Museum Toilets directly references Duchamp’s urinal. Expressive and non-prescriptive, much of Rusel’s work probes the ever-present art-school question: what makes an object art, and what makes art holy? It’s a much-depicted theme in recent pop culture venues—Neil Gaimen’s best-seller American Gods immediately comes to mind—this idea that any religion, including art, is only so strong as its subscribers. And because Rusel’s interrogation is firmly situated in the era of U.S. Weekly and Gawker, his work simultaneously asks—what is celebrity and why do we care?

The material for Rusel’s second solo show with Williamsburg’s Figureworks gallery was created over a period of roughly three years. The gallery timed the opening of The Cult of Michael Jackson to coincide with M.J.’s big comeback tour. Instead, the show coincided with his death.

In addition to thickly layered paintings—there is the often overlooked “Forever” Michael, the Thriller-era Michael, the Black and White Michael—the front room houses M.J. dolls in various flavors: dark chocolate, milk chocolate and white chocolate. Some of them are distinctly costumed, while others remain naked, emphasizing the generic nature of “product.” Naked, it’s obvious that Michael Jackson is poured in the same Mattel-birthed mold as white-bread-and-butter Ken, as Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the Block, as the original cast of 90210, as any male celebrity whose shrunken, shrink-wrapped likeness has resided on Toys R Us shelves over the years. There are also scented soaps, candles and candlesticks in the shape of Michael’s head or, in one case, a gift-boxed pile of M.J. body-parts—essentially a dismantled version of the chocolate and wax dolls and a metaphor for what happened after his death, as family, press and 125^th street T-shirt hawkers cast lots for his remains.

The second room is a chapel, complete with altars and candles and a halo-gilded centerpiece—M.J. in one of his most famous vestments (military jacket with braids), surrounded by an aureole and plenty of Renaissance gilding.  As the afternoon passed into evening, Michael’s expression changed, becoming less contemplative and more drawn and harrowed, even while his eyes became increasingly animated, reflecting the fading rays.

Two panels face each other across the room—two angles on the same scene. In a style reminiscent of Francis Bacon, Michael presides over a concert stage, backlit by fireworks, his posture dramatic and his face ecstatically contorted. Except that the concert stage could be Golgotha, the fireworks could be bombs or bullets, and the ecstasy could easily be agony—and at some point in his life, all of those things became all of these things. His Christ-pose and the red smears streaming from his sides and both hands complete the overt parallel. On the opposite wall, a crowd howls in excitement or horror, splatters of red catching in their afros and ruining starched button-downs.

The photos of these paintings don't do them justice; a physical encounter is necessary to appreciate their almost sculptural texture—slabs of thick oil and globs of wax shimmer under layers of resin that restore the façade to a smooth, two-dimensional finish. These are works in which to wallow—if you devote the time, their depth will consistently offer a new perspective. The pen and ink drawings are also notable—set in gold gilding, they are intricate and detailed, yet Rusel did those pieces less to make a statement than  simply because he needed to relax. My favorite is a bust of a very young Michael—beautiful, flawless, confident and composed.

Figureworks proprietor Randall Harris said that at first he was wary about the show. “Who’s gonna buy a Michael Jackson portrait?” he pondered aloud. But people buy Marilyn Monroe portraits and pictures of Campbell soup cans, and ultimately, for all the honest respect demonstrated throughout the installation, the social commentary is as tenacious as the art. More than a person, Michael Jackson has long been a brand. Otherwise, this show couldn’t exist.

The Cult of Michael Jackson is on view at Figureworks till November 1, 2009.