Cattelan Cappelletta Sistina

detail from plate 4 of Cattelan: The 11th Commandment, published in 2024 by Three Star Books

After a thirteen-year gap in which the artist retired and unretired, Three Star Books, of Paris, has released a fourth volume in their Maurizio Cattelan trilogy, appropriately titled, The 11th Commandment.

Begun in 2007, each of the TSB books comprises an interview with the artist and one of his curator-collaborators, and images of recent works. This year it is Nancy Spector, who curated both Cattelan’s Guggenheim retrospective—prominently featured in the 2011 title, The Taste of Others—and the gold toilet vortex we’ve been swirling around in since 2015, otherwise known as America.

The interview is fine. The books continue to be remarkable because they are published in portfolio format, and each page is a facsimile of a hand-painted and hand-lettered watercolor original. The 11th Commandment is credited to Qi Han, whose renditions are comparable to previous editions, which were painted by Fu Site.

Maurizio Cattelan, Untitled, 2018, fresco, pine wood, steel, 343 x 693 x 242 cm,
as installed in 2021 at UCCA in Shanghai

Above is the best one, conceptually. During Shanghai Fashion Week in 2018, Cattelan curated The Artist Is Present, at the Yuz Museum in Shanghai, an exhibition for Gucci inspired by the idea that, “The copy is the original.” Cattelan included a work of his own in the show; Untitled (2018) is a 1:6-scale replica in fresco on wood of the Sistine Chapel. The image reproduced in The 11th Commandment, which includes a human figure for scale, was published on Gucci’s Facebook page. The only thing that would make Untitled better is if it were an edition.

Maurizio Cattelan titles and editions by Three Star Books [threestarbooks.com]

From The River You Can See

f__r________e_ ________ p_ al____s__t____ ____i_n __e
________e____ _____________e_________ _________
_____________ ______________________ _________

Demian Diné Yazhi’s work in the Whitney Biennial, titled we must stop imagining apocalypse/genocide+we must imagine liberation, flashes nine lines of revolutionary poetry out the window toward the Hudson River. When it blinks off, letters scattered across the three-part sculpture remain illuminated to spell “free palestine.”

Shoutout to Zach Feuer, who pointed it out to Annie Armstrong, whose Artnet report tipped off Zachary Small, who asked the curators about it, which was the first they’d heard of it.

Hirokazu Kore-eda on Working With Ryuichi Sakamoto

At Little White Lies, Lillian Crawford has a Q&A with Hirokazu Kore-eda about working with Ryuichi Sakamoto on what would be the composer’s final film project, Monster [Kaibutsu]. Sakamoto ended up composing a couple of pieces for the soundtrack, and Kore-eda used some existing compositions, which are all so integral to the film, perhaps because he edited to them. The sonic experience of Monster is subtle and compelling, a mix of piano, diagetic musical instruments, and ambient/natural sounds. It really works as part of the whole.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say about Monster, which is an exquisite, precise, and wrenching film. When early reviews compared its multiple narrative views to Rashomon, I went back to rewatch, and it absolutely is not that.

As Kore-eda explains to Crawford, “One thing that’s consistent throughout this film is how hard it is to understand other people.” And that is in there. But I think Monster lays out the roots of that problem, by showing how trapped everyone is by their own subjective circumstances. Rashomon reveals the contradictions and lies people weave to suit their own selfish interest.

Monster shows how even a slightly different perspective, slightly different timing, can totally change the story. Some people have compared Monster to Kore-eda’s 2018 film, Shoplifters, for its emotional tenor—and overlaps in casting. It has made me think back to After Life (1998), in that both are enacted metaphors of filmmaking. Monster‘s events unfold unchanged each time, except for the position of the camera, or the timing of the cut, which changes the emotional impact and insight.

And the sonic texture of the film ends up being both an anchor and an amplifier as we—and the characters— try to piece things together.

Hirokazu Koreeda: ‘Ryuichi Sakamoto and I were a good match’ [lwlies]

Sold Separately: Cane Acres Dining Room, f/k/a Tonguewell

Furniture sold separately: the so-called Cane Acres Plantation Dining Room, as last seen at the Brooklyn Museum, image via Brunk Auctions

[UPDATE: Reporting on the rooms sale for Artnet, Brian Boucher got a comment from Brooklyn Museum director Anne Pasternak: tl;dr, they’re mid!]

It is at once extraordinary and the most logical thing in the world—admittedly, a low bar these days—but the Brooklyn Museum is selling two of its period rooms at auction next week. It’s actually selling much more, including most of the majorand minorfurnishings of those rooms, hundreds of other antiques, and woodwork elements from two other interiors. [Shoutout to David Platzker for the heads up on the sale.]

The most significant, or historic, or problematic, is now known as the Cane Acres Plantation dining room, which was the Brooklyn Museum’s largest period room, and the first from the South. The museum acquired it a hundred years ago near Summerville, South Carolina, in the middle of what turned out to be a museum period room arms race. Though it’ll be recognizable to anyone who’s been to the museum, what you’re actually bidding on is very different and specific:

Continue reading “Sold Separately: Cane Acres Dining Room, f/k/a Tonguewell”

Fit To Print

Cy Twombly, Untitled, 2002, acrylic on paper, 36×30 in., framed by the artist

I got to Josh Pazda Hiram Butler’s sales archive through an odd John Cage search, and I stayed for an unusual Cy Twombly find: a painting on newsprint—the Washington Post from April 5th, 2001, to be precise.

How did this? What is this? There are clear edges, plust some bleed; the acrylic shows no brushmarks, but does show the folds of the paper. It says framed by artist, but there’s also a bit of scorching right around the painted part, and the signature in the lower margin, like it was matted differently for a while?

Anyway, it turns out to be very similar to a work on, of all places, the Twombly Foundation’s own website, in the Prints section.

Untitled, 2002, monotype, 60 x 45 cm, image: Galerie Bastian via Cy Twombly Foundation

Described as a monotype, this work contains the same lozenge-shaped, leaf-like motif. It’s also on newsprint, and has borders very much like those kissed in place by the sun up top.

I think these are cardboard prints, where the image is carved into a sheet of cardboard with something rough, like a nail, and which are painted and pressed against a surface—in this case, straight up newspaper from the porch—to transfer the image.

Twombly made raw, scratchy monotypes right after getting back to New York in 1953, and in 1996, he revisited the cardboard engraving technique for an edition Twombly and Nicola del Roscio printed for the Whitney Museum. Whether it was a pump-priming exercise, a diversion, a warm-up, or something else, this rough, disposable, DIY printing medium seems to have struck a chord with Twombly. At least it worked well enough to let these things out of the studio, conservators bedamned.

“Printed by Cy Twombly; printed by Nicola del Roscia”? [whitney.org]

Ubu, 1996-2024?

As reported today on social media, Ubu has stopped adding things.

“As of 2024, UbuWeb is no longer active.
The archive is preserved for perpetuity, in its entirety.”

Preserved for perpetuity, in its entirety, except, of course, when it’s not:

“Everything is downloadable on UbuWeb. Don’t trust the cloud, even UbuWeb’s cloud,” said UbuWeb as recently as January.

And as Kenneth Goldsmith said as recently as yesterday, “Let’s keep UbuWeb well alive!” and “Don’t bookmark. Download. Hard drives are cheap. Fill them up with everything you think you might need to consult, watch, read, listen to, or cite in the future.”

A .tar of the site would be really handy right about now.

Previously, related:
2014: 36 Links From My Life With Ubu; my Ubu Top Ten Sixteen
2006: Non-Sensical, Non-Site, Non Art? Smithson’s ‘Hotel Palenque’

Ring Light Vanity Mirror

“Sold with a digital certificate of authentication from Tom Langevin, former director of Karl Springer, Ltd.” Lot 230: Karl Springer illuminated vanity mirror, c. 1970s, coll. Blackman Cruz via LA Modern

Ring lights are the cursed icon of our age. In the excavations in the future, ring lights on wispy black metal skeletal bases, flattened against a layer of disintegrated grey woodgrain laminate flooring, will be used to pinpoint this moment in history.

All the digital content they were used to create—that wasn’t already deleted from the servers when the monetization ran out—will have been wiped from the servers by EMPs, and archaeologists will hypothesize what they were for, and why every 21st century room had one. Was that just the shape of lamps at that point? The moon was popular, I guess? Were they altars to the Oprah goddess?

Then one day a dig in the Cahuenga Archipelago will turn up this, a ring light WITH A MIRROR IN THE CENTER, and yet it dates from generations earlier. And they’ll conclude that ringlights were once used for an ancient habit of staring at oneself. And at some point in the intervening 50 years, probably because they were processing the looming climate crisis, people became so unconcerned with how they looked that ring lights lost the mirror, but kept the shape, purely as an aesthetic. Maybe they even became symbols of a new humility, a communitarian absence of self-obsession. What an enlightened and advanced society the Ring Light Culture must have been. Why they died out was a mystery.

Beauty & Mischief: Selections from Blackman Cruz, 20 March 2024, Lot 230: Karl Springer Illuminated Vanity Mirror, c. 1970s, est. $1,000-1,500 [lamodern]

Carl Andre Mail Art

It would be weird and unsettling to get a letter from someone who killed his wife, is something I have thought about but never had to deal with personally.

The envelope containing Carl Andre’s letter to Coco Fusco in June 1993
(photo Coco Fusco/Hyperallergic)

In unrelated news, last night Hyperallergic published an account by artist Coco Fusco of the time in 1993 Carl Andre wrote her a letter. Fusco had published an essay in a Mexico City art magazine about Ana Mendieta’s art and her complex and groundbreaking relationship to Cuba. Andre wrote to Fusco c/o the magazine:

He marked his letter “personal and confidential,” put a copyright sign on it, and ended it with “for your eyes only,” as if to say, don’t even think of showing this to anybody. For years, I was too afraid to mention the letter in public, imagining that he might take revenge. I had heard plenty of scary stories about Mr. Andre from Mendieta’s close friends. I had never met him, but I knew he was a famous White male artist who might also be a murderer.

Now that Andre is dead, Fusco describes the letter’s contents, her experience, and the art context of Mendieta’s work, as well as the broader Cuban artist community, and willful misperceptions of it. But because of the copyright/eyes only thing, she still doesn’t publish or reproduce it.

If she wants to publish it, maybe she should put it up for sale.

Last summer and fall, a weird and unsettling collection of dozens of postcards from Carl Andre came up for auction in Chicago. One lot was all postcards of Andre’s own art; another was postcards of other art. It was immediately unsettling that the correspondent had the same initials as Andre’s wife. But that was surpassed by the timeline that spanned many years, but which concentrated on the years after Mendieta’s death, and Andre’s trial for her murder. So during all that, while he sat silent in court, Andre kept up lively conversations and shared his poetic ruminations through the mail.

I spent a little time last year trying to make some sense of these postcards, and to see who might be on the other end of them. I dropped it, partly because it became clear that some of it was related to correspondence art, or chain letters, of sending postcards on to the next person in a chain. Whoever got in the chain next to Andre may have kept up a side conversation. One outlier lot included some correspondence to Andre, as if they sent one letter back and forth. But it also mentions Andre’s shocked rudeness when his longtime postcard friend introduced himself IRL at an opening. It was the early 90s equivalent of a tumblr mutual showing up at your office. And you’d been acquitted of killing your wife.

Anyway, Andre’s signature on all these postcards is a C around an a, which means he must have hated the @ sign takeover. But it does look a little like a copyright.

TFW You Just Paint Some Almonds

Édouard Manet, Amandes Vertes, 1871, 21 x 26 cm, RW142

Researching some stuff on Manet and politics for an essay, I got stuck on this aside from Beth Archer Brombert’s 1996 biography, Edouard Manet: Rebel in a Frock Coat: through 1871 and the Franco-Prussian War, the Siege of Paris, the Paris Commune and its violent defeat and repercussions, Manet, Archer Brombert writes, “seemed unable to regain his equilibrium.”

In Paris in the aftermath, the only thing he managed to paint that Fall was a small (21 x 26 cm) still life of a pile of unripe almonds. Which turns out to be nearly identical to a detail of a still life he’d painted three years earlier. “As writers have been known to copy earlier pages of their own work or that of others just to get started again,” Archer Brombert explains/confesses, Manet copied himself. Then she goes a bit big: “Still lifes played an important role in Manet’s life; they distracted him when he was low and kept his hand and eye in practice…he turned to still lifes in moments of distress.”

ngl, I would’ve copied the knife. or the wonky vase: Édouard Manet, Fruits sur une table, 1864, 45 x 73.5 cm, collection Musée d’Orsay

[note: Archer Brombert cites Manet biographer Adolphe Tabarant for the date and interpretation of this painting. The Wildenstein Manet CR dates this painting to 1869, which would kind of wipe out this reading. The painting I think Manet’s said to have copied from, known in the CR as Fruits (RW 83), and at the Musée d’Orsay as Fruits sur une table, is actually dated to 1864, and was shown in Paris in 1865 and 1867. Not sure how this gets solved, unless the Amandes Vertes finally comes out of hiding and shows itself.]

Not The Original, But It Sure Looks Similar: Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU

The inauguration of Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU, a permanent exhibition in a purpose-built, VW-funded pavilion at the International Youth Meeting Center in Oświęcim, Poland, opened on 9 February 2024, the artist’s 92nd birthday. via mdsm.pl

I cannot keep up. Literally the day I was contemplating even the possibility of a Facsimile Object of a Gerhard Richter Grey Mirror painting, Richter put four of them on permanent view. On his 92nd birthday. At Auschwitz.

Last month Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU, a permanent exhibition in a purpose-built pavilion, was opened at the International Youth Meeting Center in Oświęcim, the Polish town near the nazi death camp that took its name. It contains reproductions of the Sonderkommando photos that Richter used as a basis for the Birkenau series of large-scale squeegee paintings [CR 937/1-4] he made in 2014. [Two photos are visible on the concrete walls below.] It also includes full-scale Diasec-mounted versions of the Birkenau paintings [a medium Richter once used for a category he called “Facsimile Objects,” but which he later replaced with “Prints”]. And facing them are Facsimile Objects of a series of four Grey Mirror paintings. Photos of oil-on-glass paintings printed and Diasec face-mounted with acrylic on aluminum.

Mrs. Moritz-Richter, et al., at the inauguration of Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU, via mdsm.pl

In this Guardian article [shoutout greg.org hero/reader Claudio for the heads up] Agata Pyzik tries to put a market–or at least a marketing—critique on Richter’s use of photo copies of paintings, even while acknowledging his attempts to remove his Birkenau works from an art market context. [Richter’s kept the paintings in his foundation, and put the other facsimile edition in the Reichstag.]

Gerhard Richter, Grauer Spiegel (4 Parts) [CR 955], 2018, his last painting (so far), installed with Birkenau and Birkenau Facsimile Objects and Birkenau photos at the Met Breuer in 2020

I read the Birkenau facsimiles, which he has shown alongside the Birkenau paintings from the jump, including at the Met Breuer in 2020, as an attempt to head off any sacralization of the paintings themselves. He did not make them to be, and he does not want them to become icons of the Holocaust. Even worse for him, I think, would be being seen as attempting to iconize or exploit these terrible photographs, to turn them to his own use. He sees limits to his own project of painting in relation to images and history, and he’s not wrong.

Gerhard Richter, Grey Mirror [CR 751/1-4], 1991, each 300 x 175 cm., portrait-style, paint and enamel on glass, a gift of the artist to the Saint Louis Art Museum, with three giant squeegee diptychs, November, December & January, which the museum bought in 1990, visible in reflection.

But while all the media attention is on the Birkenau pictures, the most unsettling and powerful element of the installation, the mirrors, barely gets a mention. If this were any other work, any other place, any other time, the fact that Richter made Facsimile Objects of mirror paintings would be enough to keep me going for weeks. These happen to be facsimiles of Grey Mirror [CR 751/1-4], a series of 3 x 1.75 m, color-coated glass paintings made in 1991 for—and by—the St Louis Art Museum, a gift with purchase. [The purchase was Betty.] In Oświęcim, Richter has turned them sideways, and installed them landscape-style, as one continuous 12-meter mirror panorama.

But these are there, and now.

And so visitors to Oświęcim, while flanked on either side by direct photographic evidence of the nazi genocide at Birkenau as documented by its targets, will see reflections of themselves and everyone else with their backs turned to a repetition of Birkenau which looms behind them. It’s at least theoretically possible, if previously inconceivable, that if he opened an exhibition in Germany that made visitors look in a mirror while turning away from the evidence of genocide all around them, Richter could be arrested.

[update: After corresponding with the artist’s studio about broken links on the webpage for this exhibition, I was informed that this mirror work is actually an “exhibition copy” of Grauer Spiegel (4 Parts) [CR955], and not [CR751/1-4]. Which means the dimensions and material aspect of this object are still to be confirmed. For now the artist’s site still describes them as Diasec-mounted prints. Is that whan an exhibition copy of a mirror work is? Or would it be a similarly produced enamel paint on the back of glass? Perhaps we shall see.

Installation view of the Birkenau paintings and photos reflected in Grauer Spiegel (4 Parts) [CR955] at Gerhard Richter: 100 Works for Berlin, at the Neue Nationalgalerie thru 2026, a video still by Julius-Christian Schreiner via DW

What is significant, though, and has been unremarked by anyone, is that with these mirrors, the BIRKENAU installation replicates the current long-term installation of the Birkenau paintings, the Birkenau photos, and Grauer Spiegel (4 Parts) [CR955], at the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin. So viewers in Germany can, in fact, see themselves in a mirror, with the genocide of Birkenau represented behind and all around them, know that this same situation exists somewhere else right now, and contemplate the differences between an original and a repetition.]

Inauguration of the Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU Exhibition Pavilion [mdsm.pl]
Painting the Unpaintable: Gerhard Richter’s most divisive work returns to Auschwitz [guardian via csant]

Previously, related:
2014: Cage Grid: Gerhard Richter and the Photo Copy
2023: Gerhard Richter Painted
2024: Grauer Richter Facsimile Object

Donald Judd Cama del Taller Chihuahuense

El Taller Chihuahuense, Donald Judd’s metal fabrication shop in Marfa, as published in Donald Judd Raume/Spaces, 1994, from the Museum Wiesbaden, all photos: Todd Eberle

After several years of executing works in Cor-Ten steel, Donald Judd opened a welding and fabrication shop in 1988 in the disused Ice Plant building on the northeast side of downtown Marfa. He called it El Taller Chihuahuense (The Chihuahuan Workshop), and he hired local welders, including Raul Hernandez and Lee Donaldson to make his works.

Cobb Gatehouse with Judd steel bed and table by, as published in Donald Judd Raume/Spaces

The workers of El Taller also fabricated beds and slate-topped tables of square tubular steel, which Judd designed in 1991 and 1992.

Continue reading “Donald Judd Cama del Taller Chihuahuense”

David Hammons Ball Print

David Hammons, Icestallation invitation card (recto), 1986, paint on paper, JAM via MoMA Library

A few months ago artist David Horvitz was looking into a story of one of his artist neighbors who knew David Hammons back in the LA day. While poking around for some corroboration, I realized this invitation to a 1986 Hammons show at JAM was only and ever published in Elena Filipovic’s 2019 Afterall One Work: Bliz-aard Ball Sale.

Filipovic’s researcher, Alhena Katshof pulled the invitation out of MoMA Library’s legendary Ephemera File, where it was scanned for the first time, I learned, by legendary librarian David Senior.

Anyway, the invitation is a silvery painted postcard with a hand-stamped ball, and a date, 3/13/83. One of the very few other examples of the invitation known to exist, along with the show’s terse press release, mention 2/13/83, so perhaps this one is an error. The show, Icestallation, consisted of a dingy 3-year-old snowball in a used and altered freezer, set amidst the detritus of JAM’s gallery renovation. As printed on the verso, the show was in April/May, so the date, presumably, was the snowball’s birthday? And so the date of Hammons’ Bliz-aard Ball Sale action?

Without contemporary recollections of the invitation’s production, Filipovic speculated, based on the size, that Hammons might have used a silver-painted tennis ball to imprint them. I think the seams on a tennis ball disqualify it, though. I’ve spent time trying to identify a similarly sized, seamless, and fuzzy-enough ball Hammons could have used. A round sponge seems like the easiest, but is it the most Hammons-ian? I’ve done the same exercise with Hammons’ favored printmaking medium—his own body—to imagine what might reliably produce a few hundred unperturbed, round imprints. Because it’s not a ball. So a knee? A calf? A cutout and a buttcheek? Is it even actually printed, not stenciled?

Previously, related, silvery, printed: David Hammons’ Spade, Again

Shoo, Fly, Shoo

David Hammons, Flies in a Bottle, 1996, being sold on 13 March 2024 at Christie’s

A 2-liter bottle with sticks and metal zipper sliders in it from David Hammons, a 1996 sculpture titled, Flies in a Bottle, is being sold this month in New York.

In 1993 David Hammons made a sculpture, Fly In The Sugar Bowl, by placing a metal zipper slider in a bowl of sugar. The first and only place I’ve seen it was in Elena Filipovic’s 2019 contribution to Afterall’s One Work series about Hammons’ Bliz-aard Ball Sale.

David Hammons, Fly in the Sugar Bowl, 1993, img: Tilton Gallery via Elena Filipovic’s One Work
Continue reading “Shoo, Fly, Shoo”

Say The Line, Bart!

Haim Steinbach, pop art I-2, 1990, plastic laminated shelf, latex Bart Simpson mask on mount, four ceramic breast mugs, 45 inches high, being sold [again] at Phillips on March 8

The first thing is obviously that Haim Steinbach really has this one thing nailed. The second is the visceral resonance of the yellow of the shelf and the yellow of the Bart Simpson mask.
The third thing is this seller at Phillips bought this at Phillips in 2007, so in addition to imagining the 17 years of fascinated engagement this object must have yielded, there’s also a comfort in the circularity of life.
The fourth thing is that in the not so far off future, a latex conservator will be getting a call, and will be forced to reflect on how her years of dedication to the work of Eva Hesse has really brought her to this point. Have your condition report ready.

8 Mar 2024, Lot 194 Haim Steinbach, pop art I-2, 1990, est GBP 15-20,000, same as last time [UPDATE: sold for £12,700, a £10,000 bid, nearly £25,000 lower than it was purchased for. I would not call that a loss, just the price of enjoying living with this beautiful artwork, surely it was worth every farthing.] [phillips]