While thinking of what book I would rebind as the Bible for a conceptual art project, I checked out the second Google result for David Hammons’ The Holy Bible: Old Testament (2002), in which a copy from the edition of 165, coming directly from the publisher, apparently did not sell at Phillips in 2009.
And I was so caught off guard by the boilerplate artist bio appended to the bottom of the page—a practice unique Phillips—that I have to reproduce it here:
Artist Biography David Hammons American • 1943
Few artists are afforded the liberty to dictate exhibition schedules and public appearances, but David Hammons eschews the spotlight and rebels against the conventions of the art world. Whether intentionally or not, Hammons creates works so laden with spell-binding metaphor that they have become symbols for movements both in the art world as well as in the public domain. (His now-iconic In the Hood sculpture has been used by Black Lives Matter activist group.)
Hammons doesn’t work in mediums or any formal or academic theory—he famously has said, “I can’t stand art actually.” Still, with controversial works including his PETA-paint-splashed Fur Coat sculpture, Hammons remains one of contemporary art’s most watched artists. Hammons also doesn’t frequently exhibit, and his last major gallery show, 2016’s “Five Decades,” only featured 34 works. With a controlled market, Hammons sawUntitled, a basketball hoop with dangling candelabra, achieve $8 million at Phillips in 2013.
These Donald Judd Tables, a screencap from youtube by the New York Times
The Judd Foundation has filed a copyright and trademark lawsuit against Kim Kardashian and Clemens Design, LA, for claiming in a video that tables and chairs in Kardashian’s office are the works of Donald Judd. Zachary Small broke the story for the NY Times:
“It is simply not true that Clements Design commissioned imitation Donald Judd tables,” wrote [Kardashian’s] lawyer, John Ulin, to the foundation, adding that the wood type and overall proportions were different. “They are different tables with different designs.”
But the foundation pointed to an invoice from Clements Design in which it described the furniture as “in the style of Donald Judd” and included an image owned by the Judd Foundation of the authentic dining set.
Indeed, the furniture Kardashian had copied, examples of which are at the Arena at Chinati and in the 2nd floor of 101 Spring Street, are made of 2-by pine board, which determines the dimensions. The copies are in plywood, which is not one of the 13 wood options for the authentic table.
“These Donald Judd tables”: Screenshot from Kim Kardashian’s YouTube, from the Judd Foundation complaint filed 27 Mar 2024
Like with Gwyneth with her fake Ruth Asawas, it really makes you wonder why people don’t just spend the few hundred thousand dollars to get the real thing.
[UPDATE: It’s because then she couldn’t use Judd’s name and designs for her own marketing clout. She literally cited Judd alongside collaborator/partner/employees Rick Owen & his wife Michele and Vanessa Beecroft, and then claimed her knockoffs were real. If it had been real Judd furniture, purchased through the same gallery, Salon94, where she got her Rick Owens, she would have had to agree to not use Judd’s names or objects in ad, promo, or marketing. If she’d accepted the foundation’s offer to replace the fakes with real furniture *at a discount* she couldn’t have used her office—explicitly designed to look like Chinati—for her content. Which defeats her entire point.]
If only she’d left it on the moodboard: screenshot from JF complaint comparing a widely published photo of the Arena at the Chinati Foundation and its two Judd table&chair installation with a screenshot from kimk’s video showing Clements Design knocked off the space, not just the furniture, and then kimk claimed it was real.
[UPDATE: Obviously I need someone who downloaded the video—oh hey it’s on the Internet Archive, thanks, Chris!—before it went private to send it to me. Also, why is the case—2:24-cv-02496, in the California Central District—not on PACER? Oh nvm, it is now. Perfect screenshots added.]
Robert Smithson and Richard Serra fixing the soon-to-be-Spiral Jetty, 1970. photo: Gianfranco Gorgoni
I’ll have more to post about Richard Serra in a bit; he was a foundational artist for my world, and I wish his people peace.
In the mean time, nothing quite shook my little art world like finding Kathleen Merrill Campagnolo’s article, “Spiral Jetty through the Camera’s Eye,” in 2010 in the Smithsonian’s Archives of American Art Journal. [Which I see has been subsumed by Chicago and Jstored.] That’s where I first saw this Gorgoni photo of Serra at Rozel Point with Robert Smithson, trying to fix the jetty he’d just built in the Great Salt Lake.
Sturtevant exhibition catalogue from the Everson Museum 1973, designed with Judson Rosebush, offset printed to look like Xerox, image: Tim Byers Art Books, c. 2019 NYABF
This is the catalogue for Sturtevant’s first and only US museum show until her 2014 MoMA retrospective. It is from 1973. The show took place at the Everson Museum in Syracuse, New York. The 104-page catalogue is offset print, but was designed to look like a sheaf of photocopies on regular 8.5 x 11 paper. Sturtevant had the concept, and Judson Rosebush helped design and execute it. While confounding the notion of copy and original, and the notion of books substituting for a seeing an exhibition, this design choice also echoes Seth Siegelaub’s 1968 conceptual exhibition in a catalogue, The Xerox Book.
“Elaine Sturtevant, grouping of 2 – hand-signed prints” is technically true, that there are two, they were printed, and someone signed them. but they are 11 x 8.5 in. pages from a book
But I don’t think people are chopping up The Xerox Book and forging Sol Lewitt’s signatures on his individual pages and trying to pass them off as actual prints. Oh. Maybe that’s only because there are so many color Lewitt catalogues they can chop up and forge signatures on and sell as actual prints.
The Everson catalogue’s all the Sturtevant there is, and it is definitely getting chopped up and turned into forged prints. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that if Sturtevant DID chop up her own catalogues, sign individual pages, and sell them off as prints—or trade individual pages for a cup of coffee at Fanelli’s or whatever—it’d be a helluva coincidence that they all turn up at the same three scammy regional auction houses whose entire LiveAuctioneers.com presence is flooded with similarly “signed” “offset” “original prints” from dozens of other artists.
At this point I think it’s obvious that we need a photocopy facsimile of Sturtevant’s Everson catalogue, so people can see what she did, and appreciate it for what it is, not what it isn’t.
André Derain, Matisse et Terrus, 1905, 40.3 x 54.3 cm, being sold by the family of Etienne Terrus at Christie’s Paris on 9 April 2024 [cropped to show the entire canvas minus the unfortunate frame]
It is amazing that a painting like this can be out there for 120 years, and just turn up one day at Christie’s or whatever. But that’s what happened. André Derain, then 25, made this portrait of his friends Henri Matisse and Etienne Terrus, a local artist, on the beach in Collioure the summer they invented what came to be called Fauvism.
Derain presumably gave it to Terrus—it has remained in the family of his sister until now—and so it was not included in the works he and Matisse took back to Paris, and showed to much sensation and acclaim at the Salon d’Automne. It has never been publicly exhibited or published, and except for one biographer’s mention in the 1950s, was left out of the art historical record.
But a very similar, slightly smaller Derain portrait of Matisse alone, at the same table, even wearing the same fit, has been in the Philadelphia Museum’s collection since 1952.
Christie’s sold a previously unknown Matisse from Terrus’s collection last fall, a small “proto-Fauvist” depiction of the Jardins de Luxembourg from 1902. And Terrus was the original owner of a small Collioure landscape by Matisse that had gone through the Wildensteins to Christie’s to Edgar Bronfman—and back to Christie’s in 2014. So it feels like someone should have known about this—and maybe they did. But they nevertheless sat in a safe for sixty years.
Otherwise the only marvel greater than the painting itself is how two agencies are ready to claim copyright on them both, 119 years after they were made, and 70 years after their maker’s death.
Manet’s White Lilacs, c 1882, would be 37.4 x 25 cm, from the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin, as photographed and uploaded to wikimedia commons as lilia blanco by Sailko
I guess my reflexive response to a ravishing late Manet still life of flowers on social media is to hype it, and only then to wonder whether Manet really did paint to the edges in a way that cut his brushstrokes in half.
Reader, he did not.
Édouard Manet, die Fliederstrauß, c 1882, 54 x 42 cm, collection, Alte Nationalgalerie
In 2020 wikimedia superuser Sailko uploaded a 12mb photo they took in 2018 of the cropped hot center of Manet’s painting at the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin. What you lose in breadth is more than made up for by zooming into the detail of each brushstroke and hint of bare canvas in that vase. What’s most interesting is how Sailko’s crop propagates across the net, and the many wiki-scraping printed object providers out there. It’s enough to warm my facsimile objective heart. [s/o rg_bunny1 and jeanettehayes]
Paul Klee, Angelus Novus, 1920, oil transfer on Japan paper mounted on engraving on cardboard, 31.8 x 24.2 cm, though Quaytman points out the Israel Museum’s given dimensions only relate to the top layer, so the engraving had not been considered as part of the work. photo: Elie Posner
Lot 14: Andirons, c. 1790-1810, formerly the property of the Brooklyn Museum, sold by Brunk
When David Platzker first sent me the link to the Brooklyn Museum’s recent deaccession auction, I immediately thought of the phrase, “museum quality.” It has long been used by dealers to sell an object of such stature, manufacture, and significance that it should be—or at least could be—in a museum. How does it work, though, for objects that a museum sells off? Is “museum quality” only now for objects a museum wants to keep? Are these now pieces of “former museum quality”? “Some museum quality”? “Almost museum quality”? Brooklyn Museum Quality.
This all came to a head on the first page, when I saw Lot 14, this pair of Federal engraved andirons, estimated to sell for $400-600. Three is a trend, I thought, as I indexed these in my mind against the andiron that started it all—a photo of a lone andiron that turned out to be part of a pair, which was donated to the Metropolitan Museum in 1971 with an attribution to Paul Revere.
And the andirons sold by the Wolf Family last year that matched the Met’s in almost every physical detail, but which had an unbroken provenance and an origin and date that differed from the Met’s. What would these Brooklyn Museum andirons add to this situation, conceptually?
“one w/slightly loose construction and leans slightly to the left, old repair/reinforcement to base”
Their date, 1790-1810, and manufacture, “American,” take us away from more specific understanding, not toward it. While they are of an identical type, they are different in enough details—the engraving the swaglessness, the flanges, the feet—that even an amateur andironologist would not suggest they were made by the same hands, the same shop, or even in the same town.
And then there’s the provenance. Though the auctioneer made careful note of the andiron’s physical condition—”one with slightly loose construction and leans slightly to the left”? Who among us, amirite?—the only provenance information provided is the freshest: “Property of the Brooklyn Museum.” I mean, we can guess there’s no conservation history, but whatever object record, accession or donor data, or historical documentation the museum may have held for these andirons is not provided.
Someone clearly knew something, though. Because they paid $41,000 for these andirons, 100x their low estimate, and 5x the price of the perfectly provenanced Wolfs’. People are willing to pay for that Brooklyn Museum quality.
replica of Matisse’s Rosary Chapel in Vence installed at National Art Center Tokyo, via mon oncle
The exhibition, Henri Matisse: Forms in Freedom, at the National Art Center Tokyo includes a full-scale replica of la Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence (1947-51). The experience incorporates simulated daylight on an accelerated loop, as if the replica stained glass windows were the ceiling of the mall at Caesar’s Palace.
photomural of Matisse’s tile Virgin & Child installed at National Art Center Tokyo, via mon oncle
In the caption Chie Sumiyoshi’s Mon Oncle article about the exhibit, it calls the above image a reproduction [再現] of a tile mural. But the only thing tiled here are the sheets of the photomural. The stained glass windows opposite, then, are also photos of the windows, and the wrought iron grates and landscaping behind them. Matisse’s candlesticks are on the replica altar, but Matisse’s crucifix is not.
Matisse’s Stations of the Cross in Vence, from a photo accompanying a 2013 review of a book by the longtime director of the Musée Matisse, in Architectural Review
I can find no images of a Tokyo replica of Matisse’s Stations of The Cross, which occupies the wall that would be directly next to the photographers of the images above. It is a tense and janky tangle that replaces a physical procession with a halting visual search for the next number and the next step. Matisse drew it at scale, with charcoal on the end of a bamboo pole. So the physical experience being replicated would have been not just that of a tourist, but of Matisse himself, standing in front of his work.
If I can find any relevant Brice Marden comments, or if someone gets married in there, I will update this post immediately.
Gerhard Richter, Engelskopf (Angel’s Head) [CR 48-7], 1963, also 1963/65, oil on linen? 68 x 72 cm, image via Gerhard Richter
I swear I will cut back on Gerhard Richter stanposting when Richter cuts back on wild things to stan.
While looking for examples of the way Richter considers his catalogue raisonné as a construct separate from a chronology, this painting caught my eye. Engelskopf, or Angel’s Head, [CR 48-7], is dated to 1963, where it comes after CR 13, CR 14 and CR 25-a, and is followed by CR 14-a and CR 15.
That 1963 date makes Engelskopf is one of the earliest photopaintings, but also one of the very first to include a caption text, which made Richter’s sourcing of reproduced images clear. It’s also Richter’s first art historical reference; except for Philipp Wilhelm, a painting of a newspaper clipping of a painted portrait, from 1964, it’ll be a long time before Richter directly references earlier artworks.
Constantin Brancusi, Muse, 1912, marble on original base, finally acquired by the Guggenheim in 1985, copyright claimed by ARS until at least Brancusi’s death+70, so 2027, I guess? idek
In 1971 sheriffs removed Brancusi’s Muse from the Guggenheim Museum, executing a 1969 court order that granted the sculpture to watch manufacturer Arde Bulova’s widow Ileana. Beginning in 1958, Mrs Bulova spent eleven years disputing her husband’s will, in which he left Muse to the museum. The couple had separated in 1955, soon after Ileana bid on Muse at Sotheby’s Parke Bernet—and Arde had paid for it. She successfully contended it was her property. Present at the seizure, Ileana told the New York Times she turned down a $200,000 offer from the Guggenheim, and would consider renting it to museums for a cut of the box office.
In 1981 Bulova sold Muse to Upper East Side art dealer Andrew Crispo for $800,000. His offer to flip it back to the museum was rejected. In the Fall of 1984 Crispo and a young security guard at Crispo’s gallery, Bernard Le Garos, lured a 28yo Canadian bartender to the gallery where they, along with three other men, bound, tortured, and sexually assaulted him for six hours.
That victim only came forward in the Spring of 1985, when he saw Le Garos on television, after his arrest for the murder of a 26yo Norwegian model and student named Eigil Dag Vesti. In February, Crispo and Le Garos had picked up Vesti, and while he was bound and masked, Le Garos shot him in the back of the head. They burned his body and abandoned it in the woods in Rockland County.
In the Fall of 1985, after Crispo pleaded guilty to tax evasion, the Guggenheim reacquired Muse from his creditors for $2 million. In December 1985, on the occasion of the sculpture’s return to public view, Guggenheim director Thomas M. Messer told Grace Glueck of the New York Times, “Obviously, it was very traumatic to have one of our central pieces removed from the museum under the guns of the deputy sheriffs and over our dead bodies.”
Constantin Brancusi, Muse, 1912, plaster, a gift of Walt Kuhn to the Guggenheim, who sold it to someone who sold it in 1986, where it was bought by someone who sold it in 2012.
In 1955 the Guggenheim had also been given a plaster version of Muse by Walt Kuhn, who acquired it from the 1913 Armory Show, which he helped organize. Reporting in 1985, Glueck was under the impression that the Guggenheim still owned that sculpture. But it turns out they had sold it privately to Harold Diamond in 1979, the year his 15-year-old son Mike co-founded a hardcore band called the Young Aborigines, and two years before they kicked out their drummer for being a girl and changed their name to the Beastie Boys. In November 1986, four days after License to Ill [original title:Don’t Be A F****t] was released, Muse turned up at Christie’s.
Though Le Garos said he’d murdered Vesti on Crispo’s orders, Crispo was never charged in the death. Though Le Garos corroborated the gallery assault victim’s account and pleaded guilty to kidnapping and torture, Crispo claimed it was all consensual, and was acquitted in 1988. Thanks to David Platzker, I learned today that Crispo died in February 2024, three weeks after Carl Andre.
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.
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.
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.
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, includingmostofthemajor—andminor— furnishingsofthoserooms, 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:
