the making of, by greg allen
The Mark Rothko Works On Paper show just opened in the East Building of the National Gallery of Art on the National Mall next to the US Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. There will be a guided meditation in the Tower Gallery at noon on Saturday, January 6th, 2024.
Last week I answered Marco Braunschweiler’s question about Yohji Yamamoto’s car, which is a Nissan Cedric from the mid-1980s. It features in this extremely content-free short film made in 2014 for Nowness by Matthew Donaldson. Other hype-related media outlets explain that Yamamoto acquired the car around 2013. The most notable thing about the whole thing is the music.
It turns out to be from Yohji Yamamoto’s first second solo album, HEM Handful Empty Mood, released in 1997. The designer wrote and performed vocals on all eleven tracks with a one-and-done group called Scum Riders, which consists of several members of the boomer Japanese rock band Moonriders—including Keiichi Suzuki, also credited as HEM’s producer—and Yukihiro Takahashi, the drummer for Yellow Magic Orchestra [Ryuuichi Sakamoto RIP].
The album was released on Consipio, Takahashi’s label, which also released the music from Yohji’s fashion shows in the 1990s, both mixes selected by the designer, and commissioned works [Here is one of Michael Nyman’s tracks from the 1993 show. Here is Bridge, a 35-minute piano recording by Ryuuichi Sakamoto for Yohji’s 1995 collection.]
But Handful Empty Mood was not Yamamoto’s first foray into musicmaking. He produced and did vocals on one track of a 1994 concept album?—is it spoken word over guitar? I can’t tell—titled, Your Pain Shall Be Your Music, which also featured tracks by Wim Wenders and John Cale [above, the only track I’ve found so far online].
Yamamoto’s first known musical project, La Pensée, was a collab with Takahashi for the 1987 Collections. The designer is credited with “theme & concept,” while Takahashi did all the music and arrangements. It starts out with pensive piano, and proceeds to a kind of synth & percussion pomo oompah band. I bought my first Yohji piece in 1987, and honestly, I don’t get what they were thinking here.
In 1991, Takahashi produced Well, I Gotta Go, (Saa, Ikanakya), where Yamamoto played guitar and sang twangy Japanese country-style music. It’s the closest thing I can find so far to the designer’s lost tapes project: Yohji Yamamoto Band. Yohji Yamamoto Band was an ensemble led—and dressed—by Yamamoto that performed Japanese “conceptual folk-rock” in the early 1990s. The only documentation is a promotional tabloid/pamphlet, a copy of which is at UK rare book dealer Tenderbooks.
Consipio went offline in 2009. The most recent music I can find from Yamamoto is this 37-second clip from a 2012 visit to Y-3 in New York. And I guess the thing I come away with is that sometimes noodling around on the guitar, or jam banding with your buds, or just driving around in your car, can be a vital part of your creative process, even if it is sort of pointless in itself.
I’d low-key wanted to see this exhibition of Wade Guyton lithographs at Crousel when it was announced, and by the time it closed yesterday, several people who would know were reporting on its awesomeness. So the FOMO built to a high finish.
Continue reading “Wade Guyton Overprinted Manets”
However much you love this c. 1650s painting by Michael Sweerts, you can’t love it as much the Brussels painter, who lived for a time in Rome, loved to paint paintings of paintings, and paintings of himself painting paintings. And who loved to paint some things in shadow next to others in bright light.
This previously unknown painting shows a man who looks like the artist holding a painting of the Virgin in Prayer. The way the man’s hands are lit, along with the painting, while he is mostly in shadow, is slightly different from the way the Virgin’s hands and face are lit. I imagine he was very pleased with himself for this.
Continue reading “Sweerts & Sweerts In Sweerts”
From the time he painted it in 1955 until 1979, this John Koch painting hung in the master bedroom of the house it depicts. Pokety was the former duck hunting lodge of Walter P. Chrysler, which he left to his daughter Bernice, the white lady in white, at right. She and her husband, Col. Edgar William Garbisch, seated, scoured the Eastern Shore for disused architecture elements, and had the Winterthur and Colonial Williamsburg guy remodel the lodge into an 18th century farm, which they filled with American antiques and art, which had been called primitive art, and which they renamed naive art, and which was later called folk art, and just art. The National Gallery of Art has 428 objects from their collection; The Met has 177.
The twink Koch bathed in afternoon light is Edgar Jr, then 23. His sister Gwynne, seated in yellow, inherited this painting after their parents died in 1979. The auction of Pokety’s contents was the subject of extraordinary coverage by Sarah Booth Conroy in Kaye Graham’s Washington Post, which clearly felt an obligation to be the paper of record for such people and things as this.
It is from Conroy’s reporting that we hear the voice of Nancy Chester who, with her husband Benjamin, worked for the Garbisch family as cook and butler, respectively, for 35 years. The 1950 U.S. Census lists the Chesters as 26/maid and 28/handyman, while an older couple, Irene, 56, and James Lomax, 62, are described as cook and butler.
Between Koch’s inability to resist depicting sunbeams alighting on grey hair and his penchant for painting young men, I will guess that the Black man with his back to the viewer, whose presence at the center of this painting has been acknowledged fewer times than the Newport tallcase clock in the corner, is Benjamin Chester. Who then would have worked in the presence of this painting for 25 years. It absolutely blows my mind that these people lived with this painting their whole lives, when it should obviously be in a museum. And this is just “Version 1.” What stark visions of American society and power will the other versions elegantly and inadvertently reveal, I wonder?
[UPDATE: Estimated to sell for $15-25,000, it sold for $63,000.]
Here is what I learned from the catalogue for this Willem de Kooning survey exhibition about why is Joan Mitchell wearing the T-shirt? and why is the T-shirt?
Both catalogue texts, by the co-curators, University of Northern Iowa Gallery of Art director Sanford Sivitz Shaman and Jack Cowart, of the St. Louis Art Museum, explain the reason for the show: despite the obsolescence of Abstract Expressionism, de Kooning’s work is still good.
Continue reading “de Kooning 1969-1978: No Labels”
As seen on tumblr, on November 2nd, US astronauts on the International Space Station lost control of a toolbox during a space walk. Known as a Crew Lock Bag, it is currently orbiting about 2-4 minutes ahead of the ISS, and is apparently bright enough to be seen from earth with binoculars or a telescope. The epic photo above is from the ISS.
If you’re like me, you’re wondering where to get one of these swag Crew Lock It Bags? In the Summer of 2019 NASA industrial designer Lily Douglas fabricated a CLB based on NASA’s technical drawings for a space-related display at the US embassy in Moscow. She documented the project and the piece here.
A CLB is about the size of a hi-top sneaker box. It is made from Nomex, woven glass, and Perspex, with some relatively obtainable-looking webbing and some fairly specific-looking hardware.
If this info isn’t enough to help you figure out how to score or make your own Crew Lock Box, you could always wait a few months, and one will fall from the sky.
The first show at the University of Northern Iowa’s Gallery of Art opened in October 1978. It was a ten-year survey of Willem de Kooning’s recent works. I am still trying to figure out what this show was and how this show happened.
Continue reading “De Kooning, 1969-1978”
As soon as I saw it in the Sotheby’s sale of Emily Fisher Landau’s collection, I added this quick, little watercolor version of Summer to my Little Johns list, iconic but intimate artworks Jasper Johns gave as gifts.
But though Landau was a friend and longtime supporter of Johns, she was not the gift’s original recipient. Johns gave the watercolor to Bill Katz, in October 1985, and Landau bought it from Katz in 1998.
Katz’s relationship with Johns goes back even farther than Landau’s, and over the years, he has designed multiple spaces—studios, homes, galleries, and exhibitions—for both of them. Which, more later, perhaps.
What I like about this watercolor is the date. Jasper Johns exhibited his four The Seasons paintings in early 1987, but they’d been seen by a few people, and talked about by many, and so their debut was hotly anticipated. Johns reportedly spent 18-months on a whole body of The Seasons work, including drawings and prints, alongside the large-scale paintings. [Landau’s copy of the ULAE prints sold this morning near the low estimate for this unique watercolor.]
This watercolor looks less like a study, and more like a documentation, with the key elements and composition mostly worked out, and sketched out very quickly. Yet a date of October 1985 means this watercolor was there right near the start of it all. And so was Katz.
I mean, I know why I didn’t buy it, but the rest of y’all, what’s going on? Admittedly, I also misremembered the estimate as $150-200k, when it was $200-300k. But I thought the EFL collection was under a global guarantee, which would give Sotheby’s the flexibility—and the incentive—to meet a bidder where they were. If they were there, I guess. This was somehow the only lot from EFL’s collection not to sell. Wild.
[May 2024 Update: The note for this sketch in Johns’ works on paper catalogue raisonné says it was a study for a print [ULAE 234] Johns made as the frontispiece of a book of poems by Wallace Stevens. Indeed, the sheet is very close to the dimensions of the book. Also, it came after Johns had completed only the first of what would become the Seasons paintings. Also, the silhouette was inspired by Picasso, of course, but was actually Johns’ cast shadow, traced by Julian Lethbridge in St. Martin, earlier in 1985. Except, wait, because though the prints and paintings don’t, there are a bunch of drawings where the “shadow” has his dick out, in a very much non-silhouetted way.]
When Guy Bloch-Champfort’s book, Joan Mitchell: By Her Friends* came out in English last summer, I—like everyone, I imagine—immediately wanted a souvenir t-shirt from the 1978 inaugural exhibition of The Gallery of Art at The University of Northern Iowa. Alas, my five-month search has been unsuccessful.
But now Joan Mitchell Season is upon us, and to celebrate, greg.org is offering a facsimile edition of Joan Mitchell’s most epic swag [above], screenprinted by hand on a light blue Hanes Authentic T-shirt, and accompanied by a numbered, signed, and stamped certificate of authenticity.
Continue reading “Joan Mitchell Season T-Shirt”
Of all the—
The library of Tama Art University in Tokyo, known as Tamabi, has digitized their collection of publications related to On Kawara. The On Kawara Db includes images and publication information for many exhibition catalogues, but also CD box sets of audio recordings of One Million Years performances. As in, each CD in a box set has an entry and a photo. But no audio.
Hundreds of Today Series paintings and boxes are included, I think from an 1993 exhibition in Bordeaux.
And michèle didier’s compilation editions of I GOT UP, I WENT, I MET, and I READ, covering every day from 1968 through 1979 are included, ALL 24 VOLUMES, ALL 16,962 PAGES. By date. I guess all that’s left is to digitize every page of the ONE MILLION YEARS volumes? I’ll keep checking back.
There are also an undetermined—but filterable and countable, be my guest and lmk—number of I AM STILL ALIVE telegrams. Fine, I counted, I got 204. I think they constitute the entirety of the 1978 Edition Rene Block catalogue, covering 1970-1977.
This project feels different after a month of watching Palestinians in Gaza post the same daily declarations to social media, until they don’t.
Thanks to Yoshi Hill of Jonathan A. Hill Bookseller for yet another On Kawara deep cut.
When the Manhattan Art Review posted this image of Eugène Atget’s c. 1899-1900 photo of a mitron, or baker’s boy, to social media, I did not think of MoMA’s four-show, four-year odyssey through Atget’s oeuvre, where John Szarkowski installed it together with Porteuse de pain, a photo taken in the same spot and the same light of a woman pushing a bread cart.
[Not to get all Errol Morris about it, but judging by the shadows of the trees, I’d say Atget photographed the mitron a few minutes before the porteuse. Also, I’d have to disagree with the catalogue where [Szarkowski?] says, “The basket on the head of the mitron is surely the same one that rests on top of the cart of the porteuse.” Uh, surely it is not?]
But none of that mattered; all I could think was to respect the drip. When they present me the Chevalier de l’Ordre des Lettres et Arts, I decided, I’d don my full mitron fit to the Elysée, where I’d thank Bill Cunningham for the workwear, Susan Cianciolo for the apron/skirt—and Berenice Abbott, for saving this whole body of work from la poubelle.
In an article in The New York Times about Israel’s attempts to expel Palestinians from Gaza into Egypt, Jerusalem Bureau chief Patrick Kingsley just called the 1948 Nakba—the murder and expulsion of Palestinians from lands that became Israel—a “migration.”
Which immediately conjures Jacob Lawrence’s 60-panel masterpiece, The Migration Series, the 1940-41 epic that told a tale of “The Great Migration,” “the flight” of Black Americans out of the South “following the outbreak of World War I.”
Lawrence’s original title for his series was The Migration of The Negro. The title changed as language shifted with the political and cultural change. No one today would be confused by this, or by the changing implications of, “The Negro.” Yet the implications and complications of the term “Migration” are still rarely acknowledged.
“To me, migration means movement,” said Lawrence at some later point, according to the Phillips Collection, which acquired half the series. “There was conflict and struggle. But out of the struggle came a kind of power and even beauty. ‘And the migrants kept coming’ [the artist’s caption for the final panel, is a refrain of triumph over adversity. If it rings true for you today, then it must still strike a chord in our American experience.”
Perhaps hearing the 1948 Nakba called a “migration” in the midst of relentless violence on a massive scale, in the pursuit of another nakba, will shock people into recognition. That migration can also mean ethnic cleansing and genocide, and that it rings true today because it’s still endemic in our American experience, and there is not beauty in it.
There are two paper stack works by Felix Gonzalez-Torres where every sheet in the stack is a signed, numbered edition, and the whole thing constitutes one work. You can’t take those. [Though “Untitled”, from 1991, is made up of 161 signed prints from an edition of 250 the artist made with Public Art Fund in 1989, above. The other 89 prints, plus 10 APs, are all circulating as individual works, sold (and resold) separately.]
There is one paper stack work that was published as an edition of stacks: 17 8-inch tall stacks of embossed paper in archival boxes. You can’t take those, either. [Unless? HMU?]
And there are two classic paper stack works, with endless supplies of paper and ideal heights, etc., that were created as editions. Which is distinct from a stack being able to exist in two or more places at once; in this case, an edition is about the number of owners, not the number of stacks. One, “Untitled” (Ross in L.A.), is an edition of three, though there’s only one out there: the de la Cruzes gave one to what’s now ICA Miami, and the Raleses gave one to the NGA.
The other is “Untitled”, above, which is an edition of 1 plus an artist proof Felix gave to Michael Jenkins, an artist, friend and collaborator. [Their two-person show together in 1991 at Xavier Hufkens in Brussels included “Untitled” (Ross in L.A.) and Felix’s text portrait frieze of Jenkins, but not the stack they made together the year before with a naked sailor on it, “Untitled” (Join), which the Rubells whip out all the time.] Anyway, Chara Scheyer bought Jenkins’ little stack a while ago, and now it’s back. If there’s a more manageable stack out there, I haven’t seen it. [update: it was withdrawn!]
Whether the earliest drawings or the monochrome paintings, or anything in between or since, Richard Prince’s joke works were never meant to be funny. But this one feels like it got 100x more unfunny lately. Oh, to go back to the days when it could be the title of a publicity stunt auction instead of the harbinger and reminder of quotidian violence.