“Should we throw it away or give it to Albright?” A canceled Mark Tobey etching plate and four cancellation prints, being put up for sale at Pook^2 by Albright College
Srsly, we cannot call it a collection. The liquidation of the art accumulated by Albright College is an epic non-event. The most compelling things are the flat files. Unfortunately you have to wait till the random-ass contents of those files are cleared out before you can bid on them. A huge chunk of the 500+ lots are the leftovers, scraps, work product, random proofs, and even the cancellation prints of one random 70s print dealer. Scrolling Pook & Pook in a visual fugue of repeats of various prints sold one at a time lulls you for the desperation of the last lots, where prints are grouped in increasingly large, but unrelated, sets. And then, finally, the flat files. Three lots, six cabinets. It would have cost Albright College a dollar to store this stuff in the corner of one fired professor’s office. But honestly, what for? In a world less on fire, it might be useful to be outraged at the collapse of this little art outpost in a place most of us hadn’t heard of before clicking, but even the ARTnews report is like, “The real problem here is not the donor wishes; it’s that Pennsylvania just has too many colleges.”
But there is one masterpiece. And it must be saved. Oh, look. It has a bid. $100. So it WILL be saved. Something is right with the world after all. Me, I will not bid on it, because I already have one.
Vija Celmins, Japanese Book, 2007-10, oil on canvas, 18 x 12.5 in., via matthew marks
When Vija Celmins spoke to Tyler Green in 2013 about her painting Japanese Book (2007-10), she called it “an object and a painting, but with a much closer relationship than I had in the 60’s, which was obviously a painting of an object.”
Which is kind of wild because the thing that immediately registered on seeing this painting at the Met Breuer in 2019 was how clearly it was a painting of an object. Unlike Celmins’ paintings of sand, stars, or waves, Japanese Book does not fill the entire canvas. It sits in a space, with depth and shadows—like a book on a scanner bed—and with its extraordinary, textured, indigo cover. Painted.
Celmins’ works are so often paintings of photographs, which are objects in their own way, and maybe that’s what she was referring to from the 60s, when she’d paint clippings, or envelopes, alone or in stacks. Japanese Book‘s a painting of a surface, an object, so not an image. She told Tyler, in discussing Shell (2009-10), “that kind of surface that’s very, very fractured with small areas make it kind of retinally engaging and physically engaging.”
Vija Celmins, Vase, 2017-18, oil on canvas, 18 x 13 in., via matthew marks
Which she would go on to paint, literally, in Vase (2017-18), also at the Met. The craquelure surface of a Korean celadon vase fills the canvas. But with the shadowy corner that seems to map the curved form of the vase, the object-painting relationship is even closer. Yet this scale of detail requires magnification; this is, again, I think, a painting of an image, if not a photo.
[a few minutes later update]: Sal Randolph shouted out The Stars, the extraordinary artist book Celmins created with Eliot Weinberger in 2005 for the MoMA Library Council. One of Celmins’ three etchings in the book is on the book: a 10 1/2 x 17 inch depiction of the entire cover of the Japanese book.
The Stars, 2005, published in a limited ed of 130+20AP, a deluxe edition of 26+7 artist copies, and a facsimile edition for the masses, via MoMA Library Council
I was going to say the four-plate etching was a facsimile, but I don’t know that is the case. Also, there is a facsimile edition of the book, which is widely and affordably available. The signed limited edition of 130 went to the Library Council and various institutions, who are not big flippers. The deluxe edition, which includes an additional loose copy of one of the bound etchings, does turn up.
If it took Celmins three years to make a painting of this book cover, I think it’s safe to assume the etching was made from a photographic reproduction.
There are many poor choices involved here, but one straightup mistake I made was not skipping the first fifteen minutes of this video, which was so insipid it left me unable to keep watching the actual event for more than nine months. Nine months of this thing sitting in my tabs, paralyzing me like a wireless fence whenever I’d get too close or it started autoplaying.
Well, the world is in a state where listening to the experiences of George W. Bush’s three art teachers is officially a less-worse option than [gestures around] all this. And that’s what the questions, the anecdotes, the uncomfortable pauses, were all about: what was it like meeting and interacting with Bush?
The earliest Lambert poster is for a 1972 group show, Actualité d’un bilan, which is great, but honestly, is also kind of a chaotic mess.
So when Dimitris, the ephemera dealer at Bent Priorities, says that two handwritten Rauschenbergexhibition announcements from 1973 show “similar techniques for the use of written word with his long time friend and companion Cy Twombly,” part of me wants to disagree. Because I can actually read Rauschenberg’s posters.
But I do think he’s right. Rauschenberg’s mountainous signature had already become a logo, but that looseness began bleeding into the announcement for a Spring show of White Paintings at Ace Gallery in LA. By the opening of his September show at Sonnabend in Paris, it had soaked all the way through.
It’s worth noting that Twombly and Rauschenberg were together a lot during this moment, mostly long winter stretches in Captiva. The next time Bob showed his Early Egyptian Series was in his two-man show—with Twombly—at Castelli. So whether Rauschenberg used some of Twombly’s techniques, or Twombly used some of Rauschenberg’s, will require closer consideration. But the announcement for that show was, of course, a photo of the two artists.
From the moment I learned of them, Ian Wilson’s Discussions were the great, mysterious apotheosis of Dematerialized Art. Memorialized in a simple statement: “On the 23rd of January 1972 there was a discussion between Herman Daled and Ian Wilson.”, yet with the essence impossibly private and inaccessible: “What was said remains in the collection of Herman Daled.”
What ever might be said in an Ian Wilson Discussion? Only a collector would know, and even he’d only know his own memory of his own piece. Line up at Art Basel and collect yours today!
So you’ll understand why I am screaming to learn, when we get a rare transcript of the damn thing, that Ian Wilson’s July 10th, 1970 Discussion as art was seven pages of him and Robert Barry discussing how “oral communication is my art.”
I feel like I’ve been a pretty close follower of Steve McQueen’s work, but his conversation with Hans Ulrich Obrist at his show at Marian Goodman in Paris still had some surprises. [Conversation might be a strong word; there were a lot of “tell the one about” prompts that gave it an overall vibe of a recital.]
But HUO was right that I hadn’t known McQueen’s little-known 1999 project in the guest apartment at the Soane Museum, where Obrist apparently moved in for a year [!] and invited artists to come and respond to his boondoggle. It’s not mentioned in reviews of the show, and there’s little documentation. [McQueen called it Soane Sound System II, but in what earlier mentions there are, it’s listed as Soane Echo System II. Which, from the lone Getty Images PR photo, looks like it’s a mirror under a table. But there are also mentions of a DVD, so maybe there’s a Soane Echo System I, too.]
The bigger reveal, though, about 35 minutes in, where McQueen recounts a lowkey spooky experience listening to archival field recordings of glossolalia, the [usually] religious practice of speaking in tongues, while making a new soundtrack for the images on the Voyager Golden Record.
It can sometimes feel like the work On Kawara left behind is so vast, constrained, and specific that it leaves anyone with questions—or answers—about the artist and his practice stuck in critical fabulation. But that turns out not to be true.
Beneath Duncan McLaren’s occasionally rhapsodic biographical reconstruction of Kawara’s career lies an extraordinary amount of data drawn and synthesized from the work itself. The artistic actions of a day or an instant—where Kawara was when he painted, who he sent postcards to, where he went, and who he met—now create a structure of a life.
And when McLaren sees that one neighbor got dozens of I GOT UP postcards, and another got only one, he tracks them down and asks what happened. And that is how we find out how Nobu Fukui, the guy who organized their artist co-op building, and hosted their late night mah-jong, and stored his art & stuff at the Kawara’s when he went back to Japan, also got in some date painting trouble:
On normally brought a painted canvas [to mah-jong] with the date pencilled out, all he had to do was to paint. Sometimes he came with a blank canvas, painted the canvas and played the game while the paint was getting dry. He used a set of plastic templates to draw dates with a pencil. I didn’t know, but I learned later that somehow he kept this a secret. Apparently he wanted the public to believe he was drawing freehand.
The typeface changed over the years; would it be a shock to learn that Kawara used a template for some of those styles? Actually, yes, but only because of how the project evolved and was presented. And a template at the beginning does seem—and look—plausible, if unexpected. But this posthumous disclosure is only part of the drama. Here is McLaren:
Nobu told me that on his 25th birthday, on June 2, 1967, Nobu borrowed On’s templates and made a Date Painting on an orange background, the characters being displayed both upside down and running backwards…
Later in 1967, when Nobu was going to Japan for several months and was giving up his rented loft, On and Hiroko offered to store his birthday Date for him. Upon Nobu’s return from Japan, On did not give him back the Date. Mind you, Nobu didn’t ask for it back, so maybe there was an unspoken understanding that Nobu had been in danger of somehow undermining On’s project.
ceci n’est pas un Nobu Fukui: Duncan McLaren’s rendering of the flipped-stencil date painting Nobu supposedly made for his own birthday, via onkawara.co.uk
June 1967 was just over a year in. It already became clear in late 1966, when he destroyed a date painting that took longer than a day to finish, that Kawara only settled the conceptual contours of his painting project over time, as he experienced it. Was having someone else paint a Date painting ever OK? How about finding out your punk friend, ten years younger than you, painted a flipped stunt version of a Date painting for themselves?
Agnes Martin, Homage to Greece, 1959, oil on canvas and nails mounted on panel in artist’s frame, a gift to Lenore Tawney in 1961, sold at Christie’s in 2011
Saw this perfect, little Agnes Martin, very early, via @punk-raphaelite‘s reblog.
Along with the carefully imperfect grid built up from painted squares of canvas—one scholar calls them selvedge edges—Homage To Greece (1959) is one of a handful of works where Martin used nail heads like dots. The ones I’ve seen date from a little later; did Martin add the nails then to an earlier piece, or was this an early example? She was pretty clear in interviews that her use of the grid did not evolve, but just came to her.
Agnes Martin, Untitled, 1962, graphite and oil on canvas, brass nails, artist’s frame, 12 x 12 in, MCASD
Prior to her expansion to 6-foot square canvases, Martin worked in this small, handheld size, creating not just paintings, but objects, thick with her own slat frames. One group of shallow little boxes, incised with a grid and enclosed in a plexiglass top, have little balls rolling around inside. Called The Wave, one was in a toy-themed group show once, but the others were just for friends.
Probably the friendliest among them was Lenore Tawney, who got a The Wave, and Homage to Greece—which the Tawney Foundation sold in 2011—among many other Martin works. While the two were Coenties Slipmates.
Happy Pride?
Obviously, I needed a line there that started with H.
Deep in the carousel of images @sophiepinet posted last week of Warhol’s last Factory was this picture of Fred Hughes’s office, and that is the best install of a giant Electric Chair painting I think I’ve ever seen. When in doubt, just add more red.
Maybe if Christie’s had hung that Big Electric Chair painting on a matching orange wall, it wouldn’t have flopped. And anyway, was it even that big? It certainly wasn’t THIS big.
I figured I’d need the catalogue raisonné to figure out what painting this was, so I was just going to shoutout this low-key magic photo of the Factory and be done. [It used to be a ConEd substation running between East 32nd & 33rd Streets, which Warhol bought in 1981, and used from 1984 until his death in 1987. After that it became the first home of the Warhol Foundation, but in the early 2000s it got replaced with a condo tower. RIP]
Let’s call this Red Disaster (detail) for dramatic narrative effect, 93 x 80 in., via mfaboston
But then I found it, and I needed an eye rubbing in disbelief emoji, because the unpainted bottom edge of Hughes’ painting perfectly matches the Red Disaster painting at the MFA Boston. Which is almost 8 feet tall. And it is dated, 1963 and 1985. And it is a diptych. Or rather, it’s a diptych now.
Warhol, Red Disaster, 1963/1985, 93 x 161 in., acquired in 1986 by MFA Boston
The MFA acquired the painting(s) in 1986, direct from the Factory, almost while the paint on that monochrome panel was still wet. That paint, which looks like it matched the red of Hughes’ wall more than the 22-year age gap red of its partner. Someone in Pinet’s comments called this Hughes’ Diana Vreeland room
Was doubling the painting Hughes’ idea? Did the MFA request it? Were they just in the market for a bigger painting, too bad all you have this single panel…? Did they get the brushoff from Philip Johnson? Did Warhol bulk up any other old paintings like this? Are Warhol’s diptychs often hung as two entirely separate paintings? As if age gap wasn’t enough, they need wall gap, too? Have they ever been exhibited stacked on top of each other? Or maybe propped up on two tables?
How no one bought the second greatest self-portrait Roe Ethridge ever made last fall, when it would have brought the creditor victims of Lisa Schiff’s purloining $3-4,000 before Phillips’ fees, is beyond me. Anyway, violent mask-wearing thieves disguised as US presidents could not be more on brand right now, and so it’s back, with a lower estimate and at least one bid.
30 seconds later update: LOL this is insane. I just read an article about someone who suddenly decided to pay off a school’s entire lunch debt of $865, and then went on to raise money to pay off more, and then got a law passed to abolish lunch shaming. So if you have only $2,000, do NOT spend it on this Roe Ethridge portrait, the net proceeds of which will go to several millionaire collectors who won’t even notice. Instead, pay off an entire school’s lunch debt with it. And if you have much more than $2,000, pay off a school’s lunch debt, then just contact Kreps and buy another edition of this perfect picture. What are we even doing here?
This two-artist show titled Hardcore / Love at Conditions Studio Programme in Croydon brings together two of the most amazing works of video art of the century: Mark Leckey’s Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore (1999) and Arthur Jafa’s Love is the message, the message is death (2016).
The artists’ conversation with Ben Luke is unexpected and interesting, drawing affinities between these two works and the musical moments they inhabit. But also, as Mark points out, each film embodies the technology of its moment while marking a significant shift in media: from digital to analog, and from chronological to algorithmic.
I worry we’re too late for Jafa’s turn on NTS, the experimental radio station where Leckey has been programming for so long, and to such great effect. Maybe it’s archived. [here’s a direct soundcloud link]
A couple of weeks ago Miguel Abreu Gallery hosted a launch event for Book, the second volume of R.H. Quaytman’s catalogue raisonné/artist book, which covers her work through 2022.
I’ve always been interested in Quaytman’s accounts of being the child of a painter, and of inheriting the legacy—and full storage spaces—of her father Harvey Quaytman.
But that is not important now, because now all I want to hear about is the incredibly dynamic of being on a panel with your mom. Quaytman’s mother, the artist-turned-poet Susan Howe, absolutely ran away with this conversation, even as she managed to (mostly) keep the focus on her daughter and her book.
Which, she cannot believe she called her book Book, what was that about? Just when you think the family dynamic has ebbed, and the conversation has slipped back into typical panel mode, everyone jumps on the pile of discursive rubble trying to figure out what Benjamin meant with the Angel of History.
I hope there is a mother-daughter podcast in the works, because I’ve got $5/month burning a hole in my pocket rn.
I had to go check something at the Smithsonian American Art Museum for a thing, and on the way, I got stopped by the tiny painters in the lower left corner of George Inness’s misty, smoky 1889 painting of Niagara. It had just recently been declared a state park, and the factories, mills, and brothels along the cataract had not yet been cleared away. Pretty sure it’s an edenic paradise now, at least from some angles.
The best thing I can say about this is it’s 224 cm tall, via SBI Auction
I could have gone another couple of years without realizing Louis Vuitton made several hundred Yayoi Kusama surfboards as part of their sprawling animatronic collabsploitation in 2023.
There’s a longboard and a shortboard variant, and at least two motifs: dots and tentacles. The PR copy regurgitated on all the hypesites says they’re a tribute to Kusama’s pumpkin sculpture on the dock at Naoshima. If that’s the true, then why aren’t they all destroyed in a typhoon?
In the year 2000, on the small bookshelf in the grass-roofed house we rented on the beach in Tulum, was a years-old Gallery Guide, the monthly, pocket-sized directory of all the shows in all the galleries around town (NYC). Flipping through it, I was surprised to see Gavin Brown, a dealer friend, had had a show at David Zwirner. He was a bit cagey when I asked him about it later. I’m very glad that over the years, he has eased up, and has gotten back to showing work.
@passerbystop regram of @thconrad’s story of @passerbystop’s Soutine print at @vivalapulce_
Last night Gavin opened Proof of Life, a show of woodblock prints at La Pulce, his second project/gallery space in Rome, which opened this spring. I could not make it, but I am glad to see the results spreading on instagram. Brown has turned to a laborious mediated process to make fleeting images of daily life. That perhaps included a trip at some point to the Pompidou, or to an exhibition somewhere one of my favorite Soutines was on loan.
Gavin Brown Proof Of Life is at La Pulce, Via Dei Tre Archi 5, Roma, till idk [ig]
