After Picasso died in 1973, publishers in Berlin and Rome decided to capture the moment with a sprawling print portfolio project, Hommage à Picasso. It included 69 artists in six boxed volumes in red linen. Even though many of the 58 artists in the initial five volumes were Americans, there was also a separate 11-artist volume for America’s Hommage à Picasso—which included two works too big to fit in the box. There were also three artworks delivered in matching linen-covered tubes.
It’s really all over the place, and Hommage à Picasso‘s most accurate embodiment of Picasso’s influence on the 20th century art world is that it was almost entirely men (66), almost entirely white (65), and the portfolios that didn’t go to museums have often been broken up and stripped for parts. [Sotheby’s had a complete set in 2017, and Wettman sold a 54/58ths Hommage last May, with a complete America’s Hommage sold separately.]
The only reason I mention any of this is because in 1974, Walter de Maria was at Virginia Dwan’s ranch, working on the first version of Lightning Field. And I can only imagine him taking a break from precisely driving stainless steel spikes into New Mexico soil to make his contribution for America’s Hommage à Picasso portfolio:
Untitled, 1992, 14 x 11 in., acrylic & silkscreen on canvas, selling this month at Christie’s
Over the years, I’ve tried making some myself and used them as references for other works. Nothing profound to say here, I just really, really like Richard Prince’s little joke paintings.
I mean, they’re like trading cards
They also do remind me of John McWhinnie, who showed them, and was amazing, who always had discoveries, and is gone, which sucks. So maybe it’s weird that a monochrome joke painting can also be mournful, but here we are.
Alex Greenberg not only has a review of Glenstone’s Cady Noland exhibition, he breaks news about it. And he not only breaks news about it, HE HAS PICTURES. Run, click, don’t walk. I’ll wait.
OK, while I think he’s kind of overinterpreted the transgressive unavailability of those black palettes Noland has added to the room otherwise filled by the contents of the artist’s Gagosian show last year, Greenberger is right to notice the slipperiness of the exhibition checklist. There are objects that are on the map, but not on the works list. The stacked palettes are an “element” in this category, and so is another stack of aluminum objects—which turns out to be a 2024 work “on loan” from the artist [scare quotes in the original].
It’s been almost three weeks, and they have not “corrected” their information, and the Glenstone folks get a little coy when Greenberger asks if they will. Now Glenstone is a professionally run and thoughtful institution where the impact of subtle detail is not unappreciated. This incompleteness, this inaccuracy, is part of the encounter; this disconnect between what you see and what you’re told is part of the experience.
Let me add another piece of info in turn, which I don’t know whether to believe myself, but that fits: Clip-On Man, the 1989 work at the pavilions’ entrance, listed as being from a “private collection,” is also a loan from the artist.
I read Sidetripping at Glenstone last time I was there, sitting on Martin Puryear’s elegant bench, facing a tastefully manicured wilderness. Gatewood revels in the underbelly of New Orleans as a degraded destination of American freakdom. Burroughs’ text is a highly baked, freeform riff on the photos, which Gatewood put in front of him while working on assignment for Rolling Stone. In subject, luridness, and bleakness, it felt like a touchstone for Noland’s entire project, if not a straight-up Rosetta Stone. I can see why she’d put that at the entrance of her show. [And name her previous show after it, and her book.]
[NEXT DAY UPDATE: I went back to Glenstone today to see this shiny stack I’d seen before, now disclosed to be a new work from the artist. This Pinkerton’s crate situation is a bit overdetermined, I think. There are actually two similar crates of stamped, galvanized sheet metal in the gallery, each with the name of a different regional dairy, and each threatening the involvement of the Pinkerton’s if you steal it. One looks like this, complete but very vintage. The one Alex says was cast certainly has a pristine finish. It could be sandblasted or remade, for sure. I did find a picture of the previously unacknowledged work on the internet:
a previously unacknowledged untitled artwork from 2024 by Cady Noland, seen in an uncredited photo found on the internet, also showing a pallet whose auratic status has yet to be disclosed.
That middle pallet is the one with the Amazon ASIN sticker still on it: the Vestil AP-ST-2424-SB, currently listed on AMZN as unavailable, though it can be easily found on other retail sites.
Speaking of Amazon and pallets, that black pallet in the background is of the type also mentioned in Alex’s review. It, too, is findable online, though maybe you need a commercial account to purchase it. I think the “violation of state law” thing is, like the Pinkerton’s warning, a boilerplate assertion of ownership for property that circulates unattended on these mean streets. A cattle brand for corporate assets.
On my way home, I had to return a cursed Amazon purchase, and so made a rare trip to a Whole Foods, where I was greeted by this:
While we wait to hear if these pallets, too, are a previously unacknowledged Cady Noland, we can bring their implication in the monopolistic retail/digital/content behemoth engulfing our world into the unsullied noncommercialism of the Glenstone installation. Also, if, looking back at the Gagosian show it felt like half the non-vintage elements were sourced at The Container Store, remember there is one in Chelsea, right next to a huge Whole Foods. Instead of an artist who has walked away from artmaking, we may have to reimagine Noland as someone making art from the churning world she passes through every day on her way to the gym.
I watched Corinna Belz’s documentary, Gerhard Richter Painting today, thinking that the artist hard at work in his studio would clear my head, or at least distract me.
Then I was overwhelmed anew by an exchange with Belz as Richter is sorting through stacks of old photographs. As Richter held a snapshot of his middle-aged parents, Belz asked, “You left Dresden, East Germany, in 1961. Did you ever see them again?”
“No, never.” Richter replied. “I was a recognized refugee. A certified political refugee. And it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t get a permit…a travel permit for the East.
“Not until later, 1987, when I had an exhibition there. Then, with the ambassador, suddenly everything was possible.
“But by then they were all dead.”
“Did you realize in the 60s that you would never see them again?”
“No. Absolutely not. You think things will change and it won’t last. You don’t think people will grow old and die. When you leave them, they’re young.”
I knew this was here; I’ve seen this movie dozens of times, and it inexorably changed the way I thought of Richter’s relationship to photographs, his subjects, and the arc of his entire project. A young artist becomes a refugee when his war-ravaged country splits apart, and he never sees his family again is not the Richter origin story we were used to. And Richter lost in sadness as his answers to the questions linger in his silence is not the icy master of critical detachment we’ve been taught.
But today, my ache over the career of this artist built on personal trauma that unfurled across the shifting fascist and imperial politics of the 20th century was overshadowed by my dread of the future. Because part of my processing today involved replaying with unwanted, fresh intensity the idea of leaving, of fleeing.
The questions of where? when? how? land differently than they did even yesterday. But at least I asked them. Am I ready to never see my parents again? wasn’t even a question I’d thought of. Neither, it turns out, did Richter.
The anxiety I’m experiencing while imagining having to take care of the tin foil on this Isa Genzken sculpture is actually a welcome change from the anxiety I woke up with.
It seems odd that this is apparently not considered a Weltempfänger (World Receiver), even though it certainly looks Weltempfängerisch.
Reese Lewis writes for the Brooklyn Rail about Cameron Rowland’s commission and exhibition at Dia, including Plot, a one-acre section of Dia Beacon’s site on which Rowland and their company, Plot, Inc., have placed a burial ground easement, under the assumption that it contains the unmarked graves of formerly enslaved residents on the land.
Surrounded by Dia’s landed property, Plot feels like it is floating arbitrarily in space with no real constraints other than the conceptual desire to be sized at the singular unit of one acre. In all of the text, Rowland does not suggest that we go up digging burial grounds or claim this site to be a discovery. Rather, this site is ultimately a universal model that suggests if one parcel of land is capable of being an unmarked slave burial, any site in the US is capable of being one.
Rowland also produced Estate (2024), a publication detailing Dia’s own real estate holdings, which include the thousands of acres it acquired and placed restrictions on to protect the vistas of Walter de Maria’s Lightning Field. Any site in the US is capable of being subject to such easements, but Dia feels exceptional in its institutional position as a custodian of the real estate of art.
A snapshot sent from Felix Gonzalez-Torres to Anne Umland, dated Dec. 21, 1992, MoMA at NPG
One unexpected thing from the Felix Gonzalez-Torres exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery is the inclusion of a few examples of the artist’s correspondence, the notes and snapshots he regularly sent to friends and colleagues. They’re shown amidst all 55 of the artist’s photo puzzles, which underscores their similarity to the photos and letters Felix used. But only to an extent. By expanding the borders of the pool of imagery and text from which the artworks were drawn, they reveal nuances of the artist’s decisions.
verso note from FG-T to Anne Umland, collection, MoMA
And when it’s correspondence with curators and collaborators, they trace the network of relationships in which Gonzalez-Torres worked and lived. One example is two similar Christmas cards sent to Julie Ault and MoMA’s Anne Umland in 1992. Umland’s lightstring snapshot might be the OG Felix Navidad.
The text reads: “Dear Anne, To more years of living, loving, leaving for long train trips, fat cats, sweaters, breathing deeply salty air, new white shirts, unexpected flowers, new friends, streets full of lights, simple moments, views to remember, tough art objects, Paris, moving poems, writing, crying, learning, growing, shopping, hoping, waiting for love letters, heart beatings on one’s [?], little radios, and more, so much more, …in 1993 and beyond, Feliz Navidad, Felix”
One thing I can’t figure out, though: according to the checklist, this is an exhibition copy, on loan from MoMA. Did the museum decide not to loan a piece of correspondence from their archive? Or did Umland keep the personal card, but give the museum a facsimile? What goes into producing a double-sided photo & handwritten text? Because I feel some new facsimile objects coming on.
It’s also installed at the National Portrait Gallery, but after seeing the Felix Gonzalez-Torres Foundation’s instagram, I realized I had missed this 1991 stack, “Untitled” (Party Platform 1980-1992), at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Library. So I went back to see it, and the place was full of people voting.
Mike Bidlo, Not De Kooning Woman, c. 1951, 12 1/2 x 9 1/4 in., as published in Francis Naumann’s 2005 catalogue, Mike Bidlo Erased de Kooning Drawings
According to Robert Rosenbaum’s essay in the catalogue I just got—and which seems like the only source for images of the actual works—Bidlo’s NREdKD began as almost a performance, when he erased what looked like a de Kooning in front of his shocked fellow guests at an artsy retreat in Maine in 2003. When a collector couldn’t buy it, he appealed to Naumann, who appealed to Bidlo, who agreed to make a whole show of them.
Mike Bidlo’s Not Robert Rauschenberg: Erased de Kooning Drawing, 2005, 22 1/4 x 18 3/8 in., ibid.
For each work, he made a beautiful Not de Kooning drawing, which he erased into a Not Rauschenberg. Each got a Johns-style label, and a facsimile FRAME IS PART OF ARTWORK frame, in a variety of dimensions. The show included documentation of the drawings, but also all the eraser crumbs, under glass, which, ngl, seems kind of corny.
Still as someone who, as I’ve already confessed here, thinks about erasing de Koonings whenever I see one, I can do naught but stan.
Ellsworth Kelly, Found in the sand, 1964, collage on paper, 31 x 25 cm, selling 13 Nov 2024 at Rago
The jankiness of this 1964 Ellsworth Kelly collage is surpassed only by its intricacy. And its problematics lapped them both.
It is one of [at least] two collages Kelly gave to David McCorkle, who sailed with the artist to France for the last three months of 1964. Dale McConathy, listed in the Ellsworth Kelly Foundation’s chronology as a former employee of Betty Parsons Gallery, also joined them, and wrote a catalogue essay for Kelly’s show at Galerie Maeght. [Upon his return in 1965, McConathy became an editorial assistant, and then quickly literary editor, of Harper’s Bazaar, where he published his avant-garde artist friends and French theory. James Meyer wrote of McConathy’s role in magazine/art culture and the confluence of art & fashion in 2001. I think McCorkle later tried his hand at Broadway, then in the ’70s became a caterer. In any case, in 1964 Kelly was 41, and it sounds like McCorkle and McConathy may have been 40 together.]
Ellsworth Kelly, David, the AP of the 90×60 cm lithograph published by Imprimerie Maeght in 1964-65, a 1969 gift of the artist to the Norton Simon Museum
Kelly has torn the blonde, sunglassed face of the lifeguard in the ad, and drawn another in the void, with Black features. [From the one of many portraits Kelly drew of McCorkle that Galerie Maeght published as a lithograph, we know that Black face is not McCorkle’s.] We don’t know if McCorkle had a gorilla tattoo on his shoulder, one of the tiny, almost surgically collaged elements Kelly added. [Other carefully cut elements include “David” on the patch on the lifeguard’s swimsuit, and the compound that gave the work its title, “found/ in the sand, the,” at least part of which came from a caption in the same issue of LIFE.]
pp 8-9 in the July 3, 1964 issue of LIFE, featuring Albert Murray’s essay, “‘The Problem’ Is Not Just Black and White,” and the Sea & Ski ad Ellsworth Kelly used for his young friend’s collage
“in the sand, the” puts the whole issue of LIFE in Kelly’s hand at some point, not just a tearsheet. So what was on the page facing the lifeguard? A book review about “The Problem,” aka, “The Negro Revolution,” by Albert Murray. Is that what the Black face Kelly drew is looking at? Or was it the inspiration? That feels like the most benign explanation, though it does not explain the gorilla, which does not appear in this or any contemporaneous issues of LIFE.
That Scott Burton article has tuned my antenna for furniture sculpture. While Burton’s own interests took him back to, among others, Brancusi, this apparently rare, pre-production marble-top table by Isamu Noguchi just dropped into my inbox.
Noguchi Coffee Table, 1945-47, shown at left in a vintage photo with the aluminum “floral well” filled, and at right by Heritage Auctions, which is selling this rare thing on 22 Nov 2024
It was introduced produced for Herman Miller between 1945-47, and introduced alongside Noguchi’s similarly scaled and more extravagantly shaped chess table in 1948. It was expensive and not a success, especially compared to Noguchi’s more famous glass-top coffee table. This table was bought from the showroom by a Marshall Fields employee, and has been in the family ever since.
Anyway, point is, Heritage Auctions’ email says, “Its perforated and tripod form relates closely to Noguchi’s work in sculpture of this period, specifically his interlocking assemblages of shaped slabs of marble, slate, and wood. Concurrently, Noguchi experimented with functional ‘sculpture-for-use’…” “Everything was sculpture,” Noguchi said of the table forms through which he experimented with abstraction alongside his non-functional sculpture in the 1940s.
Honestly, I would love nothing more than to crawl under this table with a book on the history of furniture-sculpture and not emerge until Wednesday. But there’s probably a chapter about how Noguchi met the fascist threat by getting himself locked up in a Japanese American detention center, and yet went on to design the most innovative coffee table sculptures in history.
David Hammons, Free Nelson Mandela, 1987, a 2015 installation image in Piedmont Park via Google Street View
I’m getting used to not knowing every work David Hammons makes privately, which he may or may not announce until years later. But I am not dealing well with only finding out about public sculptures commissioned more than three decades ago, which turn out to still be chillin’ in the random corner of a park in Atlanta.
Anyway, it is a giant boulder with a “fan-shaped display” of iron bars topped with barbed wire. When it was originally installed, the gate in the prison-like fence was padlocked shut, and the artist had purportedly buried the key under the sculpture. Probably when it was moved to its permanent location in Piedmont Park, Hammons entrusted the key to Atlanta’s politicians, who opened the gate after Mandela’s release from prison.
The sculpture’s wikipedia page doesn’t seem to have been updated since 2012, but by Mandela’s death in 2013, it had been cleared of extraneous, artist-unapproved shrubbery. The interpretation of the Smithsonian’s public sculpture inventory description has the inscription on the work’s back. Would that also have been behind or “inside” the prison fence? I don’t know. The current siting definitely makes the inscription feel like the front, though.
David Hammons, Rock Fan, 1993, surrounded by little protest rock fans, at Williams College
What seems more interesting is how formally resonant this sculpture is to Hammons’ other works of the time. Like, specifically, Rock Fan, the giant boulder topped with antique fans Hammons installed at Williams College in 1993, which is only the biggest of his rock- and fan-related works, if not the only politically topical one.
The full/official/original title of the work is Nelson Mandela Must Be Free to Lead His People and South Africa to Peace and Prosperity. Which, with meddlesome South Africans in the news lately, makes me wonder if Hammons would make a JAIL ELON MUSK sculpture, perhaps in a park in Pennyslvania.
the left square foot of Noland’s Mica’s and Ahmet’s Gift, in an [unmitered?] frame, via Christie’s
Christie’s describes this as a gift of the artist “by 1992,” but of course, Noland ran with the Erteguns long before that. Maybe Noland traded the painting for Mica and Chessy Rayner decorating his apartment in 1972. Maybe there was a housewarming rehang when the Erteguns acquired the Louis in 1974. Whatever happened, it’ll be regifted soon [with a 26% buyer’s premium].
Julia Halperin’s NY Times article on the precarious state of artist Scott Burton’s legacy is fascinating and somewhat exasperating. As he was dying of AIDS in 1989, the sculptor hastily made a will that left his entire estate, archive, works, and copyright, to the Museum of Modern Art. Burton’s dealer, Max Protetch and his friend and supporter Kirk Varnedoe, MoMA’s chief curator of painting & sculpture, figured it’d be the best way to preserve and promote his work. It sounds like it was a mess even when Protetch was still dealing and Varnedoe was still alive, but it has only gotten worse.
MoMA is not set up to maintain the market for Burton and his collectors, nor to rally for the preservation of his many public sculpture installations—which the museum does not own—and I don’t think they should be, frankly. [That said, even as a fan with some history, I had no idea how threatened or destroyed some of Burton’s NYC installations were.]
But it seems like the museum does have at least a financial interest, and perhaps a fiduciarily related art historical one, in supporting Burton’s reputation. [Whatever its asset holdings, MoMA appears to have only six Burton works officially accessioned into the collection. Maybe most of the remaining assets of Burton’s estate are the declared but unrealized editions of his sculptures. And maybe that’s what Kasmin Gallery’s doing in this story: angling for more posthumous edition business.]
Meanwhile, I’ve been fascinated to read art historian David Getsy’s history of Burton’s performance art practice of the 1960s and ’70s, which was in part a conceptualization of his experience in public as a queer man. That work—and that experience, Getsy argues—were influential on, even crucial for, Burton’s development of the subtle public sculpture practice he is best known for. It was that incipient queerness, in fact, which led Burton to suppress his performance work in a hostile political climate of the 1980s, so it wouldn’t thwart his public and corporate commissions.
It sounds like a little more public attention to Burton’s work and MoMA’s involvement with it will help them do what’s right.
Roni Horn, Untitled (“The yes without the no.”), 2009-10, supposedly 18 x 36 x 36 in. glass and not a cgi rendering of glass, via Christie’s
Our collective understandings of shared reality are fraying. Archives are being erased. AI is flooding our digital commons to increasingly dire effect.
But only yesterday, I saw some Roni Horn glass sculptures. And I stood in their presence in an austere, if not quite nondescript, concrete space. I am saying I’m feeling very attuned right now. And I am almost 100% convinced that the pictures Christie’s is using here are computer-generated renderings.
And if I offered up my third party guarantee, I would still calculate a non-zero probability of taking delivery of a crate filled with 800 lbs of wet newspapers and a giclée print on top that said, “NO REFUNDS.”
![clip-on man is a 1989 work by cady noland depicting a cropped photo of a wild drunk middle aged white guy in a dark suit with empty six pack rings clipped to his belt, a beer in his hand, and one left dangling in front of his crotch. the image is screenprinted in black on an aluminum panel, while a grid like a flimsy set of strainer bars sticks out on the right side, roughly forming a square. the work sits on a wood floor and leans against a white wall. the pic is via gagosian but the work is currently on loan from the artist [shhhh] to glenstone. the photo is by a guy named charles gatewood; he took it at mardi gras in the early 70s](https://greg.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/noland-clip-on-man-beachpkg-gagosian.jpg)
