On L.A. artists Lauren Halsey and Ed Ruscha: “You wouldn’t necessarily think of those two artists together until you sort of—’There’s an Ed in the booth and a Lauren in the booth’—and I use a booth because that’s where all of our artists often meet.”
“…Those are the sorts of things that become really interesting to me, where the collector has the Lauren and the Ed, or the Rick [Lowe] and the Brice [Marden],” Sargent continues, “…and they might send a picture and show it installed, and you can send that to the artist, and you can have that moment.”
I think I flagged these two mentions from an hour-plus insightful discussion because they recognize two sites of art interaction—a fair, a collector’s home—that typically don’t get consideration, at least in public discourse. One of Antwaun’s superpowers is his sensitivity to an artist’s experience, and that artworks travel to places that artists often do not.
Katya Kazakina reports on the market for Sterling Ruby’s artwork, how one series, his spray paintings, being more popular than anything else kind of force fed the market for the rest, and how his galleryhopping left collectors stuck with mid stuff they’d only bought to get the big one. But even when one comes up, it’s still the size that is a problem:
Ruby’s paintings are very large. Let’s face it, most collectors are not like Rosa de la Cruz, who bought SP113 from the Pace gallery in 2010 for $155,000 knowing that her specially built Miami space could accommodate it (and plenty of other massive works). It’s more than 10 feet tall and 15 feet wide.
“It’s so large that it’s going to be a limiting factor,” Levin said of the work. “There’s no way this painting will fit into most apartment buildings.” Christie’s pre-sale estimates, $250,000 to $350,000, reflect this limitation, he added.
Sterling Ruby, SP113/1-4, 2010/2024, 60 x 90 in. each, just sayin’ image: christies.com
I was going to suggest a few collectors go in together and buy Rosa’s Ruby. But I have never been able to get excited about Ruby’s work, even if it was to chop it up. So just let it all go the way of the bullshit private museum bubble they were made for.
She reported on the documentary almost two months ago, and Macdonald told her the same fascinating-to-me thing he told Josh Slater-Williams, that Galliano’s Fall 2022 show was about being the subject of a documentary. Which, if you look at that show, is all kinds of problematic. But.
She also adds so much more context: that it was Anna Wintour who dangled a Galliano documentary on the hook for several years until a director—Macdonald—bit. And crucially, as I read it, that the whole thing pivoted on documentary’s backers at Dior—and LVMH.
The reputation being laundered by the documentary is not Galliano’s—or not just Galliano’s—but Galliano’s collections for Dior. So cooperating effusively was, Macdonald suggested, “a great way for them to say, ‘Okay, we’ve laid that to rest.’ And I think, so, for Dior and for John, I think that was their agenda.”
Galliano near the Met Gala but not at it, fitting Kim Kardashian into a Margiela dress, screenshot via Mikelle Street’s social media
“It is also, of course,” wrote Tashjian-Wise, “an agenda that allows them to make more money off Galliano-designed products.” And so it seems unsurprising that weeks after the documentary dropped, Galliano was declared “the real winner of the Met Gala.” Tashjian-Wise notes that Galliano dressed six celebrities for the Met Gala, including Kim Kardashian, and Zendaya—twice. The actress skipped the co-chairs receiving line at the top of the Met’s stairs to take a second lap outside, wearing a vintage Galliano-era Givenchy.
Both Tashjian-Wise and Chantal Fernandez at The Cut reported rumors that Galliano had been Anna Wintour’s and curator Andrew Bolton’s intended subject this year’s Costume Institute exhibition. After someone at the Met nixed the plan last year, Bolton had to throw together a collection exhibition about spring florals based on a dystopian Philip K. Dick story.
A Wintour-orchestrated, LVMH-sanctioned documentary. A triumphant LVMH-sponsored museum retrospective, and reported “suggestions” that Galliano would return to LVMH. The plan really was going to be, put the antisemitic outrage outrage to rest, and use the Met Gala to launch a rebooted Galliano. The world—and some museum trustees, apparently—have intervened, but it does cast a stark light on the Met Gala as a wholly instrumentalized tool of the luxury industry.
Fernandez’ article on Andrew Bolton gets into the Costume Institute’s weird governance and curatorial shenanigans, but we’ve never gotten a breakdown of the Met Gala’s actual value proposition as the the world’s most extravagant sponcon. It’s a Condé Nast-branded, pay-to-play fashion show, combined with a party giving Vogue advertisers both content opportunities and facetime with celebrities, and the venue gets a cut of the door. And we’re all either too starstruck or too grateful for the fundraising to acknowledge how, beneath the museum’s sheer veil of cultural credibility, the Met Gala is naked.
Kieran Healy, meanwhile, spotted an entire tower of Very Short Introductions, the pocket-sized Oxford University Press books currently corrupting Our Youth about whatever.
Turns out both the NYPD and Gerhard Richter have a thing for digital reproduction, fabrication, and scale.
*[Wait, the artist’s website lists a 350cm tall STRIP-TOWER of digital print face-mounted to Perspex as being exhibited at the Serpentine right now. Are there two? Are we pretending there is just one, and that it is not the janky and provisionally mounted wood tower with a labelmaker label on the bottom that was in Basel? Or is that one just inside at the Serpentine? This is the second inaccurate exhibition notation I’ve seen on the artist’s website this year. Richter’s digital reproducing is running ahead of his registrars.]
Thinking of Frank Stella on the weekend of his death, I kept coming back to the scramble to get Carl Andre out of Rikers after he’d been arrested for the death of his wife.
One criminal attorney, Gerry Rosen, had met with Andre at Rikers, then headed back into the city to piece together the $250,000 needed to get him out before nightfall. Paula Cooper and another art attorney, Jerry Ordover, who’d also handled Andre’s divorce, scrambled, too. It was Ordover who thought to ask Frank Stella, who had been one of Andre’s oldest and closest friends.
After Rosen brought Andre checks to sign, and sorted through the phone messages his wife had written down for him, he spoke with Cooper, who thanked him and said they were going with another attorney: Ordover. Cooper, Ordover, and Lawrence Wiener drove a certified check from Stella to Rikers, where they spent hours waiting for his release.
Re-reading this incident in Robert Katz’s book, Naked By The Window, I had not realized that this ride back to Manhattan was where Wiener had asked, “Do you know what happened?” and when Andre said no, that was it. Cooper is the last member of Andre’s reverse SWAT team still with us; I hope someone will ask her about it.
I also did not realize that the most substantive offer of help Rosen had received while visiting Andre at Rikers was an immediate offer of $100,000 and a referral to an art lender—from Andrew Crispo.
Clearly I need to get on instagram more frequently, because then it might not take Yoshi Hill to point me to Geoff Snack’s 5-day-old post about scoring this 4’33” chair from Merce Cunningham’s studio. On the other hand, it’s nice when someone sees some wack thing like this and is like, you know who’d get a kick out of this, and thinks of you.
Colby takes a historic look at Artforum and other art institutions—PS1, mostly, as proxy for a vaguely self-determined “art world”—as places where critique and opposition happen within the institutional context. “Collaboration,” he writes, “is a patchwork process of working with rather than working against, of temporary solutions and improvised repairs.”
Ultimately his essay poses the question of whether Artforum will still be a site of collaboration and critique after the recent editorial and staff upheavals at Artforum over opposition to Israel’s slaughter in Gaza. That his essay is published in a journal formed almost 50 years ago from a previous editorial upheaval at Artforum, is, perhaps, a sign of hope.
Andy Warhol, three paintings of Bobby Short, 1963, on cerulean blue, cerulean blue, and phthalo green, 20 x 16 in., Lot 142 at Phillips on 15 May 2024
I admit I had no idea, but it’s at least a little reassuring to learn no one was more surprised to discover Andy Warhol made portraits of Bobby Short than Bobby Short himself. It turns out he made at least nine, and they were among the very first photobooth portraits Warhol made, in the Winter of 1963.
photobooth self-portrait of Andy Warhol and Bobby Short in late 1963, the first frame in one of at least three strips of photos Warhol made, as reproduced in the 2002 Warhol CR, Vol. 1
In the catalogue raisonné the cabaret singer recalled going to the photobooth with Warhol—also Warhol drawing his feet—but said they never talked about portraits or a commission. the nine paintings of four images of Short were found in Warhol’s studio after his death.
Andy Warhol, Portrait of Bobby Short, 1963, silkscreen and cadmium red liquitex on canvas, 20×16 in., sold at Christie’s in 2006.
Short apparently didn’t know about the paintings until the CR editors came calling; did he ever get to see them? Short died in March 2005, just weeks before at least three went on public view for the first time, at Shafrazi. Another turned up at Christie’s in 2006. The two known photobooth strips Short made do not include any of the images Warhol used for the paintings.
Pulling back the curtain: Bobby Short photobooth portraits, 1963, from the Andy Warhol Estate, for sale by Hedges Projects
Warhol made his photobooth portraits in the Summer of 1963, beginning with Ethel Scull 35 Times [later Ethel Scull 36 Times when Warhol threw in another painting.] Short was next, then socialite Judith Green and Warhol himself. In this moment Warhol was also working on his13 Most Wanted Men mural for the 1964 World’s Fair and on his first films—which would soon include the photobooth- and mugshot-influenced Screen Tests.
There is no Bobby Short Screen Test. Short was a voracious collector of famous friends and an absolutely masterful namedropper, and a longtime family friend, yet we heard boo, and Warhol gets zero mentions in Short’s biographies or papers. Was Warhol a little too downtown for Short’s crowd, or was Short just not a Factory type? Or was their relationship—or maybe it’s better to say their interaction—not the kind of thing one publicized back then? Maybe we should reserve judgment until we see the feet pics.
Josh Slater-Williams has an interview for Mubi with a very thoughtful Kevin Macdonald about the implications of making High & Low — John Galliano, a documentary that about the designer’s career, his conviction for his vile anti-semitic outburst in Paris, and his not-uncontroversial return to fashion afterward.
Coming from outside of the fashion industry and its norms is probably Macdonald’s greatest superpower here; he’s able to recognize the self-delusions that haunt the field and its most intense and talented figures, and to put them on view. What I didn’t expect was to hear how Galliano handled his own role in a situation where he ceded all editorial and creative control:
He wanted to achieve various conscious things, but I think also this is part of his therapy, I suppose. It’s part of his trying to figure things out for himself. That was really apparent to me when I went to the Margiela show that we filmed, that begins and ends the film. I realized as we were watching it: my God, this show is about having a documentary made about your life. It’s about his life filtered through film, because he made a fashion show that is a film at the same time.
screenshot of the banner for my Sandler essay, Art & Autocracy, in The Brooklyn Rail, featuring Caetano Veloso in a Parangolé by Helio Oiticica, photo by Geraldo Viola
At a moment when it really felt impossible to even think about art, much less write about it or make it, being asked to write the Sandler Essay gave me a chance to figure out how to do just that. So I’m grateful to The Brooklyn Rail, editors Alex and Charlie, and to Blake for the rec.
Unfortunately, this morning, it’s only gotten easier to imagine what kinds of violence and oppression authoritarianism can unleash, even on those who have felt immune to its threat. But there’s art around us, made by artists resisting autocracy, that can affect and teach us things we desperately need to know.
When I put in Tania Bruguera’s warning from early April, where she said, “I think it’s the beginning,” I worried it might be alarmist. It turns out, it was optimistic to think of what’s happening now as a beginning, and not just an acceleration.
Meanwhile, here is where I take blogger’s prerogative and use another of Geraldo Viola’s amazing photos of Caetano Veloso wearing Helio Oiticica’s Parangolé P4 Cape 1, 1968, which we couldn’t find a high-enough-resolution version of.
This one, which Marian Goodman held onto for a while, is now for sale, which is not as important as the view we now get of the back of painting. Richter painted it in—and on—the frame.
Shoutout to @dailyrothko for bringing this darkest of all Rothkos to light.
Ink on paper, 42 x 50 inches, not titled, dated, or signed, but from 1969, referred to as 1969, and annotated on the back, “no number/ black/ no. 1” in two different corners. In the National Gallery’s collection since the Rothko kids’ gift in 1986, but I’m not sure it’s been shown. I, for one, would love to see it.
In 2014 art historian Anna C. Chave presented an absolute banger of a talk at a symposium organized by Dia as part of the Carl Andre retrospective. Chave laid out how art world figures and institutions, including the curators and catalogue contributors of Dia’s show, stayed silent on Andre’s involvement in the death of his wife Ana Mendieta, but still could not manage to ignore it completely. It is truly a damning reading, and all the more extraordinary for taking place at Andre’s show, at Dia’s invitation.
In the revised version published in the Winter 2014 edition of CAA’s Art Journal, titled, “Grave Matters: Positioning Carl Andre at Career’s End,” she even called out the organizers of the symposium for changes to the format that appeared intended to head off any possibility that the artist and the curators might face any questioning from—or even any engagement with—Chave.
a spread from Untitled (Grave Matters), 2024, an artist publication by greg.org
One thing Chave discussed was an anomalous and macabre sculpture Andre included in his first New York exhibitions after his acquittal for Mendieta’s murder. Titled Large Door (1988)—a pun, Chave argues on, l’Age d’Or—it was actually a window, with a gash in it. Robert Katz mentioned it at the end of his 1990 book on Andre’s trial, Naked At The Window, but it was only published for the first time in Dia’s catalogue.
Andre refused to give Chave permission to reproduce Large Door and another work she discussed, a photo of a vase of roses on Andre’s apartment balcony, in her essay.
So to celebrate New York Art Book Fair Weekend, I am releasing Untitled (Grave Matters), 2024, a new artist book, which comprises JSTOR screenshots of Chave’s essay, with the missing images added. I will mail a signed and stamped edition to anyone who requests one this weekend, just email me to tell me where to send it. After that, we’ll see.
[We have seen, and they are done, thank you to all who engaged!]
[note: your information will only be used to send you an art zine.]
Tobias Wong, Glass Chairs Nos. 2 & 1, 2002, exhibition copies, Low-iron glass, UV glue, installed at Museum of Vancouver in 2022-23. image: MOV
This morning on the good social media, Kevin Buist mentioned that the Museum of Vancouver had a Tobias Wong exhibition last year. All We Want Is More ran from November 2022 thru July 2023. Obviously, I missed it, but there is a virtual tour, and I had to stop and post this, because the first thing you see is Glass Chairs Nos. 1 and 2 in a plexiglass box.
The wall text notes that Wong’s appropriations of other people’s works—in this case, Donald Judd’s 84 chairs—”were not always welcomed or understood and provoked heated conversations about notions of authorship.” Also, because he “had always found Judd’s chairs uncomfortable,” Wong made his chairs “slightly higher.”
The label for the chairs reads: “Initially prototyped in 2002 for the now defunct, New York-based T for Troy [sic?], in 2004 Glass Chairs nos. 1 and 2 went into production with Twentieth, a high-end design store based in Los Angeles. Twentieth granted MOV a one-time license to reproduce the chairs using Wong’s design specifications. “
This is an unusual piece of information for a wall text, but they also have a making-of video that shouts out the mount maker, so maybe that’s just how MOV rolls. What’s important is, rather than borrow some, someone at MOV just ordered some glass and glued these chairs together.
Tobias Wong Glass Chair No. 2, I think, produced by Twentieth and sold by LA Modern in 2023
Not to provoke heated conversations about notions of authorship, but Judd’s chairs are 30 x 15 x 15 inches, and Wong’s chairs are 31 1/2 inches tall and 16 inches wide, and the glass is 3/4-inch thick. Which means if the seat is 16 inches square, the shelf underneath—the chair with the shelf is No. 2—is 16W x 15 1/4 D. Whether there is two pieces on the side [No. 1] or one piece on the front [No. 2], the other vertical glass pieces are 19 x 16 inches, and they are set under the seat.
Here is an 8-minute YouTube video on how to make a glass display case with the Bohle UV bonding system. It looks just like the chair! Why not try it at home today?
Joseph Kosuth, Remarks on the Foundation of Mathematics, 2015, 2x3m carpet, photo: Francesco Lagnese via Equator Production
For years now, I’d assumed that it was vaporware. Research inquiries had always turned up nothing. But where the Felix Gonzalez-Torres Foundation closes a file, Joseph Kosuth…unrolls…a carpet.
Critic Deborah Solomon mention this morning of a carpet in Kosuth’s house led me to Equator Production, an artist carpet venture by Petra and Ranbir Singh with Reiner Opuku, that ran from 1985 until 2003. Petra seems to have rebooted it [Kosuth’s carpet, Remarks on the Foundation of Mathematics, has the earliest date of the new bunch: 2015.]
And in 1991 Equator Production made “Untitled” (Free Tibet), a handwoven carpet with a text saying “FREE TIBET” on it, by Felix Gonzalez-Torres, which was listed as no. XXVI in the “Registered Non-Works” appendix of the 1997 catalogue raisonné.
