March 15 to April 14, 2019
56 Bogart Street, between Harrison Place and Grattan Street
Brooklyn, soho20gallery.com

Frustrated with the social and economic conditions in her native Turkey, Cansu Korkmaz left Istanbul with her female partner in 2016. After traveling through Europe, they landed up in South America where they lived an itinerant existence for a year before moving to New York. Her debut exhibition here, curated by Janna Dyk, presents a selection of 20 photographs, installed salon-style, at SOHO20’s +/- Project Space, a compact room for artist projects at the gallery in Bushwick. These photo collages, redolent of Surrealism, reveal states of rupture and rapture in a queer relationship.

Korkmaz, whose primary medium is photography, bought a cheap analog point-and-shoot camera in Istanbul with which she shot around 300 photographs. She stored the developed film rolls in boxes, in separate stacks. One day, after a particularly volatile argument in their Brooklyn apartment, her partner – in relation to this body of work she prefers anonymity — tore through each of the stacks of photographs, a single neat tear through each stack. These ruptures, a physical manifestation of the social anxieties placed on their relationship, provided Korkmaz with a muse. Upon discovering the site of destruction, Korkmaz set about putting the torn pieces back together, but in alternate configurations of placement and scale, using the ripped edges as possibilities for new memories and meaning.

For exhibition purposes, the artist took the torn fragments of regular size analog prints and patched them back together in different configurations. These were then scanned and printed in different sizes to generate a sense of narrative, allowing certain memories to recede and others to  be foregrounded.

The artist’s partner appears in several frames, clothed and nude. In Quite a While #2 (all works, 2017-2018), an exterior view of urban rooftops in Uruguay shot from the couple’s abode on the left, is juxtaposed with an interior scene of Korkmaz’s muse on the right. A delicate, Bohemian figure, we view her with her back turned towards the camera (and us), cigarette perched in hand. Casually attired in a black back-baring top and comfortable jeans, she leans against a doorframe, a kitchen ahead of her. “Since she [Korkmaz’s partner] is a chef, I am most used to seeing her in and around the kitchen,” the artist told me over the telephone. “Most of my memories are of her are like this.” The images have the perfunctory quality of snapshots, even while the compositions have a conceptual and formal rigor.

Considerations of art history, particularly as a strategic quest to appropriate and hijack the heteronormative male gaze, are rife. In Quite a While #5, a motorbike with an unidentified rider shot in Colonia, is paired with a photo of her partner, sprawled out naked on their unmade bed in Punta del Este (both locations are in Uruguay). The collage suggests a sexual consummation between bike and woman, in turn forming a potent analogy between exoticism and eroticism where travel into the unknown parts of the world is akin to intimate explorations of the other. Were it not for the undies and cigarettes lying close by which invite a moral inquest –not unlike Gustave Courbet’s controversial painting L’Origine du Monde (1866) –the impression of Korkmaz’s muse bends towards a paragon of classical perfection.

In another domestic mash-up, Quite a While #10, a close-up shows two peach slices in a bright red bowl on a tacky blue table, a phone cable running across it. Snippets of personal effects like pills, a coin, and a lighter are visible, suggesting a bedside table. A shadowy foot enters the top of the frame. In the corresponding image, a worn sign above a fluorescent tube light on the wall reads ‘Bienvenidos a esta casa,’ (Welcome to this house). The welcome sign, Korkmaz tells me, is the couple’s “motto” because her partner so “loves cooking and feeding people” and they always have people over.

Call Me by Your Name (2007), a novel by André Aciman with an unforgettable film adaptation by Luca Guadagnino in 2017, has a provocative sex scene between the illicit lovers, Elio and Oliver, that involves a peach. In the book and the film, the peach presents a conceptual bridge between the adolescent teenager, Elio, and his older lover, Oliver: a metaphor for their desire to blur the boundaries between ‘self’ and ‘other.’ By eating the peach Elio has finished in, Oliver completes the union between them; a perfect parable of love which is reserved for biblical accounts of creation. Korkmaz echoes familiar sentiments. “The peaches on the bedside table,” she writes, “represents us as two women, our motto, and us completing each other.” The symbolism of the fruit, when seen in the context of the film, represents a queer union as perfect, and whole, in itself. Considering that their native Turkey has not yet legalized same-sex marriage, and continues to stigmatize homosexuality, this contention is as political as it is poetic.

The desire to become ‘one’ is perceptively depicted in Quite a While #6. A torn fragment of her partner’s head completes a torn fragment of Korkmaz’s own naked torso, humorously conjoining them in a disjointed pattern which strikes a darker chord –in order to complete each other, both individuals must let go of an essential part of themselves. In another, Quite a While #4, a blurry shot of the couple, naked and casually sitting together on their bed, is a double self-portrait of their reflection in an antique mirror. The partner holds the camera, while Korkmaz presses the button, suggesting an interchangeability of persona and identity that sparks corollary propositions about the collaborative nature of the series.

The act of annulment between lovers, Roland Barthes writes in A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (1978), is an “explosion of language during which the subject manages to annul the loved object under the volume of love itself: by a specifically amorous perversion, it is love the subject loves, not the object.” It’s hard to discern who the subject here is: is it the languorous odalisque who surrenders everything to the lens? Or is the subject Korkmaz herself, who, having been annulled by the argument (an “explosion of language”), is left to pick up the fragments? Quite a While evokes queer trauma, but it finds its way to a place of healing and redemption.

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December 3, 2018 to June 29, 2019, rfc.museum

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Purvis Young (1943-2010) was an outsider artist who lived in the rough and tumble neighborhood of Liberty City, Miami. The paintings, at the Rubell Family Collection in the Wynwood Art District, appear, at first, to be haphazardly constructed and rather makeshift until they reveal themselves to be the workings of an artist of acute insight into the human condition. The exhibition’s 14 sections delve his multiple and fierce obsessions which range from history and politics to the mystical realm of angels and holy men. Moved by the tragedies of his time, be it the civil rights movement, urban violence, drug use, social decay, Young made his materials from found objects, tape, doors, wood, anything he could lay his hands on. Every now and then, there are glimmers of pure mastery, like a small boat on the water, an allegorical doomsday that reminds me, in its textured darkness, of Albert Pinkham Ryder. Then there are the jail cells, which ingeniously meld minimal abstraction and social commentary along a singular and passionate plane.

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Amidst a tremendous amount of great art on display at  Art Basel Miami Beach this year, three curated sections threw up new discoveries and mined historical blind spots. In Survey, 16 historical projects presented individual artists across a spectrum of cultures, generations and approaches. Hackett Mill, a gallery from San Francisco, showed terrific late paintings by David Park made shortly before his untimely death in 1960. One of the founders of Bay Area Figuration, Park’s late paintings oscillate between abstraction and figuration, and carry an indelible charge of innocence. Their chromatic structures have been largely pared down, with an equal economy of brushstrokes, which are nonetheless, expressive and authoritative. Positions, meanwhile, is devoted to  emerging artists, showcasing  14 ambitious new projects this year,  including a dynamic installation by Tschabalala Self at Thierry Goldberg which  sets up a bodega interior as the setting for her signature paintings, replete with a checkered floor and hand drawn “wallpaper.” Self, who was part of the group show, “Trigger: Gender as a Tool and a Weapon,” at the New Museum last year, works at the intersections of race, gender and sexuality to comment on black feminisms and futures. Her large canvases with rough-hewn collage made of fabrics exhibit black bodies in action. Tiffany Chung, a Vietnam and US-based artist who shows with Tyler Rollins, New York, stands out in the Nova section of solo, two- or three person shows. With concise methodology, her  woven maps and detailed line drawings , elegantly translate research data regarding war, natural disasters and migration into art that is poetic and political. 

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An hour’s train ride away on the spanking new Brightline from Downtown Miami, and not far from the action in Wynwood and Miami Beach, the Bunker Artspace is the brainchild of art collector and West Palm Beach denizen, Beth Rudin DeWoody. This wonderful, weird creation is the newest entrant to the world of Miami private collections, joining those of the Rubells, the Margulies’s, the de la Cruzs, and opened in 2017, during the last edition of Art Basel. There are multiple rooms spread over two floors with more than 500 works, elegantly curated by Laura Dvorkin and Maynard Monrow. DeWoody has a penchant for the creepy crevices of the human psyche, so this collection is not for the faint of heart or the prudishly inclined. While some permanent displays are holdovers from the previous year, exciting new additions include exhibitions by two guest curators with a sharp focus on women: Her is HERE curated by Eric Shiner, Director at White Cube; and Tales from the Crate Room curated by E.V. Day, artist and winner of the prestigious Rome Prize 2016. There was also a brilliantly and funny performance, Inner Course: The Agony of It All, by the collaborative duo, Rya Kleinpeter and Tora Lopez at the opening on December 2. The two role-play Lucille Ball, complete with hilarious orange wigs, in a scene that recalls the actress’s bedroom from the hit TV show, I Love Lucy. Reading to each other from a mountain of books that propagate patriarchal myths about womanhood and feminism, they periodically break into theatrical false tears in response to the agonies of misogyny.

The Bunker Artspace is open by appointment. Located at 444 Bunker Road, West Palm Beach, FL 33405.

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My first stop on the Miami art trail this year was the Scope Art Show. Booths felt cramped and the aisles were far too narrow, making it difficult to step far back enough to see the art on display. There was also too much posturing on politics, rather than thoughtful critique. Most of it —unluckily for me —included hideous Trump visages. A super-realistic portrait by the street artist Shuglo shown at the fair highlights this disturbing trend perfectly. It’s a super-realistic rendering of a news image, which records the exact moment at which Trump puckers his not-so-sweet lips to utter the word “huge.” A garish neon sign covering half his face, spells out the word in elegant cursive. A noble exception was the standout solo presentation of paintings and part-assemblage sculptures by Curaçao-origin artist, David Bade, at Amsterdam dealers Annelien Kers. His figurative paintings channel a nightmarish contortion of animals and humans twisted into a dystopian sexual fantasy. The largest of these paintings combines shocking pinks and lime greens that feel at once icky and seductive. Trump makes an appearance here too, in a sculpture —but it’s deliciously subversive. The Commander-in-Chief’s head melts into a gooey mop with a jaundiced mane for hair.

Miami Beach Pavilion, 801 Ocean Drive, Miami Beach, Florida, 4-9 December, 2018

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Most people know Judy Chicago from her magnum opus, The Dinner Party (1974-1979), so beautifully installed at the Brooklyn Museum. But her exhibition that opened last night at the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA), Miami, inaugurating fair week in the city, has visitors reeling. The myth of Chicago as a radical, feminist icon has always, somehow, preceded the work. This modestly scaled show cracks that myth wide open with its joyous proliferation of vulvas. Chicago, it seems, has always known that the most effective way to smash patriarchy is for a woman to embody her sexuality and project it back into the world. There is so much that is good here. You really need time to savor the ceramics and works on paper, the real knockouts in this show.

Institute of Contemporary Art, Miami, 61 NE 41st St, Miami, FL 33137, December 4, 2018 – April 21, 2019.

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SHARMISTHA RAY: What constantly surprises and delights me is your revisionist approach to the interpretative systems within which your work is viewed. You started as an abstract painter, and then added mobile sculptures and spatial installations, and have most recently added sound, performance and collaborative strategies to your evolving methodology. What drives you?

DANNIELLE TEGEDER: There are a number of things that drive my work, one being the actual site-specific response to the architecture and communities of the places I visit. That continually informs and shapes my work, and the history within spaces and communities shapes how my work is created. For example, my new exhibition Chroma Machine Suite is set at H&R Block Artspace at the Kansas City Art Institute, which is one of the oldest art schools in the country. There is a pedagogical element to the work I created there. Students took part in the exhibition and worked with me for a week on a large wall installation, and the exhibition will culminate in a workshop and performance that we will develop together. I have also invited guest artists from Kansas City to perform iterations of the deconstructed paintings.

Another element present in the exhibition is the idea of translation. I have always been intrigued with the idea of language – what happens when you translate to another language? What do you gain or lose? The same idea can be found in artwork. What happens when you translate painting into sound or sculpture, and then back into painting? There is a continual loop of translation that causes my work to form and evolve. Finally, there is the issue of dealing with the long, continuous history of modernism. Why make a painting today, in 2018? How is this informed in our interconnected world and interdisciplinary world of art now?

I can’t help feeling that your engagement with language, the need to speak in many tongues, also has personal agency. You are a born and bred New Yorker, which has exposed you to cultural diversity your entire life. And then of course, there’s the connection to Mexico through your husband, and building intimacy with that country and culture. That must broaden your horizons beyond America and Eurocentric Modernism. What else do you look at when you’re traveling?

One experience that has broadened my scope outside of the traditions of abstraction and modernism has been studying the history of abstraction in Latin America, especially in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. That has been an interesting new source of inspiration, especially since I was only taught Western and European abstraction. 

I have always been interested in people that do not neatly fit into one category, and have somehow been shapeshifters throughout their lives. Coming from a very working class union-based culture myself, going to art school, becoming an academic and interacting with people I was not able to before, and then traveling to other countries has been a form of transformation to inform my work. In the past decade I have spent a large amount of time in Latin America, especially Mexico City.

There are just layers and layers of architecture, from ancient to very modern in Mexico City. It is a vast, layered city with many buildings and areas under construction and in transition, which is something that I definitely look at. Latin American architects such as Lina Bo Bardi, Alejandro Aravena and Oscar Niemeyer have also informed my work in different ways.

The major impact on my work has predominantly been within painting – artists I met while traveling were making videos alongside their paintings, which I felt was a less commonplace occurrence in New York.

It’s a more porous and hybrid approach to art. In a way, spaces that exist in the “global south” – including postcolonial countries like India and Mexico – are less informed by the market, because the market behaves differently and relates differently to art. I recall being astonished by Brazilian artist Lygia Pape’s retrospective exhibition at Met Breuer last year. Modernism is presented as a construction of multiple and contradictory possibilities through her work which is very different from Eurocentric Modernism, which I see as a pursuit of a unitary ideal, a singular utopia born of a heroic impulse if you will.

Pape’s exhibition was very inspirational, and I agree, it really showed a completely interdisciplinary approach to painting, as did Lygia Clark’s 2014 retrospective at the MoMA. Seeing painting, printmaking, performance, and video together is something that really inspired me when I started going to Mexico City fifteen years ago. A good friend of mine, for example, Omar Barquet, has explored sound and abstraction, and Mexico-City based Argentinean artist Mauro Giaconi runs a multidisciplinary space in downtown Mexico City.

Being privy to your worldview has enabled me to understand the impulses from which you work. In one of our many conversations, you had also talked about a one–person exhibition in which you presented the exhibition as a group show of different artists. You said it gave you permission to make work that looked different. I remember you feeling quite ambivalent about that project, almost as if it was a cursory detour. But when I look at that body of work now after getting to know you and your work better, it makes total sense to me why you inhabited other identities. It’s a subversive act of un–being yourself, while locating yourself again through invented perspectives.

Yes, sometimes your work knows more than you do at that moment! Silver Bullet was an exhibition I agreed to curate at a gallery in New York in 2011, and after numerous issues trying to curate it, just decided to make the show completely myself. It included seven personas, including a younger Vietnamese woman artist and an elderly Norwegian male artist who had made work in the 80s and was forgotten about. The show was presented as a seven-artist exhibition, and was written about before it was basically outed on Artnet for being comprised of fictional personas.

Artwork prices in the exhibition were also tied to the rate of silver in the stock market and fluctuated daily, another way of destabilizing the idea of a stable commercial art market. In retrospect, this show does explore a lot of pieces of my practice, including conceptual writing and other work that was coming to be.  

On a similar note, I had an exhibition in Berlin over a decade ago where my artwork was stopped in customs, leaving us with no artwork at the time of the opening. At the moment it was devastating to me, but by serendipity the work showed up during the opening and was opened up then and there. It became very performative, and in retrospect, informed a lot of my ideas of this practice today, testing the notion that painting must be solitary and stable. These ideas were further built upon in Silver Bullet, my exhibition at Johannes Vogt last year, and now at Kansas City.

I gather that your solo exhibition at Johannes Vogt Gallery last year set you up for the new show at the Kansas City Art Institute.

There were essentially four exhibitions within the duration of the traditional one-month long show format at Vogt, causing the show to constantly change even though the work being shown did not. The work included five large-scale drawings which were placed upon unanchored, easily moved pedestal-like objects reminiscent of Brancusi. The first iteration was done by me, when the show opened. Then, in the middle two weeks, artist Peter Halley, who I have had a long dialogue with about art and architecture, and art critic and poet Barry Schwabsky came to perform iterations. The last iteration consisted of me rehanging the show for the final time. After this exhibition I was interested in exploring the idea of performance and collaboration more fully, as well as working with the community – in the case of my new Kansas City exhibition, this meant working with the students.

In a way, gallery display can’t be extricated from market economics. It’s pretty bold to destabilize that equation by rearranging the exhibition every week, and using actual ‘actors’ in the art world. I quote you as saying: “There were four different exhibitions, four dramatically different shows.” There’s something transgressive about that statement. It’s not just a formalist enquiry. There’s something else going on, too.

Yes, I do think that there is. One thing that continuously happens with all forms of art, but especially in the world of painting, is commercialization to the extreme. Continuously shifting, reinstalling, putting painting within the context of video and performance, and engaging with the community helps to deflect the commercial aspect.

As an artist, it’s incredibly difficult to navigate the economics of art and find a balance in the studio. These structures support art and exhibitions, but within them also exist systems of racism, capitalism, sexism, and so forth. Painting in general is so much more easily commodified, which presents an extra challenge – unlike performance, which is more seminal and not as object based. In my past few shows I have attempted to subvert traditional models of looking at painting and include performance as well as re-contextualize painting.

Undoubtedly the need to subvert comes in part from traveling and looking at invisible systems and hidden structures across different geographies and giving them form. Even in the paintings and drawings in the two–dimensional format, you’re not only creating highly coded descriptions of internalized and externalized systems and structures. You’re also, at times, describing imaginary architectural spaces. There’s a constant slippage that is built into your approach. These are mobile systems that have the ability to reconfigure endlessly.

I agree. I have always been attracted to systems. The hard external systems are the physical systems that surround us, like developing architecture in cities, highways, flight maps, and railroad connections. On a smaller level, they include the invisible architecture inside buildings such as plumbing, heating, and electricity – the things I was familiar with growing up in a family of steamfitters. These larger systems that surround us become metaphoric for all the invisible systems that connect us to each other, like cell phone connections, serendipitous events, and metaphysical connections. Each of these finds a role within the schematics of my work.

And then there are the actual “mobiles” you create. They are not in the show at Artspace in Kansas City, but they produce a critical set of connections so I’d like to touch on them briefly. They speak to me of hypermobility, of crisscrossing vectors of human exchange and of decentralization of power structures, ofcollapsing centers.

The mobiles were the first system of three-dimensional translation to come out of my drawings and paintings. My mobiles are often hung in front of my painting and drawing works, so as you look through space you are able to make connections with the pieces behind you. This collapses the idea of painting and drawing and moves the work into other fields and ideas. It is like a constellation of events, systems and fictional spaces, except it exists in actual space. The shapes in my paintings and drawings are translated into colored glass in the mobiles, which gives them a further look of being permeable, and the viewer can look through the glass to what is behind it. This idea of painting and drawing growing out from two-dimensional picture planes has always intrigued me. I am inspired by Eva Hesse’s Hang Up and by many other women artists who explored the space between painting and sculpture in a very visceral way, such as Lee Bontecou and Gego

At Artspace, how aware were you of the location and how much did you predetermine and then leave open to chance?

Although the show has a very analytical, architectural, and mathematical underpinning to it, the work was mostly produced on site. There are always numerous things that come up during installation that inform the work made in situ. For instance, when creating wall drawings, the architectural barriers, columns, unexpected windows, conditions of the wall, changing light conditions and group dynamics come into play. In the project at Artspace, there was a site visit involved, from which I developed a model of the gallery working from floor plans, but there are always the unexpected challenges of a new site.

On a larger level, working with this team of art students informed the work in quite a performative way. Working with groups to create installations – and in this instance the student community on the wall drawing at Artspace – has been one of the main inspirations for me to introduce a performative aspect to my work with the iterations. It became clear that there was a hidden aspect to working with a group where the energy and collaboration becomes a choreographic experience in itself, and I wanted to represent that in a more physical way during this exhibition by working collaboratively with the students.

I was struck by a particular statement you made in your 2016 interview with Sarah Goffstein in the Brooklyn Rail . “One thing about my work is that it is completely devoid of people.” And yet, systems and structures are built by people and for people. In this new exhibition, you talk a lot about choreographing experience, about participation and collaboration. Is the compulsion to be inclusive, to allow others to participate and become co–authors of your project, part of a new set of impulses for you?

Paradoxically, by including the presence of people in my work – especially in paintings and drawings that deal with architectural systems – the work actually becomes about the human presence. It is a new development to have this in my work now. In many ways, adding people becomes messy. Things are no longer controlled the way they are in the studio. This element of surprise interests me and puts my work in a position where it is open to both potential failure and new developments, and, in many ways, working with people is also an attempt to destabilize the market. After making safe paintings for twenty years, my work is now in a more performative position where events can happen and many other variables can influence it.

I’m going to borrow from the title of your exhibition at Hamilton College in 2013, “Painting in the Extended Field.” The phrase effectively brackets an otherwise divergent and migratory practice. How has your practice of painting in the extended field shifted, or developed, in the Artspace show?

In this show there was a deliberate effort in collaborating with the community of students for the wall drawing, and making that process visible. The interaction with guest artists in Kansas City for the various iterations of the deconstructed paintings, the visits to local metal and stone fabrication companies to source materials, and performing the final iteration with the project team of students that worked with me on the wall drawing further developed this idea. For the first time my sculptural objects were used as performance objects and pedestals became stages

I’ve been an educator and professor for the past fifteen years, so this is something that has always interested me, although it is only with more recent developments that I have started to incorporate the process of teaching and engaging students into my art. This feeds into my teaching practice as well – for example, I have a gallery in my faculty office called “Faculty Office” where I am working with students and installing shows. I had done wall drawings together with students at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville and Hamilton College, but in a very traditional way where the process of the painting was always kept hidden.

I further developed this practice in 2015 when I was an artist in residence at the University of Hartford . For the first time, I decided to show the process of a site-specific wall drawing. The show opened with nothing on the walls, only scaffolding, just as you would see during the beginning of an installation. The students were invited to come in and make marks every day responding to the architecture, and in turn, responding to each other. I traveled to Hartford once a week, and on the final day of completion we painted over the wall drawing, reversing the process. It brought a very choreographic feeling into the show, and on a pedagogical level, bringing students into what I am making very much became an element of the work.

Blaiire from Dannielle Tegeder on Vimeo.

When you were making the animations, you came over and apologized to me about the sounds emanating from your studio, which is next door to mine. Having most recently lived in the bustling city of Mumbai in India, I am probably desensitized to environmental sound! Can you address the new animations in the exhibition and how image and sound correlate to produce a spatial experience?

I am amazed that we spent six hours breaking glass on the other side of your wall and it didn’t disturb you at all! These videos in the exhibition are a little different in that they are stop motion animations that come from shapes of stained glass. The glass was sourced from mobiles, which then informed the videos, which informed the paintings, and so on! The videos really became the formal source of a palette for the exhibition, as well as the source of everything that was translated from wall drawings and sculptures. There is a faint soundtrack of breaking glass throughout the exhibition that further emphasizes the materiality of the assemblages within the space, which include marble, copper, Plexiglass, Styrofoam, wood, and satin.

When did you first start to make animations.

In some ways my animations were accidental – when I had my daughter eight years ago, I was home for a few months for the first time in years! I had to figure out how to still make my work. For a long time, I had been thinking of the relationship of movement and sound in my drawings and paintings, but they had always remained in their traditional static format. Learning animation at that time was something that could be done in a piecemeal way, and I never had any intent in showing them. They were purely experiments. Along the way, those then became the foundation for a large new body of work that included a collaboration with composer Matthew Evan Taylor last year, a five-year long music project where my drawings were translated into sound, and other more performative disciplines. The movement in them perhaps foretells a more performative aspect of the work, simply by putting paintings in motion.

What’s next?=

I have been invited to do a solo exhibition at NC-Arte in Bogotá, Colombia, where I will be collaborating with students from Bogotá and Bogotá-based choreographers. In the studio, I am continuing my practice of painting and drawing. I am also completing a Percent for Art project in the summer of 2018 that has been in process for the past four years.

Dannielle Tegeder: Chroma Machine Suite: Forecasting Fault Lines in the Cosmos was at the H&R Block Artspace, Kansas City Art Institute, 16 East 43rd Street, Kansas City, January 27 to March 17, 2018.

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