February 27 to April 10, 2016
205 Hudson Street (at Canal Street)
New York, 212 772 4991

“Buren, Mosset, Parmentier, Toroni,” an exhibition of work by the short-lived group BMPT (Daniel Buren, Olivier Mosset, Michel Parmentier and Niele Toroni) now at Hunter College, is sparse. It consists of only four artworks and two vitrines of documentation, mainly in French. Yet, given its subject, it is complete, though also thoroughly lacking. The show in the main gallery consists of one painting by each of the group’s members; in this sense the exhibition is complete. As for the deficiency, the show’s smallness is in part compensated for by the exhibition “Critical Gestures & Contested Spaces: Art in France in the 1960s,” which documents the varied groups, artists and political practices that constituted the neo-Dadaist and high Modernist art scene of ‘60s France (mainly Paris). This exhibit recounts the context from which BMPT emerged. For some, this history and the artists and groups that participated in it may be fairly unfamiliar. The inclusion of this exhibition demonstrates that BMPT was not unique in their endgame strategy, its political endeavors, or, for that matter, were they the most radical.

In the main gallery, one painting consists of alternating vertical green stripes and bands of raw canvas. At each end, the stripes are hand-painted opaque white. The stripes are all of equal width. Another painting has a black circle with a pristine white dot at its core, which marks the center of the canvas. The stripe painting and the painting of the black circle are both on stretched square canvases of equal size. The third work, un-stretched canvas pinned to the wall, consists of five alternating horizontal bands of gray and white. The last white band, at the bottom of the canvas, is about a third of the width of the others. The fourth is a piece of oilcloth pinned to the wall and imprinted with uniformly spaced, brick red, marks made using a number 50 brush at 30-centimeter intervals. (It is important to note that all four paintings in this exhibition vary slightly in format, size, proportions and dates, yet are representative of each artist’s motif.)

BMPT’s works structurally consist of a horizontal, a vertical, a configuration, and mark-making, respectively. Buren paints vertical stripes, Parmentier horizontal ones, the black circle on a white ground is made by Mosset, and the uniform brush marks, repeated at 30-centimeter intervals, are Toroni’s. Each of these artists was committed to producing only their own motif, which serves as a logo. While these works are handmade and authored by different artists, they are stylistically anonymous. Together, these four paintings by BMPT represent an index of a type of abstract painting that is identified with the anti-relational, anti-compositional ethos of Minimalism in the States, and in Europe it would be understood to be derived from Art Concrete, or perhaps Zero.

Between January and December 1967, BMPT had the opportunity to manifest their critical stance in four highly public events. The nature of these events was influenced by the Situationist notion of intervention — a disruption of the norm. The documentation of these events is displayed in two vitrines, and they’re described in a supplement, which also supplies us with BMPT’s manifesto of January 1967 in which they conclude “We are not painters.”

In all four events their paintings serve as tropes; in the case of the 18^th Salon of Young Painters, they produced their works in public under a banner with their names. This was accompanied by an audio tape that advised their audience to be more intelligent. At day’s end, they took their works away, installing a second banner so that the two banners together stated “Buren, Mosset, Parmentier, and Toroni Do Not Exhibit.” In another, their paintings served as décor, the setting for a performance that never occurs: the audience sits waiting for 45 minutes, staring at their paintings. In their fourth and final manifestation, slide shows of traditional painting subjects — such as landscapes, nudes, etc. — were projected onto their works. These projections were also accompanied by an audio track that admonished their audience that “Art is an Illusion,” “Art is a Dream,” etc. With the fourth manifestation BMPT’s artistic and political experiment came to an end. Parmentier, in December of 1967, denounced Buren, Mosset, and Toroni for their willingness to deviate from the agreed upon formula; he proclaimed that by abandoning strict repetition they “situate themselves in a regressive manner with respect to this moral position.”

In each of their manifestations, BMPT reduced their works to mere props, and in doing so, sought to expose art’s commodification, the rendering of culture as spectacle under capitalism, as well as their own complicity (and that of everyone else). Problematically, with this exhibition, we are given a painting show: an exposition of trophies, emptied of their critical function. BMPT works have been captured, and tamed and are now loaded (down) with the aura of art — the very thing these works were meant to escape. Consequently, the critical nature of BMPT’s position is lost. They now signal some other message, one more aesthetic and formal than political. We are shown examples of the standard motifs agreed to in 1966, and even these diverge from BMPT’s standard model in that they do not adhere to their initial commitment to uniformity and repetition. In this, exhibition, BMPT’s radical proposition, meant to challenge notions of artistic authorship and originality, is also lost.

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June 10 – September 2, 2010
Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, Madrid

New York City endured a near-death experience during the 1960s, and the steep decline of lower Manhattan precipitated the rise of a vibrant underground culture. The City began to acknowledge the pioneering efforts of artists to create live-work spaces or lofts within this wasteland of residential and commercial buildings in the 1970s by rezoning them as “mixed use”, albeit in piecemeal fashion and with much rancor. Within a decade, the empty lots and ruined real estate property that had incubated a wealth of sinewy conceptual art were transmuted into Soho gold.

If “mixed use” as a real estate term inspires this show’s outward theme, it implicitly applies to “artistic practices and strategies” in transition over a four decade period, as well. Curators Lynne Cooke and Douglas Crimp present a considerable array of films, photographs, texts, and sound installations by 40 artists spanning several generations. The city as performance space or experiential sphere of creativity becomes the unifying frame around projects of wildly differing intention, and the show often suggests links between specific works by artists who might otherwise appear to have little in common.

For example, several of Cindy Sherman’s Untitled Film Stills from 1978 (#25, #60, #83, #63), hang near Barbara Probst’s Exposure #9, New York City, Grand Central Station, 12.18.01, 1:21 pm from 2001. Probst’s six-part work features a female model, photographed simultaneously from six distinct points of view. Clearly, Sherman’s and Probst’s concerns, conveyed through distinct conceptual and technical approaches to picture-taking and picture-making, are strikingly different and decades apart. Yet the juxtaposition of these selected works highlights a common interest in the instability of photographic verity, set right in the midst of some of New York’s most familiar public spaces.

By contrast, photography as a straightforward accomplice to performance pertains in Babette Mangolte’s Woman Walking Down a Ladder from 1973. The ladder in question is that of a rooftop water tower. Contact sheets reveal a figure descending perpendicular to the ladder with no visible sign of a harness or guide wire. At close range, we see that she wears a nondescript blouse and skirt, while her face is obscured by her hair. At medium distance in profile, her descent appears even more precarious against the void of sky; and she is a mere speck when the photographer pulls back to reveal the full height and might of the building on which the water tower is delicately perched.

New York City’s rooftop water towers are also featured in Bernd and Hilla Becher’s 15-part array of fine black and white photographs from 1988. Echoing a 19th century trend to assemble photographic archives of like things for civic records, the Bechers adopted a similar methodology in the 1960s to make comparative studies of decaying industrial architecture in Europe and the US. Their systematic approach dovetailed with strategies of conceptual art being forged in that era, and the Bechers’ typological studies of water towers, gas tanks, blast furnaces, and other industrial relics have been highly influential.

Typologies abound in Mixed Use, Manhattan. From John Miller’s enigmantic series Clubs for America (1993) to Moyra Davey’s Newstands (1994), the streets of New York are teeming with similar things made unique by happenstance and style as much as wear and tear. The windows of urban buildings are the common denominator for Jennifer Bolande’s Globe series, which features blue metallic orbs with maps that are forever out of date. In a different key, Gordon Matta-Clark’s deadpan, black and white Window Blow-Out from 1973 depicts an abandoned building whose grid of broken windows is animated by a lone dog’s vigil.

The line between typology and series is porous. They synchronize neatly in William Gedney’s 1960s views from his apartment window. Entertaining a play between the static camera and everyday movement in the world beyond, his window is the theme for a set of variations. James Welling employs much the same strategy in Eastern Window #1-24 (1997-2000) except #8, 11, 12, 23. A chair on the neighboring rooftop changes position; light alters the buildings’ forms; the moon changes phase and disappears. Welling’s introduction of occasional color in this black and white world of ideas is mildly startling.

If still photography lends itself easily to urban typologies, photography on the move offers other possibilities. Sound and physical movement predominate in David Hammons’s video Phat Free (1995), in which a hand-held camera follows a performer kicking a can down the street. In David Wojnarowicz’s well-known series, Arthur Rimbaud in New York (1978-1979), a figure wearing a crude paper mask of the poet’s face traverses Coney Island, Chinatown, and the deserted streets of the West Side, enacting the artist’s taste for romantic irony and despair. With less drama, the painter Christopher Wool would photograph streets at night while walking home from his studio, studying incidental marks.

Images of the bygone West Side Piers stir piquant nostalgia for many New Yorkers of a certain age. In all their decrepit glory, the Piers were a magnet for aesthetic prowess as well as sexual trysts. From 1975-1986, Alvin Baltrop photographed their interiors and exteriors, observing cruisers, lovers, and yawning empty space in exquisite detail. When Gordon Matta-Clark cut an enormous, half-moon aperture at the far end of one pier, Baltrop noted its impact on the huge space as sublime cathedral or camera obscura. Peter Hujar’s haunting nocturnes of the Canal St. Piers, from 1983, submerge their secrets in velvet hues of photographic black. What’s left of them in 2010 amounts to jagged rows of decaying piles, as shown in Emily Roysdon’s gray-hued photographs, The Piers, Untitled (#2-5).

In 1971, the Piers were the site of an ambitious series of conceptual art pieces by 27 artists (all male, as it happened). Curated by Willoughby Sharp, photographed by Harry Shrunk and Janos Kender, the consistent format and high quality of the small, gelatin silver photographs establishes a collaborative framework within which each artist had his own word-and-image solo. Because the works were installed in a long corridor of the museum, viewers walking past the sequential imagery might experience it like stills from short silent movies. Vito Acconci, for example, spars with a reputed stranger who threatens to push him off the pier. Besides Acconci, the list of illustrious participants included John Baldessari, Keith Sonnier, Michael Snow, Daniel Buren, George Trakas, and others.

In quite another register, Charles Simonds, Gabriel Orozco, and Bernard Guillot found in the city places for reverie and magical thinking. Simonds, a sculptor, made a 16mm film called Dwellings in 1972. With children as his witnesses in blighted neighborhoods on the Lower East Side, Simonds uses tweezers to move tiny clay bricks into wall crevices. He explains that he’s creating miniature cities for “Little People” who will be moving in soon. (Simonds’s ephemeral archaeology eventually found its way into permanent niches, such as the stairwell of the Whitney Museum). Orozco’s color photograph, Isla en la isla (1993), also plays with changes in the cityscape’s scale. Wooden planks and other debris lean against a traffic barrier in a parking lot beside the Hudson River, mimicking the World Trade Center buildings and piers along the skyline due south. Guillot, in a series of photographs titled Orpheus and Eurydice from 1977, reinvents a mythic tale of tragic love, death, and descent into the underworld as photographic views of forlorn territory on the West Side.

The richness and variety of these projects is daunting. They attest to the elasticity of photographic and cinematic media as co-conspirator to artistic vision, be it performance, conceptual art, architectural intervention, socio-aesthetic political commentary, memento mori, extreme ballet, found object, available view, topographic documentation, lyrical serial existentialist anarchy, rough play. Cumulatively, the show exudes an inviting sense of spontaneity and hard-won freedom. I was particularly moved by Glenn Ligon’s harrowing, 20 wall-panel narrative of his residences, from his youth in the Bronx through a series of legal and illegal sublets early in his career, to, more recently, a stable situation in a condominium. Ligon’s true story is a bracing reminder of the anarchic forces of city real estate and the crucial, double role of the home-studio environment in an artist’s life.

It should be remembered that many of the works in Mixed Use, Manhattan were not seen publicly at the time of their creation. Some of the work on view came to light only through the efforts of dedicated curators and/or the survivors of loved ones. With equanimity and to fascinating effect, the curators have conjoined informal, private, and underknown works with widely known icons. Despite the real estate theme, as I see it this exhibition primarily draws inspiration from artists of the 1960s and 1970s who intentionally kept their work out of mainstream systems, creating alternative avenues for reception and distribution. A long perspective on the sensibility they set in motion can be found here, in disparate works that embrace plurality and resist categorization, revealing quixotic and tantalizing whispers of desire.

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“The second year looks good,” commented Washburn, the type of dealer who makes returning to The Armory Fair Modern a pleasure. Her long-term dedication to a core group of New York School artists has paid off: she has material that no one else even has access to—rarities from estates and other connoisseur gems. Seen here: a 1960 Ray Parker and 1957 Nicolas Carone, with a 2006 Gwynn Murrill feline in the foreground.

SITTING PRETTY

It just wouldn’t be an art fair proper, without Botero and Francis. And those two works provide a provenance for the future: the recent Damien Hirst spin painting directly beside.

THE HAVE KNOTS

A sidelong glance from Knoedler’s Anastasia Ehrich says it all—everyone loves Catherine Murphy’s paintings.

This solo show features the first works Murphy has ever made as a series. She became “obsessed with seeing repetitive things in her house,” I was told. In each, she depicts the ring stains that wood knots make through common house paint, leaving ghost-like circles. Murphy, a master of visual double entendre, locates these within larger plays of geometry and perception.

PAPERWORKS POWERHOUSE

Reinvigorated by their recent move to 11th Avenue, and their launching of the new Senior & Shopmaker space with a show of paper pieces by New York hometown hero, Thomas Nozkowski, these paired dealers are taking their act on the road in search of greater visibility.

PICTURES AT AN EXHIBITION

Suggesting fractured reality, this piece was originally made by the French stripe master for a show at the Hirshhorn Museum, according to the New York dealers offering it.

FISTS OF FURY

Schultz is a globalist, with branch galleries in Seoul and Beijing and a pan-international neo-pop stable of artists. The work he stands before was sold at the outset of the fair for 130,000 euros, he told me. “Tonight, we eat good meat,” he crowed, with Teutonic glee, shaking his fists.

ECCENTRIC ABSTRACT

One hardly expects to see such outré sophistication coming out of a gallery from the rural heartland. Here, geometry is played against personal idiosyncratic vision by three extremists of post-war non-objectivism.

HAIL TO THE CHEF

Art writer Lilly Wei strikes a supplicating pose in the presence of Julian Schnabel’s massive 2007 self-portrait at Galerie Forsblom, Helsinki.

PHOTO BOOTH

From 20th Century photography masters to odd ephemera from newspaper vaults and police mug shot files, here’s a trove of American Studies-worthy artifacts. “The hippest buyers are museums, like the Metropolitan and the Modern,” Winter told me. “They’re willing to buy something more edgy than collectors.” He expanded, “in painting and sculpture, you don’t have the museums leading.” The reason?  “Maybe it’s because they don’t have to re-sell the stuff,” he added, wryly.

MARRIAGE COUNCIL

East End of Long Island veteran dealer Borghi mounted a series of Elaine de Kooning ink nudes, Portrait of Bill—An Intimate View, unflinching and direct. A show of comparative small works by the abstract expressionist couple rounded things out.

A DEALER’S SECRET

Parsons helped launch Barnett Newman, Jackson Pollock, Clyfford Still, and Mark Rothko, among others. Her own contribution as an artist is overshadowed. In this rangy survey, viewers were left to connect the many dots: with evocations of Forrest Bess, Milton Avery and Robert Motherwell.

TONGUE AND GROOVE

New York’s Gary Snyder/Project Space Gallery takes a curatorial approach, working the gap between pop and abstraction. Both artists pictured here were represented by Pace Gallery in the 1960s and then fell between the cracks. Maybe the time is right to take another look.

And that’s the art of art dealing at The Armory Show Modern—instinct and timing.

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Perry Rubenstein Gallery
New York City
212-627-8000

January 10 to February 16, 2008

In the process that Ernst Gombrich dubbed “making and matching” the painter makes a naturalistic picture by gradually matching his representation to the visual world. Speaking, analogously, of “successive approximation” this show presents five artists who in stages achieve some desired degree of accuracy in their problem-solving. In Gombrich’s favorite eras, there were immensely productive links between science and visual art. Uccello and Piero della Francesca drew essentially upon the new Renaissance developments in perspective. And Constable and his contemporaries were fascinated with optics. But nowadays most visual artists are more interested in exploring the implications of mathematics or the sciences, which they understand very subjectively, than in making truthful representations.

In Tauba Auerbach’s video Telephone (2007) a phrase is whispered from person to person around in a small circle, so that it is transformed by the time it comes back to the starting point. Following the subtitles, you see the stages in which the original words change, with only traces of their original sense preserved. And her The Answer/Wasn’t Here (Anagram VII) (2007) writes out those words in varied colors running left to right, then right to left from top to bottom. Mike Quinn’s March Mad Addition Descent (2007) shows 31 framed panels about New York Times’ coverage of basketball, with these collages climbing up the wall in a graceful arc, as if mapping the trajectory of a ball heading towards the hoop. Like the athletes whose feats he chronicles, Quinn thus shows the pleasures and fatigue of pursuing an obsession. Robin Rhode’s Untitled, Bottles (2005) is a ten minute, nine second video showing him drawing bottles on a wall. He’s dressed informally, drawing freehand and working outdoors, but his meticulous procedure has obvious affinities with those involved in the creation of sinopia, the fresco underdrawings of Renaissance masters. So too, does his Shell Drawing 2 (2007), an all-over image, made employing a shell with charcoal and spray paint on paper. These young artists are joined by two grand senior figures: Sol Lewitt, whose Pyramide MH 13 (1991) approximates that ideal shape, and Daniel Buren, whose Peinture Acrylique Blanche sur tissu raye blanc et vert (1972) applies acrylic on a white and green striped canvas.

Too often group exhibitions, especially those that mix together young artists and famous figures, fail to reveal elective affinities. This tight small show, however, revealed that these nine very different looking works of art all shared a genuine concern with successive approximation. And in doing that, it also displayed the totally unexpected relationship of these contemporary works of art with the traditions of old master painting. Just as Cimbue and Constable, whose images are so different, do making and matching, so for Auerbach, Buren, LeWitt, Quinn and Rhode one act of making follows another, to quote from the gallery handout, “until the unknown becomes known, until the work reveals itself.” Gombrich was very often criticized for his lack of sympathy with contemporary art. How fascinating, then, to see that what he identified as this mainline European tradition continues. With one interesting change: none of the five artists in exhibition create naturalistic images. Where earlier painters used successive approximation to make figurative images, Auerbach, Buren, LeWitt, Quinn and Rhode are interested in what might be called the poetry of visual problem solving.

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March 25 – June 8, 2005

A version of this article first appeared in Gay City News, Volume IV, Issue 15 | April 14 – 20, 2005.

“I don’t believe in the existence of work that has no audience. Only once it is viewed can a work be said to exist.”-Daniel Buren, 2005

Early in his career, Daniel Buren had an inspiration to paint on a French-manufactured striped canvas sold at Parisian textile markets circa 1966. Used for café awnings, its blue, green, red, or orange stripes on plain cloth were always the same width, 8.7 cm or about 2 inches each. Buren conceived of this canvas as a kind of readymade, a painter’s version of the Duchampian found object. He made a decision to orient the stripes vertically but the sizes and proportions of stretchers were permitted to change. What little paint Buren applied was always white and confined to plain bars at the edges, or perhaps a scalloped pattern at top and bottom or side to side. This highly schematic approach was Buren’s response to the ethos of modernist painting as it stood in the late 1950s.

In time, Buren began to think of the stripes as a portable concept, his “visual tool”. Instead of creating art works in the studio, he would venture out into the world with his concept, and make work in situ. This idea set his whole career in motion, quite literally, and over the next 35 years the artist developed simple yet conceptually incendiary projects for innumerable public spaces, galleries, and museums around the world. Buren had come to the conclusion that there was no such thing as an autonomous art object; it was nested within the ideology of the museum or gallery if indoors, and situated amidst the forces of police power if outdoors, in public space.

The notion of a nomadic studio combined with political gesture was very in tune with the mood of the 1960s, and was prescient in many ways of art to come. Other artists of Buren’s generation were involved in similar issues and real-time strategies, but the economy, versatility, and longevity of the “visual tool” has been remarkable. Inventive, sly, and visually arresting, his projects have infuriated spectators over the years (among them fellow artists who censored his project for The Guggenheim International Exhibition in 1971). Photographic documentation of Buren’s post-studio practice was done with great care over time and its collective title is “Photo-Souvenirs.”

The opportunity to conceive a project at the Guggenheim Museum as a mature artist, for a vastly changed art world and political context in 2005, presented a special challenge. Buren came up with something big: “The Eye of the Storm”. It consists of three installations displayed in different areas of the Guggenheim, individually entitled “Around the Corner”, in the Rotunda; “Wall of Paintings”, in the High Gallery; and “Color, Rhythm, Transparency, work in situ” in the Thannhauser Galleries’ annexes. Video displays of the Photo-Souvenirs are shown continuously in discrete nooks of the Rotunda.

Ready to see something momentous, visitors may think they have come to the museum on the wrong day when they first arrive at The Eye of the Storm. Just inside the dimly lit entrance, scaffolding extends from the floor to a tarp high above.

However, venturing around this obstacle, visitors find that the Guggenheim’s Rotunda is not only open; it feels unusually open and bright. The circular skylight at the apex of the museum takes on a stained glass window effect due to the presence of several magenta gels. Sunlight, tinted pink, filters down upon the spiraling white parapet, which has been embellished with stripes of shiny green-yellow paint. Yet there is more.

For Buren has further activated the soaring Rotunda space with a gigantic, mirror-panelled sculpture that juts a right angle into the central space of the museum. It’s supported by the network of poles and clamps seen at the museum’s entrance. The scale, size, shape, and position of this structure present a challenge to the museum’s very being; it’s as if part of a skyscraper has suddenly materialized in the Guggenheim’s ovoid environment, amplifying the existing light with its reflective angled surface area. It was created especially for daylight conditions and the approach of summer solstice.

The mirrored sculpture dominates the Rotunda yet also seems to disappear within it. Views of its front and back alternate as a visitor moves along the ramps, now on the bright side, now engulfed by industrial scaffolding on the twilight side. One finds that the mirrored facade actually spans across the ramps on each level and fastens itself to the exhibition bay walls like a treehouse. Chain link fencing in strategic places, minded by guards, foils recurring temptations to swing a leg over the parapet and explore Around the Corner from the back.

Buren made a well-calculated bet that spectators traipsing up and down the ramps would want to keep sight of the central space. Their view of the reflections and perspectives of this space – which includes their fellow visitors – changes step by step, level by level. Often, people stop to gaze into the Rotunda’s void. Sometimes, they seem to be in two places at once: doubled when they’re in view on the ramp as well as reflected in the mirrored walls. Because of the sculpture’s 90 degree angle, there is also the complication of seeing people from a perspective …. around the corner, moving in reverse.

Meanwhile, a spectator on the ground floor sees a line of heads continually bobbing along above the green stripes, the higher up the tinier. Buren is enthralled by the museum’s proportions, and what better way to bring them to life than by choreographing the visitors? The eye of a hurricane is the still center around which a storm whirls, and the ground floor of the Guggenheim is the ideal point for watching the spectators perform a walking ballet of everyday movement and benign surveillance around and around the ramps. Some visitors will be amused by this aspect of the installation; some might assume that the people-watching is incidental, if they notice it; and inevitably, some will think the whole thing is a lot of baloney. The bays where art works are usually displayed are completely empty.

At the ramp’s second level, the level-floored alcove called the High Gallery features Wall of Paintings, a seminal group of canvases that Buren executed from 1966 to 1977. These are some of the schematic paintings made of striped awning material and white paint. Reassembled from a private collection and hung salon style on the enormous walls of the High Gallery, they make a powerful visual statement. Reflected and gently distorted in the mirrored panels, their optical reverberations multiply and probably add subtle color effects to the Rotunda.

The third, 2-part work that makes up The Eye of the Storm is situated on the walls and windows of the cylindrical annex spaces adjacent to the Thannhauser Galleries. Window gels in bold colors and patterns are reflected in mirrored bars (at the signature width, of course) affixed to convex walls opposite them. Again there is a sense of play with the spectator’s changing position and the museum’s circle-themed architecture. The intention here was to play off a selection of paintings in the Guggenheim’s collection featuring works by Klee, Kandinsky, and other early modernist painters who split space and color into ambiguous perspectives within the picture plane. Although the distance between them and the bold graphics of the window treatments is too great to reconcile visually, the juxtaposition is revealing. Buren’s oeuvre is ultimately rooted in both modernism and early 20th century avant garde experiments in art, graphic design, photography, architecture, and politics.

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