March 3 to April 23, 2016
24 W 57th Street (between 5th and 6th avenues)
New York, 212 977 7160

Tacita Dean’s “…my English breath in foreign clouds,” at Marian Goodman, is a lofty exhibition encompassing new photo works, drawings, and three films. The first room holds A Concordance of Fifty American Clouds, a suite of photographs, slate drawings, and pieces made with spray chalk, white charcoal pencil, all created in 2015 and ’16. The titles, all containing the word cloud, are taken from William Shakespeare. In Portraits (a 16-minute film made in 2016) David Hockney smokes several cigarettes in his Los Angeles studio while we watch. The smoke rises up in front of his own series of portraits, all with blue backgrounds. The film is silent save for Hockney’s exhaling and the occasional rustling of papers. He laughs once, heartily. His sweater is blue and the couch in his studio is blue. The film is surprisingly meditative, paralleling the cloud works while grounding them in a subtly humorous way.

The viewer might travel between the large room of cloud drawings and photographs and the gallery of Hockney’s smoke. Both the film and the clouds provide the viewer with a specific kind of space in which to travel — Hockney smokes while he looks, not while he paints. And Dean looks at clouds, it seems, while painting them and photographing them. What is the space between looking, thinking, and making? The works in Concordance seem to hang the way clouds do: they are paired together, dispersed, clustered, vertically and horizontally oriented. There is an abundance of space, as in Portraits, wherein Hockney sits thinking and smoking in his studio. This is perhaps a result of big sky Los Angeles — a city known for being spread out, and bluer, too, with its intense sun and Pacific Ocean. The smoke makes visible evidence of inhalation and exhalation, while the clouds present evidence of looking. The viewer watches the watcher.

The other works in the show provide this same sense of looking at something that has been looked at in detail by Dean and others. Buon Fresco (2014) is an intimate view of Giotto di Bondone’s frescos of The Life of St. Francis (1297–1300). This allows the viewer to see into the processes of the painter — his techniques and style. The projection is small — not much larger than a sheet of paper — and unlike the other two films, does not have a separate and darkened viewing area. The projection appears as a humble surprise in the hallway between the two larger galleries. The scale of the projection, coupled with the intensely intimate up-close view of the Upper Basilica of St Francis of Assisi, makes for a visceral micro-macro looking experience. In the same way that Dean grants viewers a particular kind of access to Hockney’s process, we see Giotto’s painting anew.

After walking down the narrow hallway, GAETA, 2015 — Fifty photographs, plus one appears. These photographs are installed similarly to A Concordance of Fifty American Clouds, on the opposite end of the gallery. Dean photographed Cy Twombly’s house and studio in Gaeta, Italy in 2008. They contain intimate details of his life and work — small scribblings on Post-Its, stacked photographs, surfaces and floors. Also of varying sizes, these works provide clips of information about Twombly. Though perhaps not directly about his work, it feels natural to make connections between the chalk drawings for which Twombly is known and Dean’s chalk and slate cloud works in the adjacent room. The show makes art historical and intuitive leaps. These leaps hold poetic resonance and keys to Dean’s ways of working.

Lastly, on the third floor of the gallery, Event for a Stage (2015) is shown every 90 minutes. A 50-minute, 16mm color film, it’s completely captivating as a standalone film and also hangs contextually with the rest of the works in the show. Filmed in a theater in Sydney, Australia in 2014, Event for a Stage is not exactly a work of theater. British actor Stephen Dillane is, as he says in the film, “an actor playing the role of the ‘actor.’” The set-up is immediately recognizable as one of a small theater, with a wide white circle drawn on the stage. The first few moments present a hypnotic, swirling introduction to the piece, with the camera following Dillane as he walks the perimeter. The audience is facing the camera. We are watching the audience watch the actor. Throughout the 50 minutes, Dillane grabs pieces of paper from Dean, who is sitting in the front row, and reads/performs them. At other times, he seems to be improvising. At still other times, he seems to be rejecting whatever text Dean has handed him. He appears frustrated at times and it becomes unclear if he is “acting” or if this is a performance of the difficult methods of communication and collaboration between Dean and Dillane, between film and theater, between an artist’s vision and an actor’s carrying-out. Dillane talks to the audience about the piece, about exchanges between himself and Dean, and about self-consciousness in acting. Filmed over the course of four performances, the camera is usually visible or we are aware of it via other means (Dillane giving camera direction, for instance). Part of brilliance of this film lies in the fact that it’s difficult to distinguish whether the actor is acting or not. It’s also difficult to distinguish whether the tension between Dean and Dillane is “real.” What is written on the papers that the actor keeps grabbing from the artist and then tossing on the ground? At the end, we are left with several papers strewn about the stage. Dillane bows and the audience applauds.

At some point, near the end of the film, Dillane reads (from Dean’s text): “Art is what makes life more interesting than art.” And so, Dillane is reading from Dean who is quoting fluxus artist Robert Filliou. That quote is an apt description of Dean’s body of work, and specifically this most lofty and intricate show. Dean is adept at speaking to the viewer. She complicates the relationship between artist and viewer by placing other artists and figures in the line of communication. In this case, she places, quite directly, Shakespeare, Giotto Di Bondone, Hockney, Twombly, and Dillane. “…my English breath in foreign clouds” is crowded with works, art historical figures and lives, while still spacious — leaving room for the viewer to make her own connections.

The post Smoke, Clouds, Breath: Tacita Dean at Marian Goodman appeared first on artcritical.

February 12 to March 12, 2015
24 West 57th Street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues
New York City, 212-977-7160

The opening photograph of this exhibition of around 30 vintage prints, some of them previously unseen, sees the show’s title, ‘I’m trying my hand at fashion photography’, scrawled in red ink in Woodman’s spidery handwriting. The inscription falls below an image so wonderful in its off kilter poignant economy that it takes a while to take in the nuanced details. Within it, Woodman stands facing us, hands over her eyes, wearing a white dress textured as if quilted, its slight thickness imparting a creamy softness to its folds. Behind her is pinned a skewed quilt, dirty white and slightly torn, against a wall with joins like a giant graph, a large circle peeking down from the top of the frame. It is a minor symphony of textures and composition.

The show focuses on Woodman’s New York years between 1978 and 1980, a difficult period for the young artist: no longer supported by study or residency programs, she was battling to find resolve to continue her practice, gain acknowledgement from the art establishment and pay the rent. Although much is made of the tragedy of her early suicide, the year after this period of her work at the age of 22 what really comes across is that making successful photographs was an act connected to joy and satisfaction, fueled by her indomitable, restless energy.

An image in a completely different mood has Woodman sitting on the floor, the sweep of her hair in a loose top bun caught in frames of falling sunlight, echoed by the casual satin cascade of her dress. Her eyes are thoughtful, looking to the side, a small gothic chair in a corner adding the final compositional touch. The astonishing depth of Woodman’s understanding of spatial and geometric relationships of the body and other objects within the pictorial frame elevated her work, no matter how deceptively simple an individual image might be, to the highest level.

An example of this sensitive arranging is shown in a monochrome photograph where Woodman stands sideways to the viewer, arms above her head so that she forms a black line against the wall. Parallel to her is a hanging skinned fox, its head, legs and tail dark, vulpine and dramatic against the surrounding white. On the floor is a carefully placed decorative plate, positioned on an invisible diagonal to the bottom corner of a painting in the top left of the image. The unobtrusive alignment of painting to Woodman, to stole, to plate, is an example of the precise visual harmonies that lent Woodman’s work its subtle dynamics and formal rigor.

One of the highlights of this sometimes-uneven selection was a rare series done in color that showed a more polished, mature Woodman. These are shot in empty rooms with pastel green walls and pale pink molding, her body sheathed in a green knit dress. The new element of color is added to her compositional mix as she throws shapes through a mirror climbs a door post – all Titian hair and bare legs – or peeks through the camera at us, sensual yet coy in peep-toed shoes.

Woodman is less convincing when she emulates other photographers. A series shot at night outside the New York Public Library in a style halfheartedly reminiscent of Helmut Newton sees a model drape her limbs alongside the giant stone lions. Elsewhere, we have a girl all lipstick and glamour in a bathing suit reclining, in the mode of Guy Bourdin, alongside stuffed, running wolves. Both sets have elements of Woodman but those seem hesitant mixed with the slicker, hard-edged styles of photographers that were so much about the male gaze.

In Woodman’s imagery, she was often both subject and photographer. Just as a dancer uses her body as an instrument, Woodman used hers, alongside many props and clothes as a tool for the camera. Like Cindy Sherman, she controlled the gaze, which with Woodman was unambiguously female.

It was only days after seeing this exhibition, while thinking about how intrinsic and poetic to my understanding of Woodman’s oeuvre her nude self-portraits were, that I suddenly realized that most of the subjects in the show had been clothed. That I hadn’t noticed is as it should be— her work transcended all of that.

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William Kentridge: Second-hand Reading at Marian Goodman Gallery
September 17 to October 26, 2013
24 West 57th Street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues
New York City, 212-977-7160

In Praise of Shadows: William Kentridge in the Collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art
26th August, 2013 to 2 February, 2014

There is a lot to see in Second-hand Reading. And hear. Mounted high at the entrance is Untitled (Drum Machine) (2012), a noisy drum rack. Scattered throughout the front gallery are sculptures, several made of megaphone sentinels: Untitled (Singer Choir/Chorus) (2013), for instance, displays six modified Singer sewing machines with horns attached on a long, narrow table that, when activated, broadcast a common song. On one wall are large ink drawings of African trees on pages torn from an encyclopedia; on another, smaller drawings for Kentridge’s flipbook films. NO IT IS, a triptych of flip book-based films, comprised of Workshop Receipts, The Anatomy of Melancholy, and Practical Enquiries (2012), is shown in a sectioned-off gallery on three flat screens. And in the back (South) gallery you find more drawings; Rebus (2013), a set of nine bronze sculptures; and Second-Hand Reading (2013) a seven minute long video with music by Neo Muyanga. In Praise of Shadows, a display at the Metropolitan Museum of works from their collections, is a useful supplement to the experience of these new works, providing an effective record of his earlier development.

Kentridge is fascinated by recycled materials like the dictionary and book pages he draws on; by the old fashioned sewing machines employed in his sculptures; and by the primitive visual technology of the flip book. He works with these archaic materials using self-imposed limitations: making drawings, not painting; mostly using just black, white and gray—the silkscreened Rubics (2013) are in red; creating videos, which are not proper movies. In a broader sense, too, Kentridge is a self-consciously anachronistic artist: his art has nothing directly to do with the 1970s worlds of conceptual art, pop art or minimalism. His magnificent tree drawings could be precursors of Mondrian’s early paintings—and his sculptures might have been made before Duchamp created his readymades. Kentridge speaks to this concern when he links together the components of Second-hand Reading with reference to “requisitioning of old forms for new uses: encyclopedias are supports for drawings, sewing machines and a bicycle become sculpture,” and so on.

Since South Africa is a modernized capitalist state which until recently had regressive racial politics, I used to believe that Kentridge’s marvelous flipbook-based videos made a political comment. He creatively used old-fashioned materials, I supposed, as an effective way to highlight these contradictions. In my happy memory, his earlier Marian Goodman exhibitions were dominated by the videos, which had marvelous narrative force. His drawings are charming, but they basically are the raw materials for the films—and once you’ve seen five, you’ve seen them all. I liked every part of this exhibition, but this time I was puzzled—for the whole was less than the sum of its parts.  He appeals to a concept of “formal mistranslations,” which creates, he says, “the pressure that imperfect understanding gives to the act of imagination.” He is “taking nonsense and seeing if sense can be constructed from it.” Good enough, but the problem, still, is that this suggestive verbal formulation didn’t inspire a satisfying visual experience- it doesn’t effectively unify this exhibition.  

Looking for more to read?  William Kentridge is one of the most frequently reviewed and discussed artists at artcritical; some fine, early takes elude our usually very efficient tagging system!  Check out our “hub” for William Kentridge.

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Lance Esplund, Maddie Phinney and Barry Schwabsky join David Cohen to discuss exhibitions by Polly Apfelbaum at Hansel & Gretel Picture Garden and D’Amelio Gallery, Stan Douglas at David Zwirner, Douglas Florian at Bravinlee Programs, Ron Gorchov at Cheim & Read, Eve Sonneman at Nohra Haime Gallery, and Yang Fudong at Marian Goodman Gallery.

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Eija-Liisa Ahtila at Marian Goodman Gallery
October 25 to December 3, 2011
24 West 57th Street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues, New York City, 212-977-7160

No one ridicules racial minorities, the blind or disabled people. But fat men and women are often the subject of jokes.  That shows a class bias. The grander the restaurant, the smaller the portions of food: and so most privileged people are slim. Until recently Fernando Botero who, like Thomas Kinkaid and Leroy Neiman is very successful commercially, was not taken seriously within the art world. It was easy to ridicule his signature style short fat people, often shown in take offs from old master paintings such as Olympia and Las Meninas. But in 2005, when few artists were able to translate their leftist politics into art, his Abu Ghraib series made him a figure worth reckoning within the art world.

In Precious (2009), Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe brilliantly plays an overweight teenager. We see such African-American girls, and so can accept that casting. The Gospels don’t tell Christ’s weight, but since in pre-modern cultures poor people were malnourished, it’s hard to imagine that he was fat. Botero is a gifted painter. Jesus and the Crowd (2010) shows Christ surrounded by a mob in modern dress; The Way of Sorrows (2010), presents him being beaten by a police officer in modern dress; and Jesus Nailed to the Cross (2011) depicts a soldier nailing his right foot to the cross. But in the end I was reminded, fatally, of an exhibition of crucifixions several decades ago also on 57^th street in which Keith Haring depicted Donald Duck crucified. Botero’s Christ in Entombment of Christ (2010) is a powerful image, painted with great feeling. And his admirable Crucifixion (2011) sets that scene in a park within a modern city. Like the Renaissance masters who depicted Christ and his disciplines as contemporary Italians, Botero recognizes that unless the New Testament scenes are presented in the present, sacred Christian art is dead. When Titian shows Christ as a handsome Venetian, his paintings come off. Christ was a Middle-Eastern Jew, not a Venetian, but Titian’s fiction works. But Christ could not be plump- that’s my unreflective prejudice; and so Botero’s fiction, setting Christ’s passion in the contemporary world does not fly.

Eija-Liisa Ahtila’s Annunciation (2010), a thirty-three minute video uses three projected images to present the Annunciation.  An angel wearing wings, who is lifted aloft held by a harness, confronts a young actress playing the Virgin.  I don’t understand the idea, prominently cited in the gallery’s publicity, that living beings’ different worlds exist simultaneously.

We are easily deluded into assuming that the relationship between a foreign subject and the objects in his world exists on the same spatial and temporal plane as our own relations with the objects in our human world.  (Jakob von Uexküll, A Stroll through the Worlds of Animals and Men (1957))

But I can see that Ahtila’s fiction works, for in this scene staged in her Finnish studio the Annunciation comes alive.

***

The Land of Light and Promise: 50 Years Painting Jerusalem and Beyond. Ludwig Blum 1891-1974 at the Museum of Biblical Art
October 23, 2011- January 15, 2012
1865 Broadway at 61st Street, New York City, 212-408-1500

According to Arthur Danto, Andy Warhol’s Brillo Box (1964) inaugurated a post-historical period, in which everything was possible. The Land of Light and Promise: 50 Years Painting Jerusalem and Beyond. Ludwig Blum 1891-1974 at the Museum of Biblical Art, shows that our pluralistic period started somewhat earlier. The Metropolitan’s Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History, posted on their web site demonstrates that 1949 was a good year for painting, for Barnett Newman’s Concord, Max Beckmann’s Beginning and Willem de Kooning’s classic Black Untitled have entered the collection. As if in a parallel universe, Ludwig Blum,  (1891-1974), a Czech of Jewish origin who moved to Palestine in 1923 painted Jerusalem, View from Mount Scopus. His son was killed fighting; some of his paintings show the results of the battles, which made Israel independent.  But this picture, which has more in common with Bernardo Bellotto’s eighteenth-century cityscapes than the paintings by Newman, Beckmann or de Kooning shows Jerusalem looking peaceful. The Dome of the Rock is on the left, the black roof of Dormition Church near the center and the yellow-roofed Rockefeller Museum of Archaeology on the right edge. By presenting this show, originally organized by the Ben Uri, London’s Jewish Art Museum, an American Protestant institution provides an invaluable portrait of Christian, Islamic and Jewish culture in Blum’s adopted country.

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September 14 to October 15, 2011
24 West 57th Street, between 5th and 6th avenues
New York City, 212 977 7160

Gabriel Orozco’s retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, presented nearly three years ago in December 2009, gave supporters and detractors alike cause for talk. Some of his work, such as the famous—or notorious—top of a Dannon yoghurt carton exhibited in a room by itself, seemed staged deliberately for conflict. A provocation of the mostly middle class audience who dutifully filled the large exhibition, the yoghurt cap posits nothing but its own reality, more than likely discardable at that. The current show consists of Corplegados, or folded bodies, in the front room of the gallery; clay sculptures in the middle room; and Particles, or paintings made by the repetition of small geometric shapes such as circles, in the back. Together, the three bodies of work represent a less alienated—and alienating—artist, whose refusal to stay put in one place makes him one of the first, and one of the best, post-studio artists working today.

The Corplegados, life-size in their dimensions, consist of paper folded four times in half so that they would be portable for the artist as he traveled. Orozco considers these works a kind of notebook, and worked on them, as the press materials explain, in several ways: hung on a wall, put directly on the floor, or folded to a manageable size on the desk. As his sessions of work passed (done while Orozco prepared for his retrospective), the compositions became a kind of palimpsest, replete with marks of ink, gouache, and pasted photographs layered over each other. Reflecting Orozco’s extensive travels, the drawings change from the pastoral to the more urban—from organic to geometric forms. At the same time, the drawings demonstrate the wide range of moods available to the artist, whose insistence on human proportions and on a “conscious” side (which is consciously worked) and an “unconscious” side (left to chance) for each piece suggest that, in addition to renderings of the visible world, the drawings represent states of Orozco’s psyche.

Blackbirds in the Trees, Lac du Bourdon (2010), consists of abstracted black wings in the midst of white blossoms and green leaves; it is a highly lyrical image, which, on its opposite, unworked side is also beautiful if harder to read. Continental Chess Game, New York (2009) offers rows of white and black squares, as occur on a chessboard. In the center, some of the edges of the squares are round, forming a shape suspiciously like a manhole cover—an urban icon if there ever was one. Here Orozco’s sensitivity to his environment becomes more understandable. Conservatory Plan, Roca Bianca (2009), New York (2010) is a marvelous mix of grids, curved lines, and bars and rectangles—an amalgam of architectural effects that has unusual beauty in its own right.

Orozco’s Particle Paintings are very new—less than a year old. They are large figurative images made up of tiny geometric ones: small circular forms that are arranged in grids and deliver to the viewer a broad range of images, including the artist’s own photos, postcards, news images taken from the Internet, favored paintings from art history. The audience can clearly see the small circles from which the big image is composed; colors approximate shadow and create the form of Uncle Ho (2011), a benignly official image of North Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh, or Mondrian’s Composition Grid Red (2011), presumably a favorite choice of Orozco, who comes close to a BenDay dot version in his treatment of a great abstract painting.

In contrast, the installation of clay works seems less high-minded, yet highly original. Anonymous but also familiar — they are vaguely human in form — the pieces look like feet or organs and nicely hold the viewer’s attention. They are interesting alone and in relation to each other, and remind us that Orozco is a highly skilled sculptor. This show, which demonstrates Orozco working in commercially accessible, in facthighly attractive, traditional genres makes the case of mastery in most everything he lays hands to.

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In recent years, Gerhard Richter has increasingly focused on his abstract works with their distinct technique involving squeegees and wooden rulers, pulling back from his alternative, realist idiom. In Richter’s world, changes are minute, nuanced and occur over long periods of time. In his abstract paintings, palette and the varying density of composition are the characterizing ingredients, prompting discussion of such intangibles as atmosphere and emotional impact rather than radical changes in style or content in his elusive work.

In his new exhibition at Marian Goodman Gallery, his first New York solo show in over four years, Richter offers a significant twist on his established vocabulary. The cavernous front space is dominated by a selection of large new white paintings. Certainly, it would be a misnomer to think of these as  being “white” like a Robert Ryman. Underneath translucent layers of light grays, whites and creams are hints of turquoise and cherry reds. Whereas Richter’s abstract works often feel like lush conglomerates of pasty color, into which you would like to dip your finger, these much flatter paintings veil rather than conceal. They are exercises of restraint and yet they convey melancholy and nostalgia.

Ricther works in cycles and series.  This group is mesmerizing in its grandeur and its expression of serenity. Collectively, it establishes a spiritual aura reminding us of the Rothko Chapel in Houston or Richter’s own large mosaic window (completed 2007) at Cologne Cathedral). The white paintings give way to Richter’s semi-abstract take on the theme of the September 11 attacks. Exhibited here is a print mounted between sheets of glass. The painting to which it relates is September (2005), a recent donation to The Museum of Modern Art by Richter and the collector Joe Hage. The painting is intimately scaled, 20-1/2 x 28-1/4 inches, and bridges Richter’s abstract and realist vocabulary. A crisp blue sky is offset by two large grey verticals, which immediately register as a reference to the twin towers. The scene is obscured by fields of gray, which at times morph into dense clouds of smoke. It is a masterpiece of allusion: smudges evoke airplanes, while a light gray vertical is reminiscent of the reflective windows and metal glistening in the bright morning sun. Even without providing much information or painting out details as he did in October 18, 1977, his Baader-Meinhoff series, Richter succeeds in capturing tragedy with a moving combination of clarity and gravitas.

It seems that Richter’s latest quest is to create paintings for every imaginable mood. Austere, calming, provocative, aggressive, confronting, soothing, luring, denying – these are some of the adjectives that can be applied to works on display. Sometimes, impressions are tied to Richter’s palette – a combination of orange, black and yellow as seen in Abstract Painting (910-2), (2009) might evoke heated tension while a mélange of blue-greens, flesh and coral, as in Abstract Painting (910-6), (2009) feels serene and comforting. On other occasions it is largely due to gesture. Many of Richter’s latest works contain relief-like carvings into the painted surface, possibly made by the other end of his brush or a palette knife.  At times these feel accidental, but they are often strategically placed. These vertical and horizontal lines, which in the case of Abstract Painting (908-4), (2009) hint at the structure of a grid, translate as mysterious inscriptions in ways that relate to Adolph Gottlieb’s Pictographs or Klee’s works on wet clay. They add something quite unusual to Richter’s oeuvre – a faint sense of whimsy. More importantly, they offer a trace of the artist’s hand, which in Richter’s case has for too long, and unjustly so, been deemed mechanical and aloof.

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November 14, 2009 at the National Academy Museum and School of Fine Arts, New York

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Ana Finel Honigman, Joe Fyfe, and Mario Naves joined David Cohen to review Lothar Baumgarten at Marian Goodman, Sue Coe at Gallerie St. Etienne, Ron Gorchov at Nicholas Robinson, and Elizabeth Peyton at the New Museum.

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Svetlana Alpers, Phong Bui and Linda Nochlin joined David Cohen to review Silvia Bächli at Peter Freeman, Inc., Michal Rovner at PaceWildenstein, Catherine Sullivan at Metro Pictures, Jeff Wall at Marian Goodman Gallery, and Dan Walsh at Paula Cooper Gallery.

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February 8, 2008 at the National Academy Museum and School of Fine Arts, New York

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James Gardner, Barry Schwabsky and Robert Storr joined David Cohen to review Ellen Berkenbilt at Anton Kern, Katy Grannan at Greenberg Van Doren Gallery and at Salon 94 Freemans, Jane Freilicher at Tibor de Nagy, William Kentridge at Marian Goodman and Chris Martin at Michell-Innes & Nash.

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