RICHARD SERRA: I wasn’t in New York when the Green gallery was going on. I was at Yale then. I only saw one show at the gallery.

ERIK LA PRADE: You mentioned in another interview that you saw Oldenburg’s 1962 show there.

I don’t know if it was a show. He had one big hamburger and I’m not sure if anyone else was in the show. I was really taken with the Oldenburg and the whole environment. But I was a Yale student and I really didn’t know what the New York scene was about. This seemed as foreign to me as anything I could have possibly conceived. But I was very curious about it.

Did you find Oldenburg’s use of material and space unusual?

I thought it was unusual and the scale was absurd. I thought it was coming out of a tradition that didn’t have anything to do with Dali’s soft watch, yet it was three dimensional and it was displaying spaces of volume and thumbing its nose at traditional sculpture. It was good as art and empowering because it gave you permission in a good way. I never thought that anybody, up until Oldenburg, used gravity as a force to build anything with. People may have taken the iconography of Oldenburg and thought you had to build bigger, Toys “R” Us. But I saw Oldenburg as a reason to deal with gravity as a builder and what that meant and what that implied.

You also said Dick Bellamy was “the most radical dealer on the scene,” extending limits.

I think Dick’s great gift was that he wasn’t into merchandising. He was into helping artists, trying to anticipate where they could possibility go and encourage their best moves, just by being a witness and a messenger; mainly a witness and a constant witness. If Dick decided he was interested in you, he stayed interested and he followed the work in a rather shy, vulnerable manner, but, unbelievably supportive.

He wanted to facilitate the work but not encumber it. Or, he gave you the space and you did what you wanted to do.

When I first started, he also, was more receptive to some of my experiments than others and let me know that. He thought that some ways of proceeding were better than others, just by a casual statement like, “Why don’t you do more of that and less of that.” He would always say something like that after hanging out for an hour and getting stoned, and looking out the window, whatever. Did you know Dick?

I met him once in January 1998 for an interview. I was planning on writing an article on Larry Poons. I went to the Oil & Steel gallery and we hung out for three hours. He was decisive talking about Poons’s work and what he thought happened then with his work and his career and how the best artists make the most radical moves. I attempted to meet with him again in late February, but I think he died March first. That was the extent of my meeting Bellamy. Bellamy was called the “poet,” or the “inscrutable Dick Bellamy,” but from what Alfred Leslie told me, Bellamy had a very extensive reading background.

Very literary. Dick was very, very well read.

So I wonder if his reading and training in literature and apparently just reading everyone, like Elliot and Pound, might have been the best training for him to develop a radical sense. Do you think there was a cross over from his reading in literature to his style as an art dealer?

I don’t think Dick was a dealer in art. I think Dick liked to encourage people to make things and he liked the activity that surrounded the showing of things. He liked bringing people together and the kind of underground, sociological mix of the artists, poets and dancers. He liked getting high. But, the idea of Dick being a businessman or a dealer was just…

Ludicrous?

Yes. Dick wasn’t that. If he knew how to negotiate he would have been a great dealer but he didn’t know how to do that either. I remember once, I was living with Joan Jonas and Dick hired her as secretary and she couldn’t type. It was just ridiculous.

I guess Bellamy had help in his attempts to sell work.

He may have had a few people supporting him like the Skulls or the Tremaines or List, but I wasn’t privy to that. I think Dick was one of these people who was beloved; he was exceedingly vulnerable. So it was hard to make a very, very close contact with him, unless he was really stoned. Then you could. Other than that, he maintained a kind of disquiet.

His guard was up?

He was just a vulnerable, fragile guy.

After the Green gallery closed, he curated a show at Noah Goldowsky for you, Mark di Suvero and Michael Heizer.

No, it was Walter de Maria.

How did you find he looked at the work when he installed it?

That was for me, a break through. I was new in New York and to be in that show with those people; I thought I was in with these older figures already on the scene and it was my first step into the scene. It was like bringing somebody up from a double A club and putting him on the third base of the Yankees.

It was a big step?

For me! For Dick it may have just been doing another installation: “take those older guys and put this younger guy in with them.” But for me it was a big step.

Do you remember what year that was?

1968.

You got your training at Yale but after you graduated, did your education develop on another level?

I was a painter at Yale and before that I majored in English literature at University of California, Santa Barbara. I got a grant because I sent Yale twelve drawings, but they said we want you to get an undergraduate degree in art history, so I did that. I got my graduate MA, then my MFA, so I stayed there three years. Then I got a Yale Traveling and I went to France for a year, then I got a Fulbright and went to Italy for a year, and when I was in Italy that second year, I met Dick. I went to the Venice Biennial. I had had a show of live and stuffed animals and Dick heard about that show, and said to me, “When you’re in New York, look me up.” So, New York for me was a traffic accident. I didn’t know anybody. I was driving a truck, moving furniture with guys in the neighborhood: myself, Michael Snow, Philip Glass, Chuck Close and Steve Reich. We started a little furniture company. We would move furniture three days a week and the people, who weren’t moving furniture, would have the remaining four or three or five days a week off, however it turned out that the truck was booked to work. So, we had a kind of bedrock notion of time and process and matter. None of us wanted to claim that we were a filmmaker or composer, sculptor or painter at the time. We were just all involved with making something and tying to make a living. We were all pretty much involved with the dancers down here, either as lovers or as inspirations. So, it was small collective.

When you went to the Green gallery that day, did you also go to some of the other galleries?

No. I may have gone over to Tenth Street and looked at those galleries, but I hardly remember them. Pop art had just started to come in. I think there was some notion that Morris and Judd were doing things that seemed to involve circular saws and plywood. But, Mark di Suvero was always a very big figure for me. I’d grown up near to him, so I knew about of him.

Did you find Bellamy was consistent throughout his life, in his relationship to people’s work?

Bellamy was a continuous support for me. I didn’t even ask. He would show up at every show. I suspect he did that with other people. His relationship with Mark di Suvero was very, very close but I suspect he had that relationship with a lot of artists he cared about. He made it his responsibility to follow their work.

Certainly, that’s true of Myron Stout and Alfred Leslie’s work.

Yes.

Di Suvero told me when he was involved with the Park Place gallery, the first one and the second one, Bellamy would almost never go down there and didn’t like the idea.

When I first came to New York, Mark asked me if I wanted to join the Park Place gallery and I said “no.” I didn’t like the idea either.

What was it you didn’t like?

It was one idea about sculpture, “ra, ra.” It was too clubby. It reminded me of a fraternity for something. A boy’s club. I didn’t like it.

The idea was based on the Bauhaus group.

I understood it was a collective and people threw in their money for dues. There were people in it I thought were interesting but I just couldn’t see myself as part of that situation. It seemed like Mark’s scene.

As I’ve been told, Bellamy felt it wasn’t a commercial venue.

That was probably a good thing about it. Maybe, Bellamy didn’t want to get involved with some of the artists that were involved with it. I think, he wanted to handle Mark’s work, but he certainly didn’t want to deal with that group in total. Dick had a very broad range.

From 1960 to 1962, there is no particular language, art-critical language to describe this work. Except it was called neo dada, fracturalist, commonists. When I asked Rosenquest what it was called, he said “it wasn’t called anything.”

I don’t think it was called anything.

Then in 1962, when Janis had his New Realists show, other shows began to spring up and the terms began to be applied. Charlotte Bellamy said to me, “When you label something like that, it’s easy to dismiss it.”

It’s also easy to exclude other people.

But, Bellamy was consistent in his perception and choice of whom he showed and who became standard in those categories.

I think Bellamy contributed more to the cultural evolution of art in the second half of the century than anybody else. He sent all those people to either Janis or Castelli. And without Bellamy, there would not have been what happened with Janis or Castelli. He was the pipeline to them.

They then created a mainstream highway for the work.

They knew how to merchandise it, how to turn it into a movement, how to take it to Europe and put it on the map. Dick never could have done that. Nor, do I think it was Dick’s intention to do that. I don’t think he was capable of doing that and it wasn’t his interest.

It seems the scenario was, Bellamy would work with an artist for two or three years, then encourage them to move on, even though it might have been detrimental to his interests.

Detrimental to his financial interests. Nor did he ask for a percentage if you sold something when you went to another dealer. There were some pieces I had made while I was with Dick. So, if I went on to Leo and showed some pieces, or some people reserved some early pieces, I would always give Dick a cut. But at the time we were selling the pieces for nothing. I sold five pieces to the Museum Ludwick, for less than a thousand dollars and I was happy to get it.

It was a lot of money then.

Also, it meant a museum was interested in my work.

Di Suvero told me that one piece from his first show sold, one small piece was brought by Skull for one-hundred twenty-five dollars. However, Skull was the so-called official backer of the gallery, giving stipends to artists and perhaps paying the rent, I don’t know. But, he seems to be vilified now.

Why?

Because he bought a lot of good or great art and then eventually sold it off and made a mint.

That’s the nature of the beast.

It outraged a number of people, one of them being Rauschenberg.

I can understand that. If that outraged Rauschenberg at the time, then he should have taken steps to insure that he had first right of return if pieces were sold. There are things you can do.

Did you read any of the art-critical literature at the time the Green gallery was operating?

No, just the journals. I hadn’t read Greenberg or any of that.

One person told me he believed Bellamy came out of an abstract expressionist sensibility. But perhaps that’s a little bit limiting.

If you look at the diversity of what he liked, that seems unlikely. I remember a guy who showed at Goldowsky; he was a very interesting painter. He painted realistic-Surrealist paintings.

Was it Milet Andreyevich?

Yes. So, it went from him to Oldenburg, to Rosenquest, to Segal, to Morris, to Judd. It’s hard to pin that down to Abstract Expressionism.

Again, it’s a way of pigeonholing Bellamy’s sensibilities, which may be impossible.

Bellamy was a kind of poet who found his extension in other people’s visual expressions.

Yet, he never wrote criticism. But apparently, he wrote great letters to collectors and people. His criticism was to show the work.

I don’t know that Bellamy saw himself as an intellectual or as a writer. He might have wanted to be a writer but he never expressed that. Did you have any sense of Dick at all?

Once he began to relax when I was there, he would take long pauses to answer a question. I would just sit there, patiently. Or, he might throw up his hands at a question I asked, but he’d just sit there.

I think Dick had an uneasiness and he wanted to let things settle and let them be, and wait for the moment that things could come together. If they didn’t, they didn’t, if they did, fine. He’d come to see me and he wouldn’t say much, just lie on the floor. “Have a joint, Dick,” and we’d go from there.

He went to the School of Radio and Television in Connecticut. He was a DJ for a year. Apparently, he got fired for reading T.S. Elliot on a radio station at two a.m. in the morning when he should have been playing jazz music. He worked in the post office for two years and he painted houses. One day, he got a call from an artist named Miles Forst, inviting him to be the director of the Hansa gallery.

I didn’t know any of that.

He didn’t think it was important or interesting to talk about. Bellamy’s mother was Chinese and he grew up during the Second World War. The idea is you’re alien in America and their fighting the country that you came from.

The Japanese were interred and he could’ve just as well been seen as a Japanese person.

The idea that you didn’t say anything or very little maybe had a certain impact on him for the rest of his life.

I never thought about that but that probably true.

The mid-West. Bellamy must have had a sense of “don’t say the wrong thing”.

Better to say nothing. He would recede unless he got drunk or stoned, then he liked to have a good time.

All out socializing?

No. It was more like it was Halloween for him. It was an occasion for him to be somebody other than who he was. He could participate in the masquerade of self, but you knew it wasn’t him. For Bellamy, getting drunk or getting stoned, it was a way of escaping his own repression. Also, not worrying about his other self when he was in that state and then he could easily crawl back into his hibernation the next day.

I think towards the end of his life, he was probably having a heavier coke problem, which wasn’t doing him to much good.

There is the fact that the art world consisted of various social scenes and the Green gallery was one of the scenes.

I think the Green gallery was for a while the electric scene. If everybody wanted to plug in, that’s where you would go. I always thought of Dick as someone who went on people, but I might be wrong. In my relationship with him, I thought he sized up the person and if he liked the person and was interested in how the person thought and how the person conjured up thoughts or what the person’s poetic language was or what he could glean from the person’s intention or poetic imagination, I think Dick went on that. But I’m not sure if it was Bellamy’s eyes or if it was his assessment of the person.

Claire Wesselmann said everyone back then had “eager eyes.” Who knows how many studio visits he made.

I think a lot.

What was your experience with a dealer like Castelli or Janis?

I just went from Dick to Leo. How did I see Janis? He was a high-powered businessman and you might as well be going into a fancy shoe store. Florsheim’s.

And Castelli?

Castelli wasn’t like that. Castelli was like a mom and pop store. He was a very elegant, Italian gentleman who wanted to create a scene of young people around him, who had an interchange with each other. And he created a situation where all the artists would come to each other’s shows. So, it was kind of an extension of Leo’s family and he tried to keep it together like a mom-and-pop store. Everybody had a relationship and he would have parties where everyone would come together; the artists, friends of the artists. He made a collective around that. So, most galleries divide up between the artists and their immediate friends and the other artists have their friends. These galleries become race-horsing stalls against other galleries that have their eight or ten horses. Castelli’s gallery was really run like a stable where everybody paraded together and supported each other.

He wanted these people to be in one particular universe.

A constellation. A team.

It certainly worked. How did you view his relationship with Bellamy?

I didn’t know what their relationship was like. I thought Leo really liked Bellamy. Leo was an equally terrible businessman. So, I don’t know what their business relationship was. Leo was a jobber who didn’t sell things; he sold things to other dealers. He certainly liked to sell things for a lot of money, or sashay about with museum directors, but the idea of cutting the deal, like the dealers are now, that wasn’t what Leo primarily did. He’d sell to other dealers then take the cut from other dealers. Dealers would say to Leo, “Send me five Judds” in L.A., or “send me three Oldenburgs to the Kansas City Art Institute”, or whatever. Leo would accommodate them but I don’t think he invoiced a lot, himself. That was my take on it.

Both Rosenquest and Billy Kluver, at different times, told me they thought, Bellamy and Illena Sonnabend had the eyes, but not Castelli.

That may be true.

But I’m sure Castelli had a sense of the work.

Leo had a sense of how to put together a scene. If he was going to show Morris, he would back it with Judd. If he was going to show Warhol, he would back it with Rosenquist. He had an idea of how to put artists together to create different genres of activity that would branch out into different ways of thinking about the diversity of movements. And he did that continuously. Then finally, he did that with the three Italians: Chia, Clemente, and Cucchi. When I came up he did it with me, Nauman and Sonnier. That’s how Leo put a scene together. So, he had a sense of the coherence and cohesion of various languages. But, whether or not he could put the best work out of anyone of those three people, I don’t know. If Leo didn’t have the eye, he had good radar and he kept his ear to the ground, and he had enough people feeding him information, so he knew what was going on.

On the other hand, Bellamy never showed Robert Indiana. If Bellamy didn’t like the work, he’d call it “Bonwit Teller art.”

Maybe he thought it was too designee or too fashion oriented. I don’t know. I can understand that maybe he didn’t like the graphic quality of early Warhol or Indiana, if that’s true.

Indiana I don’t know. But I have been told he didn’t like Warhol’s work.

Maybe the early Warhol compared to early Raushenberg or Johns, seemed a little, window-shopping interior. Maybe he didn’t like it for Warhol’s commercial aspect. You have to think, Warhol, during his lifetime, never had a show at the Modern. Warhol was taken seriously after he died; very, very seriously. And then, I think, Gagosian really made the market for Warhol.

There must have been hesitancy about giving Warhol credit?

Photography never really became understood as a full-blown-important subtext of what was going on until way after Warhol had been into silk screening photographs. So, then people go, “What’s really going on here is photography and it’s speeding a lot of new painting. Not only Warhol but a lot of other people.” It would be difficult to think of any post-modernist art that doesn’t begin with photography.

Seeing that Bellamy was interested in the most radical work, do you think it also had to do with the materials that were radical?

I don’t know. A lot of people were using non-industrial material, art-off-the street, whatever. It probably started as early as Raushenberg and di Suvero dragging in timbers, or whatever, and that may have appealed to Dick.

I don’t know what his idea of Surrealism or Dada was but I suspect it is interpreted that he had a dada sensibility.

That sounds a little sophisticated. Bellamy wasn’t the kind of guy to thumb through a book on surrealism or dada and then go out in the neighborhood and find an artist who fit that pigeonhole. I doubt that.

He seemed to like the coincidence of the moment.

Yes. I think he showed Flavin pretty early, also.

Yes.

Now, you can say that comes from Neo-Dada, but I don’t think so. It comes from a department store.

What you’re saying about Bellamy’s taste is certainly true. But in this day and age, everybody wants a direct answer for these phenomena.

To try to apply something in a rearview mirror about different concepts and a different time and postulate a narrative that makes sense is really hard to do.

The post “A Constant Witness”: Richard Serra on Richard Bellamy appeared first on artcritical.

It’s been almost a year since Hurricane Sandy wrecked havoc on New York City and much of the East Coast. Artists were effected in a number of devastating ways: from water-clogged homes and studios in Red Hook, Brooklyn, to decades-worth of work lost in flooded Chelsea galleries. Phong Bui, artist and publisher of The Brooklyn Rail is recognizing this anniversary with Come Together: Surviving Sandy, Year 1, a benefit exhibition that is more in the spirit of celebration and solidarity than somber remembrance. Conceived in partnership with the Dedalus Foundation and Industry City, the show features more than 300 artists, roughly half of whom were directly affected by the storm, across a remarkable range of disciplines and career levels. Bui himself lost years of work and much of the Rail’s archive in his flooded Greenpoint studio. The two-month exhibition will also be the site of  poetry readings, film screenings,  musical performances, talks with conservators, and other cultural events.

Exhibiting artists include: Marina Adams, Susan Bee, Katherine Bradford, Mike Cloud, Cora Cohen, Tamara Gonzales, Ron Gorchov, Josephine Halvorson, EJ Hauser, Michael Joo, Alex Katz, Ronnie Landfield, Chris Martin, Carrie Moyer, Nari Ward, Wendy White, Richard Serra, and newer faces such as Becky Brown, Allison Ginsberg, Heidi Howard, Osamu Kobayashi, Brie Ruais, Gabriela Salazar and Nicole Wittenberg.

The opening of Come Together: Surviving Sandy, Year 1 is Sunday, October 20 from 4 PM to 8 PM.

Industry City is located at 220 36th Street in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. The exhibition is open Thursday through Sunday, from 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM , and will run from October 20 to December 15, 2013

For more information and a full schedule of events, please  visit: www.cometogethersandy.com, or email: info@dedalusfoundation.org

The post One Year After Sandy…Brooklyn Comes Together appeared first on artcritical.

Author’s note: I interviewed Rosalind in my apartment in New York, in October, 2003, typed out the interview, then cut myself out and somewhat edited Rosalind’s responses to my questions, eliminating the hems and haws and tightening the syntax a little. As Rosalind is very articulate, this was no problem. Curiously, what I remember vividly of the interview is the way Rosalind gestured elegantly with her hands, her long fingernails clearly lacquered, sometimes delicately touching her cheek or lips with an index finger. I can’t recall which publication the interview was meant for.  DP

When I was a child, in Washington, D.C., I painted in a way a lot of children do. My parents took this very seriously and sent me to art school. My father was an attorney for the Department of Justice, which was down town right next to the National Gallery of Art, where he and I would have lunch together then go through the galleries. In the modern galleries, my father would make objections to the works and I would defend them.  I adopted a certain militancy, for I had to try to convince my father that these modern works of art were not phoney, that they were really important. This sharpened my desire to explain.

Also, I was introduced to the Phillips Collection, in the most wonderful 19^th century house.  This big house, generally empty of people, was filled with furniture and pictures.  Over the piano in the dining room was Renoir’s remarkable Luncheon of the Boaters, which was like sunlight in the room. Upstairs in the bedrooms was a collection of paintings by Klee, a lot of very beautiful Braque and late Cubist paintings, and I would sit on the nice carpets on the floors of these bedrooms and look at these works, completely enchanted by them.

Later, I tried to deal with the work of Mark Rothko hanging in the Phillips Collection.  I found the paintings very beautiful and at the same time very difficult.  I read all the critical literature, which was taking me nowhere until I came across a chapter of a wonderful book by Adrian Stokes in which he wrote about the difference between surface colour and film colour. It was very clear to me that film colour was a way of describing Rothko’s colour. I felt that Stokes was developing a very beautiful, very pertinent critical vocabulary.

As an undergraduate at Wellesley College, I studied art history, and I at first accepted that the way art history was taught accounted for or didn’t account for art. I became very aware of this accepted way of looking at art when I decided to do my senior thesis on the work of Willem de Kooning.  I realized that nothing I had been taught at Wellesley up until then had given me any kind of access to his work, which I thought very important. Access came to me with the just published book of Clement Greenberg, Art and Culture, and in reading Art and Culture I began to understand what the vocabulary had to be in order to account for the power of De Kooning’s work. I understood that certain formulations of pictorial structure  — such as analytic cubism — are what later artists like De Kooning call on, and, like De Kooning, are essentially dependent upon.

When I went to Harvard as a graduate student, I was introduced to Clem and we became friends. My break with him was complicated. It was pretty much over the Vietnamese War. He was a big hawk on Vietnam and of course I was a dove. I found conversations with him increasingly painful because they were political, and his politics were very distasteful to me. What really did it was, in New York, where I went every month from Cambridge in order to review for Artforum where I was on the editoral board, I began to be very, very convinced about the work of Richard Serra, which Clem dismissed as he dismissed all of Minimalism.  I thought he was wrong. So we had a parting of the ways about contemporary work and about politics.

Everything I understood about sculpture had to do with the externalisation of an internal armature that is put into stress by the relationship of weight and gravity, with the internal armature that resists weight and gravity, and that’s what I saw in Serra’s work. In fact, I saw his work as hooking itself onto the most important traditions of Renaissance sculpture. I thought Clem’s hostility to it was just not appropriate, not for me.

I think he was hostile to the work because its materiality offended him. Clem’s whole relationship to art was incredibly teleological. His idea was that art had to end up in a certain place, and if it didn’t contribute to that trajectory then he dismissed it. The extreme materiality of Serra’s work, I think, transgressed Clem’s notion that sculpture was moving increasingly toward what he called opticality—to a kind of diaphanous quality, which he found in the work of David Smith.

My first book was on David Smith. At Harvard, I was worried about what I was going to do my dissertation on because I was married to a former husband and because it was complicated for me to go to Europe to work on a European subject.  I woke up one morning to the clock radio announcing that a sculptor had been killed in Bennington, Vermont. I was very upset because I thought that must have been Tony Caro who lived in Bennington, but I heard it was David Smith who had died and I jumped out of bed thinking, ‘Gee, I have my dissertation topic—an American sculptor I can work with it’. So that was it – pure opportunism. I finished it. It was published. Clem, who was an executor of the Smith estate, liked it, though I don’t have the same teleological vision that Clem had.

I think what I’m more interested in is stumbling on work that for one reason or another I recognise as genuine and then I try to understand where it comes from and what it is that secures the notion of it as authentic.  I don’t think there’s a development in my work because I’m very opportunistic in terms of the kinds of arguments that seem to me to be helpful to demonstrate whatever it is I’m trying to demonstrate, so if there are gaps I don’t really care. Each individual artist presents to me a different problem. When I became convinced about the importance of the work of William Kentridge, I took his work as a very special problem.

At the Museum of Modern Art in Barcelona, called MACBA, where I was doing some work, there was an exhibition of the work of William Kentridge.  I had seen one of Kentridge’s films before but not enough to have a kind of collective sense of the real ambition and importance of his work. Over the course of the four or five days that I spent at the museum, I looked at his work every day, and I left feeling that I had discovered another major artist. The question for me was, how do I explain to other people – most primitively, I guess, my father – why Kentridge is a really important artist, why his work is the genuine article?  Stanley Cavell, the philosopher, says that the problem of modern art is a problem of fraudulence. The traditional way of rejecting the avant garde was for the audience to get up and shout ‘phoney, fraud, fake, this isn’t the real thing’ and storm out, which was of course what my father would say when we were in the National Gallery. So the problem the critic has is how to convince the viewer who’s saying ‘phoney, fake, inauthentic’ that the work is authentic, that this is the real thing, that here is a real example of what art is.

I believed that the work of the Irish artist James Coleman is the real thing when I saw it. Outraged people weren’t saying ‘fake and phoney’, but the critical arguments for the work were themselves, I felt, fake and phoney. The defence of the work was made on grounds that I thought were irrelevant to the interest of the work. The grounds were national identity, the construction of identity, all this constructionalist stuff, which I thought had nothing to do with the work. What had to do with the work was the fact that he had essentially invented a medium. He invented a medium as the technical support for the work. Oil and canvas are a technical support. The armature and clay plaster of the sculpture are another technical support. Greenberg’s position on Modernist painting is that a work of art essentially secures its meaning by specifying its medium and by essentially securing something new about the nature of the medium, and this seems to me to be irrefutable. In most work that we know and respect, particularly abstract art which has broken all kinds of links with the observed world, and which could be said to be about the nature of the medium itself– the two dimensional canvas, the colours, the drawing, the frame of the canvas—the medium is absolutely essential – is crucial — in terms of my appreciation of a work of art.  This appreciation really comes from my relation to Clem, because one of Clem’s most important essays is called Modernist Painting, in which he writes that in Modernism the work of art has to secure itself by demonstrating the nature of its medium. The issue of the medium was thoroughly inbred to his idea of art, was made absolutely central to the possibility of the work meaning anything at all.  I think anything can be a work of art, but only if that thing has been worked on in such a way that it becomes a technical support, in other words a medium. You have to keep working on it. A medium is a little bit like a language—you can’t just speak it once, it is repeated. The way that an artist secures the nature of his support as a medium is to continue to work at it, repeating it. The repetition is very important. This became clear to me seeing the work of James Coleman, who has invented a medium because the slide tape, which is the technical support for his work, is repeated over and over and over again.

Yet, I have to say I hate the medium of printmaking.  The only artist I can think of who is an interesting printmaker is Ellsworth Kelly; otherwise I think that prints have nothing to do with Modernism and therefore I’m not interested in them as a medium. Other forms of reproducibility interest me, like photography and various decorative arts. Photography has a certain distance from Modernism, which creates an interesting tension between the two. In my book L’Amour Fou, about photography, I found it paradoxical that Surrealism, which we think of as courting states of psychological indeterminacy such as dreaming or whatever form the unconscious takes to manifest itself, should be celebrated in the very mechanical medium of photography. It was the paradox of the Surrealists acceptance of photography that interested me. I seem to be attracted to paradoxical conditions in art. Salvador Dalí is one example of a Surrealist working in the medium of photography. Miró is another one. And there is a deeper paradox in Miró. Everybody thinks of his work as childish, or childlike and comical, but I think of it as violent and sexual, which is not at all the popular conception of Miró. When I was analysing surrealist photography, it seemed to me that those photographers were attracted to strategies for undermining categories, so, for instance, in the Man Ray photographs of hats the categories of male and female are undermined. The condition of the formless, which is to say the collapse of oppositional categories, is the basis of my analysis of surrealist photography. But as I began to move from area to area where the collapse of categories was important, form became important, emerged as a major resource, intellectual resource, conceptual resource.

I don’t really like video very much. I don’t know any video work that I find interesting. William Kentridge works in film, not video. I think my most instinctive connection is with painting, and I also I think I’m very instinctive to sculpture, but I’ve had a very long and intense experience of film. At a certain point in the late sixties,  I decided I wanted to teach film, so I had to teach myself the history of film. I was in Paris one summer and every day I went to the Cinémathèque and tried to experience the whole history of film. The kind of film that particularly interested me was American independent cinema, Hollis Frampton, Michael Snow, Paul Sharits, all these people. When I moved to New York to teach at Princeton, the first subject I taught was American independent film. This interest took me to the anthology film archives in New York, where I went every night.  There would be Richard Serra and Bob Smithson and Carl Andre and all of these American artists watching the cycle go around and around and around all over again.  This gave me an instinctive connection to their work.

I hate installation art, and my hatred energises me in relation to the book I’m now writing on the medium. I just hate it. I think it’s pandering, like belly dancers shaking their stuff and trying to seduce the viewer. I find it utterly meretricious. I especially hate the installations of Louise Bourgeois, a not very interesting artist who has been hyped up partly because she’s an old lady. So irritated by the endless, what seemed to be completely trumped up, exhibitions of this or that person’s installation,  I  decided that it was important to polemicize against these by making the medium, as I’ve said, crucial to the work of art. Installation art professes a contempt for painting, but nonetheless embodies the pictorial within its space. I think of an essay by Jacques Lacan, Seminar on the Purloined Letter, about the Poe story “The Purloined Letter,” in which a letter to a queen stolen by a minister ends up with the detective Dupin, each one of whom becomes effeminised or castrated, so passive that each one allows herself or himself to be the victim of a theft. Lacan’s argument is that the letter is the signifier of effeminacy and castration, and as it circulates among the various figures they each become the subject of that signifier and are marked by it.  The parallel with installation art that does interest me to argue against is that each of the installation artists, like Rebecca Horn or Jessica Stockholder, becomes marked by the very thing they wish to repress, namely painting, so in a sense they become the subject of (subjected to) painting. There seems to me to be a certain strange paradox in installation art in that it continues to refer to painting.

Why I don’t like conceptual art is because it is pretty simple-minded in condemning the medium, the specificity of the medium.

After my first book, my dissertation on David Smith, was published, I decided that all the essays that I had been publishing in magazines should be anthologized, but it was very hard for me to get a publisher to agree to this. I guess they thought, who was I?  it would never sell. Finally MIT Press agreed to publish it:  The Originality of the Avant Garde. At MIT I had taught a course on sculpture, and it seemed to me that the critical vocabulary in relationship to sculpture was very underdeveloped and that it would be worth writing a book, which would address the history of 20th century sculpture. My books take up the various gaps in the discourse on contemporary art that I encounter from time to time.

I sometimes use diagrams in my writing. It amuses me to use them because people – especially students – freak out when they see diagrams and think they can’t understand, and artists think seeing art in terms of diagrams is a gas. When I was learning about structuralism I got very turned on by the diagrams. I thought it was amazing that you could say something true about the history of something with something as static and two-dimensional as a diagram.  I learned all of this from Fred Jameson’s book The Political Unconscious, in which he uses diagrams.  I thought this remarkable, and, trying to imitate him, I found diagrams incredibly satisfying. They are not, the diagrams, about a given work, but more about how to understand something as seemingly complex as deconstruction. It is possible to understand that through a diagram. In my book The Optical Unconscious, I tried to show Modernism through diagrams.  In this case, Mondrian’s was the specific work. I tried to show Modernism’s withdrawal from the world, from the political/ historical context, into a state of art for art’s sake. That seemed to me to be something that the frame of the diagram captures and in a way I felt that it was interesting that the diagram could stand for various very important aspects of the modernist situation, that it could withdraw into the sanctified ground of the work of art, and also such issues as the importance of formal conditions like figure ground relations.

After my aneurism, which washed away synapses of my brain in blood, I went to sessions of cognitive therapy, where I was taught about memory. Essentially, what I was told was that “if you can remember who you are you can teach yourself to remember anything!” the “who you are” is a kind of scaffolding onto which bits of new information can be attached or to which they can be associated. So, for instance, they used flash cards to teach me, and sometimes the flash cards had little drawings, one, that I remembered showed a tennis player and a zipper – tennis player and a zipper, why? Because I play tennis, I know that as a tennis player you never wear clothes with a zipper. Once I’d made this connection with my own experience, boom, I was able to identify the things on the flash card. This connection led to the title of my book, Under Blue Cup, (2011) which didn’t come from a drawing on a flash card, but from a disconnected bit of text. My husband, Denis Hollier, every morning brought to the hospital my breakfast—coffee and a little sweet roll from a coffee shop he passed called A Kind of Blue, and knowing this made it easy for me to think of the title, Under Blue Cup. The subject of Under Blue Cup is the medium, the specificity of a work of art in terms of its medium.

I don’t think you can understand Malevich’s White on White painting without seeing the degree to which the specificity of the canvas and the specificity of the frame are paramount to him. Malevich is an artist for whom the specificity of painting is primary. It seems to be obvious.

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Josephine Baker-Heaslip:

To: Tilted Arc
Federal Plaza
New York City

03/15/1989

Since hearing the news of your immanent sentence, I am now aware that I have left it too late to write this letter. Your presence in my life has been unavoidable, and perhaps we may not have one last moment together before your removal. I know that most people don’t understand you and consider you an eyesore, but I appreciate your beauty and your seemingly precarious existence enthralls me. Although many have objected to your austere and uncompromising appearances, I must say I admire your integrity to not conceal your physical properties – unpolished steel is nothing to be ashamed of.

When you’re here I feel that every move I make with you resonates in the whole environment we inhabit. Every step I take is a new experience, every surface a voyage of discovery. You continuously challenge my very impressions of space, but because of this I hope you will not consider conscious human emotion too conventional. I understand that your manner of expression does not allude to or promote romantic acuity, yet I cannot help asking: You must be aware of what you are doing to me, and no doubt to many others! If your conditions for creation are abstract, then perhaps you empathize with such emotions that defy figuration and resolution?

Despite your immeasurable size, I think together we could achieve a balance – my love for you is on par with the city itself. When I am closely navigating your slender bulk, you sensuously curve toward me as if in an open embrace. You exist in a perpetual climax, which never grants a resolution or even closure to our relationship – sometimes I feel that my love for you is more of a hindrance than you are to the public.

I can understand that the specificity of the site is paramount to your existence, for it is the medium with which you have been created, but why should the conditions of your maker still prescribe your individual life? You cannot live without the direct experience you have been made to create, as I cannot live without experiencing you.

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Jim Walsh:

Dear Blue,

I nearly missed you in Matisse’s Red Studio, tucked up there in the corner.
And with Picasso it was all about you, wasn’t it? The closest I could get was being Rose…
Kelly brought us together, side by side, if only for a moment, but too close as the purple gulf ensued that always happens when we mix.
I’ll find you again, Cerulean Majesty, please rely on that! And then the sparks will fly!

Always burning for you,

Red

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