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System Upgrade v2. Kelly Download. Testimonies for the Church Volume 6 pdf by Ellen G. White Download. Guerber Download. The Sunshine Cruise Company download. Using constraints to render websites pdf by Lars Kotthoff Download. Do you know what I mean? JR Yes, I do. Picasso is slippery in that way too. JP But it took a long time to get to that point. It must have been different for you, because you knew Picasso quite well. JR Yes, quite—in the end, very well. JP How did knowing him in some of his later years shape your understanding of the earlier years?
How did that affect you as you began to write the biography? JR What I enjoyed most about visits to Picasso was the opportunity to study the recent work with the artist. On one of my earliest visits he had shown me some drawings. When I shyly tried to explain what impressed me about one of them, he was surprisingly responsive. Three months later, on another studio visit, I was amazed to find that he had taken this particular drawing out of its portfolio to have another look at it.
That Picasso should have cared enough to remember was astonishing—tears welled up in my eyes. The third time. It was proof that his magic still worked. He would switch on the magnetism and let his ego feed on whatever admiration or devotion could be extracted from those around him. What happened in the bedroom was not discussed, right?
JR I remember that. JP There were things that might be discussed quietly, among friends, but not out in public—and to some degree biographers followed those conventions. Thanks to a brilliant scholar named Lydia Gasman, who has passed away now— she shared these interviews with me, which were intimate to say the least. JP And you talk about how frank she was in those interviews, as a way of giving us a pretty good idea of what the sex between her and Picasso was like.
I find myself wondering if there are conventions of privacy even now that a biographer should be respecting. JR Exactly, yes. JR Yes. If I felt that anything was, I would chop it out immediately. JP For me, many of the biographies of visual artists are pretty weak; your Picasso is one of the. People are sometimes surprised, when they ask what biographies I admire, to hear me talk about biographies of creative people other than visual artists.
JR Many biographies I read were so full of gas and gossip and names of great thinkers who were cited and whose words just created a lot more gas. As far as I was concerned, what you want to do as a biographer is try and tell, as clearly and sharply as you can, what you know and what you perceive. JP Yes.
Oh, you are very much an intellectual. I went from art school straight to earning my living. So I was open to a great many things. I think sometimes people decide that being an intellectual is knowing all the answers, when in fact, I think really being an intellectual is having a mind that is playful and willing to look at different sides of things. JR I absolutely agree with you on that. John Richardson. Not at all. And I think one has to see this as sometimes a sort of fight between one way of thinking and another.
And this is a good thing and it keeps things alive and it keeps arguments going, which I think is very important. But that impulse— JR That impulse, yes. I mean, a whole lot of people tried to find ways of making it all make sense and fit tidily together. What I like is sort of not trying to gather all the bits together and getting them to make sense and make a lovely jigsaw puzzle. I like it all still alive, still touching people in very different ways and having very different results.
And of course this horrifies purists who think an artist is supposed to be on this sort of one-way train. But this is one of the things I love about Picasso, that he goes in one direction and then another. And I understand that. I mean, you do need to have a specific kind of mind to take in these extraordinarily abrupt changes that these great artists were making. People want to have that one key that unlocks everything, right?
And it is seldom that we make that leap. Those leaps take a lot of strength. My best friend was the philosopher Richard Wollheim. And Richard was so intelligent and so well read in different fields. JP And what is that? How would you characterize that unity? JR God knows. What we perceive in both cases is pretty similar: those faceted eyes, barbed legs, and voracious jaws completely fill our field of vision.
But the effect is utterly different. The other is about information and understanding and our desire to explore the real world all around us. A decade ago, when Robert Therrien first showed a folding card-table whose top soared high above our heads, with four folding chairs scaled to match, I think many viewers read them as props from the latest sequel to Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. After all, Therrien has long worked in Tinseltown, so reading his objects in terms of spectacle and fakery—as a bid for Hulk-sized impact—would have seemed to make sense.
There is something almost devotional in the utter perfection of the rust stains on his sheet-metal chairs—the way the rust gathers around hinges and joints, leaving flat surfaces less affected. His commitment to accurate reproduction, and therefore to respecting the integrity of the things reproduced, has a quiet, even contemplative quality that denies a connection to blockbusterism. Anyone who has spent time with Therrien himself—as thoughtful and retiring a character as you could hope to meet—would have a hard time imagining him having flashy impact as his goal.
Oldenburg left out a lot of detail in his classic oversize pieces, so you could instantly tell that his seventeen-foot-tall shuttlecocks, for instance, were sculptures shaped like sports equipment but scaled up to fill the role of monument. Bigness was meant to be instantly tangible, and stylization helped do the trick: objects whose goal is to seem vast and impressive rarely fuss the little details that small objects do.
The size of his table and chairs can be thought of as a by-product, even a necessary evil, in his attempt to give us maximum information about his subject—to make table-andchair-ness unavoidably present. If my reading is right, it ties Therrien into a vitally important function of art that writers have tended to neglect, either in favor of form what a picture looks like or of semantics how to read it. With ostension, what matters is not how you have chosen to depict something, or how it might be interpreted, but the simple fact that you have chosen it for depiction.
The pointing finger of art can be dressed up any which way—in the simple planes of an icon, the high realism of Leonardo, or the dots of a Monet—and it still does its job so long as it manages to say nota bene. That is what a microscope does when it lets us take note of the hairs on a fly. Photo by Diane Brown; Anthony Gelfand. Photo by Olga Henkin; Brett Garde.
Photo by Aleksandr Schiavetta; Emily Weiss. Photos on page 55, from left to right, top to bottom: Sara Medici. Photo by Cassandra Nollmann; Katy Kotiadis. They were reviled and ridiculed for their rejection of transformation, and were treated as a kind of absurdist joke. And no, Cubism did not solve the problem: it just gave us more single views onto smaller bits of a scene. Flat pictures have also encouraged us to see them as patterns and surfaces whose virtue lies in their look, rather than as access points on a world that might just as easily have been.
Whereas, as old master sculptors always argued, a 3D depiction gives a richer opportunity to get to know the sheer whatness of the subject at hand. The magnification in his furniture just multiplies the amount of information at hand and our opportunities to access it. It has been seen as shallow and trivial trickery, a sleight of hand that has no goods to deliver. After at least a century of flagrant neglect, whatness has at last got back its place at the table.
She speaks with Jennifer Peterson about her new work, studio process, and the artists who have inspired her. This new show is a collection of big paintings. Can you describe your working process? And from flax is made linen. There are hills and valleys to it. JP Starting with the materials. I grew up sewing. I learned a lot about fabrics from my mother. I want the paintings to have the transparency of my ink drawings. JP Some of the paintings are the same size and double-square format as your commission for Claremont McKenna College in I love dining room paintings.
I would sit there and eat coconut cream pie after my art class and look at the big painting. MW The Last Supper. The students eat with this incredible mural. I try to have the experience of looking away and coming back. I read up. The best thing would be a painting in your MW. MW Yes. JP But in fact painting is durational. There are so many open-ended kinds of experiences you can have with paintings.
MW Definitely. What a great thing. I think they resonate more with history painting. MW These are getting figurative. Mayan and Aztec cultures showed up in the picture. A population of a hundred thousand, trading with other cultures down on the coast, on the peninsula. The closest turquoise mine is in New Mexico. JP Something to absorb or give a pause. If you look at a Matisse or a Gauguin, or any bright-colored painting, the way they keep it from being garish is to use gray.
And that holds true for an exhibition as well. JP What other historical elements were you thinking of? Tell me about these shapes. MW These all seem to be magical creatures. I want to see a jaguar there. A field trip? MW We were really turned loose there. I mean, I went to the bazaar in Mexico City by myself. We had a free day and— JP That is amazing. MW I still have the dress I bought.
Back then they had a light show. I mean, it was really the s. JP This is part of what I think is distinctive about your work. MW I think so. New York painters are more attached to Europe. JP Color is one of the things I wanted to ask you to talk more about. You say red is hard to paint in. MW Blue. JP Tell me why blue might seem more manageable to you? I conceived it when I was in bed for ten days with a terrible flu. It was the first of these big, double-square, mural-sized paintings in the series.
I put a lot of water in it. MW Essentially, I was cutting off the piano keyboard below middle C. MW So you take out the bass. A lot of times I think of colors as musical notes. I think of paintings as chords, trying to hit an emotional chord. JP Yeah. MW And the reason they can be thought of as notes so easily is that color is relative.
Even the white you put down counts. Every color hits an emotional note. But the note, the color with another color next to it, then makes a chord. So you can have a major chord or a minor chord or a seventh chord or—you know the famous Leonard Cohen song, Hallelujah? This is so fantastic.
There is, of course, a long tradition of this, from experiments with color organs in the nineteenth century, where artists would play a piano and a note would correspond to a color. Vasily Kandinsky was interested in that. MW Kandinsky! Then it gets into, of course, the lights. I knew when I made Red Writing that the light would be the other color. The red is a medium cadmium, and then the light is turquoise. And then there are paintings that surprise me, like this painting which I love, the Cosmos painting. MW I used a lot of colors that are sort of like undergraduate mistakes.
You end up using too much alizarin crimson, which is really transparent. Everything mixes together into purple mush before you learn what paint does, actually physically, and not in theory. Color theory is taught as theory—. Mary Weatherford. And how to get that dirt to match what you have in your head, as in blue plus red equals violet.
Well, what kind of blue? What kind of red? And then what violet are you looking for? And then mixing grays, which Stephen Westfall taught me to do. I substituted for him at one of his classes at the School of Visual Arts twenty-five years ago, and the students had to mix up dove gray and bird-shit gray using opposite colors.
So cobalt orange and cerulean blue make a beautiful gray, and then you add white. Another gorgeous gray is burnt umber and white. Learning how to make the grays is ground-zero colorist stuff. You can study it by looking at Chardin. MW Watching the progression of color through the history of Western art is fascinating. Getting up to the candy pinks of Fragonard and Bonnard. A Rembrandt jumps off the wall. That creamy white that he uses for the lace. JP You think of Rembrandt as being so dark, but then the little bits of color he uses are so powerful.
Rembrandt you just think of as glowing gold. MW All that beautiful gold. I have a reproduction of a painting of his son Titus on my bathroom door, and Titus just has the most lovely pink cheeks. JP Nice. MW Goya is a wonderful colorist. Even in the Black Paintings. Even though all the paintings in the show are political in their way. JP Which painting?
MW See the evil floating figures? Like the Goya, with the figures floating in the air? These figures JP. JP So all of these works are political. MW Well, everything always is. I thought about Guernica a lot this spring. JP What were these used for? MW —which has different titles. Poussin, Rubens, David. MW That subject matter was popular, right? MW Mass rape. Mass abduction. JP Of women. JP Does that painting have an animal in it?
The Middle Way - Poems and Essays from 'The Theosophical Path'
But really, this painting started because on my drive down here to the studio, I see these beautiful toyons. JP Oh, the trees! MW Right there on Museum Drive. JP Yes! The native toyon trees look like holly. MW That makes sense. It must be the particular amount of sun and the particular amount of shade, because the bowers of red berries are extraordinary. The color of the toyon leaf is a deep bluish green. You and I have talked about animals in film. MW So I left it. I stopped. Have you painted animals before? MW Cats.
Cats are magical creatures. Cats seem complicit in that kind of thing. They have a way of disappearing. JP How did the neon first enter into your work? MW I was driving around Bakersfield trying to think about the paintings for a show there. As I was driving around, the sun started setting.
That moment. So I decided to paint the experience of driving around Bakersfield. JP Have you been thinking about New York while painting the works for this show? And then it was just so exciting because it was so urban. JP In the s. MW So this one has got to be called A Train. MW Seeing a whale is one of the best things in life. The billionaire is so generous with his recreational drugs that from the moment they wake up until the moment they fall asleep, everything seems hilarious.
The aging process is for giant wheels of cheese, for pheasants turning green, for whiskey in barrels bigger than the art-school apartment where they met and fell in love, back when they were poor. They will never get old—a conviction both secretly hold but that they have never discussed, A, because it is boring, and B, because both secretly fear that their belief in eternal youth might not withstand the scrutiny of reason. And C, because both of them are superstitious and afraid to jinx themselves. An hour or so later, hair and makeup will arrive, dragging their pressed-aluminum wheelies and their fabulous tattoos.
Their all-time favorite was a guy who had a Keith Haring squalling baby in three colors on the inside of his forearm. He was a little older than most makeup people, and he was surprised by their enthusiasm: did they even know who Keith Haring was? The other reason they need to get home is that neither Lee nor Mattie has picked up a paintbrush in months. They both know the odds, which are zero in their favor.
It couples are only it couples for the briefest moment, social darlings are only social darlings for a heartbeat. That is the meaning of itness. That is the nature of social darlingness. But every so often an it couple becomes an icon, like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. After the second cocktail, Lee says that Mattie is being pessimistic, which is true, and that Mattie is always pessimistic, which is untrue.
Lee and Mattie take turns being light and dark, realistic and hopeful. Each of them is free to choose from either rack, to mix and match, to try on garments, wigs, and accessories in any combination. It helps that both Mattie and Lee are gorgeous examples of any gender anyone can imagine. Free publicity, lavish dinners, invitations to stay at the beach houses of billionaire collectors.
Fun for all, money for everyone, good news up and down the food chain. In interviews, Lee and Mattie thank their moms for giving them gender-neutral names. They like playing with gender in their work and in their private lives, and they believe in absolute and if they choose perpetual gender fluidity, which includes their right to remain silent—to refuse to talk about—which gender they identify as, even with one another. They insist that the subject never comes up, in their personal relationships or in their work. They have no interest in marriage or children, and as far as anyone can tell, their parents seem to have conveniently disappeared after.
If anything, it helped. Their itness comes partly from their youth and beauty, from their sense of style. But they are also good painters, very good painters, at a time when so few artists paint any more, or care about painting. They make people care about painting. Muse was already taken. All of this turns out to be the best thing that could have happened.
They order out for food and spend all their time painting. Their sunburns are a blessing in disguise, compelling them to suspend their social-darling lives and to return to being artists. A few weeks before the show opens, three critics pay separate studio visits to see the new work. The critics look and nod and say nothing. They ask Mattie a few questions but seem to have no questions for Lee. Sandor reads it to them on speaker phone.
They tell Sandor that they want to call the show Breaking the Losing Edge, but he says it would be double suicide, under the circumstances. First Mattie caves, then Lee. They call the show New Work. Lifetime contract, says Lee. All the reviews say the same thing. Standing still. Cutting edge. Old story. Not until the show comes down does Sandor tell them what they already know, or at least suspect: Mattie has sold out, and has orders for future work, while Lee has failed to sell even one painting. They went there when their work first started making real money.
They spent the weekend in a suite at the Gritti Palace and ordered Champagne from room service and made love from morning to evening, emerging only, like vampires, to prowl the nighttime city, the dark alleys empty and silent but for the sloshing of water and the echo of their footsteps. Sometimes they stopped and made out in doorways until their knees were so weak they could hardly stand.
Is Mattie thinking the same thing? Lee wants to turn off the sound on the TV, but Mattie says they can learn Italian that way. They have sleepy sex, with the TV on, and one of the things that makes it so unsatisfying and detached is that both are thinking and trying not to think about the last time they were in Venice. The footsteps turn off and cross a different bridge.
Who did Lee think was following them? They have agreed not to check their messages until they get back to New York. Lee is never mentioned in these emails, though a few of the residency websites mention that spouses are welcome but cannot expect to be given studio space. Mattie offers to turn everything down, but Lee says that would be self-defeating.
Both of them will suffer if one takes a hit for the other. Together they stand, divided. They are there, fully present, for one another. Invited to run a program in Romania helping young artists to paint murals on abandoned apartment buildings, Mattie has the kids paint pictures of Venice, which makes the residents laugh, because Bucharest is not Venice, and also a little sad, because Bucharest is not Venice.
Even as Mattie is on the plane back to New York, the Bucharest project is nominated for an international prize. Mattie says, The big disappointment, the biggest disappointment, is finding out that Lee is jealous and vindictive because Mattie is, at the moment, more successful. In another situation, it might have ended the conversation, but Mattie is angry, Lee is defensive. Lee and the assistant got drunk, and the assistant made the first move, though obviously the assistant knows that Lee and Mattie are a couple.
Mattie was gone, not picking up the phone. What was Lee supposed to do? There was spotty reception in Bucharest. It was hard to call. Mattie has told Lee that, many times. When their breakup becomes public, they agree not to see each other for at least a year. Mattie becomes the it person and Lee takes a one-year teaching gig in Nebraska. The students are off-limits romantically, and Lee wastes both semesters pretending to paint and grieving over Mattie.
Lee is not invited to the opening, nor would Lee go if Mattie tracked Lee down and begged Lee to be there. But Lee does drop by to see the show, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, a safe ten days after it opens. Each painting depicts the inside of a cave. A hairy person of indeterminate gender is painting on a wall. The cave paintings are very beautiful, not exactly like the cave art people know. They make Lee think of the paintings Audubon would have done had Audubon been a cave dweller, and more than anything, Lee longs to be able to say this to Mattie. Mattie and Lee used to talk about visiting Lascaux and Altamira, even if they could only see the replicas next door, models of the caves constructed to preserve the originals.
The cave paintings are different on every canvas but the cave dweller is the same in painting after painting, hunched and hairy, barely human, but in every other way looking more or less exactly like Lee. Lee stands in the middle of the gallery, astonished and frozen. It feels a lot like the time Lee thought they were about to be mugged in Venice. Now too Lee thinks Help! To take these paintings off the wall? Lee would never do that. The receptionists seem to be staring, just as they were when Lee walked in.
They know who Lee is. Lee walks from painting to painting—Lee the cave artist painting a dog, Lee the cave artist painting a dragonfly of exquisite beauty. In the last painting the cave dweller who looks like Lee is wielding a club instead of a paintbrush. Lee looks at it long enough to see that the cave person, Lee, is crouched beside a fire and eating the arms and legs of small children. Does this signal that Mattie was lying about not wanting children? Does this mean that Mattie blames Lee? Lee thanks the receptionist and leaves, trying not to run. Is this libel?
Defamation of character? Should Lee consult a lawyer? Lee cannot bear to imagine how hard the imaginary lawyer will laugh at the skinny young artist who comes in to complain that a former lover is painting pictures of Lee as a Cro-Magnon. Expensive pictures? In that case, something might be done. Were they married? How long did they live together? The fantasy ends when Lee tries to imagine telling the lawyer what charges should be brought. Lee just wants those pictures not to exist. Lee wants what half the world wants: to make time run backward to the point before the fatal mistake.
More likely they know the whole story and want Lee around as an object lesson.
Collection Book Our Yucatan: Tales and Poems, Mostly True, But Laced With Artistic License
The art world Ozymandias. Behold how the mighty have fallen. On the way to the first appointment, Lee passes one of the very top galleries. The gallery represents yet another, higher rung on the ladder that Mattie is climbing. Does Lee like this new direction? Mattie has found someone else to love. The paintings amount to a public declaration, though in the past Lee and Mattie were always so determined to maintain their privacy, to not let the viewer read anything definitive about sex or gender in the work they made about one another.
But what kind of privacy had they maintained, inviting the fashion photographers into the place where they made art? Why should that still bother Lee? All of that is over now. Lee drifts from canvas to canvas, pausing for the requisite time in front of each one, then sleepwalking on to the next. Seeing the paintings one by one is like watching a person—the artist—fall in love.
Lee has the sense that something has been taken, stolen, though Lee cannot say what exactly is lost. Lee cannot and will not think, My entire life. Allowing that thought will only make it much harder to recover, to wait until everything changes once again—and reverses itself, for the better.
All rights reserved. At the Palazzo Grassi, Venice, a careerspanning exhibition of paintings by Albert Oehlen, entitled Cows by the Water, went on view in the spring of He varies his subject matters as well as the painting methods he uses. In doing so, he opens windows on the very definition of what a painting can be. He moves from abstraction to figuration, from collage to Computer Painting, from Finger Malerei a work painted with the fingers to the brush, from gray paintings crisscrossed by brushstrokes to multicolored abstract ones.
I often heard about him that he is a sort of punk, always radically questioning a posture, a sacred rapport with art. His works call us to go back to them several times and to always find new ways to read them. Many artists refer to him as their hero, from Christopher Wool to Wade Guyton and Julie Mehretu, for example, because of his radical relation to the work and the way in which he always displaces the subject, both in the way he paints and in the materials he uses.
In order to grasp his work, we built on the relationship with music, and specifically free jazz, as a metaphor for his approach. The free-jazz musician is a virtuoso who, in each of his improvisations, risks failure in order to, maybe, find a new sound, a new experience of music.
In selecting the pieces, we also chose to display those more rarely seen. We started from his most recent work and mixed different time periods. The angle is thus to have an original display, which is not chronological but rather based on a syncopated rhythm, mixing genres and years. Oehlen is an artist who likes persevering. If certain themes reappear throughout his work, it is to delve deeper, to test his own work, to tackle these themes differently each time, and to always try For example, in Elevator Painting he combines eight paintings from and one from I am very interested in improvised music, of course.
First of all, because I like it, and also because my painting—particularly what I am doing now, but also the older work—always suggests that it was done quickly, and is therefore comparable to improvised music. Computers open a window onto the future. Here things are reversed. The painter corrects the pixels, and ultimately the computer image gives rise to a hand-painted picture. Oehlen thinks from the start that any subject can be addressed; that even if we start with a figurative representation, it will eventually lead us toward abstraction, perhaps the ultimate form of his work.
Oehlen ends up asking: is this this painting a painting? Freedom for me means playing. It does not mean to be in a void and make crazy moves. It means to play with your own rules. I am convinced that I cannot achieve beauty via a direct route; that can only be the result of deliberation. Otherwise, we would be back at. No seduction; no reliance on color to manipulate you; no affirmation of acquired knowledge; no reliance on these techniques; but instead, constant transcendence. On the contrary, his work requires the viewer to pause, to take time to look, feel, and think. He also incorporates an element of random chance, for instance when he uses colors he still.
His work also alludes to the realities of the world, although never in a demonstrative manner, but rather as an echo. In doing so, Oehlen leads us to constantly push back our limits and our preconceptions and to let us be guided by a hitherto unknown music. Text originally published in the tenth issue of the Pinault Collection journal. Republished here with their kind permission, April— September Oehlen, in an interview with Rainald Goetz, published in Monopol Using a range of media mirrors, cloth, posters, etc. The same concerns seem to reappear throughout his work, in particular those related to abstract painting, to questions of color, form, meaning, but always pushing their treatment further.
The Computer Paintings series, the Conduction series inspired by orchestra conductors , the so-called Trees series, or even the Finger Malerei series are all examples of a work on lines, gestures, movements, but which put us in a paradoxical position between expression subjective, heroic and commentary thoughtful and controlled.
Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind How not to think of words like cargo and jettison, each syllable a last breath, vesicles rising to the surface of the sea. How not to think of loss, how it takes hold and grows: like lacuna snails, slow and deliberate, on a reed? In dreams, I am a child again, underwater, my limbs sluggish as I struggle to wake. I am pursued. And now this thirst: how many times have I cupped my hands to drink, found—in the map of my palms—this same pattern: lines crossed and capillary as veins in the body, these willowy reeds?
Poem originally published in Poetry London. Cole painted his great series after taking a grand tour of Europe in which he studied works by old master painters. He was particularly moved by the historical rise and decline of ancient civilizations, in particular Rome. Upon his return to the United States in the early s, he began his magnum opus. His ideal state for humans was living in harmony in an Arcadian environment, as seen in his Arcadian State. Here you see the beginnings of all of the arts, including architecture, dance, and music.
Passing through the Arcadian state, we come to The Consummation of Empire, a moment of greed where humans have overbuilt the landscape in an excessive way. Next is the ultimate destruction that greed leads to, where the built environment is completely destroyed; on the. Then finally comes desolation, where the human presence disappears altogether, nature returns, and the historical cycle begins again. Here, in typical fashion, Cole puts a smiling face on the moon—he always embedded these wonderful symbols in his works.
Can you tell us how those works came about? Collection of Donald B. Marron, New York. Ed Ruscha sat down with Tom McCarthy and Elizabeth Kornhauser, curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to discuss the nineteenthcentury artist Thomas Cole, whose Course of Empire paintings inspired a series of works by Ruscha more than a century later. The tarmac is the canvas and the letters get caught up in the bushes. Then you do this forensic retrospect, where you photograph each bit like a road-accident investigator.
Our Yucatan: Tales and Poems, Mostly True, But LacedWith Artistic License
Two friends of mine and I were driving back from Las Vegas and we had a broken typewriter in the car, one with a broken frame. It was no longer useful whatsoever. Ed Ruscha. It was a Sunday so I saw empty parking lots, which ushered me into making this official statement for myself to photograph empty parking lots. Letters are like houses and storefronts, and houses and storefronts and vacant lots are like letters and words, with gaps in between.
So landscape for you is a kind of syntax. So he favored mountains. Curiously enough, Cole knew about daguerreotypes, and as against progress as he was, he was really in tune with them, so he may have known about the camera obscura and the camera lucida as well. Still, he was a painter who went to his site, looked over the scene, and then interpreted that scene.
I took a helicopter ride over Los Angeles one day and I noted two different things: swimming pools, just the enormous number. Then we began thinking about it and we realized that maybe there was some kind of treasure chest back there. Maybe we should revisit this place, go back, and see how it fell and came apart. So we returned. We had a little bit of trouble finding the point of impact.
One of the friends was a photographer, Patrick Blackwell, so he decided to record the scattering of the elements that came apart. We looked at it almost like a crime scene, recording and measuring between each location. Then we gathered all the parts together, not really knowing why, and put them into a big box, a box larger than the actual typewriter, and brought it back to Los Angeles.
What suggested the ribbon form to you, and what led to it serving as a metaphor, a material, and a medium all at once? ER I think it goes back to traveling on a highway. I did a lot of hitchhiking and driving across the United States, just driving and looking. I became interested in the idea of the landscape, and the leftto-right vision that happens. Things that were long and skinny appealed to me—they were sort of like a tail with a beginning and an ending, and I thought that was something I needed to get down on paper or on canvas.
TM Or on tarmac, right? ER Yes. TM For me, one of the most important works of the last hundred years is Royal Road Test , where you threw a typewriter out the window of a speeding. Lauder, President. Each one of those little screws and fittings had its own name in the typewriter world. We put the box of typewriter parts outside the back door of his apartment and his maid threw it out.
So we lost all the parts but we had the photographs. It just grew from there. TM To me it seems loaded with symbolism.
This is about the downfall of royalty, right? Or is that just totally an accident? Neda Young, New York. Any idea is acceptable. When did you first come across Cole? When did you decide to do this kind of reprise? They stopped me in my tracks, especially when I realized what they were and what they meant as a narration, a series put together to tell a story. This progression of the passage of civilization seemed really profound. And then I wondered how many artists in the course of art history had tackled this subject, and it was hard to think of anyone else who had done that up to the time of Thomas Cole.
In the early s, I had done a series of black and white paintings of boxes with words on them that got me thinking about traveling in industrial parks and visiting places that were cold and turned-off-ish. Later on those paintings began to itch in the back of my mind. They can grow and change.
So I made them grow and change in little isolated, individual imaginations. TM You made the black and white paintings in , and then the color ones in —05, right? In each case, the place is run down, the phone booth is gone, the trade school is fenced up. All of the structures appear to be industrial units. The critic Mary Richards calls them minimalist boxes.
Is this all instinctive or are you trying to work through ideas about economic cycles? New-York Historical Society. Collection of Joan and Irwin Jacobs. ER He opened up a viewing chasm. My intrigue here came about through movies, through seeing a train coming out of the lower-right-hand corner of the screen and zooming through the picture. They use that technique often in movies, it shows travel and movement. Somehow that cinematic format worked for me, and I began to see it as a zoom effect in my work. TM I want to bring up another type of temporality. We talked about repetition and cycles, which connect to how Cole saw everything and also feature in your work.
Another way of thinking about time would just be degradation. Museumsstiftung Post und Telekommunikation. It was so lonely, and it seemed forgotten. So it became iconic to me to get this down and make it official in a painting. I was stunned—my hand went right through the door and smashed it. I healed up, life went on, and a few years later I photographed my wrist, where I had a big scar. So I reenacted the photograph in It was cyclical. This was important for Nietzsche, Marx, and James Joyce: they get all their ideas about cyclical time from Vico. Joyce built the whole of Finnegans Wake around this idea of ricorso or reflow.
And then I read an interview with you where you were asked what your favorite poem is and you said any random page of Finnegans Wake. You know, he did many examples of these works. ER Yeah. But I began seeing the remaining four as standalone paintings, paintings unto themselves, so that made the middle painting, The Consummation of.
So, through their repetition of the same word, which the envelope work has already flagged up or staked out, your beautiful Standard gas stations seem to be reprising a moment of European visual modernism. Is this ongoing working-through itself worked through, or does it find its path more intuitively? ER I get my inspiration from just about everything, even things I hate, and they all combine into a Mixmaster of thought and activity. But they are still pictorial to me.
I get my inspiration from just about everything, even things I hate, and they all combine into a Mixmaster of thought and activity. My soundtrack might be something like the overlapping of two unlikely radio stations that produce crackle and aggravating noise. Your Course of Empire works are even more exaggerated panoramas.
Photos by Paul Ruscha. Image Credit: Elliott Hundley, the high house low! Wood, sound board, inkjet print on Kitakata, paper, pins, magnifying glass, photographs, plastic, metal. The Broad Art Foundation. Empire, which is actually the more important painting, not such a good painting. It took him almost two years to finish.
He had to abandon it at a certain point, just for relief from struggling with it. ER The Consummation painting, with all its glory, power, and people, reminds me of the paintings of Canaletto, and of the other Venice artists who painted buildings ad infinitum. For that reason I. TM What about this beginning-to-end arc? Is Expansion of the Old Tires Building optimistic or pessimistic?
Does Ruscha time move in a loop? Or does it just degrade, like Samuel Beckett time? ER Well, I always liked the abstractness of movies that had scratches on the film, these little blips and mistakes that occur when a film goes through a projector. Text by Angela Brown.
Nadie es alguien, un solo hombre inmortal es todos los hombres [Nobody is somebody, one immortal man is all men]. If there is a line between the two, do we draw it ourselves or is it drawn for us? Taryn Simon continuously asks such questions in her meticulously researched multimedia works. Her photographic projects suggest the impossibility of a universal visual language by revealing how the confines of an image can distort our perception of the world, as well as our place within it.
Photographs today, especially those posted on social media, often seem to present the same scenes over and over, perhaps with slight variations in color, angle, and caption. An enormous and diverse network of people can curate, frame, and edit glimpses of their lives, to be uploaded onto a global platform, an infinite digital archive. At a time when the photographic process is faster than ever, Simon slows it down. By prioritizing research and data collection, she underscores the inherent subjectivity of the medium, showing how combinations of text and image give way to countless contradictions.