Francesca Woodman, British Museum, Class

Dear Blog,

Hi, it's me, Celine. On Tuesday we were supposed to go to the British Museum, then class. With a a museum induced agoraphobia quickly setting in, I cheated and went to the Victoria Miro gallery on the east end to see a show of Francesca Woodman's prints. I was really taken with her work. It seems swift and almost unplanned, as if the photographs are documentation of her responding to the work around her. In some images, she constrains the body, wrapping, pinching, confining it, while in others she fragments the body by using squares of glass to reflect light back at the camera, obscuring the body part being covered. She is constantly involved in a game of concealing and revealing, sometimes covering the body to blend in with the natural environment (I believe these were done at the same time as Ana Mendietta, but must look into this) and in several images leaving traces of the body in space.

V&A, Barbican

Hello Blog,

It’s me, Celine. On Monday we had a tour of the V&A with Glenn Adamson. Spent the day there, and ended it by going to the Barbican center to catch the Damien Ortega show. Stayed at the Barbican for the National Theatre of Scotland's performance of Black Watch.

To start with, I am creepily obsessed with Glenn Adamson's brain. Wanted to ask for his autograph or possibly something he has licked. He had some surprising things to say about craft- here are a couple of quotes.

"Post-disciplinarity is great as long as people remember they still need to know how to make things"

"Artists have complete responsibility of the manner in which their work is made"

Artist who outsource their work are "dealing in the medium of other people's hands"

After the tour, I lurked in the background like an over-caffeinated gollum waiting to pounce on him and ask more questions. Despite my creepy persistence he got away. I wanted to ask him how he felt about the use of the word 'handmade' in contemporary art (and actually, now that I think about it, the use of said word in advertising) and also what he thought about the idea that making is inherently political. This idea is being pushed hard by the DIY movement, and I am becoming increasingly jaded and cynical about the whole mess.

One of my favorite pieces in the V&A was Cornelia Parker's 2001 commission for the museum entitled Breathless. Parker has steamrolled the brass instruments, squeezing the breath from them as one squeezes toothpaste from a tube. The lifeless shells are then "pinned like butterflies" as Glenn put it, in the museum's collection- deflated of their former glory.

The V&A was completely overwhelming; felt like my brain was being put through a juicer. Spent a shameful amount of time thinking about finding a corner I could crawl into and take a nap. Finally found one on the fourth floor in the form of a movie theatre from the 20's playing relaxing ragtime. Thought better of it and decided to take my sickly, sniffy self in hand and go learn something. Ended up in the William Morris area. Noisy wallpaper. Very beautiful wife.

On the first floor was Shadow Catchers: Camera-less Photography, the featured exhibition. I was surprised by how much of the work seemed to have a spiritual bent to it: take the piece to the left (Floris Neusüss, 'Bin Gleich Zurück, (Be Right Back), 1984/87, Gelatin-silver print and wooden chair). Neususs' photogram uses the basics of photography (recording light on light-sensitive paper) in an incredibly direct way; a way that is somehow more direct, visceral, and indicates a respect for/ belief in/ reverence towards the aura of the individual. It is also akin to a mourning piece; who has left the chair? When will they be back? Where have they gone? The chair is a physical object, left behind almost as proof that the shadow recorded on the photosensitive paper came from a real person.

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Saw a play in the evening entitled "Black Watch" performed by the National Theatre of Scotland. And yes, they were from Scotland, possibly the sexiest country in the world if you close your eyes. (No offense Scotland, I simply mean that the Scottish accent is delectable. Like pie. A really good pie.) Surprisingly, the troupe broke into song several times, interpreting traditional Scottish folk

songs. Twa Recruitin' Sergeants in particular was completely intoxicating, with soaring harmonies and a haunting piano refrain trailing behind the vocals. Another example can be found here -- the song starts about 2'44" in. But I get ahead of myself. The play recounted the experiences of a group of soldiers from the Black Watch deployed to Afghanistan for their second tour. The setting sways back and forth from Afghanistan to a pub in Scotland several years later where the remaining men are being interviewed by a journalist trying to understand their experiences. It is an all male cast, and the only characters save the civilian journalist are Scottish soldiers. Through the unwinding of their experiences, it becomes obvious that the journalist's questions are naive, basic, and thoroughly inadequate. He is a surrogate for the public, struggling to make sense of the war. This was a touching, brutal, and inspired play. It was particularly revealing to see after attending War Horse, a very different kind of play that detailed a very different kind of war. One of the best scenes can be found on youtube - it has a wonderful folk song followed by a quick history of the Black Watch from the 1700's on.

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Also saw Damien Ortega's installation at the Barbican. It was a collection of sculptural works made in response to a news article chosen over the course of one month (September 2010, I believe). One reason I felt so drawn to this show was that each piece became a conversation with the artist- partially because we had access to the source material to which he was responding.

Fourth Plinth

Hello Blog,

It’s me, Celine. On Sunday we had class in the morning, followed by a visit to Trafalgar square to see the fourth plinth. We then went on to the ICA. Ended the evening with a dinner of bangers and mash at Whitehall with Iain and caught a showing of The King’s Speech with Emily.

Yinka Shonibare's Nelson's Ship in a Bottle is currently on the plinth. It is a recreation of the ship Nelson commanded in the battle of Trafalgar. This ship, however, has sails made of brightly colored and patterned fabric of the kind commonly found in West Africa. I've included a picture below I took several years ago in Benin that demonstrates an array of such fabrics. On the plaquard next to the plinth, Shonibare explains that this work "considers the birth of the British empire and multiculturalism in Britain today". This seems overly joyful and celebratory

compared to much of Shonibare's work, which consists of headless life-sized dummies shooting, raping, or dehumanizing other dummies (all clad in elaborate Victorian dress made from African fabrics). Like the rest of his oeuvre, a more complex, possibly sinister interpretation lies not far from the surface. The British empire profited hugely from the transatlantic slave trade, ferrying manufactured goods, captured men and women, and teas, coffee and spices in a triangle spanning three continents. This history is certainly embedded in the idea of multiculturalism. But there is also a confusing mix of cultures that has cropped up over the centuries; a confusion that is captured perfectly by Shonibare's use of the 'African' fabrics. While these fabrics have been sold the world over as African, their history is much more nuanced. Their origin lies in the woven patterns of African tribal ware. The patterns were reproduced in the west using batik (a fabric dying process) and over the years have been modernized; bright colors and complex, intense patterns are now commonplace, with unexpected images such as telephones showing up in the prints. Furthermore, the most expensive, highly regarded of these fabrics are produced in Holland, not in Africa. So what has come to be seen as a symbol of a cultural tradition is in fact a network of international relationships spanning several centuries.

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Emily has asked us to propose a piece for exhibition on the plinth. Prepare for genius.

I would propose a large, slumped bone, broken in two and tied back together with an anchor hitch. The entire piece would be made of cast rubber. I believe this proposal would touch on the physical toll of war, and would symbolize the role of war in nation building. I am also fascinated by the symbolic power of the knot in relation to the body; knotting a bone is not only absurd, it is ineffective, yet knotting is a form of repair commonly used to mend things in the external world.

Alternately, I would propose that a larger than life bronze cast of Nelson's missing arm be displayed horizontally on the plinth.

Westminster, Tate, Jurack

Hello Blog,

It’s me, Celine. On Friday we took a tour of Westminster Abbey, followed by a visit to the Tate Britain to see the Eadweard Muybridge show and Rachel Whiteread’s drawings. We ended the day with a talk from visiting artist Brigitte Jurack, who is German in nationality and teaches at Manchester University.

I was intrigued by Jurack's work.

At some point she began talking about the student protests, explaining the horrible injustice of her student's fees being tripled with one fell swoop with the help of the party that pledged to keep student fees consistant. She was genuinely upset, and seemed to be on the point of either crying or throwing something at points. She said that all this must be old hat for the Americans, and that maybe we weren't upset by the situation. I replied by saying that the American system was not going to change, and that if we were angry all the time we would be constantly depressed. Not my most eloquent moment. It elicited an outburst, and people started venting their frustration (most of which seemed aimed at me, oddly). By the end of the conversation, in which, predictably, nothing was accomplished or settled on, I was angry without really knowing why. But looking back, I think I was frustrated and upset with Brigitte. Well meaning though she was, she was despairing and lashing out against a system that she had never been subject to- she was speaking with fervor about students going into debt and how that would mar their futures for decades, as if trying to convince us that the system was broken. There is no need to tell me that I'm fucked. I know it. But what the hell else would you have us do? The British students are, even now, far far better off than their American counterparts. As for the student loan debt, I was insulted and angered that someone who had never had to live with the reality of student loans would be lecturing people who had consciously decided to take on debt to finance their future. Don't tell me that my life is going to be harder because of student loans, I know it will be, but again, what else am I supposed to do? I felt talked down to and almost scolded without knowing why. A depressing and disheartening way to end the day.

Serpentine, Saatchi, Globe

Hello Blog,

It’s me, Celine. On Thursday we went to the Serpentine Gallery, the Saatchi Gallery and had a tour of the Globe Theatre (a faithful reproduction of the theatre Shakepeare had built for his acting troupe). There were many crafty blobjects to be enjoyed by all (and yes, spellcheck, I mean blobjects, NOT ‘projects’). The highlight of the day was Phillippe Parreno’s exhibit at the Serpentine. It consisted of several choreographed videos that moved the audience through the Serpentine’s five four open rooms. Rather than playing on loop, the videos played in sequence, with the next video calling out as the previous video ended. The work spoke of loss; loss of reality, liberty, identity, and life. The most lyrical was titled June 8th, 1968. It was a simple five minute video shot from the point of view of those on board JFK's funeral train as it wound its way from Dallas to Washington DC in the days following his assasination. We the audience look out on beautiful windswept landscapes populated by various stony faced citizens who stare solemnly back at the camera, saying nothing. The only sounds are the train and the wind through the trees.

After each video, the curtains are raised. I was delighted to notice after the first video that it was snowing outside; the kind of lovely, gentle snow that one associates with childhood. As I came close to the floor length windows facing Kensington gardens, I noticed breath marks on the glass, at a child’s height, although there was no child in the room. It was only later that I realized both the snow and the breath marks were a part of the installation; the breath was actually etched onto the glass, while the snow was made of soap bubbles, timed to fall after the curtains rose.

Throughout the gallery there were also towers of plugs rising from the embedded outlets in the floor, plugs from all over the world, fitting male to female in a bizarre game of blocks, terminating in a plain orange night light. This collection of plug installations served to guide the gallery goers from room to room.

The Tate and 'War Horse'

Dear Blog,

Hi, it's me, Celine. Wednesday, our group visited the Tate Modern. In the evening, we saw "War Horse" at the New London Theatre.

Our experience of the Tate was predictably dominated by the Ai Wei Wei piece entitled Sunflower Seeds. It is a mutable installation piece commissioned by the Tate, and consists of one hundred million handmade porcelain sunflower seeds covering a large rectangular portion of the vast turbine hall. At first glance, the piece is vastly understated; the porcelain seeds could be gravel taken from a parking lot. When I was close enough to the installation to see the hand painted ink stripes on each porcelain seed, an eerie sense of loos crept over me. Suddenly the silence of the space resonated like the dry air of a tomb. The work seemed static, dead. Strangely prophetic and accusatory; I felt sad and unaccountably uncomfortable.

The most successful and fascinating aspect of this work was its site specificity; it is the abstracted portrait of a town and a people who have lost their livlihood. Sunflower Seeds carries with it traces of its 1,600 makers. In other ways, I found the limitations of this piece severely disappointing. In the following youtube video, the originally intended interaction between viewer and work is demonstrated, as waves of people walk on the seeds.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=td3_EKX1Igo

There was also a place to record questions we had for Ai Weiwei, that were then uploaded to the Tate website. I asked if Ai if he personally thought that the act of making was inherently political, particularly in a culture where things could be purchased so easily. This question was fueled by thinking about the Craftivist movement, which makes that very claim. I'm currently working on a paper about Craftivism; I am very skeptical of several aspects of this movement. The video I recorded at the Tate can be found here:

http://aiweiwei.tate.org.uk/content/755001415001

I found a correlation between his work and that of Lisa Norton, who, in a series of work entitled Systems for Habitable Spaces, commissions craftspeople in China to carve mass-produced objects.

While contemplating this work, I found myself thinking about Craftivism. Sunflower Seeds took an entire town two years to complete; a tour de force of energy and craftsmanship. And the intention of the artist was undoubtedly bound up in socially responsible considerations-- could this work be seen as an example of successful Craftivism?

Questions I'm still mulling over:

-What is the significance of the number of seeds?

-What is the political nature of the work?

-Do you believe that the act of making is inherently political?

-Could a relationship be drawn between your work and the British born 'slow movement'?

-How do you feel about the representation of Chinese citizens as sunflower seeds?

-Why did you want your audience to walk on the seeds? Why not choose another form of interaction that did not involve having the seeds on the floor?

-Why did you choose to emphasize the sunflower seeds' collective surface area rather than their weight or volume?

-Sunflower seeds can be seen as an ambiguous symbol- either emblamatic of potential growth or the shell of spent possibilities. What larger metaphoric meanings were you considering when using this Maoist symbol?

-Place vs. Displacement = your work seems very concerned with the particularities of place, using symbols materials and methods of making that are specific (and perhaps unique) to the community in which they were made. What do you want this work to gain by its displacement to another country?

-How much control was it necessary to reliquish in the direction and completion of this massive project? Did you see it as a collaboration? What did loss of control add to the work?

Turner Prize

Dear Blog,

It's me, Celine. Yesterday we went to the 2010 Turner prize exhibition at the British Museum. The finalists were Dexter Dalwood (painter), The Otolith Group (video), Angela De La Cruz (painter/sculptor), and Susan Philipsz (sound installation). I'll say upfront that I couldn't stay awake for the Otolith Group's 45 minute video-- after a red-eye flight to London, the dark lights and soft audio were lulling me to sleep. I only lasted about 15 minutes, not enough to properly judge their exhibit.

Dezter Dalwood's paintings were interesting-- he painted in a style that consciously affected the style of collage, creating depth and then contradicting his efforts with flat, bold expanses of paint that look as if they came from a magazine (or a Russian propoganda leaflet).

Dexter Dalwood, Greenham Common, 2008.

Each painting is a pastiche; not only of artwork found in most art history textbooks, but of important, albeit obscure, moments in history. Greenham Common, in its setting, seems to reference Manet's Dejeuner Sur L'herbe. The white expanse bounded by a gestural line seen in the lower left seems to suggest a drooping arm- the most direct reference to the absence of human subjects in the body of work presented at the Tate. The work's title, Greenham Common, was the name of a defunct U.S. military airfield located in England, opened in the 1930's and closed at the end of the cold war. Dalwood's paintings are highly symbolic, and draw on the rich history of painting to provide abstracted portraits of specific people and places.

Dexter Dalwood, Borroughs in Tangiers, 2005

Although his painting has the bold brushwork and bright color scheme associated with early abstract painting (think fauvism and surrealism) he is committed to drawing deeply from the well of history in the creation of the above domestic scene. Despite the painting's modest size (about 3'x3') Dalwood has managed to cram over five hundred years of art history into it's frame. In the upper left corner, Botticelli's Birth of Venus is shown hanging on the bedroom wall. Around it, the characteristic scribbling and stabbing strokes of Cy Twombly festoon the walls, with a bedspread whose patterning is reminiscent of Gaugin's work. We, the viewers, peer into this scene as if we have just opened a door onto a bedroom that has been violently, even haphazzardly decorated-by a subject who is nowhere to be found.

Angela De La Cruz's wall tag described her work as "sculpture that speaks the language of painting". I found this an apt description, if ultimately falling short of the work's force. De La Cruz paints canvases with slick, bright colors reminiscent of road signs, and mounts them on fractured frames. The effect of such an action is an deflated painting that curiously undermines the medium of which it speaks. In some cases, the canvases are peeling away from their frames, detaching themselves from the history that gives them authority. In others, they flop limply like a dying animal, held upright by steel brackets that act as prosthetic devices. While one could easily criticize the timliness of this work (De La Cruz's work bears a striking similarity to Robert Morris' limp, rectangular sections of industrial felt, first exhibited in the late 196os) it is De La Cruz's remarkable attention to detail and subtle additions to her historical precedents that make this work so poignant. Like Dalwood, she is fully aware of painting's history, and makes reference to this knowledge in her work. Unlike Dalwood, De La Cruz simultaneously undermines and supports her medium in a deliciously tongue-in-cheek commentary on the state of contemporary art. A feminist interpretation of this work provides further fruitful territory; De La Cruz engages in the emasculation of painting- violently breaking the frame and allowing the fabric to flow freely, draping, sagging, and taking on sculptural form. She frees her colorfield paintings from their constraints, simultaneously denying the frame's function and accepting the materiality of the frame as a sculptural element.

Angela De La Cruz, Clutter XXL, 2008

Angela De La Cruz, Clutter I, 2003