Apr 15



Apr 8

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a project by RO/LU & Dante Carlos at the Center for Ongoing Research and Projects

Bricks and language and meditation and quiet and nothing and everything and anything in between and books and people and building and taking apart and felt and form and light and questions and discourse and change and disappearing xeroxes of old photos and proposals for parks that were never built and snapshots of holy places taken in the sixties and correspondence from people who have passed away and… contemplation objects.

Exhibit at gallery and book available through COR&P


“It’s what minds do, it’s supposed to happen, it’s part of survival. It ensures survival and it ensures flourishing. So we’re not trying to stop or control thoughts.Thoughts lead to forms. Right? And forms lead to objects. Hopefully, what we are intending is cultivating a wise relationship with thoughts and objects. Sometimes on an airplane you look out the window and you’re in a cloud. And you think “it’s all cloud” and then you emerge from the cloud(s) and then you see it. And you just sense the vastness of what is. When we’re inside a thought and we forget ourselves. We forget our forgetfulness and we forget the fullness of awareness. The whole world can be that cloud.

So how can we be aware of thinking? How can we be aware of objects?

Is thinking a good servant but a poor master? And if we think that is true, what does that mean for the objects and things in our life?

If we are traveling, we need a map. Guidance is really really good. If we want to make a chair, we need to visualize it. What will it look like? We have to go over it and over it. Like waves. Like water. We have to think about it.

But at the same time, we know that anything really good about this moment, if something really matters here, it’s not going to come through thinking. It’s like space, you can make it, but, you can’t have it. So… we have to stop thinking about it.

We use our mind to turn us. To turn us towards the goodness and aliveness.

And we try to remember, the thoughts aren’t the thing itself. It could be almost ANYTHING.” RO/LU after radical acceptance.

Buy the book here. We will be happy and you will be happy.

We loved Columbus OH. We loved everybody we met. We are grateful to the COR&P.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Apr 6

adrian piper mcadAdrian Piper at MCAD

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vito acconci mcadVito Acconci at MCADScreen Shot 2015-04-05 at 9.51.26 AMJudy Chicago at MCADScreen Shot 2015-04-05 at 9.51.19 AMJoseph Beuys at MCAD

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Screen Shot 2015-04-05 at 9.49.38 AMGeorge Morrison at MCAD

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Great archive of images from MCAD’s past here.

via Olivier Abry THX :)

Please enjoy the past, present and future now.


Mar 25


Mar 19

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Wow. It’s so hard for me to describe! Seriously. Def intangible? We made a piece for the Walker Art Center’s Intangibles project that is about so many different things!

Love, memory, art, language, information, teaching, learning, seeing, listening, thinking, growing, showing, sharing, laughing, emerging, intensities, softness, hope, transformations, rhizomes, object-oriented ontologies, hauntology, perfect mistakes, hidden treasures, open fields, nurturing energies, quiet smiles, Texas miles

OK. That’s getting a little silly and it’s actually very serious in many ways too. Luckily, it involves amazing friends and even some of our heroes. People like Jo-ey Tang, David Hamlow… well, here’s from the Walker’s website…

Let Me Know … is a potential exhibition. An exhibition that hasn’t happened yet. An exhibition RO/LU hopes will happen. It is the result of a series of connections, sometimes intentional and otherwise not. Connections between RO/LU and the Walker’s artist book collection, beginning with memories of Rosemary Furtak, the Walker’s longtime librarian for which the book collection is named; continuing through the Walker’s sculpture storage and archives; breathing as art that we can’t see in the sculpture garden; coming back through time, to the history of artists young and old; living through Margit Wilson, the Walker’s new librarian; and enacted in undetermined locations in the future. It is, practically speaking, a .zip file that contains images, videos, audio recordings, and text files, as well as didactics, wall labels, and a graphic identity designed by Walker Art Center designer Dante Carlos. It is priced to be accesible to most, like an out-of-print book. ​It is RO/LU’s hope that the purchaser will stage this exhibition in their home, at their school, in the gallery they run, or where they work. This work responds to works by Scott Burton, James Lee Byars, John Cage, Jean Dubuffet, Marcel Duchamp, Isa Genzken, Dan Graham, David Hammons, Eva Hesse, Rei Kawakubo, Mike Kelley, Ellsworth Kelly, Kris Martin, Bruce Nauman, Przemek Pyszczek, Robert Rauschenberg, Dieter Roth, Ed Ruscha, Kurt Schwitters, Tony Smith, Haim Steinbach, Saul Steinberg, Jo-ey Tang, Diana Thater, Paul Thek, Anne Truitt, Franz Erhard Walther, Andy Warhol, Franz West and more.

Folders included in the .zip file:


And here’s the link:


A chance to support the project, support the Walker support us and have some fun. We hope you buy it, stage it, read it like a book, think about it, let it change you for the better… then tell us about it and send us some pictures? Maybe you could have a party? Send everybody a file to print and bring? Or maybe it’s a contemplative thing for you and your time.

There are so many amazing people involved and this story in the New York Times about  the whole project will give you a better idea. We were kinda sad that they didn’t mention our piece but, that’s ok! There was this thing! :)

It’s always one of my favorite things at the end of project… gratitude. So THX to the memory of Rosemary Furtak and the help of Margit Wilson, Jo-ey Tang, Przemek Pyszczek and Kegan McFadden, David Hamlow, Dante Carlos, Olga Viso, Gene Pittman for photography, Andy Underwood for video, Emmet Byrne, Michele Tobin, Jill Vujovich, CFCF, Allen Ruppersburg, Goshka Macuga, Alexis Georgopoulos, the Walker and the Walker Shop.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Mar 7

20150306_Berthold_Pott_0023 Kopie20150306_Berthold_Pott_0016 Kopie 20150306_Berthold_Pott_0018 Kopie20150306_Berthold_Pott_0022 Kopie20150306_Berthold_Pott_0026 Kopie 20150306_Berthold_Pott_0027 Kopie 20150306_Berthold_Pott_0029 Kopie 20150306_Berthold_Pott_0030 Kopie 20150306_Berthold_Pott_0035 Kopie20150306_Berthold_Pott_0051 KopieSO PSYCHED ABOUT PRZEMEK’s SHOW IN COLOGNE :)

Building Systems – Przemek Pyszczek at Berthold Pott

Really wish I could go IRL. I do have a little RO/LU things happening through the Walker Art Center soon that involves Przemek and his work. Super excited about that too. More about that soon.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Mar 7

11021261_1087577064593123_1726844267601542122_nPrescribe The Sympton – Aejandro Cesarco

Midway Contemporary Art March 6 – April 18, 2015

Can’t wait.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Mar 5

Screen Shot 2015-03-05 at 12.52.04 PMEric Timothy Carlson tonight at Patrick Parrish!

Go. And post a lot of pics in Instagram please.

And tag me rolumatt since i can’t go.

And please enjoy the time and space.


Mar 2

jan vercruysseBig. huge, giant Jan Vercruysse k-hole type thing happening here at RO/LU today :) It feels kinda like looking at Joe!

Please enjoy your time and space.


Feb 24


ALEJANDRO CESARCO: Loyalties and Betrayals
28 February – 4 April 2015 at Murray Guy

Opening Saturday 28 February, 6 – 8pm

‘Loyalties and Betrayals’ flirts with the possibilities of memory as both the object and instrument of our desires. The exhibition puts in relation ideas of personal narrative, surface and silence, style and aging, influence and inheritance, and includes the following works:

‘Allegory, or, The Perils of the Present Tense’, 2015 16mm film transferred to digital, color, silent, 9:30 minutes. Cesarco’s most recent video is composed of a fragmented text, appearing as inter-titles, interspersed with snapshot-like images of memories. Throughout the work conjectures about the past are balanced against promises of the future. By talking about the past the artist is also talking about his wants or desires. In this sense, talking about the past becomes a way of talking about the future; of fashioning a future.

‘Mirrored Portrai’t, 2015, 16mm film transferred to digital, color, silent, 3:50 minutes. After sixteen years of not seeing each other Cesarco invited his first photo-graphy teacher, Panta Astiazarán, to take his portrait while Cesarco, in turn, would film a portrait of him. Mirrored Portrait is the documentation of this action. The work aligns itself with Cesarco’s previous explorations of autobiography and representations of “father figures”: particularly, ‘Zeide Isaac’ (2009) and ‘Present Memory’ (2010).

‘Words With Ruscha’, 2014, two framed ink-jet prints, 50 x 40 inches (127 x 100 cm) each. Two photographs with differing perspective of the same museum-like introductory wall text for a fictitious Ed Ruscha retro-spective based chiefly around ideas of banality and boredom. 

‘Untitled (Remembered)’, 2014, framed ink-jet print, 24 x 31.5 inches (61 x 80 cm). Perhaps the domestic equivalent of Words With Ruscha, Untitled (Remem-bered) presents a text on methodologies and typologies of remembering among piles of books and a wide range of ephemera that range from a vintage postcard of a statue of Mercury in repose to a still of Monica Vitti in L’ avventura.

‘A Portrait of the Artist Approaching Forty’ (I-III), 2013, Three framed ink-jet prints, 5 x 7 inches (13 x 18 cm) each. I. Walking the Studio or “Of course life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work–the sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from the outside–the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don’t show their effect all at once.” II. Pacing the Studio or “There is another sort of blow that comes from within – that you don’t feel until it’s too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again.” III. Mapping the Studio or “The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick – the second kind happens almost without your knowing it but is realized suddenly indeed.”

Wall treatments in collaboration with Martin Beck.

Can someone make up a reason for me to go to New York during this show so i can see? 

Let me know (in every sense of the phrase.)

And please enjoy your time and space.


Feb 23

Kawara-1991.90.1-.5Haven’t read this yet. Was so excited I just thought I’d share it first :)

More here at the Walker Art Center.

“There are two On Kawaras—the late conceptual artist, and the auto-tweeting “I AM STILL ALIVE” Twitterbot—and Okumura Yuki has met them both. Here he shares his video interview with @On_Kawara creator Pall Thayer and his experiences meeting Kawara (who’s real name was likely Atsushi Kawahara).”–Paul Schmelzer

Please enjoy your time and space.


Feb 23

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My boy Patrick Parrish always used to say “you must love Noguchi!” and I always said “shit yes! of course.” I think PP figured the landscape related work, the furniture, the art… it was an obvious and huge influence. But I feel like I’m still getting to know Noguchi.

I hope it never ends… it won’t.

Always loved these playgrounds. Was so psyched and grateful to learn that Herman Miller restored them.

Oh BTW seems like AAPC is back a bit which bodes well for us all :)

Please enjoy your time and space.


Feb 17

IMG_0094-630x472Super cool to see Cali Thornhill DeWitt on 032c  :)

032c – I guess there’s nothing more Hollywood than a benzo overdose.

CTDW – Yeah, it’s true. But that struggle exists everywhere—the struggle of being devoted to ego.

Need to start keeping up with witchhat.biz again!

Please enjoy the time and space.


Feb 14

Spike_IC_001 edited Spike_IC_002 Spike_IC_003 Spike_IC_004 Spike_IC_005 Spike_IC_006 Spike_IC_007 Spike_IC_008 Spike_IC_009 Spike_IC_010 Spike_IC_011 Spike_IC_012 Spike_IC_013 Spike_IC_014 Spike_IC_015 Spike_IC_016 Spike_IC_017 Spike_IC_018Spike_IC_033 Spike_IC_034 Spike_IC_035 Spike_IC_036 Spike_IC_037 Spike_IC_038 Spike_IC_039 Spike_IC_040 Spike_IC_041 Spike_IC_042Spike_IC_043Témoins oculaires – Isabelle Cornaro

(It’s a two-part exhibit and I’m obsessed. See part 2 here. These pics via Balice Hertling. Thanks Daniele!)

Spike Island and the South London Gallery join forces for a two-part solo exhibition by the French artist Isabelle Cornaro, the winner of the prestigious Prix Ricard in 2010. The presentation in Bristol, Témoins oculaires (meaning ‘eye witnesses’), focuses on new and recent work and runs from 24 January to 29 March 2015.

Isabelle Cornaro works with painting, sculpture, film and installation to explore the influence of history and culture on our perception of reality. A trained art historian, specialising in sixteenth-century European Mannerism, her visual language draws on a wide array of references, from the Baroque to modernist abstraction. Cornaro uses found objects imbued with emotional value or symbolic potential such as hair, jewellery, measuring tools, coins or rugs, which she presents in different media and types of display to reveal the subtle shifts of meaning induced by processes of reproduction and translation.

At Spike Island, Cornaro presents a series of specially commissioned installations in which she continues her investigation into composition, visual perception and interpretation. These tableaux, which could be described as physical representations of the act of watching, activate specific viewpoints reminiscent of cinematic and editing techniques (framing, focus, close-up, wide angle, tracking, sequence shot etc.). Each tableau creates a self-contained space with varying perspectives, in which the objects are returned to their ‘destiny of fetishes, which is to shine from a distance’, in the words of the French film critic Serge Daney.

Paysage avec poussin (South London Gallery) and Témoins oculaires (Spike Island) is the first collaboration of its kind between two leading public British galleries. 

Please enjoy the time and space.


Feb 14

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Paysage avec poussin – Isabelle Cornaro

This is the second set of images from this two-part exhibit co-presented by The South London Gallery and Spike Island. The first group of images is here. Images via Balice Hertling. (Thanks Daniele!)

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jan 18

Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Rodrigo Hernández Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Rodrigo Hernández Rodrigo_Hernandez_gentle_scorpio9 Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Go, gentle scorpio Rodrigo_Hernandez_gentle_scorpio14 Rodrigo_Hernandez_gentle_scorpio15GO, GENTLE SCORPIO

“The head is the most important part of the figure,

The body and the legs are less weighty

Active hands are emphasized, like speaking mouths

Quantity is used to emphasize intensity.

Inactive, unimportant or uninteresting parts are only indicated or neglected. There are even figures without bodies. You will find without my explanation in which direction our interest is led, where our attention is absorbed…”

These lines refer to a series of slides of Mexican pre-Columbian sculptures Josef Albers showed during a lecture entitled “Truthfulness in Art”.The audience in the dimly lit room at Harvard in 1940 was able to see the pictures he described. Today, the reader of the transcript can only meet them in his imagination.

There’s an idea to be found in many theories about the origin of sculpture suggesting that the first creation of representations was triggered by mental images or by the perception of accidents, of natural origin or produced by non-iconic human traces. This “fortuitous realism” could be then attributed to a faculty of projection, associated with a better-understood faculty of feature recognition (i.e. the ability to recognize an object from visual clues). Some researchers like the rock expert Robert G. Bednarik have come to say this process has its origin on the inherent ambiguity of visual perception or what he calls “imaginative perception”.

Two main questions behind this project are: What is the starting point of a sculpture? How do you represent something you haven’t yet seen?

In a scene from the movie “Bullets over Broadway” we can see an actress fooling her director and playwright into transforming her character in the play. She does it so openly (to the point of the absurd) that we are led to question to what extent the director is still in control of his own fiction work. One can see a similarity between this process and the one of making sculpture.

(A B-side/ghost-press-release to this text is included in Anna M. Szaflarski’s bi-weekly journal Letters to the Editors, distributed at the opening of the exhibition GO, GENTLE SCORPIO at Parallel /// Oaxaca on the night of the 19th December 2014. Consecutive copies are available from Szaflarski personally when you happen to see or meet her on the street or anywhere else.)

Man o man do we love Rodrigo Hernandez :)

At Parallel Oaxaca Oaxaca, Mexico Date: 12/20 – 01/17

Please enjoy the time and space.


Dec 22, 2014

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Imi Knoebel retrospective at Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg. I want to go.

Please enjoy the time and space.



Dec 19, 2014

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Shiro Kuramata & Hiroshi Sugimoto: Works from the Absent Past at Wright. I guess sometimes… occasionally, I wish I had a lot of money?

Please enjoy the time and space.


Dec 19, 2014


Dec 17, 2014

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Wish I could see the Noam Rappaport show up at James Fuentes in NYC IRL. It’s only up for a few more days so chop chop if you can go and haven’t. It opened on my birthday and in hindsight I probably shoulda taken a trip to celebrate.

Noam was nice enough to share some pics and I like them all! The photos are ©Heather Rasmussen.

This is the sort of thing that makes me miss blogging. I see work that causes me to to email someone and then the next thing you know…

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Here’s an excerpt from the gallery’s press release if you’re in the mood for something more formal.

In the exhibition, Rappaport continues his focus on wall-based works that operate between painting, sculpture and drawing. Using a palette drawn from the constantly regenerating constructed landscape of Southern California, his application of color varies in saturation and ranges from subtle landscape influenced tones, to high-pitched hues of popular graphics. The predominant format of the works explores two or more merged rectangles. In the larger shaped canvases, the meeting of these two geometric forms – perhaps each suggesting figures, ideas or elements of landscape – create an opportunity for the artist to interpret the space where these forms overlap. Rappaport uses this framework to investigate the ‘in-between’ areas of his compositions, occupying them with cut-outs, raised graphic lines, nebulous rings, marks in relief, hard-edged rectangles and collected strokes varying from incidental to semi-purposeful. Painted or sculpted forms, placed at the meeting points of the rectangles, embody the idea of potential in a point of encounter.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Aug 21, 2014

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We are humbled and honored to announce the Walker Art Center’s acquisition of RO/LU’s piece “New, New Orleans, LA (after Alec Soth)” which was created for our Open Field Residency. It’s our first time in a museum collection and we’re deeply grateful to everyone involved… Alec Soth, Olga Viso, Sarah Schultz, Eric Crosby, Ashley Duffalo… and everyone who participated with the piece too.
In 2012 RO/LU was the Open Field Artist-In-Residence at the Walker. For a few weeks we did our best to take over the whole museum with five different but related projects: Making As Thinking, Attention As Place, Doing As Seeing, Participation As Performance and Learning As Sculpture.
The Attention As Place element attempted, in part, to explore the evolution of our relationships because of the internet, Instagram and the way we increasingly depend on photography to tell us stories. It involved contributions from friends of ours, who we mostly communicate with digitally, as well as a few pieces by us.
Originally, we’d wanted to create a life size version of “New Orleans, LA” (2002) an Alec Soth photograph in the Walker’s Permanent Collection. We wondered about creating a work you could enter rather than just remaking the photograph. We didn’t have the time or resources so we settled for making a diorama of the photo. RO/LU’s Sammie Warren experimented with it in many different ways and we finally arrived at a scene that, when viewed by a camera, looks extremely similar to the original photo.
We asked the Walker to display the original photograph, with an open expanse of wall next to it, so participants could hang their version next to his. With the help of our friend Cameron Wittig, we set up the diorama with a laptop, a printer, a camera and a copy of the Walker’s collection catalog Bits and Pieces, open to the entry about New Orleans, LA.
We wanted the piece to go a bit like this: a participant would look into the diorama with their eye, then an attendant would ask if they were familiar with Soth or his photo, they’d be invited to snap a pic, the image would be printed and then an attendant would walk them about 200 ft away upstairs and around a corner to the wall where they’d hang their image. During the walk, the attendant would ask them about the experience they’d just had and suggest they might think about Instagram, Facebook, etc differently.
We were overjoyed with the amount of exchange the piece created. There were a few weird ones, like the guy who swore we were playing a trick on him: that the photo he took wasn’t the one that was printed. And there were a few people who took selfies instead of taking a pic of the diorama scene…which was actually really interesting in a way. We’re excited about the “becoming” that’s inherent to this piece. That the participant photo collection will get bigger each time it’s displayed. I could go on and on about the layers of meaning and ideas that emerged through the work and interaction.
Alec was totally supportive and, maybe this shouldn’t be surprising but, of all the participants, his photo of the diorama looked the most like the original.
Please enjoy the time and space.


Jul 16, 2014

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I first saw the picture of Cy Twombly – in a chair, loafers, wool sox, cape, a single finger draped across his mouth – when he died a few years ago. It was one of those pictures that just felt like it was saturated with energy. I was obsessed for awhile. Was it the room? Was it the clothes? His aura? I would see it from time to time on various tumblr’s out there. The a couple years ago I became more interested in Twombly’s work, especially his sculpture, when I was at Rauschenberg’s for the residency. There were many, many books there.

I didn’t know the story about the photos which is told here in a back issue of 032c. Originally published in Vogue in 1966. Such a fascinating story and so interesting to think about how they look now. Of course, I’ll have to track down the 2003 issue of Nest magazine to absorb their resurfacing.

And here’s Roland Barthes, The Wisdom of Art:

Whatever the metamorphoses of painting, whatever the support and the frame, we are always faced with the same question: what is happening, there? Whether we deal with canvas, paper or wall, we deal with a stage where something is happening (and if, in some forms of art, the artists deliberately intends that nothing should happen, even this is an event, an adventure). So that we must take a painting (let us keep this convenient name, even if it is an old one) as a kind of traditional stage: the curtain rises, we look, we wait, we receive, we understand; and once the scene is finished and the painting removed, we remember: we are no longer what we were: as in ancient drama, we have been iniciated. What I should like to do is consider Twombly in his relation to what constitutes an Event.

What happens on the stage Twombly offers us (whether it is canvas or paper) is something which partakes of several kinds of event, which the Greeks knew very well how to distinguish in their vocabulary: what happens is a fact (pragma), a coincidence (tych?, an outcome (telos), a surprise (apodeston) and an action (drama).


Before everything else, there happen… some pencil strokes, oils, paper, canvas. The instrument of painting is not an instrument. It is a fact. Twombly imposes his materials on us not as something which is going to serve some purpose, but as absolute matter, manifested in its glory (theological vocabulary tells us that the glory of God is the manifestation of his Being). The materials are the materia prima, as for the Alchemists. The materia prima is what exists prior to the division operated by meaning: an enormous paradox since nothing, in the human order, comes to man unless it is immediately accompanied by a meaning, the meaning which other men have given it, and so on, in an infinite regress. The demiurgic power of the painter is in this, that he makes the materials exist as matter; even if some meaning comes out of the painting, pencil and color remain as “things”, at stubborn substances whose obstinacy in “being there” nothing (no subsequent meaning) can destroy.

Twombly’s art consist in making us see things: not those which he represents (this is another problem), but those which he manipulates: a few pencil strokes, this squared paper, this touch of pink, this brown smudge. This is an art with a secret, which is in general not that of spreading the substance (charcoal, ink, oils) but of letting its trail behind. One might think that in order to express the character of pencil, one has to press it against the paper, to reinforce its appearance, to make it thick, intensely black.

Twombly thinks the opposite: it is in holding check the pressure of matter, it letting is alight almost nonchalantly on the paper so that its grain is a little dispersed, that matter will show its essence and make us certain of its correct name: this is pencil. If we wanted to philosophize a little, we would say that the essence of things is not in their weight but in their lightness; and we would thereby perhaps confirm one of Nietzsche’s statements: “What is good is light”: and indeed, nothing is less Wagnerian than Twombly.

What is in question, therefore, is a means of making in all circumstances (in any kind of work), matter appear as a fact (pragma). In order to do this, Twombly has, not devices (and even if he had, in art devices have their nobility), but at least habits. Let us not ask whether other painters have had these habits too: in any case, it is their combination, their arrangement, their distribution, which constitute the original art of Twombly. Words too belong to everybody; but sentences belong to writers: Twombly’s “sentences” are inimitable.

Here are, then, the gestures through which Twombly enunciates (should we say: spells?) the matter in the trace: I) Scratching. Twombly scratches the canvas by scrawling lines on it (Free Wheeler; Criticism; Olympia). This is a gesture of moving to and fro, sometimes obsessively, as if the artist kept tampering with the lines he has drawn, like someone, who is bored during a trade-union meeting and blackens with apparently meaningless strokes a corner of the sheet of paper in front of him. 2) Smudging (Commodus II). This has nothing to do with tachisme; Twombly guides his smudges, drags them along as if he used his fingers; his body is therefore right there, contiguous with the canvas, not through a projection but, so to speak, through a touch which always remains light: the color is never crushed (see for instance Bay of Naples). So perhaps we should speak of maculas rather than “smudges”; for a macula is not any stain; it is (as etymology tells us) a stain on the skin, but also the mesh of a net, inasmuch as it reminds one of the spots of some animals: Twombly’s maculae make us think of a net. 3) Smearing. This is the name I give to the marks in paint or pencil, often even in a material which cannot be specified, with which Twombly seems to cover other strokes, as if he wanted to erase the latter without really wanting it, since these strokes remain faintly visible under the layer which covers them. This is a subtle dialectic: the artist pretends to have “bungled” a part of his canvas and to erase it. But he again bungles the rubbing out and these two failures superimposed on each other produce a kind of palimpset: they give the canvas the depth of a sky in which light clouds pass in front of each other without blotting each other out (View; School of Athens).

As we can see, these gestures, which aim to establish matter as fact, are all associated with making someting dirty. Here is a paradox: a fact is more purely defined if it is not clean. Take a common object: it is not its new and virgin state which best accounts for its essence; it is rather a state in which it is deformed, a little worn, a little dirtied, a little forlorn: the truth of things is best read in refuse. It is in a smear that we find the truth of redness; it is in a wobbly line that we find the truth of pencil. Ideas (in the Platonic sense of the word) are not metallic and shiny Figures, in conceptual corsets, but rather faint shaky stains, on a vague background.

So much for the pictorial element (via di porre). But there are other events in Twombly’s work: written events, names. They too are facts: they stand on the stage, without sets or props: Virgil (nothing but the Name), Orpheus. But this nominalist glory too is impure: the strokes are a little childish, irregular, clumsy. This is quite different from the typography in conceptual art: the hand which has drawn them confers on all these names the lack of skill of someone who its trying to write; and from this, once again, the truth of the Name appears all the better. Doesn’t the schoolboy learn the essence of a table by copying its name laboriously? By writing Virgil on his canvas, it is as if Twombly was condensing in his hand the very immensity of Virgil’s world, all the references of which his name is the receptacle. This is why Twombly’s titles do not lead to analogy. If a canvas is called The Italians, do not seek the Italians anywhere, except, precisely, in their name. Twombly knows that the Name has an absolute (and sufficient) power of evocation: to write The Italians is to see all the Italians. Names are like those jars we read about in I don’t know which tale of the Arabian Nights: genii are caught in them. If you open or break the jar, the genie comes out, rises, expands like smoke and fills up the air: break the title, and the whole canvas escapes.

The purity of this mechanism can also be observed in dedications. There are a few in Twombly: To Val雛y, To Tatlin. Once more, there is nothing more here than the graphic act of dedicating. “To dedicate” is one of those verbs which linguists, following Austin, have called “performatives” because their meaning merges with the very act of enouncing them: “I dedicate” has no other meaning than the actual gesture by which I present what I have done (my work) to someone I love or admire. This is exactly what Twombly does: since it bears only the inscription of the dedication, the canvas, so to speak, disappears, and only the act of giving remains – and this modicum of writing necessary to express it. These canvases are at the boundaries of painting not because they include no painting at all (other painters have explored this limit) but because the very idea of a work is destroyed – but not the relation of the painter to someone he loves.


Tych? in Greek, is an event inasmuch as it occurs by chance. Twombly’s canvases always seem to include a certain force coming from chance. Never mind if, in fact, the work is the result of very precise calculation for what counts is the chance effect, or, to put it with more subtlety (for Twombly’s art is not aleatory): the inspiration effect, since inspiration is this creative force which is like the felicity of chance. Two movements and a certain state account for this effect.

The movements are: first, the impression of “jet?, of something having been thrown: the materials seem to have been thrown across the canvas, and to throw is an act in which are enshrined at the same time an initial decision and a final indetermination: when I throw something, I know what I am doing, but I don’t know what I am producting. Twombly’s way of throwing is elegant, supple, “long”, as we say in those games where a ball has to be thrown. Second (and this aspect is like consequence of the first), an appearance of dispersion. On a canvas (or paper) by Twombly, the elements are separated from each other by space, a lot of space. In this, they have some affinity with Oriental painting, to which Twombly is otherwise related by his frequent recourse to a mixture of writing and painting. Even when the accidents – the events – are strongly indicated (Bay of Naples), Twombly’s paintings preserve an absolute spaciousness. And this spaciousness is not only a plastic value; it is like a subtle energy which allows one to breathe better. The canvas produces in me what the philosopher Bachelard called an “ascensional” imagination: I float in the sky, I breath in the air (School of Fontainebleau). The state which is linked to these two movements (the “jet? and the dispersion), and which is found in all of Twombly’s paintings, is the Rare. “Rarus” in Latin means: that which has gaps or interstices, sparse, porous, scattered, and this is indeed what space is like in Twombly (see especially Untitled, 1959).

How can these two ideas, that of empty space and that of chance (tych? be related? Val雛y (to whom one of Twombly’s drawings is dedicated) can help us to understand it. In a lecture at the Coll阦e de France (5 May 1944), Val雛y examines the two cases in which an artist can find himself: either his work follows a predetermined plan, or he fills in an imaginary rectangle. Twombly fills his rectangle according to the principle of the Rare, that is, of spacing out. This notion is crucial in Japanese aesthetics, which does not know the Kantian categories of space and time, but only the more subtle one of interval (in Japanese: Ma). The Japanese Ma, basically, is the Latin Rarus, and it is Twombly’s art. The Rare Rectangle thus refers us to two civilizations: on the one hand, to the “void” of Eastern art, which is simply punctuated, here and there, with some calligraphy; and on the other, to a Mediterranean space which is that of Twombly. Curiously, Val雛y (again) has well expressed this rare space, not by relating it to the sky or the sea (of which one would have thought at first) but to the old southern houses: “These vast rooms of the Midi, very good for meditation, with their tall furniture looking lost. A great void locked in – where time doesn’t count. The mind wants to populate all this.” Basically, Twombly’s paintings are big Mediterranean rooms, hot and luminous, with their elements looking lost (rari) and which the mind wants to populate.

Unbreakable unity of the impression (of the “message”) and the complexity of its causes or elements. The generality is not mysterious, that is, attributed to the power of the artist, but it is nevertheless irreducible. It is in a way another logic, a kind of challenge, on the part of the poet (and the painter) to the Aristotelian rules of the structure.

Although many things separate Twombly from French Symbolism (their art, their time, their nationality), they have something in common: a certain form of culture. This culture is classical: not only does Twombly directly allude to mythological facts which have been transmitted by Greek or Latin literature, but also the “authors” (auctores mean: the guarantors) whom he introduces into his painting are either humanist poets (Val雛y, Keats) or painters nurtured on antiquity (Poussin, Rafael). A single chain constantly evoked, leads from the Greek gods to the modern artist, a chain whose links are Ovid and Poussin. A kind of golden triangle unites the ancients, the poets and the painter. It is significant that one of Twombly’s paintings is dedicated to Val雛y, and perhaps even more – because this coincidence probably occurred unbeknownst to Twombly – that a picture by this painter and a poem by this writer bear the same name: Birth of Venus. And these two works have the same “effect”: that of arising from the sea. This convergence, which is here exemplary, perhaps gives us the key to the “Twombly effect”. It seems to me that this effect, which is constant in all of Twombly’s paintings, even those which were painted prior to his settling in Italy (as Val雛y also said, it sometimes happens that the future is the cause of the past), is the very general effect which can be released, in all its possible dimensions, by the word “Mediterranean.” The Mediterranean is an enormous complex of memories and sensations: certain languages (Greek and Latin) which are present in Twombly’s titles, a historical, mythological, poetic culture, this whole life of forms, colors and light which occurs at the frontier of the terrestrial landscape and the plains of the sea. The inimitable art of Twombly consists in having imposed the Mediterranean effect while starting from materials (straches, smudges, smears, little color, no academic forms) which have no analogy with the great Mediterranean radiance.

I know the island of Procida, in the Bay of Naples, where Twombly has lived. I have spent a few days in the ancient house where Graziella, Lamartine’s heroine, spent her days. There, calmly united, are the light, the sky, the earth, the accent of a rock, an arch. It is Virgil and it is a Twombly paintings: there is none, in fact, where we don’t find this void of the sky, of water, and those very light marks indicating the earth (a boat, a promontory) which float in them (apparent rari nantes): the blue of the sky, the gray of the sea, the pink of sunrise.


Mars and the Artist is an apparently symbolical composition: at the top, Mars, that is to say a battle of lines and reds, at the bottom, the Artist, that is, a flower and his name. The paintings functions like a pictograph, where figurative and graphic elements are combined. This system is very clear, and although it is quite exceptional in Twombly’s work, its very clarity refers us to the joint problems of figuration and signification.

Although abstract painting (which bears an inaccurate name, as we know) has been in the making for a long time (since the later C雤anne, according to some people), each new artist endlessly debates the question again: in art, linguistic problems are never really setlled, and language always turns back to reflect on itself. It is therefore never naive (in spite of the intimidation of culture, and above all of specialist culture) to ask oneself before a painting what it represents. Meaning sticks to man: even when he wants to create something against meaning or outside it, he ends up producing the very meaning of nonsense or non-meaning. It is all the more legitimate to tackle again and again the question of meaning, that it is precisely this question which prevents the universality of painting. If so many people (because of cultural differences) have the impression of “not understanding” a painting, it is because they want meaning and this painting (or so they think) does not give them any.

Twombly squarely tackles the problem, if only in this, that most of his paintings bear titles. By the very fact that they have a title, they proffer the bait of a meaning to mankind, which is thirsting for one. For in classical painting the caption of a picture (this thin line of words which runs at the bottom of the work and on which the visitors of a museum first hurl themselves) clearly expressed what the picture represented; analogy in the picture was reduplicated by analogy in the title: the signification was supposed to be exhaustive and the figuration exhausted. Now it is not possible, when one sees a painting by Twombly bearing a title, not to have the embryonic reflex of looking for analogy. The Italians? Sahara? Where are the Italians? Where is the Sahara? Let’s look for them. Of course, we find nothing. Or at least – and here begins Twombly’s art – what we find – namely the painting itself, the Event, in its splendor and enigmatic quality – is ambiguous: nothing “represents” the Italians, the Sahara, there is no analogical figure of these referents; and yet, we vaguely feel, there is nothing, in these paintings, which contradicts a certain natural idea of the Sahara, the Italians. In other words, the spectator has an intimation of another logic (his way of looking is beginning to operate transformations): although it is very obscure, the painting has a proper solution, what happens in it conforms to a telos, a certain end.

This end is not found immediately. At first stage, the title so to speak bars the access to the painting because by its precision, its intelligibility, its classicism (nothing strange or surrealist about it), it carries us on the analogical road, which very quickly turns out to be blocked. Twombly’s titles have the function of a maze having followed the idea which they suggest, we have to retrace our steps and start in another direction. Something remains, however, their ghosts which pervade the painting. They constitute the negative moment which is found in all initiations. This is art according to a rare formula, at once very intellectual and very sensitive, which constantly confronts negativity in the manner of those schools of mysticism called “apophatic” (negative) because they teach one to examine all that which is not-so as to perceive, in this absence, a faint light, flickering but also radiant bec/ause it does not lie.

What Twombly’s paintings produce (their telos) is very simple: it is an “effect”. This word must here be understood in the strictly technical sense which it had in the French literary schools of the late nineteenth century, from the Parnasse to Symbolism. An “effect” is a general impression suggested by the poem, an impression which is sensuous, and most often visual. This is well known. But what is specific to the effect is that its general character cannot really be decomposed; it cannot be reduced to a sum of localized details. Th雘phile Gautier wrote a poem, “Symphonie en blanc majeur”, all the lines of which contribute, in a way which is at once insistent and diffuse, to establishing a color, white, which imprints itself on us independently of the objects which are its supports. In the same way Paul Val雛y, during his Symbolist period, wrote two sonnets, both entitled “F腚ric,” the effect of which is a certain color. But as sensibility had become refined between the Parnasian and the Symbolist periods (under the influence of painters, in fact) we cannot name it as we did in the case of Gautier’s white. It probably consists mostly of a silvery tone, but this hue is caught in other sensations which diversify and reinforce it: luminosity, transparence, lightness, sudden sharpness, coldness; moonlight pallor, silken feathers, diamond brightness, mother-of-pearl iridescence. An effect is therefore not a rhetorical trick: it is a veritable category of sensations, which is defined by this paradox: the unbreakable unity of the impression (of the “message”) and the complexity of its causes or elements. The generality is not mysterious, that is, attributed to the power of the artist, but it is nevertheless irreducible. It is in a way another logic, a kind of challenge, on the part of the poet (and the painter) to the Aristotelian rules of the structure.

Although many things separate Twombly from French Symbolism (their art, their time, their nationality), they have something in common: a certain form of culture. This culture is classical: not only does Twombly directly allude to mythological facts which have been transmitted by Greek or Latin literature, but also the “authors” (auctores mean: the guarantors) whom he introduces into his painting are either humanist poets (Val雛y, Keats) or painters nurtured on antiquity (Poussin, Rafael). A single chain constantly evoked, leads from the Greek gods to the modern artist, a chain whose links are Ovid and Poussin. A kind of golden triangle unites the ancients, the poets and the painter. It is significant that one of Twombly’s paintings is dedicated to Val雛y, and perhaps even more – because this coincidence probably occurred unbeknownst to Twombly – that a picture by this painter and a poem by this writer bear the same name: Birth of Venus. And these two works have the same “effect”: that of arising from the sea. This convergence, which is here exemplary, perhaps gives us the key to the “Twombly effect”. It seems to me that this effect, which is constant in all of Twombly’s paintings, even those which were painted prior to his settling in Italy (as Val雛y also said, it sometimes happens that the future is the cause of the past), is the very general effect which can be released, in all its possible dimensions, by the word “Mediterranean.” The Mediterranean is an enormous complex of memories and sensations: certain languages (Greek and Latin) which are present in Twombly’s titles, a historical, mythological, poetic culture, this whole life of forms, colors and light which occurs at the frontier of the terrestrial landscape and the plains of the sea. The inimitable art of Twombly consists in having imposed the Mediterranean effect while starting from materials (straches, smudges, smears, little color, no academic forms) which have no analogy with the great Mediterranean radiance.

I know the island of Procida, in the Bay of Naples, where Twombly has lived. I have spent a few days in the ancient house where Graziella, Lamartine’s heroine, spent her days. There, calmly united, are the light, the sky, the earth, the accent of a rock, an arch. It is Virgil and it is a Twombly paintings: there is none, in fact, where we don’t find this void of the sky, of water, and those very light marks indicating the earth (a boat, a promontory) which float in them (apparent rari nantes): the blue of the sky, the gray of the sea, the pink of sunrise.


What happens in a painting by Twombly? A kind of Mediterranean effect. This effect, however, is not “frozen” in the pomp, the seriousness, the decorum of humanist works (even poems as intelligently conceived as those of Val雛y remain imprisioned in a kind of superior modesty). Often, Twombly introduces into the event a surprise (apodeston). This surprise takes the appearance of incongruity, derision, deflation, as if the humanistic turgescence was suddently pricked. In the Ode to Psyche (a drawing), a discreet tape measure, in a corner, “breaks” the solemnity of the title, a noble title if ever there was one. In Olympia, there are here and there motifs which are “clumsily” sketched, resembling those produced by children when they want to draw butterflies. From the point of view of “style”, an elevated value which has earned the respect of all the classical writers, what is more remote from the Veil of Orpheus than these few lines worthy of an apprentice surveyor? In Untitled (1969), what a beautiful gray! Two thin white lines are suspended askew (this is still the Rarus, the Japanese Ma); this could be very Zen-like; but two arithmetical figures, hardly legible, are wavering above the two and connect the nobility of this gray to the faint derision of being the support of a computation.

Unless… it is not precisely through such surprises that Twombly’s pictures don’t recover the spirit of purest Zen. For there exists, in the Zen attitude, a certain experience, which is not sought through a rational method, and which is very important: the satori. This word is very imperfectly translated (because of our Christian tradition) as “illumination”; sometimes, a little better, as “awakening.” It is probably, as far as laymen like us imagine, a kind of mental jolt which allows one to gain access, beyond all the known intellectual ways to the Buddhist “truth”, a vacant truth, unconnected with all kinds of form or causality. What matters for us is that the Zen satori is sought through starling techniques: not only irrational, but also and above all incrongruous, running counter to the seriousness with which we consider religious experience. They can consist of a nonsensical answer given to some elevated metaphysical question, or of a suprising gesture, which jars with the solemnity of a ritual (as in the case of the Zen preacher who, in the middle of a semon, stopped, took off his sandal, put it on his head and left the room). Such incongruities, which essentially lack respect, have a chance of unsettling the dogmatic seriousness which often lends a mask to the clear conscience presiding over our mental habits. From a non-religious point of view (obviously), some paintings by Twombly contain such impertinences, such shocks, such minute satori.

We must count as such surprises all the interventions of writing in the field of the canvas: any time Twombly uses a graphic sign, there is a jolt, an unsettling of the naturalness of painting. Such interventions are of three kinds (as we shall say for simplicity’s sake). First there are the marks of measurement, the figures, the tiny algorithms, all the things which produce a contradiction between the sovereign uselessness of painting and the utilitarian signs of computing. Then there are paintings where the only event is a handwritten word. Finally there is, occurring in both types of intervention, the constant “clumsiness” of the hand. The letter, in Twombly, is the very opposite of an ornamental or printed letter; it is drawn, it seems, without care and yet, it is not really childlike for the child trics diligently, presses hard on the paper, rounds off the corners, puts out his tongue in his efforts. He works hard in order to catch up with the code of adults, and Twombly gets away from it; he spaces things out, he lets them trail behind; it looks as if his hand was levitating, the word looks as if it had been written with the fingertips, not out of disgust or boredom, but in virtue of a fancy which disappoints what is expected from the “fine hand” of a painter: this phrase was used, in the seventeenth century, about the copyist who had a fine handwriting. And who could write better than a painter?

This “clumsiness” of the wirting (which is, however, inimitable: try to imitate it) certainly has a plastic function in Twombly. But here, where we don’t speak about him in the language of art criticism, we shall stress its critical function. By means of his use of written elements, Twombly almost always introduces a contradiction in his paintings “sparseness,” “clumsiness,” “awkwardness,” added to “rareness,” act as forces which quash the tendency; which one finds in classical culture, to turn antiquity into a depository of decorative forms; the Apollonian purity of the reference to Greece, which is felt in the luminosity of the painting, the dawnlike peace of its spaciousness, are “shaken” (since this is the word used about satori) by the repulsive use of written elements. It is as if the painting was conducting a fight against culture, of which it jettisons the magniloquent discourse and retains only the beauty. It has been said that unlike the art of Paul Klee, that of Twombly contains no aggresion. This is true if we conceive aggression in the Western way, as the excited expression of a constrained body which explodes. Twombly’s art is an art of the jolt more than an art of violence, and it often happens that a jolt is more subversive than violence: such, precisely, is the lesson of some Eastern modes of behavior and thought.


Drama, in Greek, is etymologically linked to the idea of “doing.” Drama denotes at the same time what is being done and what is being performed (with something at stake) on the canvas: a “drama,” yes, why not? For myself, I see in Twombly’s work two actions, or an action in two stages.

The first type of action consists in a kind of representation of culture. What happens is stories, and, as we saw, stories from classical culture: five days of Bacchanalia, the birth of Venus, the Ides of March, three dialogues of Plato, a battle, etc. These historical actions are not depicted; they are evoked through the power of the Name. What is represented, in fact, is culture itself, or, as we now say, the inter-text, which is this circulation of earlier (or contemporary) texts in the head (or the hand) of the artist. This representation is quite explicit when Twombly takes existing works (works which are recognized as supreme examples of culture) and places them “en abyme”, that is, as the symbolic core in some of his paintings; first, in some titles (The School of Athens, by Rafael), then in some silhouettes, difficult to recognize, moreover, which he puts in a corner like images important as references, and not in virtue of their content (the reference being Leonardo or Poussin). In classical painting, “what is happening” is the “subject” of the painting, a subject which is often anecdotal (Judith slaying Holophernes); but in Twombly’s paintings, the “subject” is a concept: it is the classical text “in itself” – a strange concept, it is true, since it is an object of desire, of love, and perhaps of nostalgia.

There is in French a useful lexical ambiguity: the “subject” of a work is sometimes its “object” (what it is talking about, the topic it ofters to our reflections, the quaestio of ancient rhetoric), sometimes the human being who is on the stage, who figures in it as the implicit author of what is said (or painted). In Twombly, the “subject” is of course what the painting is talking about; but as this subject-object is only a written allusion, the whole weight of the drama falls back again on the person who is producing it: the subject is Twombly himself. This circuit of the “subject” does not stop there, however: because Twombly’s art seems to include little technical know-how (this is of course only an appearance), the “subject” of the painting is also the person who is looking at it: you and me. The “simplicity” of Twombly (what I have analyzed under the name of “Rareness” or “Clumsiness”) calls, atracts the spectator: he wants to be reunited to the picture, not to consume it aesthetically, but to produce it in his turn (to “re-produce” it), to try his hand at a technique whose indigence and clumsiness give him an incredible (and quite misleading) illusion of being easy.

It should be made clear that the subjects who look at the painting are varied, and that the type of discourse which they have (inwardly) before the object they look at depends on which type of subject they are (a “subject” – and this is what modernity has taught us – is never constituted by anything but his language). Naturally, all these subjects can talk (so to speak) at the same time before a picture by Twombly (incidentally, aesthetics as a discipline could be that science which studies not the work in itself but the work as the spectator or the reader makes it talk within himself; a typology of discourses, so to speak). There are therefore several subjects who are looking at Twombly (and softly speak to him, each one in his head).

There is the subject of culture, who knows how Venus was born, who Poussin or Val雛y are; this subject is talkative, he can talk fluently. There is the subject of specialization, who knows the history of painting well and can lecture on Twombly’s place in it. There is the subject of pleasure, who rejoices in front of the painting, experiences a kind of jubilation while he discovers it, and cannot quite express it. This subject is therefore mute; he can only exclaim: “How beautiful this is!” and say it again. This is one of the small tortures of language: one can never explain why one finds something beautiful; pleasure generates a kind of laziness of speech, and if we want to speak about a work, we have to substitute for the expression of enjoyment discourses which are indirect, more rational – hoping that the reader will feel in them the happiness given by the paintings of which we speak. There is a fourth subject, that of memory. In a Twombly picture a certain touch of color at first appears to me hurried, botched, inconsistent: I don’t understand it. But this touch of color works in me, unknown to myself; after I have left the painting, it comes back, becomes a memory, and a tenacious one: everything has changed, the picture makes me happy retrospectively. In fact, what I consume with pleasure is absence: a statement which is not paradoxical if we remember that Mallarm?has made it the very principle of poetry: “I say: a flower, and musically arises the idea itself, fragance which is absent from all bouquets.”

The fifth subject is that of production, who feels like reproducing the picture. Thus this morning of December 31, 1978, it is still dark, it is raining, all is silent when I sit down at my worktable. I look at Herodiade (1960) and I have really nothing to say about it except the same platitude: that I like it. But suddently there arises something new, a desire: that of doing the same thing; of going to another worktable (no longer that for writing), to choose colors, to paint and draw. In fact, the question of painting is: “Do you feel like imitating Twombly?”

As the subject of production, the spectator of the painting is then going to explore his own impotence – and at the same time, as it were in relief, the power of the artist. Even before having drawn anything, I realize that I shall never be able to reproduce this background (or what gives me the illusion of a background): I don’t even know how it’s done. Here is Age of Alexander: oh, this single splash of pink…! I could never make it so light, or rarely so much the space that surrounds it. I could not stop filling in, going on, in other words spoiling all; and my own mistake mades me grasp what wisdom is in the actions of the artist. He prevents himself from wanting too much; he succeds in a way which is not unrelated to the erotic art of the Tao: intense pleasure comes from restraint. I find the same problem in View (1959) I could never bandle the pencil, that is, use it sometimes heavily and sometimes lightly, and I could never even learn it because this art is guided by no analogical principle, and because the ductus itself (this movement according to which the medieval copyist drew stroke of the letter in a direction which was always the same) is here absolutely free. And what is beyond reach at the level of the stroke is even more inaccessible at the level of the surface. In Panorama (1955), the whole space is crackling in the manner of a television screen before any image appears on it; now I would not know how to obtain the irregularity of the graphic distribution; for if I strove to produce a disorderly effect, I would only produce a stupid disorder. And from this I understand that Twombly’s art is an incessant victory over the stupidity of strokes: to draw an intelligent stroke: here, in the last analysis, is what makes the painter different. And in many other paitings, what I would stubbornly fail to obtain is the impression of “jet?” the decentering of the marks: no stroke seems endowed with an intentional direction, and yet the whole is mysteriously oriented.

I shall come back, finally, to this notion of “Rarus” (“scattered”), which I consider the key to Twombly’s art (1). This art is paradoxical, and would even be provocative (if it was not so delicate) because conciseness in it is not solemn. Generally, what is succint appears compact: sparseness begets density, and density gives birth to enigmas. In Twombly, another development occurs: to be sure, there is a silence, or, more accurately, a very faint sizzling of the surface. But this ground is itself a positive power; reversing the usual relationship in classical technique, one might say that strokes, hatching, forms, in short the graphic events, are what allow the sheet of paper or the canvas to exist, to signify, to be possessed of pleasure (“Being,” says the Tao, “gives possibilities, it is through non-being that one makes use of them”). Space, when thus treated, is no longer subject to number, while still being plural: is it not according to this opposition, which is hardly conceivable since it excludes at once number and unity, dispersion and centeredness, that we must interpret Webern’s dedication to Alban Berg: “Non multa, sed multum”?

There are paintings which are excited, possessive, dogmatic; they impose a product, they turn it into a tyrannical fetish. Twombly’s art- and in this consist its ethic and its great historical singularity-does not grasp at anything; it is situated, it floats and drifts between the desire which, in subtle fashion, guides the hand, and politeness, which is the discreet refusal of any captivating ambition. If we wished to locate this ethic, we would have to seek very far, outside painting, outside the West, outside history, at the very limit of meaning, and say, with the Tao Te King:

He produces without appropriating anything,
He acts without expecting anything,
His work accomplished, he does not get attached to it,
And since he is not attached to it,
His work will remain.”

The Wisdom of Art is via 梦宾馆

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jul 11, 2014

photo 5photo 4photo 2photo 1photo 3


Jul 9, 2014

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B, 2014 – Math Bass

Buy this Math Bass and support LAND!

More here.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 28, 2014

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Yvonne Rainer: Dance Works
11 July to 10 August 2014

at Raven Row, London

A highlight of the exhibition is a 45-minute dance programme performed four times daily. Dancers trained for the occasion by Rainer and her long-time collaborator Pat Catterson will perform her celebrated works Trio A (1966) and Chair Pillow (1969), as well as the UK premieres of the very rarely seen Talking Soloand Diagonal (both 1963).

via Mary

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 27, 2014

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Glass Puzzle at Simone Subal Gallery

Uri Aran, Andrea Büttner, Joan Jonas, Yorgos Sapountzis, and Mary Simpson

June 28 – August 1, 2014
Opening reception June 28th 6-8pm

One version of an event is like a body without a shadow. If we flip our idea of the split, from Freud (division from trauma) or Janet (retreat from hysteria), instead of a psychic break we arrive at a fracturing whole, shifting into versions and variations as a natural tear along the lines of the self: a puzzle. A game of mimesis, with rules and logic but no goal. At the start of the game a split occurs, one body—one performer—into two. The self scatters, and in that moment a gap is formed, between the mirror (the screen) and the double (the self). A glass puzzle plays with that gap, exploits it. It splits, then works to conceal the split, picks up a mask to substitute one for another, a surrogate. A glass puzzle is a puzzle in space—perpetually pieced back together, never completing itself.

via Fionn Meade

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 24, 2014


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David Ostrowski special commission for 032c.

George: Everybody’s doing something, we’ll do nothing.
Jerry: So we go into NBC and tell them we have an idea for a show about nothing?
George: Exactly.
Jerry: They say, “What’s your show about?” I say, “Nothing.”
George: There you go.
Jerry: I think we may have something here.

More here. via Peres Projects.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 22, 2014


Totally love Przemek Pyszczek‘s work. First saw it on Instagram.

I got obsessed with the below pics in bignickberlin‘s feed.

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Here’s a studio visit on Berlin Art Link. So great.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 21, 2014




A version of Imi Knoebel’s Raum 19 I don’t think I really understand… Raum 19 IV

A small version. Wish I could’ve seen it IRL. I have such fixed ideas related to my encounters with the larger one at Dia. It’s hard to “see” this via a photograph.

Was at Christian Lethert, Colgne. Via CAD.

Please enjoy the time and space.


Jun 18, 2014




James Lee Byars 1/2 An Autobiography at PS1 – June 15–September 7, 2014

I attempted to travel to Mexico City to see this exhibit at the Jumex last winter but, never made it. Have been looking forward to its arrival in NYC ever since. I’ll attempt to see this show several times this summer. My fascination with Byars just keeps growing over the years. The more I learn, the more I’m drawn in.  It seems like there’s enough mysterious poetry around both him and his work to last a long time too. Congrats to Peter Eleey who curated this exhibit with Magalí Arriola.

I’m also excited for the two books being released in relation to this exhibit! I got an email yesterday informing me the first, Sourcebook, will be coming sooner than they had promised when I pre-ordered it. The second, an exhibition catalog, will come later this summer.

Please enjoy the time and space.

Above James Lee Byars photos vias PS1 1. The World Flag. 1991. Gold lamé, 161 x 85 x 6 inches (409 x 216 x 15 cm) 2. Portrait of the Artist. 1993. Gold leaf on paper, Three parts, each: 30 1/4 x 21 3/4 inches (77 x 55 cm) 3. The Conscience. 1985. Gilded wood, glass cupola, globe, 72 3/4 x 22 3/4 x 22 3/4 inches (185 x 58 x 58 cm). All three are courtesy Michael Werner Gallery, New York and London.