Under Surveillance at the Kohler Art Center

You can read my review of the exhibition, Under Surveillance at the Kohler Arts Center on the Susceptible to Images Online Art Journal. The show includes a really interesting group of artists whose work is not often shown together because they each work in different media and are scattered across the country such as Yasmine Chatila, Golan Levin, Trevor Paglen and Daniel Goodwin among others. This photograph is a detail taken by Yevgeniya Kaganovich of the piece "WE" which is a collaboration between Kaganovich, Dale Kaminski and Mat Rappaport.

Phenomenal Muir Woods

The spectacular beauty of Muir Woods and the surrounding hills can hardly be believed. I rarely allow myself to gush about a landscape, running the risk of romanticizing the place, but Muir Woods is beyond the rational discourse. Being in the woods was like walking through a diorama because of the absurd scale of the Redwoods and the Park Services strategic placement of rocks and ferns--part "natural" part "constructed"--tourists stroll casually down an asphalt path amongst the truly monumental trees.

Notes from Ohio Tree Farm

Finally I have the chance to post images from Ohio where I worked on a collaborative project at the Harold Arts Center which is on a tree farm in rural Appalachia. It was good to be back in this strange corner of Southeast Ohio where I once lived for one year selling furniture and making art. While working on the project which was installed in this old church, I had the opportunity to take some pictures on a warm, sticky afternoon before the installation got underway. The only sound was the drone of wasps floating through the gaps between the rafters and roof. I doubt this building will be standing much longer, but it marks an interesting intersection between nature and religion in American thought since the preacher was also one of the nation's first sustainable tree farmers. Next week I will post images of another sustainable farm in the area, only this farm was also a mental institution. This is a wonderful part of the country to make art from because it has such a very rich sense of place, partly because of the isolation of the whole region. To read more about the Harold Arts Center, click on this link to a recent article in the Chicago Reader:
http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/ourtown/080228/

More Images from Ox-Bow

What is fascinating and a bit unnerving about the woods around Ox-Bow is that these enormous trees are rooted in the soft sandy soil of the dunes that line this side of Lake Michigan. The landscape (especially the dune grass which looks like little green hairs) is incredibly fragile, and I think some of that sense of fragility showed up in the pictures I took while wondering the paths.

On not knowing.

Ox-Bow: Day two. Thoughts clearing, weather clear.

On not knowing.

There are currently three noises sounding off in the woods that I do not recognize, but those sounds overlay the chatter of two women walking down the path, the clank of beer bottles being thrown in the trash and far away-the whine of a motor boat. When I was talking to the Ox-Bow director today she explained that one of the things she likes most about growing-up and living still in the woods are the unidentifiable noises that animals and birds make at night. Holding off the urge to identify and categorize the information that comes through the senses is a difficult task, since I think as students we are trained, disciplined (some might say) into making quick quantitative or qualitative judgments. "What color is the apple?" "The apple is red!" What, if any, are the real benefits of delaying that response? That would only prevent you from making the next step towards analysis: what type of bird it is, what are its behaviors, how rare or common is the bird in these woods? I don't know that there are any benefits aside from living with a sense of uneasiness about the world and your environment. Instead of assuaging those uncertainties with knowledge, just accepting them as unresolved.

It really puts a tremendous burden on the senses to perhaps do some analysis that they otherwise might not do--to listen more closely, to make associations between sounds and smells, or sounds and certain types of light or weather. Delaying that response to identify and categorize could possibly result in a more cohesive sensory experience. One of the things I realized today as I was photographing the woods was that the camera has the strange effect of making me both more and less physically involved in the space/place. For instance, I crawled part way under a tree today, kneeling down in wet leaves, I thought I would never do this if I wasn't here to take a picture because I would be too caught up in the potential discomfort of wet knees, or bugs, or stepping in a hole. So then can the type of knowledge acquired through one sense (like the camera privileging the sense of sight, ever be truly isolated from the rest of the body and the senses?

Dinner today: Shrimp Creole with rice, cornbread and crazy fresh Okra.
Song of the day: Reckoner by Radiohead.

The Unusual and the Exemplary

Today begins my first full day at Ox-Bow, I thought I would connect with the outside world via my blog so you can see what I am up to. Feel free to leave comments at the end that would be much appreciated.

Ox-Bow Day One: Thinking Cloudy, Weather Cloudy.

The Unusual and Exemplary:
In the introduction to the Center for Land Use Interpretation's Scenic Overlook, Matt Coolidge describes their two fold process for selecting sites to be included in their database: sites must be either unusual, such as the nation's only Y-shaped bridge, or the site must exemplify a certain type of land use, such as the Mount Rumpke "megafill" which is the largest landfill in the country. The "exemplary structures" must approach the ideal version of this type of site in order to be considered "exemplary", even if it is a toxic waste storage facility. Implicit in the Center's categorization of "exemplary structures" is the idea that we do have a shared understanding of what an ideal nuclear waste dump looks like, in the Platonic sense. A Platonic form of an abandoned weapons test-site. Implicit in the Center's categorization of "unusual structures" is the idea that there is a deviation from "normal structures" that produces a unique type of site.

While this approach may be effective in categorizing built structures, how could these same categories be applied to natural spaces? To start with a practical application of these ideas: when photographing the woods around Ox-Bow here today, I found my images could be divided into two categories: "unusual natural objects" such as an orange mushroom popping through an otherwise drab patch of dried leaves, or "idealized" images of the woods in which the trees, lush and green appear evenly spaced as the requisite amount of light filters through the leaves. How can you take a picture of a natural space that does not fall into one of these two categories? Is it possible not to find something unique in a photograph of nature? Is it possible for us to imagine a woods more Ideal, more perfect than the one before us?

My approach to documenting the natural world consistently falls into either of these two categories. The woods can be understood in terms of either infinitely small, endlessly fragmented unique parts, or a limitless, vast uniform whole. The small and fragmented parts of the woods collect on my windowsill--little souvenirs of morning walks that fit in my pocket. I feel especially close to these fragments. The limitless Ideal of the woods lives somewhere in my mind, a great distance from my hands, only the lens of the camera begins to bring this Ideal into view, or to at least provide a glimmer of its totality. Is there another way to understand "the woods," a third way? Barthes talks about the "third meaning" of a photograph its punctum, this kind of ecstatic feeling/knowledge that arises from something uncanny? Can this "punctum" ever be present in photographing the natural world? What there is ever out of place, incomplete, jarring, causing the subject to be turned inside out? In an effort to resolve these questions, I am attaching some of the images I took this morning that suggest these two categories of "unusual" and "exemplary" as well as another image that seems not to fit as easily into these categories.

walker on the green

growholes is part sculpture, part mini-golf made from waste-wood particle board, recycled rubber tires, and cast resin. In this project Maura Rockcastle and I dealt with two primary issues: challenging the dialectical design inherent in mini-golf and addressing the topography of the hillside into which the Walker Art Center is embedded. We dealt with the issue of place by mimicking the hilly terrain behind the Walker in the topographic contours of the wood form. We played with the idea of empty hole/full hole by repeating the basic 4 inch golf hole as a solid form, but placing it inside a depression that we dug out of the actual site. It was an incredible project, built in only two weeks. Thank you to Jeremy Lundquist, Matt Murphy, Garth Rockcastle, Brian Nerney, and the Walker for all of your help.

snow day

Few things alter a landscape like two feet of wet snow.

Collaborative Project: Site Lines

This weekend Peck School of Art and INOVA hosted a collaborative project with local artists called Siteline. The focus of the project was on mapping--its definitions and the expansion of drawing into "two and a half dimensions". The project was designed by Leslie Vansen in response to Deb Sokolow's The trouble with people you don't know exhibition at INOVA in the Kenilworth Building. Here are some images from the project. Thanks to my collaborators Nan and Donna!

Inside or Around Tino Sehgal's Exhibition at the Walker Art Center

On a snowy afternoon in late December, a security guard in a pale blue uniform stood along the wall in an open space between Minimalist artworks by Donald Judd, Carl Andre, and Ellsworth Kelly.

I walked towards Untitled (1967) by Donald Judd. My sense of space shifted and for a moment the work extended over me. The silvery mass rolled out into the room--an immense piece of steel hovering above the ground.

The guard began to sing as I walked toward the painting, RED YELLOW BLUE III (1966) by Ellsworth Kelly. She sang: "this is propaganda, you know, you know" in a lovely, lilting voice. She concluded, "by Tino Sehgal 2002."

I felt the presence of Ellsworth Kelly's painting evaporate. The color disappeared--suddenly appropriated into another work of art. I stood close to the painting to feel the heat of Kelly's red square burning up the space around it, but nothing.

My stomach turned and my knees wobbled. I was suddenly thrust on stage--the art was no longer performing, I was. Every step now a strange dance with the gallery guard in a space suddenly made vacuous.

I tried to re-inscribe the Minimalist works in the gallery by moving slowly along the perimeter of Andre's Aisle (1981) hoping to elicit a "TOO CLOSE" response from the guard, but nothing.

By now the sun had gone down and the city just outside the museum had turned a deep, iridescent blue. I climbed the white stairway to the gallery where Sehgal's main work was to be displayed. The space was empty except for the wall tag announcing the title of the work: instead of allowing some thing to rise up to your face dancing bruce and dan and other things (2000). I puzzled with one of my friends, was this Sehgal's piece--the gallery represented?

We looked at each other for an instant, laughed and began dancing around the room, watching our reflections in glass windows opening out onto Hennepin Avenue. It was one of those childhood fantasies come true, a space at the Walker where we could finally run free.

The next afternoon I returned to Sehgal's "empty" room, but at the end of the gallery a woman crouched against the wall. My experience of the space was completely different. I cautiously crept into the gallery. I just stood quietly across from the figure that peered back at me, but I wanted to call out to her, "we are not here to hurt you!"

I read that Sehgal would not allow his works to be photographed, but in order to find out what was encompassed by his piece I began to photograph the gallery walls. I became interested in every mark on the walls, every scuff of a shoe. Was this part of the piece? I photographed the sludge melting on the floor left by someone's boot. No one confronted me about photographing the walls, and the figure at the end of the gallery remained still.

I walked back through the museum trying to find other pieces by Sehgal, but now everyone in the museum was part of the performance and every body an object contained within the museum.

We made our way to the gift shop and I opened up this book, Santiago Sierra: House in Mud. Inside were pictures of a gallery filled with dirt. The thick dark substance pushed against the white walls of the gallery, which struggled to contain the mess.

If "antagonism" is defined as the holding in conflict of two opposing views, how do we know its parameters? If "antagonism" is a condition of being in-between, how do we know when art neutralizes or provokes opposition? If "antagonism" describes one opposing element interfering with the action of the other, triggering an unpredicted event, how do we know what qualifies as unpredictable in a carefully orchestrated space?

As I recalled my experience of Tino Sehgal's piece later that evening, what stood out in my memory was the experience I had while standing in the threshold of the gallery: an older man and his wife stood beside me briefly and asked in a slightly annoyed tone, "Where is the art that Sandra Oh liked better than Frida Kahlo?"
"This is it," I said, and walked back down the white stairway.

I did not stay to see if they entered the room or turned around to walk out.


To see my accompanying images, go to mnartists.org

Familiar Trees

This posting is actually a response to the interview with photographer Robert Adams that aired on Art:21 last Sunday evening. I was struck by the juxtaposition of Mark Dion's work with Adam's since both artists address the conflict between nature and culture through their work, but represent this conflict through very different means. Dion's installations emphasize the incredible human effort that it takes to mimic the simplest process of nature-decay. Dion's work, based on the aesthetic and conventions of modern science, is cool and removed. Adam's takes a more traditional approach to photography, working hard to place the subject matter in the proper context, with the appropriate distance, and waiting for those surprising moments, the punctum, to appear. What was fascinating was that this reserved, cautious practice was coupled with Adams intensely felt words about the environment, art and beauty. He argues without cynicism or naivete (in words and images) that "beauty is the confirmation of meaning in life" (to read more, go to: http://www.pbs.org/art21/artists/adams/clip2.html). My response in images to Adam's works/words were taken this afternoon in the Seminary Woods.

Tracing the Woods

After several months away from this project, I had the wonderful (and sometimes frustrating) experience of revisiting all of the digital photographs of the woods that I made this summer. On the last day, we took one of the paper backdrops that I typically cut apart (see portfolio link) up into the woods with some strange results. I particularly liked the way the backdrop collects light in this image, but is also dwarfed by the enormity of the space.

Place as 'Strata'

I came across this quote and thought it relevant to this debate about place, art and history:

"The kind of difference that defines every place is not on the order of a juxta-position but rather takes the form of imbricated strata."

-Quote from Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life.

New York: Day Five

My End is your beginning is my end.(2006) at the Cue Art Foundation Gallery in Chelsea, open until July 28th. For more info:

Ludlow, MA: Day Three

On our last day in Ludlow, Jeremy and I take some of the backdrop paper up the mountain and put it to use. The plan was to use the backdrop to isolate out natural objects, but there was a strange tonal and material syncrony between the trees, the low light, and the pale green paper (made in part, of course, from trees). So eventually, we dragged the paper down the hill as it gathered dirt and imrpints of rocks.

Ludlow, MA: Day Two

On a rainy Saturday morning, we can't get up the mountain because of the mud sliding down the hill from the new developments. Instead, I photograph the natural patterns inside the house while my grandma bakes shortcake and works on a crossword. It is one of those wonderful mornings that seems to last all day. Eventually, we get restless and drive to the next exit on the Pike (Chicopee) to check email at Starbucks.

Ludlow, MA: Day One

After a short drive from NH, we arrive in Ludlow and head straight up the mountain, and begin photographing the many property markers on the hill. We spend the next day struggling to figure out where the family property begins and ends.

Hopkinton, NH

After driving three days in constant rain and making a quick detour to Maine, we arrived in Hopkinton just in time to see the tree behind my Aunt's barn get struck by lightening. I spent the following day photographing her house, the barn and the graveyard across the street. I use the photographs to collect and document patterns. The barn is 215 years old. The images posted are the outside and inside of the barn.

Pine Flat by Sharon Lockhart

In late April, I had the opportunity to see Sharon Lockhart's film "Pine Flat" (2005) at UWM and never had the opportunity to write about it at that time. The film continues to stick with me, because of the questions is raises about how to depict the relationship between people and the natural world in contemporary art. The landscape in "Pine Flat" has all of the enormity and romanticism of Asher Durand's "Kindred Spirits" (1849) and the figures are positioned similarly. The young teens, often alone, in the woods are engulfed by their surroundings. However, unlike WIlliam Cullen Bryant and Thomas Cole depicted in "Kindred Spirits," the youths in Lockhart's film appear distracted--picking at the grass, reading a book, pushing each other off a swing. The landscape is not the focus of their attention. As a result, it becomes a backdrop for the individuals whose smallest gestures seem to send ripples through the space around them. This effect is magnified by the duration of each shot (10 Minutes) and the patience, focus and commitment of the viewer to the individual in the image. Watching "Pine Flat" was like watching a painting.

Drawing a Blank

This weekend I went to a conference at the Center for 21st Century Studies, where two critics/historians discussed the idea of the blank page and the blank screen as a reoccurring symbol of femininity in the work Man Ray and Andy Warhol. The feminine as a surface to be inscribed. The feminine as a blank space onto which we can project meaning. Both authors described their theories on these works as a purposeful step away from the dialectics of language and psycholanalytic theory that position female as absent and male as present. It was difficult position for both to defend, but it was exciting for the audience to even think of the possibility of moving on from this dualism. However, can this be done without a serious memory lapse? Do we risk forgeting that these dualities are the building blocks of langauge? What if this form of language is still in practice? Or perhaps we should froget Lacan immediately, he has done enough damage and it is time for another direction(s).

I wonder if this doesn't also apply to the landscape? Can we think of space/place as something aside from a blank space to be inscribed/developed? These signs have been up outside my house for months now. The city covered over the "No parking" signs on our street because neighbors compained after being ticketed for parking more than two hours in front of their own houses. I often thought about what I could draw, pin, tape or paint over these surfaces. As the months dragged on I realized that these "blank signs" meant to cover over existing information were anything but blank.