View of “Xavier Le Roy: Retrospective,” 2014.
Xavier Le Roy has worked as a choreographer and dancer since 1991, and he is well known for pieces that highlight audience-performer relationships. In his debut US survey exhibition, on view at MoMA PS1 as part of the French Institute Alliance Française's Crossing the Line festival, dancers perform excerpts from works Le Roy made between 1994 and 2010, all of which address the complicated negotiations performers engage in as both subjects and objects. The show is on view through December 1, 2014.
LAURENCE RASSEL, from the Fundació Antoni Tàpies in Barcelona, commissioned “Retrospective” in 2012. It was the first time a curator had proposed that I exhibit my work in a museum. Although I see the exhibition as a new work, I chose the genre of the retrospective because of its specificity to museums, and I also liked that an exhibition could hold the pieces in one space at the same time, producing new meanings. So, instead of presenting eight consecutive solos every night, the performers in this show choose excerpts from my solo works to perform while also telling stories from their pasts. The rule is basically that they use excerpts of my work and I have suggested that they choose to speak about something meaningful, for instance a memory that the work evokes. Not only do the dance excerpts vary according to the wishes of each dancer, but they also change in each country where the work is performed. The culture influences the work. You hear in their stories a combination of factors specific to that location and its politic—for example, in Singapore there are tales of censorship and how being an artist there is considered a hobby, not work.
The show addresses the notion of “looking backward” in that each experience in the present is also a condensation of the past. The performers are doing what we call “an individual retrospective of my work in and through their lives,” and the point is not that they say something about themselves but that they use this moment to say something as artists. This format is based on a 1999 piece, Product of Circumstances, which marked the first time I used this structure of dancing and speech. It’s always one and then the other: the gesture and the speech. It can be a comment, it can be complementing. Sometimes the movement can produce the end of a sentence. There are many ways to combine these juxtaposing things. The work also tries to do something other than just taking a dance and performing it endlessly—“museographing” is not interesting to me.
“Retrospective” pushed me to think about what I can do in exhibition spaces that I cannot do in a theater. In a gallery, people can stay as long as they like and they can leave whenever they like, but in the theater they make an appointment and perhaps feel they must stay—the duration is decided for them. I am interested in how behaviors change in these two spaces: What does each allow for or prohibit? With this show, I knew I wasn’t going to start doing painting or video—I would continue to work with performers. This brought up the question: How can you work with dancers for a long duration without transforming them into objects? Where is the agency of the performer for this, and where is the agency of the viewer?
There is a constant tension that you have as a performer about being objectified. In the field of contemporary dance and choreography, it comes up often in stories about how much you are used by the person who authors the work. It’s a contract, but the contract is often full of questions and uncertainties. During the exhibition we try to approach, unfold, and transform that problem and make these negotiations visible.
Glenn Kaino, Tank, 2014, dimensions variable. Installation view, Contemporary Arts Center New Orleans, 2014. From Prospect.3 New Orleans. Photo by Joseph Rynkiewicz.
Glenn Kaino is a Los Angeles–based artist whose work addresses social and political histories while prioritizing individual subjectivity. His latest installation Tank, comprises seven saltwater-filled vitrines in which clear resin sculptures cast from a disused tank are submerged and covered in corals. It will be displayed at the Contemporary Arts Center New Orleans as part of “Prospect.3: Notes for Now,” the third iteration of the Prospect New Orleans biennial, which is taking place across fifteen venues from October 25, 2014 through January 25, 2015.
IN MY WORK, I attempt to reconcile irreconcilable materials as a way to generate moments where the impossible or improbable is given form. I think of my practice as conceptual “kit-bashing,” which is an old model-maker’s term for using the parts of different model kits to make something new, sans instructions. I draw from a diverse set of materials, ideas, and systems of knowledge, putting them together in ways that should not succeed but somehow do. For Tank, I worked with Grand Arts in Kansas City, the Prospect organizers, and a team of scientists and designers across the country to create seven translucent casts of a decommissioned US M-60 military tank and to grow living coral formations on each sculpture.
I have been interested in using living organisms to understand behaviors and ways of existing. Years ago, I discovered that the US military was dropping retired tanks into the ocean, where they later eroded and were colonized by algae and coral, becoming artificial reefs. I saw a poetic contradiction in the notion that some of the smallest organisms in the world were reclaiming the instruments of much larger organisms. Corals are fascinating to me because they are reactionary and survive by responding to need but also to instinct. They have an embedded memory and programming that requires a battle with other corals for territory. Fighting is in their nature, but one would not see this unless they were trained to.
Growing corals on this piece of artillery was a way for me to visualize a combination both beautiful and violent and to explore an urge at the most basic level to conquer and occupy in order to sustain life. My piece is an attempt to raise meaningful questions about our nature, the relationship we have to the space we occupy, and the systems and social constructions within which we reside. There are scratches and marks on my cast pieces that the tank had from combat, but others came from the original manufacturing of the tank–which also required a type of casting–so it was already both a sculpted object and a weapon before I made this work. As the corals on the work grew and touched each other, their interactions became combative, resembling territorial divisions and creating a living map. They sent out stinging tentacles and chemicals, attacking and then subsequently advancing or retreating. In this case, as with nations, encroachment correlates to a recoiling. What’s also similar is that without a capable witness, the conflict would be invisible, and the struggle would have no meaning. I see Tank as a way to ask questions about how we might assert empathy over a perhaps instinctive colonial impulse and also to suggest a new way of being together where progress does not come at the expense of others.
Jean-Michel Othoniel, Les Belles Danses (The Beautiful Dances) (work in progress), 2014, Murano glass, steel, dimensions variable. Photo: Philippe Chancel.
Installed over the summer of 2014 as part of a major renovation of one of Versailles’s gardens, the three sculptures in Jean-Michel Othoniel’s Les Belles Danses (The Beautiful Dances), 2014, evoke King Louis XIV dancing on water. To realize the works, the Paris-based artist set up a makeshift studio in a vaulted ceiling chamber that once housed the Sun King’s apothecary. Othoniel is the first contemporary artist to make a permanent mark on the royal grounds as well as Versailles’s first artist-in-residence in over 300 years. The work will be previewed during FIAC this month before the grand opening in spring 2015.
AS A FRENCH ARTIST, it is a special experience to add my work to a garden originally designed by André Le Notre for Louis XIV. Versailles is one of the most important historic sites in France; it is part of our national identity and collective past. Louis XIV’s reign represents a key moment in French history because he was the first king who really made a connection between art—he especially loved dance and was himself an accomplished dancer—and politics.
The arabesque forms in Les Belles Danses were born out of a discovery I made while doing research during a residency at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. In the Boston Public Library I found L’Art d’écrire la danse par caractères, figures et signes démonstratifs (The Art of expressing dance through demonstrative characters, figures and signs), a rare book by Raoul-Auger Feuillet—there are only three known copies in the world—filled with notations diagramming Baroque dance sequences. To help Louis XIV learn and remember dances, Feuillet had invented a unique written language, which struck me in particular because the curvaceous script-like notations resemble forms that I have been using in my sculptures for quite some time. Once I saw this book, the idea for the fountains at Versailles became quite obvious: the Sun King dancing on water. It was natural for me to relate to Feuillet’s forms, to redraw them, to imagine them as sculptures, and give them a contemporary presence.
The sculptures are made of nearly 2,000 large glass beads and four blue glass orbs. Glass has a magical quality in the way it imitates water and I’ve been working with this material for many years. But what’s new in this project for me is the element of movement. In addition to the jets of water that spray out from Les Belles Danses, the glass beads themselves have a sensual quality that evokes the once-liquid state of the glass. The material is also very appropriate for the setting because there is an important history of Murano glass at Versailles. The splendid mirrors in the Galerie des Glaces were made by craftsmen from Murano, the Venetian island known for its glassblowing workshops. Upon recognizing this historic link, I decided that the four orbs needed to be fabricated in Murano.
For the beads, I worked with an artisanal glassblower in Basel. The technique of glass blowing has not changed much over the past 2,000 years. But what has changed are all the technologies around the technique, which permit us to optimize the quality of the material—to make it less fragile and more stable in terms of color. When you see chandeliers from the time of Louis XIV, they appear yellowish because at that time they hadn’t yet mastered true transparency. Today we can easily make glass that will not change color with age. We can also design a glass object using a computer that draws very specific, scientifically calibrated curves that make the glass pretty much unbreakable.
Before Les Belles Danses was installed, the most recent sculptures in Versailles dated to the seventeenth-century, so it’s really incredible to add to that collection. I’ve worked on other large-scale, site-specific projects before: glass bead necklaces for a tree in the sculpture garden at the New Orleans Museum of Art or the entrance to Paris’s Palais Royal metro station. But whereas in these cases I was not so concerned with the history of the site, at Versailles I was hyper conscious how my work would enter into a dialogue with the past. The focus became about much more than my own delights and obsessions.
With Les Belles Danses, I tried to create a link between the Versailles of Louis XIV and the Versailles of present day, all while looking towards the future. After this there may not be other opportunities for contemporary permanent art installations at Versailles. For me it’s a bit like a fairytale; like the garden in Beauty and the Beast that opens once and then closes right behind you.
View of “Irma Blank: To Be,” 2014. Photo: Michael Brzezinski.
Irma Blank was born in Germany in 1934 and has lived in Italy since the 1960s. Her latest exhibition, “Irma Blank: To Be,” is a concise retrospective of her major works—from her earliest script-like transmissions in the Eigenschriften (Self Writings), ca. 1965–72, to the most recent hand-drawn chain-mail of fragmented letters in the pencil on paper Global Writings, ca. 2000–14. The show is on view at London’s Alison Jacques Gallery from October 17 to November 15, 2014.
THE WORD is deceptive. Since the literary critiques of the 1960s, faith in the word has been largely lost. We see it still today: words, words, words that say nothing. The word is emptied of its meaning. I try to retrieve the space of silence, the unsaid.
The pieces in this show go back to the beginning. I work in cycles of about ten years. I have to go back to the primordial sign, back before it became language. In Eigenschriften, I decide to write for myself; those works are directed to myself. When I was done with the Eigenschfriten, I wanted to speak to others. Our depths are part of the collective depths. When one looks introspectively, it is not only individual introspection but also collective.
The space I use in the Eigenschriften is limited—twenty-seven by twenty inches—and intense. I wanted to enlarge it. For Trascrizione, transcriptions of pages of existing books and newspapers, I declare more overtly that this writing is a script. I had a lot of success with this series, but I was sure I couldn’t continue working in that way, because I was exhausted. I said all I had to say. I did not make concessions to the demands of the market. In that moment, I tried several things and understood that only the brush could give me the sign I wanted to have. With Radical Writings, I decided to use a brush and I began extending the mark, making it longer and longer. In that period, you were not supposed to take up the brush, because everyone wanted conceptual research. Yet I found the brush is conceptual too. At that time it was not understood.
For the small works on paper in the ongoing series Avant-testo, I work with ballpoint pens. In smaller works, there is only room for one hand. In larger works I work with both hands full of pens, swirling both left and right arms. It is a rhythm. It’s a beautiful work to do. You lose yourself. You give yourself to it. When you start, you know nothing. I never know how a work will end. It grows; it defines itself in my hands.
In the Global Writings you see only fragments. The language is smashed. I still try to read the world as writing; writing is my tool for understanding the world.
Melanie Bonajo, NIGHT SOIL: Fake Paradise (Pt 1), 2014. HD video, color, sound, 36 minutes.
Melanie Bonajo is a New York–based artist whose work explores issues of alienation and individual identity in relationship to technological progress and commodity pleasures. Her most recent work is the video NIGHT SOIL: Fake Paradise (Pt 1), 2014, which is on view in “When Elephants Come Marching In” at the De Appel Arts Centre in Amsterdam until January 11, 2015.
THIS VIDEO is about ayahuasca, a plant-based psychedelic brew that originates in the Amazon, where it has been used for thousands of years. Recently it’s been expanding into the Western world, but it is still kind of niche, not mainstream. In New York, specifically, it’s been interesting to see how people are trying to translate a tradition from such a different geographic place into a metropolitan environment through practices like “urban shamanism.” I come from a religious studies background, and I’m interested in the formation of ritual and how people fuse different cultures. What are they taking and what are they leaving behind? Can the ayahuasca be respected within this new situation or does it turn into something else, for recreational rather than spiritual use?
I went to many different ceremonies, some in cities and others in nature, conducted by men and conducted by women. One was with a branch of the Santo Daime church in the Netherlands, which combines Christianity with traditional Amazonian shamanism. Every ritual is so different and it’s interesting to see how you can combine two totally diverse philosophies into one religion. But ayahuasca is not just a philosophy—it is a plant, and it has a chemical substance that your body responds to. The knowledge and power to cure come directly from a conversation with the plant.
In current psychedelic research—both in pop culture and in scientific discourses—there are many interesting theories, yet there is a lack of female voices. I interviewed women who are using psychedelics as a mental, physical, and spiritual medicine. During the video we discussed their personal philosophies, alternative community building, the concept of divinity, the ethics of cyber versus spiritual landscape, relational eco-approaches, sexuality, non-Western health systems, psychopathologies of capitalism, the future shape of the earth, and feminist perspectives on the Anthropocene.
I wanted to show a confusion between the ethical system of the plant and the ethical system of our daily lives, and moreover to ask, How do you integrate the two? I also wanted to draw a parallel between the digital age, which is so bodiless, and the psychedelic world, where you have out-of-body experiences. With the latter, there is some part of you that is always present in a nonphysical dimension; similarly, in the digital world—wherein you make posts online and people respond—it has nothing to do with being inside your body. I went into making this work believing that I was a very open person, and immediately what came through was how stuck I am in my own views about the world. I’m not an expert on ayahuasca, but what I have learned is that the boundaries between the natural and the supernatural are not as fixed as my culture has implied.
George Herms in Irvine, California, 2011. Photo: Sue Henger.
LOVE is not just the word with which George Herms signs his work but an expression of a particular ethos. Well known in Beat generation poetry, art, and 1960s-era California Assemblage circles, he was also involved with Wallace Berman’s influential publication Semina. Herms speaks here about a series of recent collage works exhibited in “LOVE George Herms” at testsite in Austin, Texas, which are on view from September 7 to October 19, 2014, as well as the recent acquisition of his archives by the Getty Research Center.
IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE STORYBOARDisn’t that how the Bible starts out? A collaboration with a fictitious artist who integrates film, video, installation, sculpture, drawing, original music, and performance. That’s what I do, but now that text becomes a found paragraph for discussing artists of our time. Artists don’t want to be boxed in, or at least I never wanted to be.
Within the work, I’m the boss; I know what’s happening. My technique is to look at magazines upside down, and if I find something I enjoy, I tear it out. I’m a tear-rrorist. Like panning for gold with scissors, I cut out whatever is interesting to me. Then those pieces begin to dance around and form collages. Generally, I work on a coffee table, so that’s my natural scale. Besides the rusty-dusty stuff, I have an interest in color, which comes from working with bright and vibrant printer’s inks via my independent LOVE Press.
Some of the collages in my current show at testsite are composed of pieces of my archives returned to me by the Getty. And so this is an autobiographical body of work. For example, there’s a document in one of these collages, a piece of paper where you can see a list of names on the reverse side. This is from when I was executing the facsimile edition of Semina, and those are the people that are in the first issue—Cameron’s there, and so is Walter Hopps.
For fifty years I never threw anything away, so there was five decades of junk mail, documenting every election and all that stuff. I was like a scientist recording what was going on that day. But once I got to the Getty Research Institute, things changed. I found out about archival categories, and they would put my things into different boxes: for example, letters and correspondence. If the letter had the date on it, the Getty didn’t also need the envelope to establish date. So they threw away all the envelopes; they were winnowing. We had a sign on the office wall, which I made, which read WINNOW, DON’T WALLOW. In that little office, there was a table and a camera aimed straight down on the documents. There was also a second camera pointed at me with a microphone on it and I went over every single piece of paper accumulated over those years. All told, it was about twenty boxes’ worth of envelopes and newspapers thrown away, and naturally I asked, “Can I keep them?”
After fifty years, I’m going through my own wastebasket and finding there’s more. It gets ridiculous, because the challenge is to make gold out of dross. The less interesting the thing is, the bigger the challenge.