Tissue toilet cover and Flemish headdresses

This Saturday was not the first time I laid eyes on Nina Katchadourian. I met her once before during a one-month intensive summer class in New York. While the rest of our visits were to the studios of a variety of artists, Nina Katchadourian generously invited us to her Brooklyn apartment. Sitting in her sofa we watched a slide show and listened to her as she spoke freely about her art practice. It didn’t take me long to realize that she is an artist motivated by her curiosity and perhaps even her restlessness. Her art has a certain fresh flair of spontaneity. The work presently exhibited at Catharine Clark Gallery in San Francisco, titled “Seat Assignment,” most definitely could be described as such.

I personally have a very hard time being productive when I’m flying. I always plan to get a lot of work done, but I eventually end up just staring out the window, dozing off. To the outmost I might actually open up a book and read a couple of pages before I doze off again. Nina Katchadourian has managed to do what I would only dream of. She has created, and is still creating, a body of work that uses the time spent on airplane as an opportunity for productivity. “Seat Assignment: Lavatory Self-Portraits in the Flemish Style” started as an unintentional lavatory art project during a domestic flight. Today it is part of a more extensive project including over 2 500 photographs and video, made on more that 70 flights.

On her website she writes, “while in the lavatory on a domestic flight in March 2010, I spontaneously put a tissue paper toilet cover seat cover over my head and took a picture in the mirror using my cellphone.” Looking at the image she realized that it resembled 15th-century Flemish portraiture paintings and the discovery motivated her to continue explore what the plain had to offer in terms of different kinds of headdresses. When she landed 14 hours later she had a whole new set of photographs that partly can be seen hanging on the appropriate red-painted walls at Catharine Clark. The whole setup recalls Western traditional painting galleries where even the frames have a historical dignity to them.

In the Flemish paintings they typically set their models in front of a dark background. It is uniform and nondescript. Nina Katchadourian, who was wearing a thin black scarf on that flight, decided to hang it up behind her, and in that way recreate its neutral but dramatic backdrop. Even though it was a project that came on a whim, it is quite clear that the paintings of the old masters must have made a strong imprint on her. She did after all manage to replicate a dozen of its more typical headdresses and postures.

The exhibition at Catharine Clark will be up until May 26, 2012.

That stupid list of artistic goals

I’m going to start off by generalizing the idea of the artist. An artist wants to be special. Wants to be something more than “the man about town.” What’s the fun in being ordinary anyway? But as I recently graduated from an artistic graduate program I have to say that emerging artists think and behave pretty much the same. Make a list of artistic goals and it becomes scarily obvious that everyone from a specific region is hoping to take the same steps in reaching an artistic career.

This insight became uncomfortable exposed as I visited Yokonori Stone’s solo exhibition “Welcome to the Tenderloin” at Ever Gold Gallery in San Francisco. One of the first paintings I encountered was titled “a plan for success in San Francisco (with updates).” It shows a painted sheet of lined paper containing a handwritten list of artistic goals for the upcoming five year:

get and m.f.a. from sfai cca

do a residency at the Headlands

get a show at Adobe Books or the Luggage Store

be included in Bay Area Now

sign on with Jack Hanley Ratio 3

get a S.E.C.A award

etc.

At first the painting made me happy. My former classmates and I immediately began to talk about that list and how we all could relate to it. We started to think about how many checks we ourselves could make on that list – or a very similar list. That’s when a growing sense of unease began to surface. Why would we all have lists with so many reoccurring names? We weren’t even artists working within similar fields. And that same art piece went from making me happy to making me immensely sad. I didn’t want to be that artist who so easily could be put into a post-graduate system of artistic goals.

* most of that so called conversation between me an my former classmates only occurred in my own head …

Taking a walk in circles

Excluding many exceptions and important circumstances, it was my grandfather who led me to the study of art history. The last class I took was about Christian icon paintings, and it was there that I learnt — through the guidance of my teacher, my grandfather, as well as my grandfather’s Orthodox priest — the impossible nature of icon painting. The experience was intense. But still today, the fascination for icons has lost nothing of its force. I have now since decided to approach this problem with caution and the smallest of steps. And what better topic to dwell upon than the radiance of the circular, luminous halo.

The definition of a circle: “A closed curve whose points are all on the same plane and at the same distance from a fixed point (the center).” And the point is called the center of the circle. It is indeed very satisfying with mathematical definitions and formulas that can describe the essence of concepts. It is satisfying, but it also marks and end. Which might be a good thing. But it’s equally important to be able to lose ones way. And without a distant focal point the lost traveler tends to walk in circles. That has happened to me countless of times. And I do believe artists have a special ability to disorient themselves in the art of language. It is that desire to seek unusual intersections, unexpected encounters, and unknown territories that are alluring.

It was curiosity that impelled me to visit 2nd Floor Project where the painter Alexis Knowlton is now showing one of her site-specific installations. The art piece, which is titled “9 Balls,” has most likely nothing to do with halos. Even so, that is where I landed after visiting the gallery space in the San Francisco Mission district. Her paintings take on sculptural forms as she uses stretcher bars to bring tension to the shapes and objects she paints—in this case a series of nine circles. The artwork becomes an all-encompassing installation that speaks about paining as being “a container for action and materials.”

The definition of a ball: “a spherical or almost spherical entity.“ So there are no balls in the installation at 2nd Floor Projects. But there are eight circles, shifting in colors between yellow and orange. This makes me think of Magritte’s “This is not a pipe.” In this canonical artwork the image of a carefully drawn pipe is followed by the text “Ceci n'est pas une pipe.” That statement is simple since it is quite apparent that the drawing representing a pipe is not a pipe in itself. A flat ball, or sphere, is nothing but the image of a ball. Or, it’s simply a circle. And then there’s the fact that the title says “9 Balls.” But there are only 8 circles. This is according to curator Margaret Tedesco, part of the conceptual illusion of the artwork. During the day, when the room is flooded with light, nine or more shadow balls appear to be bouncing off the walls. The impossibility of a flat ball, as well as the illusion of an artwork, brings me back to the Christian icon painting.

It is said that it’s only possible to truly see an icon trough the eyes of a believer. The icon has come to us as the silent witness of a feeling or an experience. And as I’m typing this sentence down I can finally see how this sphere of references is connected. And it isn’t that far off to connect the Christian belief—that an icon is a silent witness—to that of Alexis Knowlton’s view of paintings being a container for actions and materials. And making that comparison, the frustration sort of diminishes. I feel quite comfortable not knowing completely the content of Alexis Knowlton’s container. So why then, would I not be as comfortable not knowing the full meaning of an icon painting?

Alexis Knowlton's installation will be on view 11 March – 18 April, 2012

Playing chess with Death

Rays of sun piercing through a clouded sky. Filled with existential doubt there’s still some hopeful light struggling to break through. The struggle is between dark and light, doubt and hope. "And when the lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was a silence in heaven about the space of half an hour." The man in this scene is introduced as Antonius Block – a 14th century knight who has just arrived to his home in Sweden after a decade of fighting in the Crusades. He is broken. Disillusioned by war, plague, and superstition. A
black-robed, white-faced man appears before him.

KNIGHT: Who are you?
DEATH: I am Death.
KNIGHT: Have you come for me?
DEATH: I have been walking by your side for a long time.

Unwilling to give up the knight proposes a game of chess. If he wins, he lives. He looses, and Death will take him. The story I’m reciting is the opening scene from Ingmar Bergman's landmark film The Seventh Seal (1957). This melancholic film reflects the moment when a human being can no longer avoid facing the question of what his existence means.

Many who have been facing similar tragedies can most likely relate to the struggle the knight is facing. The Bay Area artist Daniel Dallabrida, a 28-year AIDS survivor, has created a group of work with the subtitle “Memento Mori.” This phrase, dating back to antiquity, translates to “Remember you will die.” That reminder might be needed for someone like me. But for Antonius Block, or Daniel Dallabrida, this is constantly and painfully present. In describing gay men living in San Francisco, Dallabrida writes: "In 1983, 137 men dissolved in ways that were quick, mean and indescribable. The scent of fear rode every bus. Dread flavored every meal. The number of deaths doubled the next year. Then doubled again. And then tripled. By 1986, there were 907 deaths in San Francisco. Each of the following years, until 1997, the mortality count hovered between 1,000 and 2,000."

DEATH: And yet you don't want to die.
KNIGHT: Yes, I do.
DEATH : What are you waiting for?
KNIGHT: I want knowledge, not faith, not suppositions, but knowledge.
The art by Daniel Dallabrida is not told with an angry voice. Like the struggle fought by the knight, it is more likely created as the result of a search for meaning and a dealing with extreme loss and sadness. 

Daniel Dallabrida has been facing death more than many of us. Although subtle, the rage he is feeling toward the circumstances forming his life is an important ingredient to his art. In his latest artwork it is seen through the torn layers of imagery. Partly covering pages from contemporary gay club and party poster are torn photographs from his private life. These are photographs taken years back when many of his friends were still alive. The images are broken.

DEATH: Now I see something interesting.
KNIGHT: What do you see?
DEATH: You are mated on the next move, Antonius Block.
KNIGHT: That's true.
DEATH: Did you enjoy your reprieve?
KNIGHT: Yes, I did.
DEATH: I'm happy to hear that. Now I'll be leaving you. When we meet again, you and your companions' time will be up.
KNIGHT: And you will divulge your secrets.
DEATH: I have no secrets.
KNIGHT: So you know nothing.
DEATH: I have nothing to tell.

 Daniel Dallabrida’s exhibition, “In Now’s waters burn the stars of Then,” will by up until March 28th. The exhibition is hosted at the Magnet, a gay men’s health center in San Francisco’s Castro district. 

Victims of architectural excavations

In 1985, the 16-year-old Gregor Schneider began a process dismantling and rebuilding rooms inside his family’s apartment building in Rheydt, Germany. Inside its exterior walls he began to build replicas of the spaces by building complete rooms inside other rooms. Then, with the help of machines, he slowly began pushing rooms around. Some, however, are no longer accessible. They have been moved behind walls and others have been isolated by concrete, or sound absorbing materials. The building has been transformed into a labyrinth with such narrow passages, and getting stuck is a frightening possibility. The wrong door might be opened, and the person will disappear into a void of architectural duplications. And as he once remarked, “I’d love to stop someone from getting away some time.”

Like Schneider’s Totes Haus u r, the exterior of the recently closed Highlight Galley Project Space 3020 Laguna Street in Exitum might look somewhat anonymous in San Francisco’s Cow Hollow area. But when I enter the building, nothing is longer normal. Both apartment buildings are victims of some forceful architectural excavation. Walls have been surgically cut out. Removed from its former usage just to end up hanging loose from the ceiling—like theater backdrops. And standing in what might once have been the living room, I can see the external walls of the building. Illuminating light shines in through its wooden beams. Similarly, in Totes Haus u r, you might think you are viewing external walls inside a larger space. But when a window is opened, there is no outside to be seen. Instead there is a second window. There never seem to be an outside. Every door leads back into the house.

Gaston Bachelard writes in The Poetics of Space, that the cellar “is first and foremost the dark entity of the house, the one that partakes of subterranean forces. When we dream we are in harmony with the irrationality of the depths." The cellar in Gregor Schneider’s building is disturbing as one “glimpses details of dolls hanging from the ceiling or shattered against the floor.” In the Laguna Street building, the cellar has been flooded and traces of a disfigured human-sized figure-sculpture are left, sunk to its bottom. In both cases, the cellar has evidently become the section where irrational thoughts have been transformed into narrative elements, whereas the rest of the building is more about formally exploring ways of working with layers of architecture.

The 3020 Laguna Street in Exitum existed between January 20th – February 28th, 2012. It was curated by Amir Mortazavi and David Kasprzak and included the artists Jeremiah Barber, Randy Colosky, Chris Fraser, Christine Peterson, Yulia Pinkusevich, Jonathan Runcio, Jesse Schlesinger, Gareth Spor, and Andy Vogt. More information and images can be seen at the Highlight Gallery website.

The tree burl on Hotel Des Arts

The streetscape of Downtown San Francisco has been altered. If you look attentively that is. A new house has been erected, and its old-fashioned wooden architecture clearly extinguishes itself from Downtown's otherwise impressively tall concrete buildings. Above and between older properties sits a rustic, small, door-less cabin. Floating approximately 40 feet in the air, it has been affixed to the Hotel Des Arts on 447 Bush Street.

The small cabin functions almost like a tree burl, a growth that is part of the tree but that grows in a disfigured manner. I like the comparison to a tree burl. This small cabin works almost like an outgrowth on this hectic street in San Francisco. As a commentary on the economy and the housing crisis, I find it interesting to think of the burl as being the result of a tree affected by some form of stress. An injury, virus, insect infestation, or pollution may cause the outgrowth. Even though there is no beauty behind the cause of a tree burl, it is still quite commonly prized for its artistry. And here, on Bush Street, it is growing in this expensive city where thousands are struggling to keep a roof over their heads. It is beautiful in its awkwardness, it is sticking out from its surrounding, and it will take a lot of willpower to finally get it removed from the structure it is attached to – all qualities easily applied to a tree bur.

This wooden cabin is meant to be stumbled upon. The daily street strollers have the possibility to piece together their own stories based on the fragment that is left, literally dangling in the air. To me it is a reminder that history at great length is dependent on hearsay and storytelling. History is after all nothing but the rediscovery, organization, and presentation of information about past events. Unexpectedly confronting the cabin the street strollers would not be able to depend on anything except their own imagination. Since there is no sign here to inform what the cabin is actually about, they would manufacture their own history about this space based on the limitations of their own mental ability.

The small cabin is titled "Manifest Destiny" and is collaboration between the Brooklyn-based artist Mark Reigelman and the San Francisco based architect Jenny Chapman. Its exterior is made from 100-year-old reclaimed wood from an Ohio barn and solar panels on the roof lights up the cabin's interior by night.

This temporary site-specific installation was commissioned by Southern Exposure and made possible through The Graue Family Foundation. It will remain on view until October 2012.

Regarding Hotel Palenque

In 1969 Robert Smithson took a trip down to Mexico to experience its ancient architecture. In a lecture three years later he presented his experience to the architecture students of the University of Utah. While showing a series of thirty-one color slides he presented to them a story about the Hotel Palenque and Yucatan.

It has been well documented that Smithson had a great interest for architectural ruins. It must have been somewhat surprising when it turned out that what he was in actuality documenting during his travels was not the Mayan architecture, but the hotel that he was staying at. The hotel was undergoing a cycle of simultaneous decay and renewal. What fascinated him was that it was continually being built at one end, while falling apart and dissolving into nature at another. The hotel came to symbolize the process of destruction and renovation known to Mayan culture. Through his presentation he turns the hotel into a contemporary ruin where truths and histories are lost. He begins with an overall photograph showing the hotel. He then continues through its tiled walkway, collapsed terrace, emptied swimming pool, evacuated dancehall, a partially collapsed stairway, and finally he end by showing a photograph of a closed green door. In the whole lecture the ancient Mayan ruins, for which the place is famous, is almost completely ignored. They are recorded only as a possible view from one of the hotel’s windows. The historical architecture remains a backdrop and becomes outshone by the archeology of the Hotel Palenque.

The written text in Cellar in the Attic, one of my most recent art projects, is referencing Robert Smithson’s lecture. A hotel is mentioned and one gets the idea that it follows the lead of a person currently residing inside this hotel. The whole experience is not meant to undermine, or give proof to any form of documentation or history writing. Stories are told and the degree of fiction is irrelevant. It is a hybrid of historical facts, fabrications by other writers, as well as personal associations.

At times, when I make my half-brave attempts at figuring out why I am making art, I end up finding my greatest support in a quote from the great writer Jorge Luis Borges. In an interview he writes, “I’m not sure why I have to define myself. I rather go on wondering and puzzling about things, for I find that very enjoyable.” I very much enjoy puzzling over things. Answers do not interest me. That is partly why I decided to end my narrative story with the image of a closed door. There are plenty of closed doors in this series, but only one is never opened. While the rest of the doors are opened up, just to reveal impenetrable walls, this particular door is “always glowing. I would only have to give it the slightest push. But it is beautiful just as an image to look at.” While the rest of the hotel seems to hold the narrating resident captive, this one door suggests otherwise. The door that Smithson ends with is a green one. He writes, “it’s just a green door. We’ve all seen green doors at one time in our lives. It gives out a sense of universality that way, a sense of kind of global cohesion. The door probably opens up to nowhere and closes on nowhere so that we leave the Hotel Palenque with this closed door and return to the University of Utah.” In that way it can be said that both projects ends with a door that has the possibility of leading somewhere but that, for one or another reason, remain closed. Some doors should only be opened in the imagination.

The book Cellar in the Attic, is available through Lulu.