Showing posts with label Leonhard Emmerling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Leonhard Emmerling. Show all posts
Monday, March 22, 2010
The art of bodily immersion
Jim Allen: Small Worlds
Michael Lett
17 March - 17 April 2010
Designed to help break down any separation or distinction between viewer and art object, Jim Allen’s Small Worlds – a recreation of a pioneering and highly influential project (in Australasia) from 1969 - provides an immersive experience of tactile sensations for your body to enjoy.
Just inside the doorway of the darkened space, an inflated cube of shiny transparent plastic tells us that here, where the eye can go, the body cannot follow. It’s a teaser and not penetrable. Further inside is a gap between two horizontally suspended squares near the ceiling, supporting densely hanging lines of thick nylon thread and tubes radiating ultra-violet ‘black’ light. In this gap alternatively the body follows where there is ‘nothing’ for the eye to see. It is the opposite of the inflatable cube.
The main attractions however are the two suspended cube-shaped, fibrous sculptures. They glow internally from the UV, while their translucent stringy sides are raked by the diffuse light coming in from the entrance. You are offered the chance of stripping down to your underwear and walking through them, experiencing the straggly vertical filaments, shiny plastic strips and swinging wooden balls as they tickle, scrape, flap or bang against your chest, shoulders and bare legs. At the same time you can feel the crunchy shredded flax or smooth cold floor under your bare feet.
In one of these works Tribute to Hone Tuwhare, Allen has the early Tuwhare poem 'Thine Own Hands Have Fashioned' transcribed on to long strips of paper that, with the long nylon ‘hair’, are hanging from the platform ceiling so that they glow under the purple light. A celebration of the senses, the rich language enunciates the flattering words of Delilah as she calls to her lover Samson:
thine hands drop with golden flowers from the lion’s maw:
thine hands contain the splendid fire of poised lances:
they are exquisite pinnacles of light o lord…
The original version of this work was made for Barry Lett Galleries while Allen was Head of Sculpture and Associate Professor at Elam (1960-1976). He made it just after he got back from a trip to Europe, England and the States where he had been visiting art schools and meeting various innovative artists. He had become interested in more open-ended notions of sculpture where the viewer’s sense of self began to merge with a sculptural environment they entered into, so that they were overwhelmed by the visual, tactile, aural and olfactory sensations it provided.
This sort of project made sculpture is (as Christina Barton has described in an informative article in the first issue of ‘Midwest’) ‘an activity rather than an object’ and lead to a series of interactive performances with groups of students. This new version of Small Worlds continues a series of recreated exhibtions presented in 2006 at Michael Lett Gallery (Poetry for Chainsaws and Hanging By a Thread) and St. Paul St, AUT (O-AR).
Of the original installations made in 1969 and 1970 in this series, only New Zealand Environment No.5 remains, a work which Allen showed in Mildura in Australia in 1970 and which is now part of the collection of the Govett-Brewster in New Plymouth. Its lightly covered scrim enclosure and contents is more rurally focused than the earlier works because of the olfactory sensations it generates, presenting oily wool, resiny woodchips and woolbale hessian – along with a few hanging nylon threads, barbed wire and a pale green neon light. I think I like these Small Worlds works more. They, in comparison, seem more urban, if not slightly nightclubby or industrial, with the black light, shiny plastic strips and dense nylon lines.
Like the earlier Emmerling curated version of O-AR at St. Paul St, this is a wonderful exhibition - not so much an object as an experience or ‘situation’. One of the year’s highlights and not to be missed.
Michael Lett
17 March - 17 April 2010
Designed to help break down any separation or distinction between viewer and art object, Jim Allen’s Small Worlds – a recreation of a pioneering and highly influential project (in Australasia) from 1969 - provides an immersive experience of tactile sensations for your body to enjoy.
Just inside the doorway of the darkened space, an inflated cube of shiny transparent plastic tells us that here, where the eye can go, the body cannot follow. It’s a teaser and not penetrable. Further inside is a gap between two horizontally suspended squares near the ceiling, supporting densely hanging lines of thick nylon thread and tubes radiating ultra-violet ‘black’ light. In this gap alternatively the body follows where there is ‘nothing’ for the eye to see. It is the opposite of the inflatable cube.
The main attractions however are the two suspended cube-shaped, fibrous sculptures. They glow internally from the UV, while their translucent stringy sides are raked by the diffuse light coming in from the entrance. You are offered the chance of stripping down to your underwear and walking through them, experiencing the straggly vertical filaments, shiny plastic strips and swinging wooden balls as they tickle, scrape, flap or bang against your chest, shoulders and bare legs. At the same time you can feel the crunchy shredded flax or smooth cold floor under your bare feet.
In one of these works Tribute to Hone Tuwhare, Allen has the early Tuwhare poem 'Thine Own Hands Have Fashioned' transcribed on to long strips of paper that, with the long nylon ‘hair’, are hanging from the platform ceiling so that they glow under the purple light. A celebration of the senses, the rich language enunciates the flattering words of Delilah as she calls to her lover Samson:
thine hands drop with golden flowers from the lion’s maw:
thine hands contain the splendid fire of poised lances:
they are exquisite pinnacles of light o lord…
The original version of this work was made for Barry Lett Galleries while Allen was Head of Sculpture and Associate Professor at Elam (1960-1976). He made it just after he got back from a trip to Europe, England and the States where he had been visiting art schools and meeting various innovative artists. He had become interested in more open-ended notions of sculpture where the viewer’s sense of self began to merge with a sculptural environment they entered into, so that they were overwhelmed by the visual, tactile, aural and olfactory sensations it provided.
This sort of project made sculpture is (as Christina Barton has described in an informative article in the first issue of ‘Midwest’) ‘an activity rather than an object’ and lead to a series of interactive performances with groups of students. This new version of Small Worlds continues a series of recreated exhibtions presented in 2006 at Michael Lett Gallery (Poetry for Chainsaws and Hanging By a Thread) and St. Paul St, AUT (O-AR).
Of the original installations made in 1969 and 1970 in this series, only New Zealand Environment No.5 remains, a work which Allen showed in Mildura in Australia in 1970 and which is now part of the collection of the Govett-Brewster in New Plymouth. Its lightly covered scrim enclosure and contents is more rurally focused than the earlier works because of the olfactory sensations it generates, presenting oily wool, resiny woodchips and woolbale hessian – along with a few hanging nylon threads, barbed wire and a pale green neon light. I think I like these Small Worlds works more. They, in comparison, seem more urban, if not slightly nightclubby or industrial, with the black light, shiny plastic strips and dense nylon lines.
Like the earlier Emmerling curated version of O-AR at St. Paul St, this is a wonderful exhibition - not so much an object as an experience or ‘situation’. One of the year’s highlights and not to be missed.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Two Millar publications
Judy Millar: Giraffe-Bottle-Gun
With an essay by Jennifer Gross and an introduction by Jenny Harper
Ed. Leonhard Emmerling
This catalogue was published for the Judy Millar exhibition of the same name at the 53rd Venice Biennale
56 pp, coloured images of the installation, English text
Kerber softcover 2009
Judy Millar: You you, me me
Two essays by Anthony Byrt and Leonard Emmerling, also with Judy Millar in conversation with Justin Paton
Editor Leonhard Emmerling - the exhibition's curator.
Translated by L. Emmerling and Anita Goetthans.
Again, published in coordination with the exhibition Giraffe–Bottle-Gun in Venice.
182 pp, coloured illustrations of her paintings, English /German texts
Kerber hardcover 2009
These two books are quite different. One is specifically about last year’s Judy Millar Venice Biennale exhibition inside the domed apse of Chiesa La Maddalena, the other about Millar’s practice in general as it led up to that show. If we use them to think about Giraffe-Bottle-Gun (I never got there so I’m really curious about this installation) then the Gross essay is the most useful, after that the chattier Byrt, and then the contextually informative Paton /Millar contribution.
So, looking at the smaller book: Jennifer Gross is a contemporary art curator at Yale who obviously wrote her essay after seeing the installation when it was up, unlike the New Zealand–based writers in the thicker hardback. Alongside the included on-site photos she gives a clear sense of Millar’s aims behind her project, though in my opinion her discussion of Italian artists like Michelangelo and de Chirico is of little benefit.
Overall Gross’ essay is good because she zeros in on how Millar’s installation confronts the religious architecture and subverts the space – physically and politically. This Millar achieves in a number of ways: Firstly by obstructing the centre of the church with a large tilted, wide cylinder that restricts viewer movement to clinging to the outer curved walls. Secondly by referencing a shattered (modernist) picture plane with towering stretchers that are Giraffe-Bottle-Gun shaped like shards of smashed window glass. Thirdly to have amongst the many associations (Gross’ prose describing them is quite ‘purple’) created by the wiped off - but photographically enlarged – paint, the licking flames of Hell. They disturb inside a church. Fourthly, by creating a knowing and self conscious exhibition in a church for an art biennale which will attract thousands of ‘art believers’, a work that is not ironical or anti-art.
Personally I think Magritte is a central figure in understanding Millar’s large, leaning, oddly shaped stretchers. His Door to Freedom with its broken fragments is an obvious connection – albeit perhaps coincidental. Fascinatingly, in Anthony Byrt’s discussion of Velázquez’s Las Meninas in relation to Millar, he alludes to This is Not a Pipe, another Magritte painting that Foucault once wrote a small book about. Byrt discusses in his essay the famous rendered back of a painting (‘it isn’t a painting, it’s a painting of a painting’s back’) the front of which Velázquez’s figures are admiring, elaborating on the spatial tunnelling and blistering out that Velázquez is expert at – and comparing it eventually with Millar’s markmaking and the effect her painted ‘props’ will have on the La Maddalena space sculpturally – comparable with the illusionistic feats of Tintoretto, Tiepolo and Veronese.
The conversations between Paton and Millar about her visits to Venice and Turin are particularly interesting, especially in relation to the densely ornate architecture of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco in Venice which is crammed full of works by Tintoretto, whose technical wizardry and manipulation of illusory space made him the George Lucas of his day. His paintings helped make her aware of the possibility of physical intervention with architecture.
The history of Millar’s ‘shard’, or ‘Giraffe’ shape is also intriguing, coming from a spatial experiment where in an earlier possible venue last year, she cut into some painted canvases, slotted them into a row of windows and projected them out into the room. She liked the shape she discovered.
Leonhard Emmerling’s text has an interpretative conclusion totally at odds with the other writers. His five part essay is revolves around the distinction between the two Renaissance taxonomies of form, imitatio and inventio, using them to examine possibilities of the autonomy of an artwork (its relationship to the world and society) as elucidated by Frankfurt School philosophers like Adorno. It looks at how the images of Millar’s installation are constructed and how they are located within those questions.
Unlike Millar’s paint Emmerling’s writing doesn’t flow easily. (It’s dense with obscure footnotes, is tortuously longwinded, and needs an experienced, English-speaking editor – somebody like Paton – to shape it and make the vocabulary less monotonous). After considering all variations of Giraffe-Bottle-Gun’s relationship to the world, he eventually concludes that it does not meaningfully interact with it, being independent and in parallel, and not in opposition either – not opening up ‘a privileged view of the world’, nor a ‘utopian alternative’. It is inventio, not imitatio, in its disposition – and hermetic.
As I’ve tried to show, these two Millar books ‘bounce’ nicely off each other. Having only one of them is pointless, because the most informative text is probably Gross’s yet the better images (in terms of Millar’s handling of paint) are found in the bigger hardback. Its reproductions allow the reader to closely examine her painted on /wiped off marks and their internal textures and striations. The design work of this publication though is a little peculiar, individual paintings sometimes being butted together in pairs to make a larger third, or cropped irritatingly at the edges, while all three essays start with first paragraphs entirely indented, the second entirely justified, and third and rest with conventional indenting – confusing because they appear to start with a quote.
So, to summarise, if it is just Millar’s paintings that grab you, go for the thicker book; if it is her installation projects you like, take the skinny one. And if you like seeing how four different writers describe her working process, and how they respond to the marks, get both.
With an essay by Jennifer Gross and an introduction by Jenny Harper
Ed. Leonhard Emmerling
This catalogue was published for the Judy Millar exhibition of the same name at the 53rd Venice Biennale
56 pp, coloured images of the installation, English text
Kerber softcover 2009
Judy Millar: You you, me me
Two essays by Anthony Byrt and Leonard Emmerling, also with Judy Millar in conversation with Justin Paton
Editor Leonhard Emmerling - the exhibition's curator.
Translated by L. Emmerling and Anita Goetthans.
Again, published in coordination with the exhibition Giraffe–Bottle-Gun in Venice.
182 pp, coloured illustrations of her paintings, English /German texts
Kerber hardcover 2009
These two books are quite different. One is specifically about last year’s Judy Millar Venice Biennale exhibition inside the domed apse of Chiesa La Maddalena, the other about Millar’s practice in general as it led up to that show. If we use them to think about Giraffe-Bottle-Gun (I never got there so I’m really curious about this installation) then the Gross essay is the most useful, after that the chattier Byrt, and then the contextually informative Paton /Millar contribution.
So, looking at the smaller book: Jennifer Gross is a contemporary art curator at Yale who obviously wrote her essay after seeing the installation when it was up, unlike the New Zealand–based writers in the thicker hardback. Alongside the included on-site photos she gives a clear sense of Millar’s aims behind her project, though in my opinion her discussion of Italian artists like Michelangelo and de Chirico is of little benefit.
Overall Gross’ essay is good because she zeros in on how Millar’s installation confronts the religious architecture and subverts the space – physically and politically. This Millar achieves in a number of ways: Firstly by obstructing the centre of the church with a large tilted, wide cylinder that restricts viewer movement to clinging to the outer curved walls. Secondly by referencing a shattered (modernist) picture plane with towering stretchers that are Giraffe-Bottle-Gun shaped like shards of smashed window glass. Thirdly to have amongst the many associations (Gross’ prose describing them is quite ‘purple’) created by the wiped off - but photographically enlarged – paint, the licking flames of Hell. They disturb inside a church. Fourthly, by creating a knowing and self conscious exhibition in a church for an art biennale which will attract thousands of ‘art believers’, a work that is not ironical or anti-art.
Personally I think Magritte is a central figure in understanding Millar’s large, leaning, oddly shaped stretchers. His Door to Freedom with its broken fragments is an obvious connection – albeit perhaps coincidental. Fascinatingly, in Anthony Byrt’s discussion of Velázquez’s Las Meninas in relation to Millar, he alludes to This is Not a Pipe, another Magritte painting that Foucault once wrote a small book about. Byrt discusses in his essay the famous rendered back of a painting (‘it isn’t a painting, it’s a painting of a painting’s back’) the front of which Velázquez’s figures are admiring, elaborating on the spatial tunnelling and blistering out that Velázquez is expert at – and comparing it eventually with Millar’s markmaking and the effect her painted ‘props’ will have on the La Maddalena space sculpturally – comparable with the illusionistic feats of Tintoretto, Tiepolo and Veronese.
The conversations between Paton and Millar about her visits to Venice and Turin are particularly interesting, especially in relation to the densely ornate architecture of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco in Venice which is crammed full of works by Tintoretto, whose technical wizardry and manipulation of illusory space made him the George Lucas of his day. His paintings helped make her aware of the possibility of physical intervention with architecture.
The history of Millar’s ‘shard’, or ‘Giraffe’ shape is also intriguing, coming from a spatial experiment where in an earlier possible venue last year, she cut into some painted canvases, slotted them into a row of windows and projected them out into the room. She liked the shape she discovered.
Leonhard Emmerling’s text has an interpretative conclusion totally at odds with the other writers. His five part essay is revolves around the distinction between the two Renaissance taxonomies of form, imitatio and inventio, using them to examine possibilities of the autonomy of an artwork (its relationship to the world and society) as elucidated by Frankfurt School philosophers like Adorno. It looks at how the images of Millar’s installation are constructed and how they are located within those questions.
Unlike Millar’s paint Emmerling’s writing doesn’t flow easily. (It’s dense with obscure footnotes, is tortuously longwinded, and needs an experienced, English-speaking editor – somebody like Paton – to shape it and make the vocabulary less monotonous). After considering all variations of Giraffe-Bottle-Gun’s relationship to the world, he eventually concludes that it does not meaningfully interact with it, being independent and in parallel, and not in opposition either – not opening up ‘a privileged view of the world’, nor a ‘utopian alternative’. It is inventio, not imitatio, in its disposition – and hermetic.
As I’ve tried to show, these two Millar books ‘bounce’ nicely off each other. Having only one of them is pointless, because the most informative text is probably Gross’s yet the better images (in terms of Millar’s handling of paint) are found in the bigger hardback. Its reproductions allow the reader to closely examine her painted on /wiped off marks and their internal textures and striations. The design work of this publication though is a little peculiar, individual paintings sometimes being butted together in pairs to make a larger third, or cropped irritatingly at the edges, while all three essays start with first paragraphs entirely indented, the second entirely justified, and third and rest with conventional indenting – confusing because they appear to start with a quote.
So, to summarise, if it is just Millar’s paintings that grab you, go for the thicker book; if it is her installation projects you like, take the skinny one. And if you like seeing how four different writers describe her working process, and how they respond to the marks, get both.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sweeping painting

Alberto Garcia-Alvarez
Curated by Leonard Emmerling and Alan Joy
St. Paul St.
16 July - 11 August 2009
Alberto Garcia–Alvarez is a Spanish painter who taught at Elam between 1972 and 95, a lecturer held in particularly high esteem by students and colleagues alike, and whose work I can remember a friend from the North Island raving about when I lived in Christchurch during the eighties. Despite this, his profile since his retirement has been virtually non-existent. Consequently this show is an important event.
This painter works all the time, every day. For him praxis is a spiritual, philosophical, ever-continuing intellectual search where theory and action are one. So what have the curators done with the results of all this activity?
For a start this is not a chronological survey, sampling all the varieties of visual investigation he has explored over the years. It is highly selective. Joy and Emmerling have basically picked seven kinds of work that they find interesting. Some of it overlaps so that at first glance it looks like three or four types.
First of all there are the painted assemblages of angled wooden batons where the colour on the side planes of the timber differ according whether you are positioned on the right or the left. Mostly made in the seventies they have similarities with the metal sculptures of John Panting and Polynesian navigation grids made of bound slivers of wood and shells. Their use of side planes and colour is derived I suspect from Don Peeble’s Victor Pasmore-influenced constructions of the mid sixties.
Second there are the large expressionistic works on heavy paper: vigorous, gestural interwoven marks made with what seem to be brooms with stiff straw bristles that create parallel lines. The surface is matt, with the richly tactile, striated and flicked paint consisting of ground pigment mixed with latex. Made in the nineties, these contain glimpses of Richter, but with earthier, more organic colour, and wilder wider vectors.
Third there are more large works on paper but with rectangular (black) or triangular (white) shapes created with narrow housepainting brushes or the occasional squeegee and with the paint a little more fluid and puddled than with the ‘broom’ works.
Fourth, photolitho metal panels with brushed on lines of paint. Hints of Polke but a lot smaller.
Fifth, folded cardboard rectangles with brushed on or sprayed paint. Clever ideas with form, folding and direction - alluding perhaps to Dorothea Rockburne.
Sixth, small panels on board with dripped on, poured glossy paint.
Seventh, pinned up canvases of brushed on perpendicular black rectangles or receding corners of right-angled lines.
I have numbered them in order of their success as paintings. (In my opinion, obviously). Nos. 1-2 categories are by far the most successful. 6-7 in turn are disasters but useful because they provide links between other series. They are ‘duds’ which help unify the whole project. They don’t work as composed paintings but as ciphers loaded with formalist and processual information they provide clues to Garcia-Alvarez’s thinking.
For the two St. Paul galleries Emmerling and Joy have mixed up the different varieties of work and different scales in their hang. This is a mistake. Gallery Two should have a long wall down its centre and that space only used for small works – so that the two scales can be kept apart. That way they can be analysed as sets and the degree of appropriate spatial intimacy consistently sustained throughout. However the hang does draw out connecting threads between different experiments.
The wooden wall reliefs show Garcia-Alvarez’s ability as an innovator trying to manipulate the movements of the viewer as they examine the planes, unlike the large paintings on paper that are flush with the wall and which although wonderful as providers of a bodily experience, are not ground-breaking. They are too reminiscent of Richter, Kline and de Kooning.
It would be an interesting exercise to bring to St. Paul St the Ilam Honours exhibition of another painter, Philip Trusttum, presented in 1964. It was reshown in the Mair gallery in Christchurch’s CSA in the late seventies - that was when I saw it. These huge works (well over 3 metres high) were panels layered with sweeping slashes of oil paint mixed with shaped sections of corrugated cardboard that had been doused in turps and set on fire. You could see the influence of his teacher Rudolf Gopas with the collage, but they were extraordinarily raw – with a hint of the apocalyptic. They almost make Garcia-Alvarez’s nineties work here look timidly genteel in comparison – because of their brutal physicality.
With that national art-historical context in mind, Garcia-Alvarez’s is nevertheless a refreshing show, one that is very unusual in the current art climate. His works remind us of how exciting paint can be as an applied, modulated, thoroughly integrated substance, and how nuances of bodily empathy can flicker through our minds recreating the artist’s movements. They stir us physically in a way that merely analysing say, spatial depth of tone or hue can’t. Like watching Len Lye films or kinetics or listening to rock and roll.
[Of the above three images, only the centre one is in the exhibition.]
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Actions and Events








Roman Signer: Sculpting in time
St. Paul St Gallery, AUT, 14 March - 2 May 2008
ARTSPACE, 14 March - 19 April 2008
Also window projections at Porcelain World (Karangahape Rd) and Auckland University Library.
‘desires, wantings, urgings, promptings, and a great variety of moral views, aesthetic principles, economic prejudices, social conventions, and public and private goals...these can be interpreted as attitudes of an agent directed toward actions of a certain kind.’ (1)
Donald Davidson
In this piece of writing I want to try something a little unusual. I want to mix into a discussion of the Signer exhibitions some ideas from the American analytic philosopher Donald Davidson (1917-2003) for reasons I hope will gradually become apparent. Davidson is widely known in the philosophy world for his wide ranging, highly influential, short essays dealing with topics such as truth and interpretation, and the belief assumptions behind a social activity like linguistic communication. When he published a couple of essays on ‘Actions’ in 1963, to be followed by four others on ‘Events’ in 1970, he began spearheading a causalist ‘commonsense’ charge against Wittgenstein (and the later influence of Ryle) who had argued that reasons and causes cannot be the same thing. A cause as an event may repeatedly precede an action but reasons cannot be causes because they are not observable mechanisms but mental states.
Davidson developed the notion of a ‘primary reason’ where he paired belief with desire so that an action is explained as a rational activity: a wish to make something happen is blended with an anticipation that it will happen.
His complex argument partially involved seeing causation as a logical connection between event descriptions. ‘Events’ he understood as ‘changes in a more or less permanent object or substance’(2). Actions, to be such, Davidson thought, must be intentional. They need to be rationalised by a reason in order to ‘lead us to see something the agent saw, or thought he saw, in his action – some feature, consequence, or aspect of the action the agent wanted, desired, held dear, thought dutiful, beneficial, obligatory or agreeable.’(3)
Roman Signer is not a philosopher but a Swiss artist interested in the spatial-temporal aspects of sculpture. Apart from the occasional sculpture of comparatively long temporal duration (usually involving running water) such as a drivable truck that when attached to a hose becomes also a fountain, Signer makes ‘Events’ that are movement-based occurrences made in private and filmed by himself or his wife Aleksandra, and ‘Actions’ that are public movement-based displays made for much bigger live audiences. Accordingly his definitions of ‘Events’ and ‘Actions’ are species of sculpture and more about spectator numbers and his own methods, than intentions of an agent.
Curiously there is a strange parallel in the fact that Signer’s Actions are public, while those of Davidson are rational in that some intention is involved and that is comprehensible by others because rationality is normative. Also while Signer’s Events are private, Davidson’s do not require intentions or causes, they are just changes in matter. Yet as Davidson’s two most energetic explicators, Ernie Lepore and Kirk Ludwig elucidate, ‘Actions in Davidson’s view are an expression of our nature as agents, being with interlocking propositional attitudes of different types: beliefs, desire, and intentions. Each is defined by its relations to the others and its mediated relations to actions. We identify a person’s beliefs, desires and intentions by projecting a rational pattern which makes sense of his or her behaviour.’(4) Our linguistic community values rationality.
With the Signer shows, while two of his Events are presented in window projections at the University and on K’ Rd, the other fifteen short films (including some ‘Actions’) documenting his temporary sculptures are shown at St. Paul Street and ARTSPACE. The former’s large gallery is intersected with freestanding screens positioned at acute angles. Eight films are shown on these and the walls using random selection, with up to four films possibly shown at once. Even the same film can be repeated simultaneously – with a slight delay - three times on different screens. The effect is to create surprise by bodily inserting the moving images into the visitor’s field of vision, and to get them to make unexpected connections between works.
At ARTSPACE, the gallery experience is much more stable. In the large square room the films are shown one at a time, moving in an anti-clockwise sequence around the four walls. If you are unfortunately distracted and miss a detail you can wait till the film comes around to be screened again at the same spot.
After you’ve looked at these films a few times you start noticing patterns within Signer’s Fluxus-style activities (as you do within Davidson’s precisely worded, very stylish essays), and the way Signer thinks through transitive verbs. Such verbs need objects (in several meanings of the word) and can be expressed in active or passive forms. In these Actions or Events, the artist’s body is not always being filmed, though he is in most.
Looking at Signer’s films, you start to make paired combinations. I found ten. Here are four:
The helmet wearing artist sits in a booth and waits. When a canister explodes he and the walls are covered with splattered paint.
Wearing a goggle and a gas mask, the seated artist attempts to read a book while being showered with freshly cut hay expelled upwards from a nearby hole in the floor.
The artist marches around three sides of a rooftop in Geneva, firing bursts from a dry-powder fire extinguisher that is attached to a nozzle on his right boot, so that like some sort of fascist robot, his foot ‘goosesteps’ high in the air.
Following a predetermined path and methodically stamping on lines of detonating switches, the artist stomps around a large space in a tobacco factory. These set off beside him explosive flashes and puffs of smoke.
The artist drops large putty balls from out of a tall building’s windows attempting to detonate an explosive device on the street on which is a water-filled bucket supporting a hat. The hat flies high into the air, and wearing a safety harness he tries to catch it so he can wear it.
On a rooftop the artist places a camera in a bucket that has fins, packing around it shock absorbers and aiming its lens through a hole in the bottom. It is turned on and the bucket dropped so that the descent is recorded - as it is ‘experienced’ by the falling projectile.
Some of Signer’s sculptures are related to the sixties conceptual work of artists like Richard Serra, Lawrence Weiner and William Anastasi. American artists of this time such as Nauman, Johns (earlier), Weiner and Serra were influenced by Wittgenstein. Robert Morris though, unusually, knew of Davidson’s work. Davidson later wrote a catalogue essay on his practice as did Morris on his writing.(5)
Unlike say Weiner, Signer’s projects are not just ideas, they need to be implemented, and they are not usually just simple actions - but performances with carefully thought-out detail. And the dispositions that interested Davidson, when activated as causes to become primary reasons, include, in Signer’s case, satire, melancholy, anti-climax and humour.
Here are some examples of his satire, often with anti-climax:
Book readers: one in bed is terrorised by an angry model helicopter, and another, a more preoccupied, seated, hay-fever sufferer, is covered with hay. Signer seems to be saying that first-hand experience takes precedence over recorded second-hand experience, even if you try to deny it and it is his documentary film that tells you so.
The armed forces: the army with his absurd marching antics, the navy with a ‘burial at sea’ (a dead frog is placed in a can to be thrown into a river), and the airforce, with his manic helicopter works.
The police: a tape barrier that says ‘police line: do not cross’ is whisked aloft beyond the street by three balloons.
Even the horrific activity of hanging and its accompanying ghoulish voyeurism is commented on. The artist-victim, standing on an exploding platform that collapses, is given sight by having his black hat yanked off his eyes and head. He is sprung into ‘the light’ instead of the expected darkness, and unexpectedly falls only a small distance.
Both Signer and Davidson work in short units (films and essays) that interconnect within far larger corpora. Davidson’s writing helps provide some insight into the non-psychological ramifications of Signer’s Actions, and those of actions and events (artistic or otherwise) in general.
Signer’s temporary artworks draw out or exploit the event descriptions that a philosopher like Davidson is preoccupied with. The artist drops the putty ball; the hat flies up towards the artist. The performer explodes the tin of paint; the paint covers the seated performer. The platform beneath the man’s feet explodes; the man is separated from his hat.
In the very fine publication that accompanies these shows, there are two essays by Leonhard Emmerling and Brian Butler, the directors of St. Paul St. and ARTSPACE. The two writers have refreshingly distinctive and separate approaches. Butler briefly links Signer’s projects with his life in Switzerland and various twentieth century Swiss literary figures and existentialist thinkers, looking at notions of identity. Emmerling on the other hand sees the work through a ‘French’ filter of Albert Camus and Alain Badiou’s writings on ethics and truth.
Within these discussions Emmerling’s use of Hegel and Badiou, and Butler of Walter Benjamin and Fernando Pessoa (the fabulous Portuguese poet) - when discussing experience - are particularly interesting. Signer’s satirical ‘book readers’ seem to confirm the value of the authenticity Emmerling and Butler are advocating. (Incidentally Bob Dylan’s ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ album is also a fascinating dissertation on this same theme.)
In part of his essay Emmerling discusses Signer’s 1997 work ‘Simultaneous’ in Venice, where he released 117 blue iron balls all at once from a ceiling so they dropped into a grid of damp clay blocks positioned on the floor. To create this rapidly moving spectacle the artist turned an ignition key.
In talking about such a manual action Davidson writes:
‘I flip the switch, turn on the light, and illuminate the room. Unbeknownst to me I also alert a prowler to the fact that I am home. Here I need not have done four things, but only one. I flipped the switch because I wanted to turn on the light and by saying I wanted to turn on the light I explain (give my reason for, rationalize) the flipping. But I do not rationalize my alerting of the prowler or my illuminating of the room….’(6)
‘Because ‘I wanted to turn on the light’ and ‘I turned on the light’ are logically independent, the first can be used to give a reason why the second is true….It is not unnatural, in fact, to treat wanting as a genus including all pro attitudes as species. When we do this and when we know some action is intentional, it is easy to answer the question, ’Why did you do it?’ with ‘For no reason’, meaning not that there is no reason but that there is no further reason, no reason that cannot be inferred from the fact that the action was done intentionally; no reason, in other words, besides wanting to do it.’(7)
If Signer were not a now famous artist, would he still continue with his Actions and Events? I think he would, even if they were not accepted by others as art. Why? Because he wants to. That is a reason.
So why am I saying all this: why have I written this longish article putting these two individuals together? You want to know a reason for this action: a rationale? Because I wanted to. There are intriguing overlaps in their various lifetime preoccupations and it interests me to say so. So I have.
(1) Davidson, Donald, ‘Actions, Reasons and Causes’ in Essays on Actions and Events, Oxford University Press paperback, 1980, p.4
(2) Davidson, op. cit., p.173
(3) Ibid, p.3
(4) Lepore, E. and Ludwig, K, Introduction to The Essential Davidson, Oxford University Press paperback, 2006, p.8
(5) See Morris R. ‘The Philosophy of Donald Davidson’ and Davidson’s discussion of Morris’ ‘Blind Time Drawings with Davidson,’ in Hahn, L.E., The Philosophy of Donald Davidson, Open Court paperback, 1999, pp 127-138
(6) Davidson, Essays on Actions and Events, ibid, p.4
(7) Ibid, p.5
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