The ‘Bloomberg New Contemporaries’ exhibit has always been a springboard for young artists seeking to make the climb from obscurity to enduring fame. This year, the unorthodox rules.
“The work I like best made you feel something,” says London-based figurative artist Chantal Joffe in the exhibition catalogue that accompanies this year’s Bloomberg New Contemporaries, an annual touring exhibition open to all fine art students and recent graduates based in the UK. Since 1949, the exhibition has played host to the likes of Jake and Dinos Chapman, Anthony Gormley, Damien Hirst, and David Hockney. It’s a tried and tested springboard for artists seeking to make the climb from obscurity to enduring fame.
Bloomberg New Contemporaries 2013, on display at London’s Institute of Contemporary Art from November 27 until January 26, showcases fresh work by the latest generation of artists out to make a mark—to make Joffe and her fellow selectors feel something. The lucky artists who succeeded now have a foot securely planted on one of the lower rungs of the art world.
Along with British artists Ryan Gander and Nathaniel Mellors, Joffe had the difficult task of whittling down the 1,500 submissions to the 46 included in this year’s exhibition. Both Joffe and Mellors were familiar with the process—each were chosen as New Contemporaries in their youth—but that can’t have made the task any easier. This crop was lucky: last year, there were only 29 places to fill.
Unfortunately, more participants means tougher curation. For the fourth year running, the ICA has had to grapple with the complexities of coordinating a group show. In the catalogue, Mellors says that the trio of selectors “have not curated anything.” “It’s more a case of editing and hoping you can preserve the quality that’s already there,” he adds. ICA curator Matt Williams was happy to step up to the plate solo: “You know, too many cooks…” He’s intentionally edited the show loosely. Works by individual artists appear in individual alcoves here and there, but there are no clear favorites—a fact reflected in the catalogue, whose alphabetized black and white images emphasize the competition-free atmosphere. The works make their own statement, without accompanying words of wisdom, explanation, or criticism. And there are no restrictions on the display: As you near the end of the first space, you become aware that the artworks are unstoppable, as they creep along the corridor from the institute’s ground-floor gallery and make their way to another space upstairs.
Bruce Nauman, our greatest artist, tries a feline focus.
A still from Bruce Nauman’s “Pencil Lift/Mr. Rogers”, one of the videos in his current solo at Sperone-Westwater gallery in New York. At its best, Nauman’s work is brilliantly, unutterably peculiar – and the new pieces qualify. Nothing he does is easily turned into a pat paraphrase, but the new series is all about fingers and the tricks they play: counting and touching and holding pencils aloft by their tips. The idea of the “digit-al” came into my mind, with the digit-y cat feet in the background representing the normal domestic space that Nauman’s work seems to take place in. It’s as though he’s telling us that his work isn’t so much about the world of art, as about the weirdness that’s there in all the places we know.
The Daily Pic: Mike Kelley equates insanity and creativity, then negates the equation.
This image shows Mike Kelley’s “Pay For Your Pleasure”, from 1988, as installed in his retrospective at MoMA PS1 in New York. The piece consists of a series of huge portraits of great cultural figures, inscribed with things they said about the links between madness, crime and art. So there’s Veronese saying “We painters claim the license that poets and madmen claim” and (William) Blake claiming that “those who constrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be constrained.” At first the piece could read as a celebration of these ideas – Kelley himself had a Dionysian side, and took his own life – but there’s lots to make us read it the other way around. After all, the portraits themselves are aesthetically stolid (I’d bet Kelley paid some hack to paint them) and some of the speakers don’t quite exemplify their own quotes: Veronese for instance was hardly a radical. And then there’s the fact that that tiny image we see at the end of the installation is a work by a genuine criminal that Kelley asks to have installed each time the piece is mounted. And it is definitely, absolutely no masterpiece.
Enoc Perez’s first monograph is out, showcasing more than two decades of his greatest work, including his famous paintings of modernist buildings that capture a time that almost was.
Puerto-Rican born artist, Enoc Perez, is best known for his large paintings of landmark modernist buildings: the Lever House, the Seagram Building, and Eero Saarinen’s TWA Terminal. These paintings evoke nostalgia for the long forgotten utopian ambitions that largely defined modernist architecture in the early to mid-twentieth century.
The artist’s first comprehensive monograph, Enoc Perez, published by Assouline this month, showcases over one hundred color plates spanning two decades of the artist’s work—including drawings, prints, and sculptures.
After the destruction of the First World War, architects began using new materials that originated from the Industrial Revolution—steel, glass, and iron—to imagine new landscapes built on the promise of a perfect world. While these utopian cities never came to fruition, the buildings that were erected symbolized a promise of technology and the future.
Within these large-scale paintings, it is easy to see how Perez is “attracted to the visionary optimism that inspired these Modernist structures … as well as the faded glamour and bygone idealism that these buildings embody today,” as friend and collector Peter Brant wrote in the forward to the book.
The Metropolitan Museum rehangs its Old Masters, and Andrea Schiavone comes into his own.
For the last "Met Monday" at the Daily Pic, here's an all-time favorite of mine, the "Marriage of Cupid and Psyche", painted in about 1550 by the Venetian artist Andrea Schiavone. (Meaning "Andrew the Slav", because he came from one of the Venetian possessions on the Dalmatian coast. The Met also has great holdings of his works on paper.)
These Monday pics have been about celebrating the rehang of the Metropolitan Museum's Old Master holdings, and few pictures have profited from it as much as this one: I loved it even when it was hung high over a door in a tucked-away corner, as it was for many years, but now curators have brought it down to eye level, where it can really sing. It's not just about the wild serpentine forms that Schiavone borrowed from Mannerist painters based further south. Now we can see the wonderful looseness of his brushwork as well. (Click here to zoom in, then take a look at the bottom hem of the topless Psyche's dress.) I'm convinced that Schiavone is an important missing link between Titian and Tintoretto, and that he deserves to get his reputation back as a serious rival to both. (Also, since my son got married on Saturday, I couldn't very well resist this picture today.)
Two problems with my theory: First, I once went on a pilgrimage to every Schiavone in Venice, and most of them were infinitely weaker than his "Cupid and Psyche". (Although I have a feeling that many of those pictures were falsely attributed to him, at a time when he was the grab-bag name that got attached to every lousy mannerist painting in Venice. Could it be that the number of bad pseudo-Schiavones actually gives a sense of how influential he was on lesser artists?) Second problem: This painting was originally meant for a ceiling, so you have to wonder how much of its bravura could ever have been seen. But that's a problem with almost all Renaissance pictures, given the terrible lighting they would once have been viewed in. I think that pictures were meant to be excellent in their execution, and maybe in a patron's first glimpse of them, and then further visibility was much less important. In that, Renaissance pictures may have preserved some of the qualities of Medieval relics, whose simple existence mattered almost as much as any contact they had with worshipers.
A part of history was lost when painters began whitewashing the colorful graffiti covering 5 Pointz on Tuesday morning. But one thing can never be erased: the need to spread your name.
For Eddie Rodriguez, better known as Snake 1, the best part of 5 Pointz—the soon-to-be high rise apartment complex in Long Island City, Queens that was once known as a graffiti mecca—was seeing his name and the names of his fellow former graffiti kings thrown up in bright colors from the above-ground 7 train. As a 13-year-old running around Washington Heights with his wide-tipped markers in 1970, the only thing Snake ever wanted was for his name to be seen. The worst part about the end of 5 Pointz, in Snake’s opinion, was that no one got to take home a piece of their work. At around midnight, Tuesday morning, the world-renowned, aerosol-covered warehouses were painted white.
An abandoned warehouse building known as 5Pointz, a mecca for street artists from around the world, in New York, Aug. 2011. (Todd Heisler/The New York Times via Redux)
As protesters took to Twitter and the streets (admirers held a last minute candlelight vigil after the whitewash began, and at least six people were arrested the following night for writing farewell messages on the newly clean walls), the building’s owner, Jerry Wolkoff, explained his decision as the compassionate option. Watching the graffiti that artists had come from all over the world to paint get demolished into pieces would have been “torture,” he told The New York Times. But Snake disagrees. “Everyone could have kept little pieces of it,” he says.
A lot has changed since Snake started writing graffiti in 1970 during the heyday of tagging in New York City, before Mayor John Lindsay declared war on graffiti in 1972, and before vandalism became a felony punishable by hefty fines and even jail time. Back in the day, Snake says, getting roughed up by the cops was the worst that would happen if he got caught scrawling his name on a wall. “Once they took my spray can, told me to turn around, and sprayed P.D. on my jacket,” he recalls. “For police department.”
‘Mother’ isn’t your run-of-the-mill glossy photo book of a gorgeous Madonna and child. But while Elinor Carucci snaps the harsh realities of life with twins, she also finds beauty.
From Madonna and child to Angelina and Maddox, we are inundated with posed images of the beautiful mother and her blessed, serene progeny. Tabloids pay huge sums for the right to publish pictures of glamorous celebrities and their well-behaved children, and praise the starlet for her adorable daughter or son…as well as for her rapid weight loss. Elinor Carucci, the photographer behind the recently released book Mother, wants to shift the visual narrative of motherhood, rejecting superficiality and turning her lens on the harsh realities and subtle beauty of her own maternal journey.
In Mother, Carucci takes on the subject of motherhood with an artist’s lens and a surgeon’s scalpel. She confronts the pop culture tropes and twists them, turning the camera on herself and her twins. Charting her pregnancy, Carucci boldly catalogs her own changing form. When her son and daughter are born, they become the two new players in these revelatory scenes, their infant bodies latching onto Carucci’s own, their small faces struggling to find their mother, to comprehend the newness of it all. As her children grow and mature, Carucci sheds light on the complicated web of love that binds them: the daily trials, the explosive fights, and the tender revelations. Every day, Carucci discovers them anew, with the pride of a mother watching her children become themselves; their bodies morphing and elongating as they come to interact with and comprehend the world around them. “I capture the years that will never come back,” Carucci explains.
For Mother, the 42-year-old photographer assembled 125 images taken over the course of a decade. The impetus behind the project, she tells The Daily Beast, was to capture the intensity of her own experience becoming a mother. “I really wanted to photograph it in a way that will convey the complexity of it, not in an idealizing way,” she says.
Steve McQueen's movie can seem sold-out, but maybe that's what its subject demanded.
This still from Steve McQueen's "12 Years a Slave" captures what I noticed most about it: That it had most of the trappings of a standard Hollywood costume drama, in the fundamentals of wardrobe, decor, cinematography, lighting, dialogue, plotting, cutting and music (which was especially manipulative and full of cliche). Only its tremendously important and compelling subject makes "Slave" stand out.
That's a disappointment to me, since I had the huge pleasure of seeing the full survey of McQueen's earlier work as a video and film artist in Basel's Schaulager art center last year. In those pieces, he kept his viewers off-kilter with innovative, complex works that happen to present moving images, and sometimes tell a scrap of story, but which begin where Hollywood leaves off. The first thought that came to mind with "Slave" was that McQueen had simply sold out, or caved to Hollywood's blinkered vision of what film can do. Then my artist wife suggested another possibility: That McQueen had the absolutely overriding goal of telling the harrowing, shameful story of Solomon Northup's enslavement to as many people as he possibly could, given that such stories have stayed almost entirely untold in mass-market movies. Only by embracing Hollywood cliches could he attract the widest possible audience, which is now addicted to them.
But there's one other possibility: That if what McQueen cares about is the content, rather than the form, of his work, then he has to aim for a kind of transparency that only cliches can offer, since they are by definition unmarked and content-free. Artists have tended to think that taking a "straightforward", unadorned documentary approach to an image is the way to avoid style and transmit a subject at its most pure. McQueen may have realized that that, too, yields a kind of artiness that distracts. Only by giving viewers precisely what they know already, in terms of form, can you give them new content that they'll take in for itself.
Silicon Valley is often thought of as a mythical place of dreams and innovation. In a new exhibit, photographer Alec Soth goes beyond this view to show real life in the tech capital.
For most of America, Silicon Valley is the center of modern innovation, the place that gave the world computers, the iPhone, Google, and Facebook. For part of a new San Francisco Museum of Modern Art off-site exhibition, Project Los Altos: SFMOMA in Silicon Valley, photographer Alec Soth set about capturing life in the mythical region. For a couple of weeks last spring, Soth shot not only the campuses of tech giants Hewlett-Packard, Google, and Facebook, but also the every-day parts of the area that don’t get much attention—its restaurants, computer repair shops, and parks.
“The ideas are moving faster than the physical place, and as a photographer because I have to deal with surfaces and looking at the world out there, it’s a tricky thing to try to document,” said Soth. “As much as anything I try to photograph this feeling of the cloud, or of ideas, trying to contain ideas. I was trying to photograph that as much as I was trying to photograph actual, physical things.”
Capturing the feeling of a place is nothing new for Soth, who has photographed the oil boom in North Dakota, the results of Detroit’s economic misfortunes, and life around the Mississippi River. “Going from these economic conditions to Silicon Valley being so unique in that it’s this boom town where the product is invisible, is so different,” said Soth.
As the festival wraps, Ragnar Kjartansson's boatload of musicians play its closing notes.
The Venice Biennale ends Sunday, and this is my final shoutout to it – an image of the mariner musicians hired by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson to perform for the duration of the event, in a piece called S.S. Hangover. Back and forth they’ve been sailing, day in and day out, repeating the same elegiac fragment of music for brass as they cross a small pool at the far end of the Biennale grounds. My photo was taken in early June, on opening weekend, but a video uploaded this autumn shows that not much has changed. Kjartansson’s piece provided a lovely, wistful coda to any day’s visit to the exhibition. Now, however, as the grand festival closes for good, the musicians and their audience will have still more to feel poignant about.
A new, ballet-like performance at Paris’s eminent fashion museum explores the meticulous process of creating a beautiful garment, using actress Tilda Swinton as mannequin.
Fashion today is true mélange: it’s mass-market collaborations at Target, it’s Madison avenue window-shopping, it’s Project Runway challenges, it’s impulsive e-commerce, it’s Fashion Week frenzy, it’s small-business Brooklyn, it’s foreign production in struggling countries. These are not equal circumstances, but what’s shared at the heart of them all is the act of making a garment. That common denominator gets lost in the muddle, sometimes, when we talk about fashion. But a performance in Paris is spotlighting just that meticulous and elegant act with Eternity Dress (running through Sunday November 24th as part of the annual French Festival d’Automne).
Olivier Saillard (director of Paris’s eminent fashion museum, Palais Galliera) and Tilda Swinton (the beguiling Scottish-born actress) perform the entire process of making a single dress— from the measuring and patterning to the cutting and sewing—directly on Swinton’s body. Eternity Dress follows a 1950s methodology, with the dress ultimately representing the history of fashion and the architecture of the craft. It’s a striking conceptual counterpoint to the profusion of fashion collections.
Saillard and Swinton collaborated for the same festival last year on a piece entitled The Impossible Wardrobe, revolving around a selection of exquisite and delicate historical garments from the Galliera’s private archives. “It was evident Tilda should be our incarnation. She, for me, is a pedestal for all the costumes we selected,” Saillard said of their collaboration last year.
There could be no better place to honor the art of dressmaking than the most prestigious art school: the Beaux Arts de Paris. Amid marbled columns, decorative wall paintings, and the grand glass cupola of the Salon d’honneur, the small U-shaped auditorium housed a rapt audience of all ages.
At Performa, Shana Lutker revisits a wild Dada play that featured a nose and some lips.
This is a study for props and costumes in "The Nose, The Cane, The Broken Left Arm", a piece by Shana Lutker that I saw staged last night in New York as part of this year's Performa festival, and that is playing again tonight. Lutker's piece revisits the events of July 6, 1923, when Andre Breton, future leader of the Surrealist movement, came to blows in a Paris theater with some adherents of the rival Dada group, led by Tristan Tzara, who that night was premiering his new play called "The Gas Heart". Lutker's directing and script both need lots (and lots) more work, but the historical material she unearthed is fantastic, as are the costumes for the characters in "The Gas Heart", the play within Lutker's play, whom Tzara named Mouth, Eyebrow, Ear, Neck, Eye and Nose. Apparently last night's outfits were "inspired" by the originals of Sonia Delaunay, but I've got a feeling that Lutker used some wonderful poetic license in giving us a few of these body parts.
Made for women, the newly launched Adult magazine explores sexually explicit literature and photography—and asks, is it possible for porn to be fashionable and artistic?
What differentiates erotica from porn?
Sarah Nicole Prickett, the founder and editor-in-chief of the "new erotics" magazine Adult, quotes seventies porn star Gloria Leonard: "The difference between pornography and erotica is the lighting."
Adult is a magazine not meant to be displayed, she explains. Rather, it should be "[kept] next to your bed, or under it." Given the content, that may be rightfully so. There's an excerpt on discovering sex with a painter from American novelist Dodie Bellamy's new book C*nt Norton; New York Food Magazine White Zinfandel provides an aphrodisiac breakfast recipe—an oyster omelet—because "you can't spell 'breakfast' without 'breast'"; author and former Voguette Stephanie LaCava chronicles the inner-workings of the Doc Johnson Adult Toy Factory just outside Hollywood; and Katherine Bernard explores Erica Jong's notion of the "zipless fuck" through literature.
It's The New Yorker meets Hustler meets Interview combined to fulfill one ultimate goal: satisfying one's "sexual narcissism." Yet how can a magazine that treads the line of explicit pornography remain tasteful and artistic, rather than objectifying, and possibly offending, women?