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Vivienne Westwood & Keith Haring

12 Jun

Witches (1983-84)

Vivienne Westwood visited New York. She met Keith Haring. His art looked like magic signs and hieroglyphs. Therefore – collection ‘Witches’. Hip hop, styling of garments stop-frame look, white trainers customized with three tongues, pointed Chico Marx hats.

See previous post about Keith Haring

Keith Haring

29 May

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American Museum of Natural History

22 May

High school students in Fossil Mammal Hall of the American Museum of Natural History, New York City, 1900

Source: New York State Education Department, Division of Visual Instruction

Interior view of the first floor of the Bird Hall at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. Rows of display cases feature birds in this long room. Above, the central part of the ceiling is removed,1895-1910?

Source: New York State Archives. Education Dept. Division of Visual Instruction

View of displays in the Ethnological Hall at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. Masks, statues and other artifacts are displayed inside and on top of display cases. A Haida canoe hangs from the ceiling, 1895-1910?

Source: New York State Archives. Education Dept. Division of Visual Instruction

The McKittrick Hotel

21 May

Sleep No More takes place at the fictional McKittrick Hotel, a reference to the film Vertigo. The hotel was completed in 1939 and “intended to be New York City’s finest and most decadent luxury hotel”. Six weeks before opening, and two days after the outbreak of World War II, the legendary hotel was condemned and left locked, permanently sealed from the public until it was restored and reinvented by Punchdrunk and Emursive. The McKittrick Hotel is actually three adjoining warehouses in Chelsea’s gallery district at 530, West 27th Street. The address is the former home of megaclubs Twilo, Spirit, Guesthouse, Home, Bed and more. The 100,000-square-foot (9,300 m2) space has been transformed by Punchdrunk into “some 100 rooms and environments, including a spooky hospital, mossy garden and bloody bedroom.”

Inside the Hotel

See my previous post

Polka dots… Yayoi Kusama interview (1998)

8 May

Photo credit

MIDORI MATSUI: You went to New York in 1957, and on your own. Weren’t you lonely?

YAYOI KUSAMA: It was a war every day. It was so hard. For one thing, I had the language problem. I grew up during the Second World War, and English was prohibited. So I didn’t get the chance to study it before going to the States.

MIDORI: But you chose New York instead of Paris, when so many Japanese artists were still looking to Europe.

YAYOI: I felt New York would become the center. I was attracted to its energy, and the timing was perfect. I came when a new artistic wave was starting all over America. I didn’t know a soul in New York, so I wrote to Georgia O’Keeffe. Her advice was that I must show everyone my paintings and must sell them. So I went out every day and showed my paintings to whomever I met. Donald Judd was the first person who bought a painting. He paid $200 in four payments.

MIDORI: And he was the first person to write about your work.

YAYOI: When I met him he was still a student, a writer rather than a visual artist. I would never have imagined that he would become famous. When he started making artwork, he would come to my studio asking, “Yayoi, what do you think of this color? Which do you think is better?”

MIDORI: Was there a real artists’ community in New York back then?

YAYOI: Definitely. We were all poor but enthusiastic. We would go to a restaurant and pick up the bread they threw out. I would have nothing in the icebox for days. Eva Hesse also lived nearby, and she frequently dropped in to talk. I miss her. She was so sincere and really devoted to her art.

MIDORI: In the early ’60s, you were making all-over “Net-paintings.” There is a photo of you standing in front of one painting that is the entire length of the wall — more than thirty feet. Can you talk about how they developed?

YAYOI: As I was painting, absorbed, I realized that the net was spilling over the desk. I said, “Oh, my god.” So finally, I was painting on the floor. And then, one day, when I woke up, I found a red net covering the window. “What’s this?” I said, and went up to the window, and found the net covering my hand. The net was all over the place, up to the ceiling. When I looked at the furniture, it was all covered with the net. The entire room was covered with red net.

MIDORI: And from there you went on to do room-sized works — installations of soft sculptures?

YAYOI: Yes, I have a series of works called Sex Obsession in which I make many stuffed cloth phalluses and sew them onto various things. My first Sex Obsession piece was One Thousand Boats Show, exhibited in the museum in Amsterdam in 1965. That was when the concept of my Net-painting was officially transferred to the three-dimensional medium of soft sculpture. At that time, I was really poor. So, I took my sheets and sewed together numerous phalluses on a second-hand sewing machine, filled them with the stuffing from the armchair I found in the junkyard, and attached them to various things in my room — burying my room under those luxuriating protrusions.

MIDORI: What do you mean by Sex Obsession? Were you afraid of sex?

YAYOI: Yes, I was. My family was really conservative, really uptight. I was really afraid of sex. It was a big taboo. I liberated myself from the fear by creating these works. Their creation had the purpose of healing myself.

MIDORI: We usually try to eliminate what we are afraid of, putting it out of our sight and consciousness.

YAYOI: I cured myself of my obsessions by confronting them.

MIDORI: You also have a series of works entitled Self-Obliterations in which you cover everything with polka dots. How is the idea of Self-Obliteration related to that of Sex Obsession?

YAYOI: They are related, ultimately, through the image. You know, if there’s a cat, I obliterate it by putting polka dot stickers on it. I obliterate a horse by putting polka dot stickers on it. And I obliterated myself by putting the same polka-dot stickers on myself. We did a Happening at the Village Gate where people painted each other with polka dots with fluorescent paint under black light, and colorful lights flickered. You would see the dots, but all the outlines were obliterated in the darkness.

MIDORI: How did you feel being obliterated? Was it scary or groovy?

YAYOI: It was groovy.

MIDORI: Why?

YAYOI: Because I really hated myself.

MIDORI: Really? But I saw the picture in which you lie down in the sea of silver phallic sculptures, nude except for the high heels you were wearing. You looked so pretty, like a nymph.

YAYOI: I hated myself. But I was truly healed by the art I was making. Art enabled me to open up my heart, to face my own difficult character. Up to then, I was under the influence of the repressive education of my mother. I was afraid of everything. I was beaten several times a day, pushed around by her. She would set up a marriage to some rich local boy for me, trying to force me to marry a man I’d never met. She controlled everything about me. And when I deviated from her codes, she would be furious and drag me by the hair. She even restricted what I could or could not wear.

MIDORI: The dresses you wore during the ’60s look so charming.

YAYOI: I made my dresses. I was angry then, so I smeared red and white paint over them.

MIDORI: You also made many clothing pieces, with flowers and phalluses sewed on. Are these flowers dahlias?

YAYOI: Yes. I imagined becoming one of the flowers. The performance was called Dahlia Obliteration. In another performance, I walked holding an umbrella shaped like a flower.

MIDORI: You also made Food Obliteration pieces?

YAYOI: Yes, using macaroni. Just thinking of the several thousand macaroni dishes I consumed during my lifetime really pierced me with fear. You can neither die nor live with ease. You just keep eating or making love until the very day of your death, as though you were being carried along on a conveyor belt. I was really afraid of that. And it was very hard to cure myself of that fear. I got into psychotherapy in the States. But then, taking apart my obsessions by psychoanalysis dried up my creative energy. It was just a dissection. So, finally, I left behind making objects and started doing Happenings.

MIDORI: So, analytical dissection was no good?

YAYOI: I only needed art therapy.

MIDORI: In your case, eliminating what you fear is no solution. You must keep using what you fear as your artistic material over and again in order to be cured of your obsession.

YAYOI: Right.

MIDORI: You know, those clothes you made in the ’60s — see-through dresses sprinkled with polka dots, silver or gold dresses adorned with dahlias, shoes with phallic protrusions and handbags laden with macaroni — are really popular with young people today. Nowadays, fashion-conscious people pay a lot for dresses like yours.

YAYOI: Oh, really? Maybe I made them too early.

MIDORI: And you also had your own fashion label at the time.

YAYOI: Yes, in 1968, in New York. I was window-shopping and found some dresses that looked like my creations. So I went to the company that manufactured those dresses to show them my work. I said, “I’m making these dresses which look exactly like yours.” I ended up establishing a company with them. It was called Kusama Fashion Company Ltd.

MIDORI: You made these dresses with the holes.

YAYOI: Yeah, right in the butt, too.

MIDORI: But Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garsons got famous by making dresses with holes! You were making these dresses back in the ’60s. You sold them in the Kusama Corner at Bloomingdales.

YAYOI: Yes, but my flower child dresses sold very poorly. Conservative suits sold very well. It was so hard to sell avant-garde dresses with holes.

MIDORI: You also made a very unusual wedding gown at the time.

YAYOI: Yes, I presided over what must have been the first wedding party between two gay men in America. I made a dress for two, that is, a dress that two people could wear together. And for the ceremony, instead of a Bible, we used the New York City Telephone Book.

MIDORI: In this picture you’re wearing polka dots in your hair and on your stockings. Were they made with paints?

YAYOI: These were made with Liquitex acrylic. Street performances were a lot of fun. We had awesome press coverage. At one time, I was even more famous than Andy Warhol.

MIDORI: Where did you do your Happenings?

YAYOI: In front of the statue of Alice in Wonderland in Central Park, and on Wall Street, and in front of the Statue of Liberty. We also did our open protest against the Nixon Administration at the voting office and the anti-war performance in front of the UN. This is the dress made for the Love Orgy. It’s one big dress for four people, with holes cut for sticking out heads and arms. I myself have never joined a sex orgy. I was afraid of venereal disease.

MIDORI: But this dress makes me think of people from different backgrounds coexisting peacefully, rather than a love orgy. I love this picture of you leaning on the horse. You and the horse are united through the polka dots. It looks as though your hearts are united. So despite the negative association of “self-obliteration,” the project seems to have a really positive feeling.

YAYOI: That’s right. I didn’t consciously cultivate that aspect at that time. But I always had the theme, Love Forever.

MIDORI: In this picture, many young people are dancing.

YAYOI: That performance was done in a discotheque. It united ritual and party. There was also the Happening at a theater in Cooper Square — some of our models wore police uniforms and barged in on us in the middle of our orgy, threatening to arrest us all. So the rest of us gathered around them, stripped them naked and smeared polka dot stickers on them. That was part of the show.

MIDORI: Did you hire the actors?

YAYOI: I recruited them and paid them. But many people came to be auditioned, and some offered to do it for free. Some of the audience got excited watching the performance and started taking off their clothes, asking me to put polka dots on them. This picture shows us performing in front of the statue of Alice in Wonderland. Each of us wore makeup, impersonating Lyndon Johnson, Che, Castro, Marilyn. In this Happening in front of the Internal Revenue Service, we protested against wasting our tax money on the Vietnam War. The statue of George Washington seems to be begging us to wait a minute, with his hand holding us back. This is a scene from our love-in, which was also made into a video. It’s me standing on the rock, in the middle of the nude performance. As the policemen came to arrest us, we made a barricade. They couldn’t catch us.

MIDORI: I saw that in the video, with everyone protecting you and you skittering like a fairy.

YAYOI: But we were finally caught on another occasion. The police were watching us with binoculars from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They were so puritanical even then.

MIDORI: Going back to your painting, there are dots and circles of many sizes. According to the color and density of the dots your paintings look like they’re turning and wavering. Especially with your Net-paintings, I can feel the surface of the canvas surging up against me.

YAYOI: Waves are naturally generated as I paint, and that has a very good effect on me. For example, this yellow dot-painting that Frank Stella owns has patterns resembling the ripples of water. Such effects are really good for me, making me feel rhythm and vibration. I was producing about a hundred paintings and drawings every day in the early ’60s. You know, I never learned painting at school. In my New York days, I registered at an art school in order to secure my visa. But I was so busy painting in my studio that I hardly went to school.

 (…)

Photo credit

MIDORI: This work, The Galaxy In My Dream, reminds me of the bottom of the ocean.

YAYOI: This is the sea bottom and these luminous things are living creatures.

MIDORI: Do you dream these landscapes?

YAYOI: I always see these landscapes in my dreams, and feel happy. I desperately try to transform these dreams into artwork, so that even while napping, I construct and reconstruct various images.

MIDORI: You’ve published many novels, including Manhattan Suicide Addict, The Hustler’s Grotto of Christopher Street, and The Burning of St. Mark’s Church. I read Manhattan and was impressed by its complexity — you captured the chaotic world of New York in the ’60s while tracing your spiritual drift, mixing dream visions and events from reality. You mention many artists in the book, but one was completely crazy about you.

YAYOI: Joseph Cornell. Over there is the drawing he gave me. The old man wrote me so many letters. He was often a nuisance. He called me on the phone so often and held me on the line for so long that eventually others complained, “Yayoi, is your phone broken?” I had many other boyfriends.

MIDORI: Who were they?

YAYOI: Many were very gentle, even feminine sort of men. Some were really famous, like Adolph Gottlieb, Ad Reinhardt, David Smith.

MIDORI: But I feel that your true friend was Donald Judd, who had bought and written about your work.

YAYOI: He was very thoughtful and fair-minded. He was my boyfriend. When he got married, we lived in the same building — he upstairs, me downstairs. But way before then, we were lovers.

MIDORI: Your relationship with Cornell is public now, but the others …

YAYOI: I hid the fact. I was afraid of jealousy.

MIDORI: I know that you have a new novel coming out. Had you always wanted to be a writer?

YAYOI: Since I was a teenager. When I was working at a parachute factory during the war, I was dying for novels, which were so hard to come by. I wanted to be a novelist then. My new book is called Violet Obsession.

MIDORI: What’s it about?

YAYOI: It’s about a private school that takes care of children who have problems communicating with adults. Many autobiographical details from my childhood are included. My mother beat me and told the neighbors that I should not have been born. I was the only one among her children that she mistreated.

MIDORI: There are passages in Manhattan Suicide Addict where you describe your fears, and it’s very poignant, very moving. Did you think of killing yourself?

YAYOI: Very often. The impulse came to me pathologically. I suddenly saw a white curtain falling. Everything I saw receded, and I found myself trembling. I would cling to a pillar. If I moved even slightly I would run to the window and throw myself out. This phobia cannot be cured, since it’s caused by the trauma from my childhood. I got constant verbal harassment and physical punishment from my mother until I was six years old. At that age I had my first experience of seeing the white curtain come down, and violet blossoms pop out from the tablecloth. Taking medication is the only way to bring me back from this state to the normal one. When I’m in that state, I can’t go home. I have to stay in the hospital. Even now.

MIDORI: Do any of your artist friends still visit you?

YAYOI: No, hardly anybody visits me nowadays. Not for the last ten years. I receive many fan letters, though.

MIDORI: How about friends from New York?

YAYOI: Donald Judd once visited me in Tokyo. He said he would love to live here. New York has an artist community; Tokyo doesn’t. But then, if I lived in New York, I’d have to go to parties every night. I begrudge that time. You know, I must really work hard. I’m in the last stage of my artistic life. A friend from my Matsumoto childhood sometimes calls, saying that two friends pass away every year. Some of my friends have suffered from strokes. But I’m so busy that I can’t even think of dying. I fly all over the world, drive everywhere, and when I get home, I find interviewers and photographers and TV shows waiting for me. No wonder I’m so busy.

MIDORI: What kind of work do you want to make now?

AYOI: That’s a secret.

(…)

Full version

Kusama’s web

Cornell’s Wonderland

6 May

Joseph Cornell was not a sculptor, a draftsman, or a painter. This internationally renowned modern artist never had professional training. He was first and foremost a collector. He loved to scour old book shops and secondhand stores of new York looking for souvenirs, theatrical memorabilia, old prints and photographs, music scores, and French literature. 

Joseph Cornell was born on Christmas Eve 1903. He was the oldest of four children born to Helen and Joseph Cornell. He had two sisters, Betty and Helen, and a brother, Robert. Cornell grew up in a grand house in Nyack, New York, a picturesque Victorian town on the Hudson River. Cornell’s parents shared their love of music, ballet, and literature with their children. Evenings were spent around the piano, or listening to music on the family Victrola. Trips to New York meant vaudeville shows in Times Square or magic acts at the Hippodrome. His father often returned from his job in Manhattan with new sheet music, silver charms, or a pocket full of candy. But Cornell’s childhood was not without sadness. His brother, born with cerebral palsy, was confined to a wheelchair. Joseph, who was extremely attached to Robert, became his principal caretaker.

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Fresh Kill by Gordon Matta-Clark, 1972

16 Apr

The Fresh Kills Landfill was a landfill covering 2,200 acres (890 ha) in the New York City borough of Staten Island in the United States. The landfill was opened in 1947 as a temporary landfill, but eventually became New York City’s principal landfill in the second half of the 20th century, and it was once the largest landfill, as well as man-made structure, in the world. In October 2009, reclamation of the site began on a multi-phase, 30-year site development for reuse as Freshkills Park.

Cooking bookstore

16 Apr

Nach Waxman is the alpha and omega of the recorded history of food. The owner of New York’s Kitchen Arts & Letters bookstore has a near boundless knowledge of cookbooks, recipes, and the evolution of attitudes towards food. For Chow, he gives an interview in which he lays out all the dirty secrets: why cooking from a recipe is just paint-by-numbers, which of the big-name chefs actually do their own book shopping, and the real trick by which an independent bookstore can beat the pants off of Barnes & Noble.

Nach Waxman of Kitchen Arts & Letters


Notes by Kim Levin

28 Feb

Source

Notes and Itineraries 1975 – 2004 (by Kim Levin –  New York based artists) offers an alternative model that crosses the borders between art writing and art making. It deals in a very literal sense with time and history, memory and meaning. This longterm project tracks the peregrinations of New York’s exhibition spaces as they shifted from Soho to the East Village and back again and then to Chelsea and elsewhere, and it traces the course of artists who, like Nancy Spero and Jeff Koons, started out in group shows in East Village galleries long before they were household names. It began as a working method for me as a critic whose job required that I cover a lot of ground. It also functioned, in a way, autobiographically, listing the galleries (with addresses) and exhibitions (with dates of shows) in the order in which I intended to see them, as well as noting my appointments, my shopping lists, and my instant reactions to the art. Later it became a two-room installation in a New York gallery, a somewhat perplexing and unexpected artwork that questions the distinctions between the visible, the legible, and the visual.

(…)

As for my archive, it fills ten metal filing cabinets, plus twenty cardboard boxes stacked underneath and behind my furniture, and also a dozen shoeboxes containing postcard announcements from exhibitions going back to the 1970s and up to the present: downtown, uptown, out-of-town, and elsewhere. What excuse do I have? Well, for one thing, I had studied Egyptian archaeology and much was made of the importance of primary sources. When I abandoned archaeological studies to write about contemporary art, my Egyptology professor asked: ‘How can you do it?’ ‘How can I do what?’ I replied, uncomprehending. ‘There are no experts, no references, no primary sources’, he said with consternation. And with all the presumptiveness of youthful innocence verging on arrogance, I proclaimed: ‘I will be the primary source for future archaeologists.’ I also admit to a bit of an obsessive streak, and no one ever taught me to throw meaningful things away. The Finnish artist Jussi Kivi collects everything and anything having to do with firefighting. I collect, or rather, accumulate historical art stuff that tends to get thrown away, the byproducts of my work as an art critic. But I do not collect everything, as a true collector would. Great quantities of press releases, announcements, and posters arrive in the mail that are of little interest to me. I recycle those. I save them for someone who has been compiling his own complete and cross-referenced archive of the art scene for the past forty years. Once a month he takes away a couple of shopping bags crammed with art ephemera. It pleases me that they too have been saved from oblivion. Text by Kim Levin

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Salon de Fleurus, New York

15 Nov


Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas in the apartment at 27 rue de Fleurus, Paris, 1922; photo: Man Ray; private collection, San Francisco; © Man Ray Trust / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.
Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas in the apartment at 27 rue de Fleurus, Paris, 1922; photo: Man Ray; private collection, San Francisco; © Man Ray Trust / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

Meanwhile, a ground-floor apartment behind a rather Parisian courtyard slightly east of Soho has metastasized into something that is unabashedly about the intersection of life, history, fiction, and art: a recreation of Gertrude Stein’s salon on Rue de Fleurus. This creative approximation has more the feel of magic realism than simulation. Of indefinite duration, evading the white cube’s domain, Salon de Fleurus eludes the system. It’s not exactly an installation, nor is it a performance; it’s a freak occurrence. The two male hosts of this “authorless” manifestation do their best to be hospitable under the time, space, and gender-warp circumstances. We may be sick of simulations, but Salon de Fleurus is an unreasonable facsimile, a black hole with the potential of sucking 80 years’ worth of avant-garde incident into its force field and sending it for a ride on a rubbery Möbius strip. In this apartment the laws of physics – artistically speaking – do not apply, and nothing is quite what it seems. In the front parlor, seminal analytical Cubist works have been transmogrified into quaint sepia-toned curiosities with ornate rococo frames. In the back parlor, Picasso’s indelible portrait of Gertrude has shrunken to a varnished Eastern Orthodox icon on wood. Cezanne’s bathers are a curio in the china cabinet. Consider the implications. Stein’s legendary salon, the locus of the modern art world’s beginnings, reappears filled with nostalgic kitsch and amateur pictures, as well as a holy icon. When systems – whether the local art market or the whole modern era – collapse, freak events such as these rise through the cracks. Some artists hold on for dear life, erecting airtight bulwarks and artificial life-support systems to maintain the old order against the onslaught of disintegration. Others go with a more molecular vision, rearranging the subatomic particles of the old history to shake things up. I promised not to reveal the names of the authors, who want to remain unknown. One of them discarded his authorial identity in 1985 and denies any creative role in the projects he has sometimes been suspected of since: Société Anonyme in a Soho thrift shop, and The Last Futurist Exhibition and The Armory Show in Eastern Europe. Suffice it to say that ever since the ’70s, in a country that doesn’t exist, he has maintained a tactical position at the furthest extremities of art practice and theory, mining modern art for its antimatter.

 Kim Levin (1993)


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