Avery started experimenting with large-scale canvases in 1957. The increase in scale gave his simplified color masses overwhelming impact. This development, apparent in Black Sea, marked a new flowering in his artistic oeuvre.
Black Sea, a depiction of an ebbing wave at the Provincetown beach, represents one of Avery’s most abstract paintings. Over the years he had painted numerous scenes, many containing figures, of New England beaches; however, in the late 1950s, as seen in Black Sea, he began to reduce detail and emphasize formal aspects of his works. Through this process of simplification, elements became ambiguous, appearing on the one hand non-objective and on the other starkly representational. Black Sea lacks descriptive detail as Avery reduced the composition to three color areas corresponding to ocean, surf and sand. Extending past an expanse of golden sand, a ripple of surf leads the eye to a wedge of black, suggesting the boundless sea beyond. The bold contrast of the black wave with the huge expanse of flesh-colored sand creates one of Avery's most striking and monumental paintings.
An iconic image of surf, masterfully achieved, Black Sea captivated Duncan Phillips, who purchased it from the 1965 Avery retrospective organized by the Museum of Modern Art that was also presented at The Phillips Collection.
The Tomb of the Diver is an archaeological monument, built in about 470 BC and found by the Italian archaeologist Mario Napoli on 3 June 1968 during his excavation of a small necropolis about 1.5 km south of the Greek city of Paestum in Magna Graecia, in what is now southern Italy. The tomb is now displayed in the museum at Paestum.
It is a grave made of five local limestone slabs forming the four lateral walls and the roof, the floor being excavated in the natural rock ground. The five slabs, accurately bonded with plaster, formed a chamber sized — roughly – 215 × 100 × 80 cm (7.1 × 3.3 × 2.6 ft). All five slabs forming the monument were painted on the interior sides using a true fresco technique. The paintings on the four walls depict a symposium scene, while the cover slab shows the famous scene that gives the tomb its name: a young man diving into a curling and waving stream of water. Two masters have been distinguished, the south wall being by a less impressive artist than the others.
Toyin Ojih Odutola (b. 1985, Ife, Nigeria) creates drawings utilizing diverse mediums to emphasize the striated terrain of an image beyond formulaic representation.
Ojih Odutola has participated in exhibitions at various institutions, including Brooklyn Museum, NewYork, (2016); Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis (2015); Studio Museum Harlem, New York (2015, 2012); Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield (2013); and Menil Collection, Houston, (2012).
Permanent collections include Museum of Modern Art, Whitney Museum of American Art, Baltimore Museum of Art, New Orleans Museum of Art, Philadelphia Museum of Art, Princeton University Art Museum, and the National Museum of African Art (Smithsonian). She earned her BA from the University of Alabama in Huntsville and her MFA from California College of the Arts in San Francisco. Ojih Odutola lives and works in New York.
I start with the fact that Les Bluets (The cornflowers) is the painting I think of first when I think of one that has had particular significance in my life. Then I have to figure out why. I am not even certain that Les Bluets was the actual painting I saw. What I did see was a very large white and blue painting by Joan Mitchell in her studio more than forty-five years ago, and that is the one I am thinking of.
To get closer to the actual experience of seeing the painting, I first confirm or revise some of my memories of visiting her at Vétheuil, of her strong personality, of my life in Paris. Then I remember more, more than I need to, about where I was living, and how I worked at my writing, driving myself relentlessly to do better and more, with moments of pleasure, but often a hounding sense of obligation, a fear that if I did not work terribly hard something would catch up with me — perhaps the possibility that I did not need to be doing this.
I would take the train out of the city, with its closed spaces, its darkness, to the village of Vétheuil, sixty-nine kilometers to the north. A blue gate at the level of the street opened to a climb on foot to the house, a terrace before the "front door. The view from the hilltop was of a landscape managed, orderly: poplars by the winding river, and a village on the far bank. The grounds, the rooms in the house, and the mealtimes were also orderly, though I did not give much thought, then, to the value of order. Monet had once lived here, though at the base of the hill, in what was now the gardener’s cottage. His first wife, Camille, was buried in a cemetery beyond the garden.
On one visit I walked out to Mitchell’s studio to look at a painting. I don’t know if this was the first time I went into her studio. I liked the painting very much and thought there was no problem with the way I looked at it. It was what it was, shapes and colors, white and blue. Then I was told by Joan or someone else that it referred to the landscape here in Vétheuil, specifically to cornflowers. Whatever I had known or not known about painting before, this was a surprise to me, even a shock. Apparently I had not known that an abstract painting could contain references to subject matter. Two things happened at once: the painting abruptly went beyond itself, lost its solitariness, acquired a relationship to fields, to flowers; and it changed from something I understood into something I did not understand, a mystery, a problem.
Later I could try to figure it out: there had to be visual clues in the picture. Were all, or only some, of the elements in it clues? If the lighter, scattered, or broken areas of blue referred to cornflowers, what did the blocks of darker blue refer to, and the opulent white? Or were all the elements clues but some of them to private, unknow- able subjects? Was this a representation of an emotional response to cornflowers, or to a memory of cornflowers?
I like to understand things and tend to ask questions of myself or another person until there is nothing left that I do not understand. At the time, in the midst of a period when I was training myself so hard in another kind of representation, and seeing more and more clearly into the subtlest workings of my language, I was confronted with this experience of opacity.
I had had other striking experiences of incomprehension, the most extended being the weeks I spent in an Austrian first-grade class listening to the German language, before it began to change slowly, a fragment at a time, to something I could understand. Years later, when translating French texts into English, I struggled so hard with the meaning of certain complex sentences that I was sure I felt this struggle physiologically inside my brain—the little currents of electricity sparked, traveled, leaped forward against the problem, fell back, leaped again from a different side, failed. But this experience caught me unprepared, in its novel form — no words, but three panels of blue and white.
Eventually I began to find answers to my questions, but they were not complete answers, and after a time I did not feel the need for complete answers, because I saw that part of the force of the painting was that it continued to elude explanation. I became willing to allow aspects of the painting to remain mysterious, and I became willing to allow aspects of other problems to remain unsolved as well, and it was this new tolerance for, and then satisfaction in, the unexplained and unsolved that marked a change in me.
Even now, just by remaining so mysteriously fixed in my memory, the painting poses a question that, once again, remains even after I have attempted to answer it, and that is, not how does the painting work, but how does the memory of the painting work?
Le Dictionnaire abrégé du surréalisme donne du cadavre exquis la définition suivante: «jeu qui consiste à faire composer une phrase, ou un dessin, par plusieurs personnes sans qu'aucune d'elles ne puisse tenir compte de la collaboration ou des collaborations précédentes.»
Ce jeu littéraire a été inventé à Paris, au 54 rue du Château, dans une maison où vivaient Marcel Duhamel, Jacques Prévert et Yves Tanguy. Le principe du jeu est le suivant : chaque participant écrit à tour de rôle une partie d'une phrase, dans l'ordre sujet–verbe–complément, sans savoir ce que le précédent a écrit. La première phrase qui résulta et qui donna le nom à ce jeu fut «Le cadavre – exquis – boira – le vin – nouveau». Il fait partie des créations inspirées par le concept d'inconscient, souhaitant explorer ses ressources.
Il n'était au départ qu'une activité ludique, selon André Breton : «Bien que, par mesure de défense, parfois, cette activité ait été dite, par nous, «expérimentale», nous y cherchions avant tout le divertissement. Ce que nous avons pu y découvrir d'enrichissant sous le rapport de la connaissance n'est venu qu'ensuite.»
One day this kid will get larger. One day this kid will come to know something that causes a sensation equivalent to the separation of the earth from its axis. One day this kid will reach a point where he senses a division that isn’t mathematical. One day this kid will feel something stir in his heart and throat and mouth. One day this kid will find something in his mind and body and soul that makes him hungry. One day this kid will do something that causes men who wear the uniforms of priests and rabbis, men who inhabit certain stone buildings, to call for his death. One day politicians will enact legislation against this kid. One day families will give false information to their children and each child will pass that information down generationally to their families and that information will be designed to make existence intolerable for this kid. One day this kid will begin to experience all this activity in his environment and that activity and information will compell [sic] him to commit suicide or submit to danger in hopes of being murdered or submit to silence and invisibility. Or one day this kid will talk. When he begins to talk, men who develop a fear of this kid will attempt to silence him with strangling, fists, prison, suffocation, rape, intimidation, drugging, ropes, guns, laws, menace, roving gangs, bottles, knives, religion, decapitation, and immolation by fire. Doctors will pronounce this kid curable as if his brain were a virus. This kid will lose his constitutional rights against the government’s invasion of his privacy. This kid will be faced with electro-shock, drugs, and conditioning therapies in laboratories tended by psychologists and research scientists. He will be subject to loss of home, civil rights, jobs, and all conceivable freedoms. All this will begin to happen in one or two years when he discovers he desires to place his naked body on the naked body of another boy.
In a final, shocking self-portrait, he paints himself naked, his body streaked in clammy blue tones, his genitals colored strangely brown. Coffer describes the picture as one last gasp of self-assertion—“an artist who is crowing at his potency.” Others see it as a rehearsal for suicide—a portrait of the artist as a young corpse. Either way, the image has the feeling of a radical, irrevocable act. A veil has been torn; anything is possible.
Humanæ is a “work in progress” by the Brazilian Angélica Dass, who intends to deploy a chromatic range of the different human skin colors. Those who pose are volunteers who have known the project and decide to participate. There is no previous selection of participants and there are no classifications relating to nationality, gender, age, race, social class or religion. Nor is there an explicit intention to finish it on a specific date. It is open in all senses and it will include all those who want to be part of this colossal global mosaic. The only limit would be reached by completing all of the world’s population.
A photographic taxonomy of these proportions has been rarely undertaken; those who preceded Angélica Dass were characters of the 19th century that, for various reasons - legal, medical, administrative, or anthropological - used photographs to establish different types of social control of the power. The best-known is that of the portraits of identity, initiated by Alphonse Bertillon and now used universally. However, this taxonomy close to Borges´ world, adopts the format of the PANTONE ® guides, which gives the collection a degree of hierarchical horizontality that dilutes the false preeminence of some races over others based on skin color or social condition.
These guidelines have become one of the main systems of color classification, which are represented by means of an alphanumeric code, allowing to recreate them accurately in any medium: is a technical-industrial standard. The process followed in Humanæ also is rigorous and systematic: the background for each portrait is tinted with a color tone identical to a sample of 11 x 11 pixels taken from the face of the photographed. Aligned as in the famous samples, its horizontality is not only formal also is ethical.
Thus, without fuss, with the extraordinary simplicity of this semantic metaphor, the artist makes an “innocent” displacement of the socio-political context of the racial problem to a safe medium, the guides, where the primary colors have exactly the same importance that the mixed ones. It even dilutes the figure of power that usually the photographer holds. The use of codes and visual materials belonging to the imagery that we all share, leaves in the background the self-referentiality of the artist, insistent and often tiresome.
The will that the project evolves in other directions beyond their control (debates, educational applications, replicas and a host of alternatives that have already triggered by sharing Humanæ on social networks) contributes also to the dilution of the hierarchy of the author.
Many of the ingredients that characterize the [best] spirit of this time appear to be part of this project: shared authorship, active solidarity and local proposals likely to operate globally, networking, communication expanded to alternative spaces of debate, awareness without political ideology, social horizontality…
The spectator is invited to press the share button in his brain.
De 1929 a 1933, Morris Louis estuda no Maryland Institute of Fine and Applied Arts. Em 1952, muda-se para Washington, D.C. Em 1953, com o seu amigo Kenneth Noland, visita o atelier de Helen Frankenthaler, em Nova Iorque, e começa a centrar, a partir desta data, as suas pesquisas na cor e no modo como esta é absorvida pela tela. Embora o artista tenha destruído muitas das suas obras do período entre 1955 e 1957, irá, mais tarde, ganhar um certo renome com Veils [Véus], em 1958-1959. Morris Louis pertence à geração de artistas americanos que se segue ao Expressionismo Abstrato. A série Unfurleds (to unfurl significa desfraldar), que, juntamente com Stripes [Riscas], marca o fim da sua vida, engloba cerca de 150 obras. As Unfurleds são obras de grande formato, realizadas com tinta escorrida (magna, com base acrílica). O centro é deixado intacto. Morris Louis utiliza a técnica do cropping, em que é trabalhada uma metade da tela, depois a outra e se procede a um enquadramento final. Juntamente com Frank Stella e Anthony Caro, Morris Louis está na origem da abordagem do livro Art and Objecthood (1967), do crítico Michael Fried. J-FC