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I love excavating bookshops, unearthing unexpected gems. My latest acquisition is Ads by the French artist Pierre Leguillon (Brussels: Triangle Books, 2019). It reproduces seventy magazine ads featuring artists, from the 1940s to now. The tear sheets are ordered alphabetically by the artists’ surnames, starting with Marina Abramovic, ending with Aaron Young. They are presented without further curation or comment. Draw your own conclusions.

Most of the ads feature instantly recognisable, world-famous, ‘name’ artists (Vanessa Beecroft, Louise Bourgeois, Maurizio Cattelan, Tracey Emin, Robert Rauschenberg, Julian Schnabel, Andy Warhol), with a few lesser figures thrown in. No one is there to flog art. Most ads are for clothes brands. Some are for booze (Salvador Dalí fronts for Scotch), for cameras (Norman Rockwell!), for jewellery and watches (Anh Duong and Helen Frankenthaler), and for travel (Mr and Mrs Max Ernst on a cruise). There’s only one downmarket product placement, painter Hebru Brantley in his studio eating McDonald’s. (Caption: ‘Starving artist? I don’t think so.’)

Some marriages seem counterintuitive: gritty war photographer Don McCullin endorses luxury menswear while Jean Cocteau sells televisions. Some artists strain to look sincere, ‘keeping it real’, like those unsmiling Starn Twins or the equally unsmiling Ed Ruscha, with his cultivated Richard Avedon ‘American West’ look—all three posing for Gap. The artist who survives intact is the great pretender, Cindy Sherman, collaborating with photographer Jurgen Teller, for Marc Jacobs. She camps it up, brandishing a guitar as if she were a fake rock star rather than a real art star. Of course, the ads also seek to flatter those of us who know who Cerith Wyn Evans is.

Ads recalls Picturing ‘Greatness’, the show Barbara Kruger curated for the Museum of Modern Art in 1988. There were thirty-nine portraits of great artists (mostly white males) from the photography collection, including shots of Rodin, Picasso, Duchamp, Rodchenko, Pollock, and Henry Moore. They were accompanied by a short polemic. In it, Kruger wrote: ‘Though many of these images exude a kind of well-tailored gentility, others feature the artist as a star-crossed Houdini with a beret on, a kooky middleman between God and the public.’ Picturing ‘Greatness’ surveyed the ways artists presented themselves to the camera, colluding with friendly photographers to perfect an idea of how artists ‘look’. However, Kruger explained, these images can also ‘show us how vocation is ambushed by cliché and snapped into stereotype by the camera’. 

In Ads, Leguillon seems to savour the way artists’ status is at once affirmed and eroded. Replaying Kruger’s idea with a twist, he shows how third parties muscle in on the magic to cash in on the artists’ cachet, but also how artists let them. As many of the artists included have more money than God, we know they didn’t need to make these ads—but chose to, aspired to. I wonder, in the distant future, if all that is left of art is Leguillon’s book, how would anthropologists understand ‘the artist’?
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In 2009, I ran to the cinema for the first night of My Bloody Valentine 3D. It was little more than a sequence of set pieces in which people were killed using a miner’s pickaxe. Each instance was different—where it happened; how it happened; where the axe went into the body, at what angle, where it came out; etcetera. The filmmakers concocted novel solutions to a basic problem. However, it struck me as oddly bloodless—a formalist exercise, a physics experiment. I was reminded of the abstract painter Gordon Walters, whose work also unpacked the endless possibilities offered by ‘a deliberately limited range of forms’. As Walters explained: ‘dynamic relations are most clearly expressed by the repetition of a few simple elements’.
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In a flurry of Covid-lockdown recreational decluttering, I came across a talk I gave almost twenty years ago. Long before I’d heard of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, I was trying to explain art after Duchamp to some university law students. Looking back, the talk was absurdly ill-conceived for its audience. It’s a problem, neglecting your listeners to indulgently think out loud. Here it is:

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Marcel Duchamp made Fountain in 1917. It was a game changer. The French artist acquired a porcelain urinal, laid it on its back, titled it Fountain, and signed it ‘R. Mutt’, declaring it art. The work was rejected from a supposedly sympathetic, anything-goes, all-comers exhibition organised by New York’s Society for Independent Artists. They said anyone paying six dollars could exhibit, but Fountain tested even their limits. Perhaps they thought it was a prank; perhaps it was.

When Fountain was rejected, an anonymous article (likely penned by Duchamp) defended its status as art, arguing that ‘Whether Mr. Mutt with his own hands made the fountain or not has no importance. He CHOSE it. He took an ordinary article of life, placed it so that its useful significance disappeared under it under the new title and point of view—created a new thought for it.’ Of course, today, Fountain is not only accepted, it’s canonical. We live in a post-Fountain art world.

Before Fountain, art was different—it was a kind of thing. There were criteria—a traditionally grounded consensus about what art was, what forms it could take, why to do it and how. Back then, you could take an artwork out of an art context and still recognise it as art—it was clearly a painting, a sculpture, an etching, etcetera. But, when Fountain entered art, it changed everything. It signalled that being art no longer turned on an art object’s intrinsic properties, but on the position it occupied. It was art because it was in a gallery or an art magazine. Location, location. Fountain may have been iconoclastic, yet it bolstered the art institution. When art can take any form, the art institution becomes crucial in a new way, to assert and police what is art and isn’t. Now, the institution didn’t just recognise art status, it conferred it.

Fountain changed the art game, but it didn’t change it straight away. It took a while for its implications to filter through, and the Fountain idea has always faced resistance—still does. We have the Fountain idea of art, but it is everywhere attended—haunted—by the pre-Fountain idea. Some still want to think of art in old-school terms, praising beautiful, skilful, edifying art—‘good painting’—and dismissing lights going on and off. Curmudgeonly critics act as if Duchamp never happened. Pre-Fountain-idea art is still being made, but now the Fountain idea reframes it. There’s no way back.

What goes for art has changed, but ‘art’ includes what has gone for art in the past. In an art museum or an art-history book, we can move from a gilded Renaissance altarpiece (pre-Fountain) to Piero Manzoni’s tins of his own shit (post-Fountain) in a blink, and it’s all art, even as these works are premised on radically different, even contradictory, expectations as to what art can be. They are equally part of a tradition.

To address the implications of this, it’s useful to consider an insight from political science—anti-descriptivism. For descriptivists, names describe things. To be, say, ‘socialism’, a regime needs to have certain properties. If it once had them but lost them, it ceases to be socialism, even if it still bears the name. Anti-descriptivists go the other way. For them, names are proper and linked to their referents through ‘primal baptism’. Socialist regimes may evolve in all kinds of contradictory ways but remain socialist.

In his preface to Slavoj Žižek’s The Sublime Object of Ideology, Ernest Laclau takes this idea a step further: ‘What is overlooked, at least in the standard version of anti-descriptivism, is that this guaranteeing the identity of an object in all counterfactual situations—through a change of all its descriptive features—is the retroactive effect of naming itself: it is the name itself, the signifier, which supports the identity of the object. That “surplus” in the object which stays the same in all possible worlds is “something in it more than itself”, that is to say the Lacanian objet petit a: we search in vain for it in positive reality because it has no positive consistency—because it is just an objectification of a void, of a discontinuity opened in reality by the emergence of the signifier.’

This brand of anti-descriptivism offers a productive way to understand ‘art’. If the altarpiece and the tin of shit both belong to art, there’s something at stake in the name of art that exceeds its examples and transforms them.
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Last week, I was up in Auckland, interviewing artist Zac Langdon-Pole before a gathering of the faithful. The event was presented in conjunction with his Michael Lett show, Interbeing. I enjoyed it.

Two months earlier, I knew little about the young, high-flying, Berlin-based New Zealand artist—a winner of the 2018 Ars Viva Prize and the 2019 winner of the seventh BMW Art Journey. To prepare for the interview, I devoured Constellations, a new monograph covering the last six years of his work. As I ploughed through it, like a student cramming for a test, I found Langdon-Pole’s project erudite, juggling myriad knowledge systems—scientific, cultural, historical—through works that take ever-different forms. Brilliant and informative, the book yielded much, too much, leaving me gasping for air, with little space for my own speculations and responses. When I set foot in the Interbeing show, however, my experience of the work was very different.

Langdon-Pole had been making photograms of sprinkled sand, collected from various locations. While the locations were distinctive, the photograms were largely indistinguishable. In the show, some were presented at original scale, some were enlarged, one to mural scale. Perversely, these shallow images suggested the sublimity of deep space—with tiny sand grains standing in for solar masses—and the history of human endeavours to make sense of it. (I recalled a Cerith Wyn Evans text work, referring to astronomers confusing specks of dust on their photos with faint stars millions of light years away.) The enlargements were rhetorically impressive, but contained no extra information, as in the film Blow-Up, where successive enlargements of a possible-murder-scene photo offer no further clues, revealing only the grain of the negative itself.

Langdon-Pole had also been messing about with anatomical teaching models. For Orbits (2019), he replaced the eyeballs in two paired eye-socket models with glassy spheres—one pair had spheres containing a dandelion head and petrified sequoia wood, the other a dandelion head and rainbow obsidian. There was a disjunction between the time frames implied by the ephemeral dandelions (albeit frozen) and the other materials, but what this had to do with eyes was hard to see. The Orbits seemed to be non sequiturs; pointless, but provocative, puzzling, poetic. In Cleave Study (2019), Langdon-Pole grafted a model of a human tongue onto a xenophora shell, as if a tongue like mine had taken the place of the shell’s former inhabitant. The xenophora is a curious thing. As its shell grows, it fuses with things in its vicinity, particularly other shells—it’s a collage artist, an appropriator. But was the artist’s idea that the shell had colonised a human tongue or vice versa?

I lingered longest with Assimilation Study (2020). Painted wooden blocks—squares, circles, half circles, stars, wedges—were scattered in a perspex-topped display case. They came from that common educational shape-sorting toy that teaches tots not to put square pegs into round holes. It took a moment to notice that Langdon-Pole had switched out a piece. A wooden wedge had been replaced with a piece of Campo del Cielo meteorite tooled to the same dimensions. Over four billion years ago, this nickel-iron extraterrestrial had been part of the core of a small planet that broke apart. It fell to Earth around 4,000 years ago, landing in what is now Argentina. In Langdon-Pole’s work, it’s as if this alien artefact has infiltrated the common children’s game to hide in plain sight. The work draws attention to the way the game prioritises shape at the expense of other (here, more profound) factors. (Perhaps, as two blocks are star shaped—and as the work is surrounded by photograms that look like night skies—it’s easy to think of the blocks as a constellation in which a meteorite might already feel at home.)

Assimilation Study set me thinking. I recalled the nineteenth-century inventor of kindergarten, Friedrich Fröbel, and his ‘gifts’ for children, which include building blocks. He also happened to be the crystallographer who wrote ‘my rocks and crystals served me as a mirror wherein I might descry mankind, and man’s development and history’. I thought of Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), where minimalist monoliths of ancient alien origin—some passing through the cosmos—prompt giant leaps in human education. And I remembered a 1993 Michael Parekōwhai work that enlarged and repurposed the very same children’s game, but to different ends. In his allegorical installation—Epiphany: Matiu 2:9 ‘The Star in the East Went before Them’—the star blocks prompt us to think of the star that heralded the messiah, but also to consider how this might be re-understood within te ao Māori.

In retrospect, none of these connections are totally irrelevant. Or, rather, the work begs the question ‘what is relevant?’ That meteorite had been flying through space for aeons—aeons before Langdon-Pole, before Parekōwhai, before Kubrick, before shape-sorter blocks, before Fröbel, before Christ, before humans—but on a collision course with us anyway, addressed to us before we even existed. And now, here, retooled, it comes to rest in Langdon-Pole’s work at Michael Lett’s gallery in 2020. Has it been domesticated by the artist, drawn into his game, or does it highlight his/our hubris, his/our presumption to intellectually frame it, albeit momentarily? Is he assimilating it or is it assimilating us? Langdon-Pole relativises frameworks—even his own.
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Gone Home presents the work of two New Zealand photographers, Gavin Hipkins and Peter Peryer, in a game of visual snap. The show takes its title from an inscription on a gravestone in an early Peryer photo. Peryer died in November 2018.

The occasion for the pairing is City Gallery Wellington’s touring Hipkins’s new body of work, The Homely II (2001–17). The Auckland photographer shot the eighty images on sightseeing jaunts through New Zealand (his home) and the United Kingdom (the homeland). He visited tourist spots as well as humble and nondescript sites. In the UK, his itinerary took in iconic landscapes such as the Lake District and Scotland’s national parks and industrial-revolution locations like New Lanark and Ironbridge. In New Zealand, he frequented Rotorua, the Moeraki boulders, Milford Sound, and several early-settlers museums. The project alludes to colonialism and empire, the legacies of industrial expansion, landscape traditions, and domesticity and family.

The Homely II is a sequel to Hipkins’s most celebrated work, The Homely (1997–2000), which also features eighty images, taken in New Zealand and Australia—neighbouring British colonies. Shot with an amateur film camera, both Homelysare presented as friezes of abutted photos, suggesting cinematic narratives—albeit broken, fragmentary, unhinged ones. While Hipkins described The Homely as a ‘postcolonial gothic novel’, he says The HomelyII  is more of a ‘Victorian melodrama’. Where The Homelywas underpinned by Freud’s idea of the uncanny, Hipkins says its sequel is engaged more with Mark Fisher’s notion of the eerie.

In the show, The Homely II  is accompanied by some fifty Peryer photos, including such classics as Self Portrait (1977), My Parents (1979), Frozen Flame (1982), Bluff (1985), Dead Steer (1987), Trout, Lake Taupo (1987), and Home (1991).

Peryer and Hipkins are of different generations. Peryer is essentially a photographer of the analogue period, while Hipkins spans the transition from analogue to digital. Peryer emerged in the 1970s, at a time when photography was beginning to assert its place in New Zealand art. He is known for his black-and-white photos, which he presents matted and glazed, in frames—as singular images of singular subjects. Presentation is downplayed—the image is the thing. Hipkins emerged in the 1990s, when photography was well-and-truly part of art and had become wall scale—installational. He emphasises repetition, often presenting photos in ensembles and installations, drawing attention to the novel ways that photos can be arranged and exhibited.

That said, the similarities are as significant. Hipkins and Peryer both photograph New Zealand. They are ‘tourists of photography’, taking photos on their travels while simultaneously touring the history, conventions, and concerns of photography itself, as if it were akin to a landscape. Both are self-consciously quotational, favouring subjects already photographed; echoing photos and photographers that went before them. Their work has a haunted, déjà vu quality. They imbue their images with a sense of belatedness and melancholy. Both shift between photographic registers (from the snapshot to the documentary to the pictorial to the abstract). There are also explicit rhymes between their projects. For instance, The Homely II includes two subjects already photographed by Peryer: the Alexandra Clock and the Moeraki boulders. And the show includes two photo-sequences Peryer made using an amateur camera in advance of Hipkins’s Homelys—Mars Hotel and Gone Home (both 1975).

Gone Home has been curated by Gavin Hipkins and I, is toured by City Gallery Wellington, with support from Elam School of Fine Arts at the University of Auckland, the Charnwood Trust, the Estate of Peter Peryer, and other generous lenders. Centre of Contemporary Art, Christchurch, 14 December 2019–16 February 2020; and Aratoi, Masterton, 7 March–30 August 2020.

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City Gallery is currently screening Daisies, an experimental, feminist feature film by Czech new-wave director Věra Chytilová, made in 1966. See it, if you can. It runs until 13 April 2020.

This female buddy movie follows the exploits of two young women, both called Marie, as they prank silly old men, conspicuously consume, and speculate on their existence. Their hedonism and irresponsibility was a rebuff to the bleakness of life in communist Czechoslovakia, and the film was initially banned for the wanton waste of its food fights and milk baths. Here, feminism holds hands with consumerism.

It’s hard to get a fix on the protagonists. They act like dolls or robots—but malfunctioning ones, off mission. They are adorable yet obnoxious, pretty but unladylike, mischievous yet vacuous, trapped but free. They scramble anarchic feminist agency with coquettish sex-object appeal. In Artforum, critic J. Hoberman described them as ‘all impulse and appetite, with food substituting for sex’.

Daisies exemplifies its mid-1960s counterculture moment: a time of underground movies, happenings, street theatre, nudism, bagism, body art, psychedelia, free sex, and feminism. It’s experimental and rebellious in its content, but also in its form, with disorienting, gimmicky special effects—often seemingly pursued for their sheer novelty. The anarchic filmmaker was out to break as many rules as her heroines. Daisies is, in many ways, confounding and unreadable. Hoberman writes, ‘the film does not lend itself to decoding. On a primary level, it simply is.’

Why screen Daisies now? Aside from it being an amazing romp of a film, it’s also an interesting space-time capsule from which to consider our current moment, as feminism, sexism, and capitalism cleave unto one another.
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Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.
—R.D. Laing
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In a few short months, Ronnie van Hout’s Quasi has become a Wellington icon. On the cover of the Metro Wellington Edition, it takes centre stage, flanked by the Bucket Fountain and the Beehive. But how did the Dowse get to be so big?
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In 1988, New York artist Barbara Kruger had a big show at Wellington’s Shed 11. As part of it, she presented several billboard works around town. The top photo shows National Art Gallery Director Luit Bieringa catching Mark Roach (Wellington City Art Gallery’s Exhibitions Manager) and Nicky Hager (later to become the famous investigative journalist) in the process of amending, vandalising, or adapting one of her billboards, shifting its message from the generic ‘Surveillance is their busywork’ to the particular ‘Waihopai: Surveillance is its dirty work’, bringing its message home. (At that stage, the Waihopai spy base was still being built and was not yet operational.) It was a brilliant intervention. In 1996, Hager would publish his first book, Secret Power, an exposé of New Zealand’s engagement in international electronic espionage.
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I’ve just been in Sydney, where I kept bumping into Australian painter Imants Tillers and his work. Tillers is famous for colliding imagery appropriated from other artists on arrays of canvasboards. He’s been making these works for almost forty years now. In Sydney Contemporary, his work was in the Arc One booth. He also had a solo show at Roslyn Oxley’s Paddington gallery—work produced in the wake of his recent survey show in Riga. (I attended an event at Oxley’s, where Tillers spoke with Power Institute Professor Mark Ledbury—Power published the book for the Riga show.) Tillers also has an installation at Art Gallery of New South Wales, in connection with their show Making Art Public: Fifty Years of Kaldor Public Art Projects. That work addresses the first Kaldor project, Christo’s Wrapped Coast at Sydney’s Little Bay, in 1969. Tillers, then an architecture student, was a helper on the project, and the experience inspired him to become an artist. In Making Art Public, Tillers is also name checked as one of the three artists showcased in Kaldor’s eighth project, 1984’s An Australian Accent show at PS1, New York, and the Corcoran, Washington DC. In Sydney in September, there was no getting away from Tillers.

Tillers is an enduring figure in Australian art. His project has surfed and survived art-world fashion waves and paradigm shifts and it’s still standing. Discussion around it continues, although not as furiously as in the 1980s. Indeed, from the outset, Tillers’s work was engineered to be hardy—to escape irrelevance. It bridged antithetical tendencies—conceptualism and neoexpressionism. It deconstructed Australianness while epitomising an Australian condition. Peppered with references to Tillers’s Latvian-refugee heritage, it was ‘death of the author’ appropriation with an identity-politics twist. Etcetera. Tillers always had it both ways—with wiggle room. That’s why he complicated so many arguments, and why he continues to be relevant as arguments turn.

Tillers frames art history as much as being framed by it. His work makes me think about how we all read art in our own way. There’s the canon, the more-or-less shared story of art—the map we all refer to. However, each of us makes our own personal journey through art, based on what is to hand, coming to this or that artist or work in our own time in our own way, in a peculiar order, making our links for ourselves, tracing our own personal art history. Tillers’s work reifies his personal journey through art, as driven by his curiosity and idiosyncratic sensibility. He collages and entwines canonical art that everyone knows (Georg Baselitz or Giorgio de Chirico, perhaps) with the local (Aboriginal desert painting, say) and with art particular to his own background (Latvian art). Tillers’s art is akin to psychogeography; his sensibility is revealed even as he drifts, gets lost and distracted. His work is made entirely of other artists’ imagery, but the distinctive web of connections is uniquely him—a fingerprint.

One of Tillers’s new paintings at Oxley—Nature Speaks: GQ (2019)—features a quote from Buddha: ‘You cannot travel on the path before you have become the path itself.’ You could say Tillers has traversed art history by becoming art history.
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