Who is Responsible for the American Dream?

Whose_Responsible

“I had a dream a couple years ago in which a new, previously unknown continent was discovered on Earth. The knowledge entered my consciousness first like the ambient news of a radio dispatch. It was an impersonal knowledge, born through the slippery medium of dream space, the source of the transmission overlooked as my dream self wondered instead about the profound consequence such a discovery might have on the rest of humankind. The next thing I remember is that I stood on the ground of the new country. It was made of gypsum, entirely empty except for many animals who seemed to have been living there for a very long time. I woke up shortly thereafter in a warm stupor. Imagine the way our concept of global space would change upon discovering that we had, for so many decades, overlooked an entire continent. It would offer so much to the imagination. A blank place to start again. To be reborn, as they say, with the luxury of retaining prior memories. In his first US solo exhibition, Josef Strau examines such a place. The New World, Application for Turtle Island at The Renaissance Societyreflects a real new world: the Americas.”

Go to Artslant to read the rest of this article.

Review: Forgery

Forgery by Amira Hanafi: Green Lantern Press 2011
by Lily Robert-Foley

Originally Published by Anglehouse Press

I read the last page of Forgery by Amira Hanafi. I close the book, letting the back cover return to its pages, soldered together with string, glue, all pages flush, unlike bricks in that way, the mortar  invisible, abstract, like the structures of language, clamped only by the binding’s powers of persuasion,  although coming apart, air between pages, a sliver of declining shadow in the isosceles triangle made  between cover and cover page, sign of my hours of reading, my opening and stretching of the binding,  the glue.

Forgery (published by The Green Lantern Press, a Chicago based small press), is about Chicago.  Although to say Forgery is about Chicago, is perhaps misleading—not to say it isn’t true. However, the  preposition “about” signifies discursive distance. If I say, this review is “about” Forgery, I picture a set  of imaginary arrows originating in my text and pointing (I imagine downward) at my copy of Forgery,  which is perhaps lying on the floor, my own gaze passing through a page with my review onto the  book. (In fact, I feel it would be more accurate to say that this review is on Forgery, in which case you  can imagine this review placed directly on top Forgery in a stack of books).

Forgery is not about Chicago, Forgery is Chicago. You will say to me, “Forgery is not Chicago,  Forgery is a book. I know the difference between a book and a city. A book is far too small to be a  city. How could anyone live in a book? How could we build structures in a book? How can we carry  out the directives of infrastructure in a book?” The reason I would like to omit the preposition is because prepositions define distances. Although they  may sometimes define the lack of distance (for example: in, through, across etc. and their derivatives),
this lack of distance nevertheless indicates the possibility of distance and therefore of separation. What  Forgery accomplishes is an obliteration of this separation (of the separation between text and subject).

How is this possible? Perhaps it is not. It depends entirely on what you consider the word “Chicago”  to mean. Chicago is a “city.” What does the word “city” mean. No. Not the word. The city. What  does a city mean. Or. No. How does a city mean. This is the question Forgery asks.  In 2009, I moved from Chicago to Paris, where I still live today. Sometimes as I am weaving my way  through the skinny Parisians, negotiating their mimetically skinny streets, I pass by tiny businesses  squeezed into spaces left over between buildings, their windows stacked high with objects in  rhizomatic patterns. I enter, the space is sardined, overflowing with objects seeming to have little or no  coherent relationship with each other. A man behind a counter is perpetually busy (although casually so, taking frequent pauses to chat with a customer or drink a tiny cup of coffee). What does he do?  Nothing. Everything. He fixes things. What things? What do you got? He is a bricoleur.  The principle of bricolage is: I have a problem, I have no idea how to fix it. I have many materials and  tools but none of them correspond absolutely to my problem. So I use something that addresses a part of that problem until that something no longer seems relevant, and then I will look for something else.

The resulting project bears the traces of these tools and materials, reproduces a reciprocation of their  forms, the forms their functions produce. A city is bricolée (The word “bricoleur” or “bricolage” comes from the verb “bricoler.” It is untranslatable). It is patched together by an indeterminate set of tools, it is taken apart, and put back ogether, pieces of it recycled, new buildings constructed from old materials, the materials divorced  from their original function. It is patchwork, the features of its landscape historically contingent,
derived from necessity and not from ideality. I cannot draw a blueprint of a city and then build that  city, the city comes in pieces, birthed in shards, assembled willy-nilly, the blue-print comes after. And  changes always. (Even and especially in Paris, and Chicago, where many have come with their  blueprints to unsuccessfully manufacture a city that corresponds to their idea of the city.)

Forgery is like this. It is a homology of Chicago’s history, its construction process. It does not mimic  nor reproduce the appearance of Chicago, nor interpret it, nor make a story of it, but rather it  reproduces the very mechanisms that created Chicago: bricolage. In this case however, the material is
not steel, brick, concrete, wood… it is DOCUMENTS.Forgery has one page of bibliography for every  11 1/3 pages in the book. It is situated in the tradition of the “cut up” (à la Burroughs, Bellamy etc.)   The text is composed of pieces of source texts, disassembled and rearranged, guided and directed by  our author, Amira Hanafi, to create this lovely, perplexing book, equal parts chaos and control.

In this case however, the question is not the production of text, but the production of the city. Or rather  the place where these two intersect: in the invisible structure that emerges out of the alliance between  the two. This alliance is the stuff of Forgery. In it, we see the history and composition of Chicago  emerge. We see the structures of language dissolve into the material of Chicago, its documents, the  text, texture of history. Forgery is the most objective rendering of history possible, for it is the very  substance of history, and enacts its processes. It is simultaneously concrete and ink, it both builds and edits. This is history: the coming together of raw material and documents. History itself is bricolage,  the echo of Hanafi’s bricolage. Forgery: both the melding of material, and the fabrication of  discourse.

A city is made from steel and wood and plastic and concrete and brick and glass (etc.), that combine  together to make a set of contingent structures. But a city is not merely the sum total of a perpetually  varying number of visible structures. It is also invisible. Assembled from invisible structures such as  those that bind a book, that lock its pages together. Forgery is a representation of these structures, their  production, in perpetual revision, and likewise the forging of an armature that links our tangible cities  to abstract ones.  Out of cities another city is built. I, my body, become an nth city that is invisible, like the structures of  language holding the pages of Hanafi’s book together. These are the structures of my cities. It is  indistinguishable from something I might call my soul or my set of ideologies or my interpretations of  cognitive perceptions. The very visible phenomena of streets, buildings, trains, lamp posts, mailboxes,  sidewalks, the shape of the sky as it appears through the tops of the buildings, shifting according to my  perspective as I make my journeys between the places, the people I know, love, bound to the intangible  networks I use to order my universe, to attach words and things to each other. I read Forgery and I am infused with the documents that give us a history of Chicago. As I read, I bricole. The text is opaque,  concrete, made from actual material (documents, paper, ink, sentences). Unlike most history books,  Forgery does not shine a light through the documents to reveal an invented structure “hiding”  somewhere beneath, for it recognizes that although structure may give birth to documents, those structures are impossible for us see. All we can do is forge new structures from old materials, bricolons  documents to build new texts. In Forgery the order of document to history is inverted. Documents,  normally considered “second” texts, addenda, bibliography, supplementary. In Forgery the document is history, becomes history through its reordering, as it also is Chicago. So how do I read this book that  is Chicago, made from steel, concrete, wood, brick, paper, document? I reassemble it for myself, insert  it into my own city, the nth city that is my pneuma. And in this way Hanafi’s city is part of my invisible ity in the same way Chicago is, a source text in my cut up.

~ ~ ~
Lily Robert-Foley lives in Paris, France where she is currently writing a doctorate in Comparative Literature at  the University of Paris VIII. She participates in conferences and colloquiums abroad and in France. Her creative  and scholarly work has appeared most recently in Critiphoria, Omnia Vanitas Review, Digital Artifacts, and  Bathhouse. She is the author of the annotations to the North Georgia Gazette published by Green Lantern Press  in September of 2009 and of Xerolage #47 forthcoming from Xexoxial Editions this year.

Methodical Handprints: An Interview with Stephen Lapthisophon

The following interview was originally published on Bad at Sports.

Once a resident of Chicago, Stephen Lapthisophon has since moved to Texas where he continues to write and make work while teaching at the University of Texas at Arlington. His ties to Chicago remain strong–what is most recently evidenced by his exhibit, The Construction of a National Identity at the Hyde Park Art Center. Running concurrently in Dallas, Stephen exhibited a second body of work, Spelling Lesson, at Conduit Gallery. In both exhibits he investigates the source and strategies of identity, integrating text and found materials. Recently I had a chance to ask him some questions about his work–Devin, Stephen and I have been working together over the last several months compiling a series of Stephen’s essays for The Green Lantern Press. In the midst of that process, I did not steal an opportunity to ask him about his visual work–what continues to play such a prominent role in his life. The more I learned about his practice, scouring through older publications, (Whitewalls published Hotel Terminus in 1999, as well as an artist catalogue, Writing Art Cinema 1977-2007 ) the more I began to wonder how he negotiates his own identity as an artist, particularly when his work seems so porous. It’s a strange idea, I’ll admit, to think of an art practice as being porous. What I mean is that Stephen seems to pass through accumulations of objects and ideas, undeterred by the cultural status of those materials (whether based in popular culture, day-to-day banalities or philosophy). He collects certain elements, one-liners and imagery, in order to then recompile those remnants through his own lens. Throughout everything he maintains a steady, personable voice. His work is warm, messy, I’d even say generous in its accessibility and boasts a consistent character–which of course points back to identity. Stephen is the author of Writing Art Cinema 1988-2010 (Green Lantern Press).

Caroline Picard: At your Conduit Gallery show, “Spelling Lessons” you address the question of a “signature.” As I understand it, you employ a variety of mediums, as well as text, to undermine/explore the question of a concise artistic identity. Can you talk a little bit about that? And maybe what you think a signature represents? (I’m also interested in this because of your regular incorporation of text, which seems to become it’s own kind of signature…

Stephen Lapthisophon: Yes.

First of all, I have this difficult, hard to spell (and hard to pronounce) last name. So names have been on my mind for a while—the way that names are not really words but instead serve as markers of a sort. I am interested in the way we mark ourselves, mark our place and mark our moment. I am also interested in drawing. And for me writing is closer to the act of drawing than it is to Painting which carries with it a number of assumptions and heavy background. Drawing is mark making, notation, surface and hand.

Also, as we move away from the hand we move away from a different kind of object. Picture making, works of art are no longer “signed” in the same way as they were in the past. Yet artists persist in making works that carry a recognizable identity, via repeated form. I am aiming for an everydayness of experience, signing, marking, making a notation, drawing, scratching and spilling.

I am also interested in the signature’s ability to call into question our thinking about the idea of authenticity. Signatures should not be pre-meditated, forced or over thought. They should just “happen.” We expect signatures to be “natural” and part of our selfhood. Odd then, that we sign a work of art “potentially full of artificial marks” to mark its authenticity.

CP: Following up on that last question, do you think of “text” as a kind of medium in and of itself? One not necessarily relegated to the page of a book, for instance, but even a free standing element? I suppose another way to ask that question is what is your relationship to text? How does that compare with your relationship to an art object?

SL: I am not sure if text is another medium but it is the element that makes certain media unstable. Is a drawing with text the same as a sign? I mean like a hand painted sign for a yard sale? Is a drawing/ painting with words an agreement, a caption for something else…or a list? I think text in visual works of art chips away at the solid place where we see a work of art as self contained and whole and moves it to an in between place–an object without a home.

CP: You have a show, “The Construction of a National Identity” up at The Hyde Park Art Center right now. Here too, you seem to examine traditional ways of locating a self in space and time. On the one hand, it seems like you rely on those traditional mechanisms (i.e. national identity, which relates to place and, even more basic, I think, a kind of “naming” or identification of a particular aspect) and on the other deliberately undermine their integrity (in so far as you point to Paella, for instance, or the idea of hybridity in general). Can you talk a little bit about that tension?

SL: Definitions always fall apart. Either breaking away into tautology or crumbling under the weight iof their own defining terms. We are given many terms with which to define ourselves yet none of them match perfectly. We don’t really add up. Given the hallway space at HPAC it seemed to make sense to push the transitory, ambulatory nature of identity, and the walking nature of the way that we exchange messages with each other in public. The installation is a poem with recipes written on colored walls or recipes for poems drawn on walls or walls marking overheard pieces of recipes signed by a writer. The food materials used to make the piece (saffron, rice, salt, coffee, olive oil, sesame oil and tea all hold associations with place and are part of our everyday lives. We build our sense of self through the repetition of daily rituals of food and drink and mark the day with words and gesture.

CP: Here too I am interested in how you incorporate those elements into tactile mediums. How do you characterize your relationship to your work–in a physical sense? Like when you’re looking at what you make, in your studio, or in a gallery–even when you first approach materials with an intention to “fashion” them–what is your experience of yourself in those moments?

SL: I want my experience and the audience’s experience to be of the moment–in process and in flux. An experience of everything around and in the piece. I want the experience to be heightened by a sense of the transitory and fleeting and of the potential for change. Not that the pieces change but that they have changed. Materiality is important as it claims or sense of space and makes us aware of our body and all aspects of the sensory world. I use a lot of found objects and like to call into question what makes one object “art” while excluding another object from being art. I am drawn to material, older physical objects made by hand, objects that contain handmade marks.

CP: When do you find yourself most “the artist”?

SL: I guess I enjoy the making and the time and place when the surprise happens. I am an advocate of the irritation, of mystery and of ambiguity And I need to have a sense of discovery as I return to the work. I like being in the space.

 

Clouded Points of Access: Phantoms in the Dirt at the Museum of Contemporary Photography

Clouded Points of Access

Phantoms in the Dirt at the Museum of Contemporary Photography

Recently I got the chance to write about a photography exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It was published on Artslant

What first reads like an astral constellation is in fact a photograph whose blackness is broken only by the erratic swarm of dead insect bodies. Greg Stimac’s Santa Fe to Billings (2009) documents the choreography of the countless lives his windshield intersected on a drive between locales. The momentum of each smash is evident—guts smear and spray across the surface, recording innumerable tiny accidents. To create this piece, Stimac placed an 8 x 10 inch sheet of Plexiglass on the hood of his car. Upon arriving to his final destination—Billings, in this case—he used the car’s cigarette lighter to scan the resulting plate, thereby producing the final 20 x 30 inch photograph. This piece—its documentary mode, its gritty surface, its use of technology—is the perfect beginning for the Museum of Contemporary Photography’s Phantoms in the Dirt, a group exhibition curated by Karsten Lund, which currently showcases sixteen artists. In each work lies a theoretical straw: something the viewer grasps with sudden exuberance and recognition—Yes! Bugs spatter on my car too!—only to bump into larger questions, mysteries, and catastrophes thereafter. Stimac’s insects might provoke anxiety in the viewer about her own mortality, or encapsulate an expression of violence both sickening and banal, or even illustrate humanity’s omniscient relationship to its environment. Like the early efforts to prove the existence of an afterlife by capturing spirits on photographic paper, Phantoms in the Dirt presents the enigmatic trick of landscape photography, stirring up powerful questions about authenticity, mechanical illusion, and existential meaning in the process. read more

Robert Burnier

The Matter of Invisible Energy

An Interview with Robert Burnier

I was happy for the chance to extend my conversation with Burnier; this interview went live a couple days ago on Artslant —

Chicago, Sep. 2014: Robert Burnier has a large body of work on display this fall at multiple locations all over the city. In addition to Inland Deltaa solo show in the West Loop at Andrew Rafacz Gallery, he is part of The Chicago Effect: Redefining the Middle at the Hyde Park Art Center on Chicago’s South Side, and presents a separate collaborative project, Inside Space, with artists Jason Lazarus and Molly Brandt at the Riverside Arts Center. As Burnier describes it, this latter project “investigates what is hidden and elusive” in material experience, isolating “what is activated for us by voids and gaps.” It’s a bundle of themes that reoccurs throughout his work. Finally his IN/SITU presentation will open at EXPO Chicago this week where the artist was curated by Renaud Proch.

Clearly Burnier is having a moment. It is exciting to witness. With a background in computer science and painting, his sculptural works interrogate material and philosophical concerns. In one ongoing series, he begins with a flat piece of aluminum, folding it methodically until further folds are no longer possible. The resulting elegantly crumpled objects are covered with a layer of matte paint, and thereafter appear like crumpled balls of thick paper; they evoke the residue of vibrant energies — sitting like cast aside experiments whose original purpose is not longer accessible. Burnier’s work reintroduces the process of thinking as a final object in and of itself.

Caroline Picard: Is there any synergy between the different contexts and sites where you are currently presenting work?

Robert Burnier: Given the theme of Inland Delta, my solo show, it’s been serendipitous to have different views of my work in disparate locales. To me, it all gathers around the solo show at the gallery, which becomes a kind of central node. I hope people will get something special out of piecing the different locales together if they happen to see my work in more than one place. read more