July 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
Believe me, there is definitely a cross in this Black Painting by Ad Reinhardt (1960-1966). If you tilt your screen and squint a bit you will see it. Look around and you will notice that the cross, or the X, is one of the most pervasive spatial archetypes. Howard Hughes used it more than 30 times in Scarface (1932): x shaped shadows and visual compositions mark the movie echoing the scar of the protagonist and becoming the ominous sign of violence and death.
But crosses and Xs for me go well beyond symbolism: they are the most fundamental way to mark a territory, the root of the relationship between landscape and human presence – as in the Roman Cardo and Decumanus. The Cardo and the Decumanus formed a cross that projected on earth an imaginary heavenly order, as seen in this scheme that depicts the foundation ritual of Roman cities.
The Cross is a basic foundation element not only of the western city; most civilizations have produced cross-shaped configurations, and one of the most interesting for me is the city of Anjar (today in Lebanon), founded by Al-Walid I, an Umayyad caliph, in 714-15.
The plan features a central cross-shaped circulation space that we can imagine as an urban interior of sorts. This space manages the walled area by dividing it in four quarters, but it would have also have provided a shared, representative space for both commerce and rituals.
The idea of a space of passage that is both a connector and a symbolic element of sorts re-emerges also in Le Corbusier’s La Tourette Monastery (1956-1960). On the lowest level of the building, a cross of corridors links the four sides of the monastery. I stayed a while at La Tourette in 2003 and I remember ‘discovering’ this shortcut almost by mistake – it was a new way of experiencing the building and understanding the relationship between its parts, and while walking through it, I realized it was a cross and had a sort of ‘whoa’ moment. Cheesy, I know. And stupid, especially, as I should have known the plan of the building as every good architecture student… so, for those of you who have not seen it yet, here it goes.
But there are less obvious aspects in this project – especially the monumentalization of car circulation that gave beautiful and scary results such as this one, where the cross becomes the ultimate embodiment of the very mechanical rationale of the city marrying again the symbolic with the prosaic:
Interestingly, Italian architect and critic Gabriele Mastrigli has suggested that Le Corbusier took inspiration for the layout of his City of one Million of Inhabitants from another paradigmatic cross-shaped project:
Bramante’s proposal for Saint Peter (a project on which he worked between 1500 and 1514). An interesting introverted cross, somewhat the opposite of the centrifugal Villa Capra by Palladio (ca. 1567), which becomes a fourfold viewing device open towards the surrounding landscape.
If from the scale of the city we went down to the one of the building, we can take our catalogue of crosses even further down to the scale of the architectural element – with two of my all-time favourites: the very obvious miesian column of the Barcelona Pavilion (1929)
This section for me is deeply moving – it seems like all the meaning of architecture is condensed in that one beam-pillar cross, the vertical loads and the horizontal ones, the thrust towards the sky and the need to bind all elements together. I always found this building a sort of existential statement on architecture that could belong equally to the Japanese tradition and to a classical genealogy: it is about weight, order, measure, and ultimately also about man – what else could the absurdity of the slanted roof cutting the structure be, if not the intervention of chance, hazard, and the twists and turns of human nature? Uhm, no, this is wrong, one should never write about architecture when architecture is that good. It simply speaks for itself and talking about it can only make it cheap. I feel like thrashing the last lines but I’ll leave them as a memento not to overanalyze again.
However, especially in the Christian West, the importance of the cross as a symbol cannot be overestimated. Even in the cases in which it is used simply as a formal device, as in this “Composition with Cross” by Suetin (1921-22)
the metaphorical charge is still very much present, inscribing even the most abstract canvas into the history of Crucifixion paintings to which this famous detail from Piero della Francesca’s Pala della Misericordia (1460) belongs.
But just to end, here is the cross-based painting that for me remains the most stunning. Naive at first – after all, it’s just a lamb – the canvas is probably one of the most thought-provoking ones I have personally ever seen. There is just no stopping the chain of associations that will burst in the mind of the viewer once the cross formed by the legs of the lamb has been noticed: crucifixion, Jesus, martyrdom, meaning and value of life, this image can start infinite reflections. Francisco Zurbarán takes us on a real tour de-force of formal and conceptual metaphors with his “Agnus Dei” (1635-1640) – see below.
July 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
Cy Twombly died yesterday at 83. I don’t know whether this Bacchus series, that I first saw last year at the Tate, is a good work or not: I don’t really know anything about painting. But I can say that I kept thinking about it for months afterwards. It’s not about the colour, it’s not even about the gesture, it’s about the canvas as the surface upon which time itself is recorded.
Donald Judd famously called a 1964 exhibition of Twombly’s a “fiasco”, saying that “there is nothing to the paintings”. Judd has written some of the sharpest, most brilliant art reviews ever. In Twombly’s case he might, or might not have been wrong: in any case, I wish I had the privilege to see that fiasco firsthand. Sometimes Twombly is so effortless he seems facile. Sometimes you feel he’s just a clever intellectual tricking you into believing there is some hidden depth you can’t quite grasp (I mean, painting with the left hand to be more detached? totally feels like a trick). But sometimes there is something to his canvases, a presence, a vibration, that redeems it all. He is in the canvases somehow. And will be for many years to come. Arrivederci, Mr. Twombly.
July 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have been trying for a while now to build up a catalogue of spatial archetypes – not necessarily architectural archetypes, just archetypes of organization of space. Formal archetypes, if you like. In the studio I’m co-tutoring at the Berlage Institute with Pier Vittorio Aureli, Platon Issaias and Elia Zenghelis, we have been working on the idea of constructing the city through architectural archetypes – a very fascinating attempt indeed, but one that, weirdly enough, is not directly related with this catalogue of ‘not-necessarily-architectural’ formal archetypes.
Actually, my interest in formal archetypes came from a completely different source: a book on Robert Motherwell’s Open series > Robert Motherwell, Open (21 Publishing Ltd, 2010).
Motherwell started working on this series around 1967 and developed it for more than 20 years (he died in 1991). I won’t discuss the book – or the paintings per se (by the way, both are amazing), but just the idea of the Open: because it suddenly hit me when I leafed through the book the first time that Motherwell ‘discovered’ an archetype that is at the same time an incredibly simple concept (as an archetype should be) but also, amazingly, one that has never been really discussed – not that I know of. What is the Open? I think it is self-explanatory…
(Robert Motherwell, Beige Open, 1981)
The Open is a rectangle that is, well, open. As in not closed, missing one side, or pushed to the edge of the canvas so that the imaginary fourth side disappears.
(Robert Motherwell, Red Open with White line, 1979)
We see Open(s) in our everyday life almost everywhere. Open fences, unfinished frames, three-sided piazzas. The section of a glass is an Open. Any room is an Open (provided that it has a door, clearly…). Space is made up of sequences of ‘Opens’ and we hardly ever realize it – hardly ever realize the power of the missing side, of the gap that lets stuff into a space.
These paintings have an astonishing sensual and technical quality but for me they transcend their physical datum because they are the means through which Motherwell exposes, discovers, establishes a whole spatial and formal category.
March 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
If the early seventies were a mythical time for New York’s art scene, it is at the end of the decade, and at the beginning of the eighties, that Rotterdam will experience the peak of a creative season whose aura has indelibly marked the next thirty years of its history – a feeling that was still very strong when I first moved here in 2007, right in time to have a taste of the good days before the 2008 crunch hit. Patricia van Ulzen describes this phenomenon in her Imagine a Metropolis: Rotterdam’s Creative Class1979-2000 (Rotterdam: 010 Publishers, 2007), a book that draws on her PhD thesis and that somehow fluctuates between academic dissertation and journalistic report on the golden age of a city that has gone from dirty cargo port to glittering mecca of the creative industry in less than fifty years.
As an inhabitant of Rotterdam, I found van Ulzen’s story fascinating but ultimately pretty sad. She traces the history of the most important underground venues of the city, highlighting the significance these places had as incubator of spontaneous culture. She explains how Rotterdam has been for a while one of the main centres of the New Wave and Punk movements; how a depressed, dirty, raw industrial city in decay became an ideal playground for the provocations of young artists. She makes us envious of the crazy nights organized at Hal 4 by the Utopia Collective and of the sheer energy that should have animated the working sessions of iconoclastic magazine “Hard Werken”.
But, there is always a but. The fact is, all this electrifying creativity is simply not there anymore. It is not there because in time both the public administration and the market have tended to institutionalize what was a spontaneous wave that was unavoidably dampened by being put on a pedestal. The moment that the creative class ceased to be “bad, mad, and dangerous to know” it became yet one more wheel into the well-oiled apparatus of city branding. Van Ulzen does talk about this dynamic, but she tends to give a positive appraisal to the result of a thirty-year-long process that, seen from the point of view of my generation, seems to be burdened by a much more somber judgment. As the author feels that Rotterdam is a success story, she also tends to stress the importance of the grassroots initiative without seeing that the seemingly ‘spontaneous’ scene has been artificially kept alive for decades by a mixture of public funds and corporate contributions.
What one could actually read between the lines in van Ulzen’s narrative is a textbook transition from a good-oriented industry to a service-oriented one; or, the story of how an underground current of creativity became the main engine of a market shift that repositioned Rotterdam from traditional logistic hub to centre of immaterial production. Rotterdam’s Creative Class has the clear ambition to give back the ‘alternative’ scene its deserved place in the story of the construction of Rotterdam’s urban identity. It is surely a generous pursuit but also one that runs the risk of ending in a politically correct mystification that hides the fact that, after a burst of spontaneous initiative, the so-called Creative Class has simply become the handmaiden of a market-driven economy that has canned every scrap of idea into a saleable, appealing product: Rotterdam as a brand.
(about the role of architecture in all this story, posts will follow).
Image above from humobisten.com
March 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
When in the mid-seventies Travis Bickle takes it unto himself to wipe clean Manhattan of all the scum of the earth, the city he drives through in his taxi is riddled with crime, drugs, and what Travis perceives as a general moral decadence. But Taxi Driver frames an urban condition that had been actually the hallmark of New York for the best part of a decade: a hotbed of class struggle, underworld turf wars and unemployment that since the late sixties unexpectedly offered ideal living and working conditions to a host of cutting-edge artists. The retrospective Pioneers of the Downtown scene, New York 1970s at London’s Barbican Centre from March 3 to May 22 offers an inspiring insight into the work of three protagonists of a supposed golden age of spontaneous creativity.
Curator Lydia Yee explicitly drew a parallel between the recession that plunged New York into a seemingly dark decade and the current situation, possibly in the hope to underline the redemptive power of creativity even in a city in dire straits. It is indeed a generous attempt; but the richness of the exhibition itself sadly leads us to draw a bleak conclusion on today’s situation. As a matter of fact, what Anderson, Brown and Matta-Clark witnessed (and contributed to) was a momentous evolution: the death of the industrial city, and the rise of the creative economy. A shocking process to be sure, but also one that should be seen under the mark of change, rather than that of decay tout-court.
The exhibition shows many rarities that will delight the visitors who are curious to plunge into the Zeitgeist of an immediate past that somehow seems to have quickly acquired a hagiographic, mythical quality. Texts and drawings prove invaluable supports to the understanding of works that were mainly conceived as performances; by showing the carefully constructed backstage of these events, the retrospective gives them an added layer of depth that is surprising and refreshing. Much multidisciplinary art is often reduced to one-liners and gimmicky attention-catchers, and more than once I guess we all wondered whether the detractors of the genre might not actually have a point. But seeing the preparatory part of these artists’ work is a testament to their commitment that will change many a visitor’s mind. At least, this is what happened to me – I entered the exhibition very skeptical, and I exited just as skeptical, but with a new respect for the work on show.
After a teenage fleeting passion for Matta-Clark’s cuttings, I quickly became annoyed by the pretense to do art without doing art, and, above all, the strong Duchampian streak that runs through his operations. But seeing part of a cutting in its physical presence at the Barbican somehow softened my opinion – if it still seems a bit facile, it is also undeniably a strong statement, which, when seen firsthand, even reveals formal qualities and an inherent take on beauty as a fundamentally scary mixture of death and renewal. As for Laurie Anderson, I always found her work disquieting and probably ‘meaningful’ but I could not formulate a clear thought on her production – something I should be ashamed about, as in graduate school I followed “Parkett” editors Bice Curiger and Jacqueline Burckhardt lecture extensively on Anderson’s evolution. But her writings and sketches on show helped understand the groundbreaking character of her ironic, intimate performances that range from sleeping in public places, to playing violin standing on ice blocks.
But the real revelation for me has been Trisha Brown, a choreographer who pushed the boundaries of her discipline taking dance to the streets and the rooftops of SoHo. Her pieces are raw and powerful – while the bodies of the dancers move around, it is actually the city that becomes the protagonist of the performance, staged as a decaying, fascinating organism on the verge between apocalypse and rebirth. The exhibition also features live performances by Brown’s company, performances where dance sometimes does not look like dance at all – making Brown’s demystifying work comparable to John Cage’s music of noises, or Robert Smithson’s challenge to a prereceived idea of picturesque.
Overall, the leitmotiv of the whole retrospective is the rediscovery of an urban culture. After the demise of the manicured bourgeois façade which masked the grime of the industrial city, Manhattan is in search for a new metropolitan dimension. Anarchic, irreverent, dynamic, it becomes home to an emerging class of workers dedicated to immaterial labour – namely the production of culture, knowledge, and entertainment. Between the consequences of this art scene there is the rise of punk – between its byproducts, the explosion of cultural industry in the golden eighties.
The curatorial attitude seems to tend to let the pieces speak for themselves, offering quite a neutral and restrained historical background to the adventure of the three pioneers. In principle, it is not a bad choice; it has the undeniable advantage to force the viewer to concentrate on the work. Nevertheless, the research of Anderson, Brown and Matta-Clark is so deeply embedded in a peculiar historical moment, that one feels that after forty years it might be perhaps the right time to risk drawing conclusions from that experience. If no criticism is ever moved a retrospective risks ending up being celebratory by default. And while the artworks themselves are certainly interesting, the whole phenomenon that this culture started is way more controversial than we would like to think. In the framework of macrosocial shifts of the post-fordist metropolis, artists like the ones exhibited at the Barbican, often end up becoming merely the groundbreaking element of major capital-driven urban renewal operations.
Ironically, in real estate terms they are called pioneers, too. Just not in the sense the Barbican exhibition means it. Theorists such as David Harvey and Matteo Pasquinelli have discussed at length how artist have contributed to the improvement of rent value of dilapidated areas. Artists are risk takers, they need cheap and large spaces that can be easily colonized and don’t worry too much if the neighbours are “not our kind”. This is why they thrive in rundown areas and depressed cities in transition between two stages of economic development. This is also why they are cleverly used by the smart guys in suits that have long learned the music: help the pioneers until they make the ‘hood desirable, then kick them out once the value rises and you can bring in moneyed “gentrifiers”. It happened in Rotterdam, it happened in Barcelona, and guess what, it happened in SoHo before it happened anywhere else.
So yes, this is literally an exhibition on art pioneers. A condition that, in a market economy, has its dark sides as well as its heroic ones.
(about pioneers and gentrifiers in Rotterdam and Moscow, other posts will follow).