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Hanezawa garden' is an illicit trail through a walled garden in Tokyo, between thick foliage, slender bamboo and semi-inhabited outhouses, their plastic roofs heavy with leaves, as if reclaimed by the jealous trees. The protagonist, like a detective, catalogues the garden obsessively, registering strange and peripheral details: a sealed cardboard box, lingering on a sill, or the receding body of a workman.0Time is loose, and the seasons slip by. The sightlines through Hanezawa are multiple and mutable, and the assembled images grow in weight through repetition and proximity. The minor characters of this elusive narrative are ordinary objects: a shell, half buried in the soil, whose brief significance is acute and unreadable, before it slips back into entropy. The surfaces, too, are iridescent, ungovernable – garden huts with smeared panes that reflect sky or reveal the bulge of something, vegetating, behind. The windows, like the images themselves, always promise something – a revelation – just out of reach.0'Hanezawa garden' was demolished by the real estate developer Mitsubishi Estate in 2012, despite countless attempts by local residence to preserve the house and gardens.
Tiré du site Internet de Nieves: "For most people, looking simply happens. There is a view of downtown Los Angeles from my patio, which I daily admire in a disinterested way. I like how my neighbor's terracotta roof foregrounds the silhouettes of skyscrapers miles off and how the dark middle distance slopes towards a façade of pinpoint lights at night. But I have never felt compelled to do anything about it. I sometimes wonder whether if I were a photographer my view would look different, whether my looking would be different. Photography is so various today - especially in art, where internal considerations put a stress on questions of concept and technique - that one may be forgiven the more basic acknowledgment that looking, different kinds of looking, remains its central gist. Some photographers look quickly, letting the world come to them in "decisive moments". Others set the world up, methodically, as if the world's images were already present in their eyes. At least these are the clichés. In reality letting and setting are rarely so opposed. In Anders Edstrom's Safari photographs, for instance, a slow, deliberate looking, a looking focused on a singular subject, a looking that by all appearances holds the outside world at bay, nonetheless reveals an image of openness one might better expect from street or landscape photography, genres bent by time, context, event, and change. But what changes in these Safari pictures ? Do they have time or context ? What is their world ? On the simple level of subject matter, this is not the world Edstrom typically represents, which despite a signature gauziness - as if the air and light he seeks were particulate, thick, or tactile - is one of people and environments interacting. Even more than his tender domestic tableaux or pedestrian portraits, the Safari images, made over a two-year period in 2002-2004, are inside: the scene, apparently, a studio or a worktable, the range close. So close, in fact, that before one understands that they depict drips or pools of paint on paper, there is an initial sense of abstraction. The soft, existing light pervading the enameled pigments, themselves vibrations of earthy ochres, burnt greens, grays and rusts, suggests a serial display of substance becoming surface-a movement between polish, glaze, and liquid on the one hand and roughness, texture, and mineral on the other. The pleasure, for me, comes in realizing that Edstrom's formal and material reduction is here no different than elsewhere in his work. Subject matter, whatever it is, only serves sensibility. Describing the latter takes us far from the intimacy of Safari, and I will only say that Edstrom is a photographer greatly influenced by his mobility, as the title of this work may suggest. Shaped by his residence in Tokyo no less than his upbringing in Sweden, his work reflects the contingencies of contemporary life (fashion work has been a staple of his photography) as much as a fascination with slow nature. One could write elsewhere about the parallels these photographs may have with the traditional arts of bonsai or ike-bana, their seeming cultivation of chance-time, or alternately with the European romanticism of their sideways light and setting. But cultural reads should come after the fact rather than justifying it. Is paint is a wild animal to a photographer ? Maybe. More likely it is a figure of mental or symbolic space encountered through looking. Safari interieur. Bennett Simpson."
The long-awaited publication of the personal diaries of pioneering American artist Eva Hesse Eva Hesse (1936-1970) is known for her sculptures that made innovative use of industrial and everyday materials. Her diaries and journals, which she kept for the entirety of her life, convey her anxieties, her feelings about family and friends, her quest to be an artist, and the complexities of living in the world. Hesse's biography is well known: her family fled Nazi Germany, her mother committed suicide when Hesse was ten years old, her marriage ended in divorce, and she died at the age of thirty-four from a brain tumor. The diaries featured in this publication begin in 1955 and describe Hesse's time at Yale University, followed by a sojourn in Germany with her husband, Tom Doyle, and her return to New York and a circle of friends that included Sol LeWitt, Mel Bochner, Lucy Lippard, Robert Mangold and Sylvia Plimack Mangold, Robert Ryman, Mike Todd, and Paul Thek. Poignant, personal, and full of emotion, these diaries convey Hesse's struggle with the quotidian while striving to become an artist.
‘Encampment, Wyoming: Selections from the Lora Webb Nichols Archive 1899- 1948’ features Nichols’ own work and the images by amateur photographers she collected in the early 20th century as the proprietor of a photofinishing business in southern Wyoming. Culled from over 24,000 photographs, the book provides a dynamic visual window into the social, domestic, and economic aspects of the American Western frontier and captures an elusive sense of place through the images of this community of friends, families, and strangers -- Provided by the publisher.
This book explores the heritage of Bruno Mathsson, one of Swedish modernisms leading designers, through two of his architectural works. In Frösakull a house that Mathsson both designed and lived in Mikael Olsson invaded, colonised and interacted with the remains of the house. In Södrakull, on the other hand a second house that Mathsson designed and lived in Olsson acted like a Peeping Tom, sneaking around the exterior of the house with his camera. This unethical method of trespassing a private space reveals something even more unethical, namely the fact that nobody, not even the Bruno Mathsson firm, took care of his property after his death. Frösakull was later sold, fixtures, furniture and other possessions included, while Södrakull was refurbished and turned into a glossy and artificial space. In Södrakull Frösakull Mikael Olsson has created a phenomenological interplay between presence and absence, inner meaning and outer representation, turning the very notion of the human gaze inside out. Mikael Olsson, born in Sweden, 1969, studied at The School of Photography at Gothenburg University and at the Department of Architecture, Chalmers University of Technology in Gothenburg. He has exhibited widely in Sweden and abroad.
There I Was marks a shift in medium and a conceptual departure for Collier Schorr. She is best known for her photographic studies of a real and imagined town in southern Germany, works which tease the accepted artifice of photography to forge an appropriated remembrance of German histories. Schorr found drawing a more acute medium to describe events that took place in the neighbourhoods of her childhood, specifically the muscle car counter culture of the 1960s in Long Island and Queens, NY. This history is related through the short but spectacular life of charismatic 19 year-old drag car racer Charlie Astoria Chas Synder and his 67 Ko-Motion Corvette. At the age of four Schorr accompanied her father, an automotive photographer and journalist, to a local race track where she watched Astoria Chas work on his car. A subsequent article followed, with the now eerie headline While Astoria Chas is doing his thing in Vietnam his friends are racing his L-88. By the time the article was published, Charlie Snyder had died in action in Vietnam. There I Was is Snyder's story and Schorrs dilemma. He was there, she was not. The project examines the role of the photograph as proof of the photographer's presence, territory and view, and the difficulty of representing any past without the theatricality of re-staging it. Based entirely on photography, the book engages with the medium and simultaneously challenges the role of the photograph as document of the past. Using a collision of source materials for the drawings, beginning with her fathers images and Snyders own snapshots taken in Vietnam, Schorr then draws from professional reportage pictures, so as to describe, literally sketch out, one monumental trip from Queens to Vietnam and back. These drawings are contrasted by reproductions of vintage car magazine articles and Schorrs own photograph portraits. There I Was is a complex and multi-faceted look at escape, culture, dreams and mortality, conjuring up an expressionistic portrait of the dichotomies of the late 1960s in a fractured wartime America.
One of the world’s leading art theorists dissects a quarter century of artistic practice Bad New Days examines the evolution of art and criticism in Western Europe and North America over the last twenty-five years, exploring their dynamic relation to the general condition of emergency instilled by neoliberalism and the war on terror. Considering the work of artists such as Thomas Hirschhorn, Tacita Dean, and Isa Genzken, and the writing of thinkers like Jacques Rancière, Bruno Latour, and Giorgio Agamben, Hal Foster shows the ways in which art has anticipated this condition, at times resisting the collapse of the social contract or gesturing toward its repair; at other times burlesquing it. Against the claim that art making has become so heterogeneous as to defy historical analysis, Foster argues that the critic must still articulate a clear account of the contemporary in all its complexity. To that end, he offers several paradigms for the art of recent years, which he terms “abject,” “archival,” “mimetic,” and “precarious.”