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THE SIXTIES

pening is not a commodity but a brief event, from the standpoint of any publicity it may receive, it may become a state of mind. Who will have been there at that event? It may become like the sea monsters of the past or the flying saucers of yesterday. I shouldn't really mind, for as the new myth grows on its own, without reference to anything in

artist may achieve a beautiful privacy, famed for something purdy imaginary while free to explore something notice.

26

Impurity

(1963)

In the West "purity" and "impurity" have been important concepts understanding the nature and structure of reality as well as for evaluating it. In the largest sense they have defined the goals of human and natural activity, explaining the world's events as an ethical passage from one condition to the other. No matter which concept has dominated the vision of a particular time, their fundamental polarity has always been clear. In the history of art such concepts have been crucial, because it is with them that the distinction between the ethical and the esthetic disappears. Today, although they are no less present in our thoughts, in our speech and writing they are apt to be Imprecise, quasi-poetic, and allusive, in keeping with the changing perspectives of contemporary painting and sculpture. The more compelling goal of finding an adequate critical language for values in motion has taken precedence over what for the past were clarifying guidelines, constants amid change.

The accomplishments of this shift are obvious by now. But in pursuing almost exclusively a psychology of process in art criticism, we have found it difficult to perceive where the focal points of tension and release fall, however briefly. Dispersal thus replaces necessity; movement, vaguely imitating life, replaces energy. And while this testifies to a sort of freedom, it is an aimless freedom. Our art is more specific than this. It is committed on a more elemental plane than a criticism of subtlety alone can convey. [ would propose that nothing that has been gained will be lost by once again incorporating into criticism the categories of purpose. Those of purity and impurity are still useful.

It is sometimes easier to see what a certain term means by comparing it to a related term-in this case, a contrary. When we use the word pure, we have in mind physical and structural attributes-like

27

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) A$ (24$ 4"#$ /#4&)=+@$ , ( /$ =)J#$ &*#(4+$ )($ &($ )(4#-(&4)2(&=$ +';$ - )(* K$ 4"#;$

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)+$ + )H'=;$ +4&*#$ 4"#&4#-@$

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4"#;$ G ) = =$ '-2B&B=;$ &''#&=$ 42$ 4"2+#$ G"2$ A)(/$ 4"#$ C2(4#H'=&4)3#$ =)A#$ B;$

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V , [ V < e V$ V @ Q$ , d e) ./.$, = =$

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(#3#-$ 42$ B#$ -#'#&4#/@$ ^( = ) J #$ 4"#$ MC22 =#- M$ +4;=#+$ 2 A$ _2'K$ U ' K$ &(/$ e ) ?

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C2(C#-(#/K$ 4")+$ =)A#$ &B23#$ *-2>(/$ )+$ >(/#-*-2>(/ 5$

!'#

THE SIXTIES

himself, returns to put it on his death chair, replaces all the panels, and then invites his friends to see what he has done.

This act is tragic because the man could not forget art. Let us imagine the suicide of an obscure painter. It is around 1950.

He lives in a railroad flat in New York and is painting large all-black

canvases. He covers most of the walls with them, and it is quite dark

in his place. Shortly thereafter, he changes to all-white pictures. But he does a curious thing: he proceeds to seal off each of his rooms with

four paintings constructed to just fit their space, edging the final one

into position as he moves into the next room. He starts in the bedroom

and ends in the kitchen (which lets out to the hallway). There he paints

the same four white panels but doesn't leave. He builds a series of such

cubicles, each within the other, each smaller. He is found dead, sitting in the innermost one.

Actually, the painter is telling this story to his friends as a project he has in mind. He sees how attentively they listen to him, and he is satisfied.

This act is tragic because the man could not forget art.

Experimental art is never tragic. It is a prelude.

Manifesto

(1966)

O nce, the task of the artist was to make good art; now it is to avoid

m ak ing art of any kind . Once, the public and critics had to be shown;

now they are full of authority and the artists are full of doubts.

The history of art and esthetics is all on bookshelves. To its plu

ral ism of values, add the current blurring of boundaries dividing the

a rts, and dividing art from life, and it is clear that the old questions of

defi nition and standards of excellence are not only futile but naive.

Even yesterday's distinctions between art, antiart, and nonart are

pseudo-distinctions that simply waste our time: the side of an old

building recalls Clyfford Still's canvases, the guts of a dishwashing

machine double as Duchamp's Bottle Rack, the voices in a train station

are Jackson MacLow's poems, the sounds of eating in a luncheonette

are by John Cage, and all may be part of a Happening. Moreover, as.

the " found object" implies the found word, noise, or action, it also

dem ands the found environment. Not only does art become life, but

life re fuses to be itself.

The decision to be an artist thus assumes both the existence of a

un ique activity and an endless series of deeds that deny It. The decision

immediately establishes the context within which all the artist's acts

may be Judged by others as art and also conditions the artist's percep • tion of all experience as probably (not possibly) artistic. Anything I say,

do, notice, or think is art-whether or not I intend it-because every

one else aware of what is occurring today will probably say, do, notice,

and think of it as art at some time or another.

This makes identifying oneself as an artist ironic, an attestation

n ot to talent for a specialized skill, but to a philosophical stance before

el usi ve alternatives of not-quite-art and not -quite-life. Artist refers to

a person willfully enmeshed in the dilemma of categories who per

forms as if none of them existed. ) f there is no clear difference between

8J80

THE SIXTIES

himself, returns to put it on his death chair, replaces all the panels, and then invites his friends to see what he has done.

This act is tragic because the man could not forget art. Let us imagine the suicide of an obscure painter. It is around 1950.

He lives in a railroad flat in New York and is painting large all-black

canvases. He covers most of the walls with them, and it is quite dark

in his place. Shortly thereafter, he changes to all-white pictures. But he does a curious thing: he proceeds to seal off each of his rooms with

four paintings constructed to just fit their space, edging the final one

into position as he moves into the next room. He starts in the bedroom

and ends in the kitchen (which lets out to the hallway). There he paints

the same four white panels but doesn't leave. He builds a series of such

cubicles, each within the other, each smaller. He is found dead, sitting in the innermost one.

Actually, the painter is telling this story to his friends as a project he has in mind. He sees how attentively they listen to him, and he is satisfied.

This act is tragic because the man could not forget art.

Experimental art is never tragic. It is a prelude.

Manifesto

(1966)

O nce, the task of the artist was to make good art; now it is to avoid

m ak ing art of any kind . Once, the public and critics had to be shown;

now they are full of authority and the artists are full of doubts.

The history of art and esthetics is all on bookshelves. To its plu

ral ism of values, add the current blurring of boundaries dividing the

a rts, and dividing art from life, and it is clear that the old questions of

defi nition and standards of excellence are not only futile but naive.

Even yesterday's distinctions between art, antiart, and nonart are

pseudo-distinctions that simply waste our time: the side of an old

building recalls Clyfford Still's canvases, the guts of a dishwashing

machine double as Duchamp's Bottle Rack, the voices in a train station

are Jackson MacLow's poems, the sounds of eating in a luncheonette

are by John Cage, and all may be part of a Happening. Moreover, as.

the " found object" implies the found word, noise, or action, it also

dem ands the found environment. Not only does art become life, but

life re fuses to be itself.

The decision to be an artist thus assumes both the existence of a

un ique activity and an endless series of deeds that deny It. The decision

immediately establishes the context within which all the artist's acts

may be Judged by others as art and also conditions the artist's percep • tion of all experience as probably (not possibly) artistic. Anything I say,

do, notice, or think is art-whether or not I intend it-because every

one else aware of what is occurring today will probably say, do, notice,

and think of it as art at some time or another.

This makes identifying oneself as an artist ironic, an attestation

n ot to talent for a specialized skill, but to a philosophical stance before

el usi ve alternatives of not-quite-art and not -quite-life. Artist refers to

a person willfully enmeshed in the dilemma of categories who per

forms as if none of them existed. ) f there is no clear difference between

8J80

THF SIXTIES

an Assemblage with sound and a "Hoise" concert with sights , then there is no clear difference between an artist and a junkyard dealer.

Although it is commonplace to bring such acts and thoughts to the gallery, museum, concert hall, stage, or serious bookshop, to do so

bl unts the power inherent in an arena of paradoxes. It restores the

sense of esthetic certainty these milieux once proclaimed in a philistine society, just as much as it evokes a history of cultural expectations that

run counter to the poignant and absurd nature of art today. Conflict

with the past automatically ensues.

But this is not the issue. Contemporary artists are not out to sup

plant recent modern art with a better kind; they wonder what art

might be. Art and life are not simply commingled; the identity of each

is uncertain. To pose these questions in the form of acts that are neither

artlike nor lifelike while locating them in the framed context of the

conventional showplace is to suggest that there really are no uncertainties at all: the name on the gallery or stage door assures us that whatever is contained within is art, and everything else is life .

Speculation: Professional philosophy in the twentieth century, having generally removed itself from problems of human conduct and

purpose, plays instead art's late role as professionalistic activity; it could aptly be called philosophy for philosophy's sake. Existentialism for this reason is assigned a place closer to social psychology than to philosophy per se by a majority of academicians, for whom ethics and metaphysics are a definitional and logical inquiry at best. Paul Valery, acknowledg

ing the self-analytic tendency of philosophy, and wishing to salvage from it something of value, suggests that even if Plato and Spinoza can be refuted, their thoughts remain astonishing works of art. Now, as art becomes less art, it takes on philosophy's early role as critique of life. Even if its beauty can be refuted, it remains astonishingly thoughtful. Precisely because art can be confused with life, it forces attention upon the aim of its ambiguities, to "reveal" experience.

Philosophy will become steadily more impotent in its search for verbal knowledge so long as it fails to recognize its own findings: that only a small fraction of the words we use are precise in meaning; and only a smaller proportion of these contain meanings in which we are vitally interested. When words alone are no true index of thought, and

when sense and nonsense rapidly become allusive and layered with

implication rather than description, the use of words as tools to precisely delimit sense and nonsense may be a worthless endeavor. LSD

82

MAN IFESTO

and LBJ invoke different meaning clusters, but both partake of a need fo r code; and code performs the same condensing function as symbol in poet ry. TV "snow" and Muzak in restaurants are accompaniments to conscious activity whose sudden withdrawal produces a feeling of void in the human situation. Contemporary art, which tends to "think" in multimedia, intermedia, overlays, fusions, and hybridizations, more closely parallels modern mental life than we have realized. Its judg

ments, therefore, may be accurate. Art may soon become a meaningless word. In its place, "communications programming" would be a more

imaginative label, attesting to our new jargon, our technological and

managerial fantasies, and our pervasive electronic contact with one

another.

83

THF SIXTIES

an Assemblage with sound and a "Hoise" concert with sights , then there is no clear difference between an artist and a junkyard dealer.

Although it is commonplace to bring such acts and thoughts to the gallery, museum, concert hall, stage, or serious bookshop, to do so

bl unts the power inherent in an arena of paradoxes. It restores the

sense of esthetic certainty these milieux once proclaimed in a philistine society, just as much as it evokes a history of cultural expectations that

run counter to the poignant and absurd nature of art today. Conflict

with the past automatically ensues.

But this is not the issue. Contemporary artists are not out to sup

plant recent modern art with a better kind; they wonder what art

might be. Art and life are not simply commingled; the identity of each

is uncertain. To pose these questions in the form of acts that are neither

artlike nor lifelike while locating them in the framed context of the

conventional showplace is to suggest that there really are no uncertainties at all: the name on the gallery or stage door assures us that whatever is contained within is art, and everything else is life .

Speculation: Professional philosophy in the twentieth century, having generally removed itself from problems of human conduct and

purpose, plays instead art's late role as professionalistic activity; it could aptly be called philosophy for philosophy's sake. Existentialism for this reason is assigned a place closer to social psychology than to philosophy per se by a majority of academicians, for whom ethics and metaphysics are a definitional and logical inquiry at best. Paul Valery, acknowledg

ing the self-analytic tendency of philosophy, and wishing to salvage from it something of value, suggests that even if Plato and Spinoza can be refuted, their thoughts remain astonishing works of art. Now, as art becomes less art, it takes on philosophy's early role as critique of life. Even if its beauty can be refuted, it remains astonishingly thoughtful. Precisely because art can be confused with life, it forces attention upon the aim of its ambiguities, to "reveal" experience.

Philosophy will become steadily more impotent in its search for verbal knowledge so long as it fails to recognize its own findings: that only a small fraction of the words we use are precise in meaning; and only a smaller proportion of these contain meanings in which we are vitally interested. When words alone are no true index of thought, and

when sense and nonsense rapidly become allusive and layered with

implication rather than description, the use of words as tools to precisely delimit sense and nonsense may be a worthless endeavor. LSD

82

MAN IFESTO

and LBJ invoke different meaning clusters, but both partake of a need fo r code; and code performs the same condensing function as symbol in poet ry. TV "snow" and Muzak in restaurants are accompaniments to conscious activity whose sudden withdrawal produces a feeling of void in the human situation. Contemporary art, which tends to "think" in multimedia, intermedia, overlays, fusions, and hybridizations, more closely parallels modern mental life than we have realized. Its judg

ments, therefore, may be accurate. Art may soon become a meaningless word. In its place, "communications programming" would be a more

imaginative label, attesting to our new jargon, our technological and

managerial fantasies, and our pervasive electronic contact with one

another.

83

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!%#

The Shape of the Art Environment

(1968)

Robert Morris's article "An t i Form" (Art/orum 6, no . 8lI968], 33-35) identifies some formal problems that remain unresolved. The first is

suggested by the tide itself. Despite its dramatic promi se, there is noth

ing militant in Morris's words or in his works, nothing that could be

construed as taking a stand against form. So it is not clear what is

meant by antiform, unless it means "nonform," and if that quieter

term is what is implied, it should be obvious that although someone

might be against form from an ideological standpoint, the non formal

alternative is no less formal than the formal enemy. Literal nonform,

like chaos, is impossible. [n fact it is inconceivable. The structure of

the cerebral cortex and all our biological functions permit us only

patterned responses and thoughts of one kind or another. For cultural

and personal reasons, we may prefer this pattern to that one-say a

pile of shit to a series of cubes-but they are equally formal , equally anal yzable. .

Thus Morris's pile of felt batting (which I hasten to say I like very much) is an arrangement of uniformly colored, uniformly toned pieces

of similar material (Fig. 12). In its loops and folds the distribution of

gentle curves and hairpin turns is about the same throughout. The

extent to which Morris caused the felt to assume these forms or simply let the felt arrange itself out of its own physical nature does not alter

its evident form. What matters here is that there is an observable theme and variation at work, occurring. however, in the absence of strin hierarchies as developed by the all -over tradition of the last twenty years. Furthermore, the whole configuration, viewed in the photo graph, is an approximately symmetrical bat-like shape with an A-BA division at the top, or wall, zone. It appears, also, that the length of this upper zone closely echoes that of the zone on (he Aoor. Consistency

90

THE. S HAP E O F T H E ART ENV llt ON ME. N T

Fig . 12 Robert Morris. Untilled. 1967-68. Felt pieces . Ph olOgmph COUriesy Leo

Casulli Gallery, New York·

p rev ails, and prevails, and prevails; there is neither pretense to antiform

nor nonform. It can be argued that this analysis is not holistic enough for our

new sensibilities, that it is a relational analysis superimposed on the

sculpture. But the answer to that argument must be that no one can

see this sculpture in any other way than through its formal relation

ships because of how it was originally made, and how it is now shown

in a magazine reproduction. The reasons for this constraint follow.

9!

The Shape of the Art Environment

(1968)

Robert Morris's article "An t i Form" (Art/orum 6, no . 8lI968], 33-35) identifies some formal problems that remain unresolved. The first is

suggested by the tide itself. Despite its dramatic promi se, there is noth

ing militant in Morris's words or in his works, nothing that could be

construed as taking a stand against form. So it is not clear what is

meant by antiform, unless it means "nonform," and if that quieter

term is what is implied, it should be obvious that although someone

might be against form from an ideological standpoint, the non formal

alternative is no less formal than the formal enemy. Literal nonform,

like chaos, is impossible. [n fact it is inconceivable. The structure of

the cerebral cortex and all our biological functions permit us only

patterned responses and thoughts of one kind or another. For cultural

and personal reasons, we may prefer this pattern to that one-say a

pile of shit to a series of cubes-but they are equally formal , equally anal yzable. .

Thus Morris's pile of felt batting (which I hasten to say I like very much) is an arrangement of uniformly colored, uniformly toned pieces

of similar material (Fig. 12). In its loops and folds the distribution of

gentle curves and hairpin turns is about the same throughout. The

extent to which Morris caused the felt to assume these forms or simply let the felt arrange itself out of its own physical nature does not alter

its evident form. What matters here is that there is an observable theme and variation at work, occurring. however, in the absence of strin hierarchies as developed by the all -over tradition of the last twenty years. Furthermore, the whole configuration, viewed in the photo graph, is an approximately symmetrical bat-like shape with an A-BA division at the top, or wall, zone. It appears, also, that the length of this upper zone closely echoes that of the zone on (he Aoor. Consistency

90

THE. S HAP E O F T H E ART ENV llt ON ME. N T

Fig . 12 Robert Morris. Untilled. 1967-68. Felt pieces . Ph olOgmph COUriesy Leo

Casulli Gallery, New York·

p rev ails, and prevails, and prevails; there is neither pretense to antiform

nor nonform. It can be argued that this analysis is not holistic enough for our

new sensibilities, that it is a relational analysis superimposed on the

sculpture. But the answer to that argument must be that no one can

see this sculpture in any other way than through its formal relation

ships because of how it was originally made, and how it is now shown

in a magazine reproduction. The reasons for this constraint follow.

9!

THE SIXTIES

They point directly ro the second, major, formal problem: how to get free of the rectangle.

Morris's new work, and that of the other artists illustrating his article, was made in a rectangular studio, to be shown in a rectangular gallery, reproduced in a rectangular magazine, in rectangular photo

graphs , all aligned according to rectangular axes, for rectangular read ing movements and rectangular thought patterns. (It is for good and

sufficient reason that we are all "squares.") Morris's works, Pollock's, Oldenburg's, and so forth, function strictly in contrast to, or now and

then in conflict with, their enframing spaces. Ruled lines and measur

able corners in such spaces tell us how far, how big, how soft, how

atmospheric, indeed how "amorphous" an artwork is within these lines and corners . Rectilinearity, by definition, is relational; and so long as we live in a world dominated by this and other part-to-whole geometrical figures, we cannot talk about antiform or non form except as one type of form in relation ro another (rectilinear) type.

Morris may not have been in New York during the mid-fifties and early sixties to see the Environments and environmental settings for Happenings made by Dine, Oldenburg, Whitman, and me. These were

akin to his present interests, except that they employed a great variety

of media. Following shortly on the sprawling, limitless impulses of

Abstract Expressionism, they were composed of a preponderance of

fragile, soft, and irregular materials such as wire mesh, plastic film,

cardboard, straw, rags, newspapers, rubber sheets, tin foil, and a good

amount of plain debris. Such materials immediately led to casual, loose

arrangements. Oldenburg's current sculpture has its roots in his floppy

carton board, papier-macht, and gunnysack figures of those days.

Unlike sculpture, however, which has a relieving space around it,

these Environments tended to fill, and often actually did fill, thei r entire

containing areas, nearly obliterating the ruled definition of the rooms.

And although the artists may have had concerns more pressing than

that of keeping their activities from being subordinated to an architec

tu ral enclosure, the thought was in the air and the treatment of room

surfaces was pretty carefree. The im portant fact was that almost eve ry

thing was built into the space it was shown in, not transported from

studio to showcase. This allowed a far more thorough transformation

of a particular loft or storefront, and it doubtless encouraged a greater familiarity with the effects of materials and environment upon each

other. N eve rtheless, it was apparent from conversations at the time that

92

THE SH.'\PE OF TilE ,\RT ENVIRONMf: N T

no matter how casual and organic the arrangemen t of material s might be , a house, a wall, a floor, a ceiling, a pavement, a city block was there

first and last. Most humans, it seems, still put up fences around their acts and

thoughts-even when these are piles of shit-for they have no other

way of delimiting them. Contrast Paleolithic cave paintings, in which

animals and magical markings are overlayed with no differentiation or

sense of framing. But when some of us have worked in natural settings,

say in a meadow, woods, or mountain range, our cultural training has

been so deeply ingrained that we have simply carried a mental rectangle

wi th us to drop around whatever we were doing. This made us feel at

home. (Even aerial navigation is plotted geometrically, thus giving the

air a "shape .") It will be a while before anyone will be able to work equally with

or w ithout geometry as a defining mechanism. That is, I see no neces

sity to give up one in favor of the other; amplification of different

possibilities would seem more desirable. The notion of antiform now

may mean only antigeometry, a rephrasing of the formlessness that p reoccupied the ancients from the Egyptians onward. As such, Morris's interest is part of a long tradition. That his new work is first-rate should not obscure the im plications this trad ition holds out for contem porary art. Ar tists really pursuing the palpable experience of the measureless, th e indeterminate, the use of nonrigid materials, process, the deem phasis of formal esthetics, would find it very difficult to do so in gallery and museum boxes or their equivalents. For these would only maintain

the conventional dualism of the stable versus the unstable, the closed

ve rsus the open, the regular versus the organic, the ideal ve rsus the

real, and so on.

F inally, besides the structure of the room, there is one other im

port:lI1t physical component of the art environment : the spectator(s).

T heir particular shape, color, number, proximity to the painting(s) or sc ulpture(s), and relation to each other when there is more than one person wi ll markedly affect the appearance and "feel" of the work(s)

in question . This is not just a matter of shifting amounts of reflected

colo red light and cast shadows; it is that people, like anything else in a

room of artworks, a re additional elements within the field of anyone's

vision. At best, they are censored out imperfectly. Yet far from being

ind ependent of the art and gallery, the movements and responses of

the spectator(s) are subject to the shape and scale of that gallery. They

93

THE SIXTIES

They point directly ro the second, major, formal problem: how to get free of the rectangle.

Morris's new work, and that of the other artists illustrating his article, was made in a rectangular studio, to be shown in a rectangular gallery, reproduced in a rectangular magazine, in rectangular photo

graphs , all aligned according to rectangular axes, for rectangular read ing movements and rectangular thought patterns. (It is for good and

sufficient reason that we are all "squares.") Morris's works, Pollock's, Oldenburg's, and so forth, function strictly in contrast to, or now and

then in conflict with, their enframing spaces. Ruled lines and measur

able corners in such spaces tell us how far, how big, how soft, how

atmospheric, indeed how "amorphous" an artwork is within these lines and corners . Rectilinearity, by definition, is relational; and so long as we live in a world dominated by this and other part-to-whole geometrical figures, we cannot talk about antiform or non form except as one type of form in relation ro another (rectilinear) type.

Morris may not have been in New York during the mid-fifties and early sixties to see the Environments and environmental settings for Happenings made by Dine, Oldenburg, Whitman, and me. These were

akin to his present interests, except that they employed a great variety

of media. Following shortly on the sprawling, limitless impulses of

Abstract Expressionism, they were composed of a preponderance of

fragile, soft, and irregular materials such as wire mesh, plastic film,

cardboard, straw, rags, newspapers, rubber sheets, tin foil, and a good

amount of plain debris. Such materials immediately led to casual, loose

arrangements. Oldenburg's current sculpture has its roots in his floppy

carton board, papier-macht, and gunnysack figures of those days.

Unlike sculpture, however, which has a relieving space around it,

these Environments tended to fill, and often actually did fill, thei r entire

containing areas, nearly obliterating the ruled definition of the rooms.

And although the artists may have had concerns more pressing than

that of keeping their activities from being subordinated to an architec

tu ral enclosure, the thought was in the air and the treatment of room

surfaces was pretty carefree. The im portant fact was that almost eve ry

thing was built into the space it was shown in, not transported from

studio to showcase. This allowed a far more thorough transformation

of a particular loft or storefront, and it doubtless encouraged a greater familiarity with the effects of materials and environment upon each

other. N eve rtheless, it was apparent from conversations at the time that

92

THE SH.'\PE OF TilE ,\RT ENVIRONMf: N T

no matter how casual and organic the arrangemen t of material s might be , a house, a wall, a floor, a ceiling, a pavement, a city block was there

first and last. Most humans, it seems, still put up fences around their acts and

thoughts-even when these are piles of shit-for they have no other

way of delimiting them. Contrast Paleolithic cave paintings, in which

animals and magical markings are overlayed with no differentiation or

sense of framing. But when some of us have worked in natural settings,

say in a meadow, woods, or mountain range, our cultural training has

been so deeply ingrained that we have simply carried a mental rectangle

wi th us to drop around whatever we were doing. This made us feel at

home. (Even aerial navigation is plotted geometrically, thus giving the

air a "shape .") It will be a while before anyone will be able to work equally with

or w ithout geometry as a defining mechanism. That is, I see no neces

sity to give up one in favor of the other; amplification of different

possibilities would seem more desirable. The notion of antiform now

may mean only antigeometry, a rephrasing of the formlessness that p reoccupied the ancients from the Egyptians onward. As such, Morris's interest is part of a long tradition. That his new work is first-rate should not obscure the im plications this trad ition holds out for contem porary art. Ar tists really pursuing the palpable experience of the measureless, th e indeterminate, the use of nonrigid materials, process, the deem phasis of formal esthetics, would find it very difficult to do so in gallery and museum boxes or their equivalents. For these would only maintain

the conventional dualism of the stable versus the unstable, the closed

ve rsus the open, the regular versus the organic, the ideal ve rsus the

real, and so on.

F inally, besides the structure of the room, there is one other im

port:lI1t physical component of the art environment : the spectator(s).

T heir particular shape, color, number, proximity to the painting(s) or sc ulpture(s), and relation to each other when there is more than one person wi ll markedly affect the appearance and "feel" of the work(s)

in question . This is not just a matter of shifting amounts of reflected

colo red light and cast shadows; it is that people, like anything else in a

room of artworks, a re additional elements within the field of anyone's

vision. At best, they are censored out imperfectly. Yet far from being

ind ependent of the art and gallery, the movements and responses of

the spectator(s) are subject to the shape and scale of that gallery. They

93

THE SIXTIES

can walk only so far from a sculpture anJ no farther; and they will govern their walking by a nearly conscious alignment with the art object's axial ties to the gallery. This can be readily verified by observation. Any casual meanderings on their part will thus be the formal equivalent within the exhibition floor area of, say, Pollock's drips within the canvas area. The rectangle maintains its primacy in all cases.

If we commonly understand that environmental factors affect personality formation as well as society as a whole, we should also expect them to have an impact on the form of an artwork. As a patch of given color changes its identity, or "form," on different grounds, an artwork

changes according to the shape, scale, and contents of its envelope. Additional considerations of psychological and sociological factors, namely the thoughts and attitudes viewers bring with them to the work of an, although outside the immediate scope of this essay, are extremely important because they, too, contribute to the formal structure of the smallest statue.

It may be proposed that the social context and surroundings of an are more potent, more meaningful, more demanding of an artist's attention than the art itselfl Put differently, it's not what artists touch that counts most. It's what they don't touch.

PART THREE

THE SEVENTIES

94

THE SIXTIES

can walk only so far from a sculpture anJ no farther; and they will govern their walking by a nearly conscious alignment with the art object's axial ties to the gallery. This can be readily verified by observation. Any casual meanderings on their part will thus be the formal equivalent within the exhibition floor area of, say, Pollock's drips within the canvas area. The rectangle maintains its primacy in all cases.

If we commonly understand that environmental factors affect personality formation as well as society as a whole, we should also expect them to have an impact on the form of an artwork. As a patch of given color changes its identity, or "form," on different grounds, an artwork

changes according to the shape, scale, and contents of its envelope. Additional considerations of psychological and sociological factors, namely the thoughts and attitudes viewers bring with them to the work of an, although outside the immediate scope of this essay, are extremely important because they, too, contribute to the formal structure of the smallest statue.

It may be proposed that the social context and surroundings of an are more potent, more meaningful, more demanding of an artist's attention than the art itselfl Put differently, it's not what artists touch that counts most. It's what they don't touch.

PART THREE

THE SEVENTIES

94

TilE SEVENTIES

archs, who was asked what it felt like to be enlightened. His answer

was, "I found out that I was just as miserable as ever." Considering

Duchamp's work specifically, the Large Glass, though a major piece of

art and a summary of his early interests as a painter, is ne ve rtheless

not particularly helpful for the present. It is a late Symbolist conceit

over which academics hover, seeking linguistic riddles and cabalistic

import (both are there, along with the latest racing poop sheet). But it

remains a hermetic exercise , a picture, in the old sense, of a world

contained within itself. The best part of the Glass is that it is a win

dowpane to look through; its actual configurations are forced into

accord with the visible environment beyond them, for instance, a

chocolate-grinder diagram superimposed on a kid picking his nose.

His Readymades, however, are radically useful contributions to the

current scene. If simply calling a snow shovel a work of art makes it

that, the same goes for all of New York City, or the Vietnam war, or a pedantic article on Marcel Duchamp. All the environmental pieces,

Activities, slice-of-life video works, Information pieces, and Art-Tech

shows we've become accus[Omed to owe their existence [0 Duchamp's

idea about a snow shovel. Conversely, sInce any nonan can be art after the appropriate cer

emonial announcement, any art, theoretica lly, can be de-arted ("Use a Rembrandt for an ironing board"-Duchamp). This, it turns out, is a bit difficult. Duchamp's gesture in this direction, his L.H.OOQ., didn't alter the Mona Lisa; it simply added one more painting to the museums. Replacing the meaning and function of the history of the arts with some other criteria seems to interest us much less than discover ing

art where art wasn't.

Beyond these identity games, the implication that life can be beau

tiful is rather salutary, if overwhelming. In the process, the word art ceases [0 refer [0 specific things or human events and becomes a device

for getting the attention of key people, who, having been gotten to,

realize that the world is a work of art. Art as such, as it used [0 be, is

reduced to a vestigial specialization on its way out; only the title re

mains, like the military epaulets on a doorman's uniform.

As an addition [0 the history of thought, the Readymade is a par

adigm of the way humans make and unmake culture. Better than

"straight" philosophy and social science, a good Readymade can "em

body" the ironic limits of the traditional theo ry that says reality is

nothing but a projection of a mind or minds. Duchamp, a cool sub

128

D OCTOR MD

scriber to that tradition , knew, I suspect, that metaphysics, theology, sc ience, and art were "useful fictions" (Hans Vaihinger's phrase) . The in tel lectual or artist merely needs a persuasive consensus [0 launch an idea into the world . "All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone," Duchamp said in a speech in 1957. Otherwise, the fi.ction will be useless, only a fiction and not a reality. The Readymade

is thus both exposure meter and confidence game. According [0 some of my friends, the freeways of Los Angeles are

great theater, modern theater, with no beginning or end, full of chance excitements and plenty of the son of boredom we all love. I pass that

observation on here. Their future as Readymade art depends on the

reader. That is, I am engaging in gossip. Duchamp's generous reminder

to his posterity is how fragile public relations are.

129

TilE SEVENTIES

archs, who was asked what it felt like to be enlightened. His answer

was, "I found out that I was just as miserable as ever." Considering

Duchamp's work specifically, the Large Glass, though a major piece of

art and a summary of his early interests as a painter, is ne ve rtheless

not particularly helpful for the present. It is a late Symbolist conceit

over which academics hover, seeking linguistic riddles and cabalistic

import (both are there, along with the latest racing poop sheet). But it

remains a hermetic exercise , a picture, in the old sense, of a world

contained within itself. The best part of the Glass is that it is a win

dowpane to look through; its actual configurations are forced into

accord with the visible environment beyond them, for instance, a

chocolate-grinder diagram superimposed on a kid picking his nose.

His Readymades, however, are radically useful contributions to the

current scene. If simply calling a snow shovel a work of art makes it

that, the same goes for all of New York City, or the Vietnam war, or a pedantic article on Marcel Duchamp. All the environmental pieces,

Activities, slice-of-life video works, Information pieces, and Art-Tech

shows we've become accus[Omed to owe their existence [0 Duchamp's

idea about a snow shovel. Conversely, sInce any nonan can be art after the appropriate cer

emonial announcement, any art, theoretica lly, can be de-arted ("Use a Rembrandt for an ironing board"-Duchamp). This, it turns out, is a bit difficult. Duchamp's gesture in this direction, his L.H.OOQ., didn't alter the Mona Lisa; it simply added one more painting to the museums. Replacing the meaning and function of the history of the arts with some other criteria seems to interest us much less than discover ing

art where art wasn't.

Beyond these identity games, the implication that life can be beau

tiful is rather salutary, if overwhelming. In the process, the word art ceases [0 refer [0 specific things or human events and becomes a device

for getting the attention of key people, who, having been gotten to,

realize that the world is a work of art. Art as such, as it used [0 be, is

reduced to a vestigial specialization on its way out; only the title re

mains, like the military epaulets on a doorman's uniform.

As an addition [0 the history of thought, the Readymade is a par

adigm of the way humans make and unmake culture. Better than

"straight" philosophy and social science, a good Readymade can "em

body" the ironic limits of the traditional theo ry that says reality is

nothing but a projection of a mind or minds. Duchamp, a cool sub

128

D OCTOR MD

scriber to that tradition , knew, I suspect, that metaphysics, theology, sc ience, and art were "useful fictions" (Hans Vaihinger's phrase) . The in tel lectual or artist merely needs a persuasive consensus [0 launch an idea into the world . "All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone," Duchamp said in a speech in 1957. Otherwise, the fi.ction will be useless, only a fiction and not a reality. The Readymade

is thus both exposure meter and confidence game. According [0 some of my friends, the freeways of Los Angeles are

great theater, modern theater, with no beginning or end, full of chance excitements and plenty of the son of boredom we all love. I pass that

observation on here. Their future as Readymade art depends on the

reader. That is, I am engaging in gossip. Duchamp's generous reminder

to his posterity is how fragile public relations are.

129

Video Art: Old Wine, New Bottle

(1974)

The use of television as an art medium is generally considered exper

imental. rn the sense that it was rarely thought of that way by artists

before the early sixties , it must be granted a certain novelty. But so far,

in my opinion, it is only marginally experimental. The hardware is

new, to art at least, but the conceptua l framework and esthetic attitudes around most video as an art are quite lame.

The field has customarily been divided into three main areas: taped

art performance, environmental closed-circuit video, and documentary or political video. In the first, some artistic event performed by the artist and friends or by electronically generated shapes is condensed, stored, and reproduced on standard-length tapes for replay later on.

In the second, people, machines, nature, and environments interact, communicate, and perhaps modify each other's behavior in real time. Although tapes are sometimes produced to document what has oc

curred, they are not integral to it. But tapes can be used to alter time and file away prior activities for representation in the carrying out of the process.

In the third area, events deemed socially important are recorded on portable equipment (or, more rarely, are transmitted live over cable) for the enlightenment of a public that normally has no access to this material on network TV or via other news media. I discount this third group as socially important rather than simply artistic, because although it has been made welcome in art when no one else wants it , its legitimate work must be done in the real world and not in the art

world . It is a hunch that this use of video could bring about valuable

human experiments. But to include it in a discussion of art just because

it has made the art world its crash pad is to limit its utility to a small

intelligentsia and to defuse its critical intent by a pretense to esthetics. I'll confine my comments, then, to the first two areas. There are,

148

VI D EO ART

of course , overlaps between them and sometimes additions of other means such as radios and telephones, telegrams, films, and slidesbut in general this division helps to locate the artists' principal concerns . N ow, more than a dozen years after Paik and Vostcll used TV sets as props in their Environments and Happenings, a tentative evaluation

of the field is possible. It is clear to everyone that the more popular of the twO modes is

video art tapes-for all the obvious financial reasons. Taped performances of an artist doing something or of abstract color patterns doing something are, after all, theatrical arts. They evoke comparisons w ith T V commercials, comedy routines, product demonstrations, promotional and educational TV, and the most dreary abstract animated films of thirty-odd years ago. Thus although only a few performances are unique as theater pieces and fewer still involve experiences with video per se-J'm thinking of tapes by Acconci, Joan Jonas, and Wolfgang Stoerchle-most of them are just more or less adequate recordings of the performances or are compositions of "special effects" that could have been done just as well or better as film. Videotape is simply

cheaper and faster. Moreover, this traditionalism is encouraged by galleries and mu

seums that display and merchandise the tapes as the equivalent of editions of prints . Collectors purchase them as art objects, and audi

ences view them as chic home movies. The accumulated weight of art

history and current gallery-induced preciosity are brought to bear on

every tape that's shown. Given these conventional sources, formats,

contests, and modes of consumption, the tapes contain only minor

"discoveries" ; they are not experimental. . r pass over live performances, which continue to incorporate video

as a prop, as in the work of Jonas and Stoerchle, or which use it as

the equivalent of a performer, as in Ned Bobkoff's substitution of a

video tape recorder (VTR) for the audio recorder in Samuel Beckett's

Krapp's Last Tape . These performances are straightforward theater,

retaining the usual physical conditions of the art : an enclosed time!

space with an audience and an actor"animate or otherwise. When these

structural elements are constant from one era to another, any internal changes are merely changes in details. This unchanging theatrical

structure is worth mentioning in the context of video art tapes, because

they are presented to the public as if in a pocket movie theater. The closed-circuit, environmental videographers , in contrast, are

149

Video Art: Old Wine, New Bottle

(1974)

The use of television as an art medium is generally considered exper

imental. rn the sense that it was rarely thought of that way by artists

before the early sixties , it must be granted a certain novelty. But so far,

in my opinion, it is only marginally experimental. The hardware is

new, to art at least, but the conceptua l framework and esthetic attitudes around most video as an art are quite lame.

The field has customarily been divided into three main areas: taped

art performance, environmental closed-circuit video, and documentary or political video. In the first, some artistic event performed by the artist and friends or by electronically generated shapes is condensed, stored, and reproduced on standard-length tapes for replay later on.

In the second, people, machines, nature, and environments interact, communicate, and perhaps modify each other's behavior in real time. Although tapes are sometimes produced to document what has oc

curred, they are not integral to it. But tapes can be used to alter time and file away prior activities for representation in the carrying out of the process.

In the third area, events deemed socially important are recorded on portable equipment (or, more rarely, are transmitted live over cable) for the enlightenment of a public that normally has no access to this material on network TV or via other news media. I discount this third group as socially important rather than simply artistic, because although it has been made welcome in art when no one else wants it , its legitimate work must be done in the real world and not in the art

world . It is a hunch that this use of video could bring about valuable

human experiments. But to include it in a discussion of art just because

it has made the art world its crash pad is to limit its utility to a small

intelligentsia and to defuse its critical intent by a pretense to esthetics. I'll confine my comments, then, to the first two areas. There are,

148

VI D EO ART

of course , overlaps between them and sometimes additions of other means such as radios and telephones, telegrams, films, and slidesbut in general this division helps to locate the artists' principal concerns . N ow, more than a dozen years after Paik and Vostcll used TV sets as props in their Environments and Happenings, a tentative evaluation

of the field is possible. It is clear to everyone that the more popular of the twO modes is

video art tapes-for all the obvious financial reasons. Taped performances of an artist doing something or of abstract color patterns doing something are, after all, theatrical arts. They evoke comparisons w ith T V commercials, comedy routines, product demonstrations, promotional and educational TV, and the most dreary abstract animated films of thirty-odd years ago. Thus although only a few performances are unique as theater pieces and fewer still involve experiences with video per se-J'm thinking of tapes by Acconci, Joan Jonas, and Wolfgang Stoerchle-most of them are just more or less adequate recordings of the performances or are compositions of "special effects" that could have been done just as well or better as film. Videotape is simply

cheaper and faster. Moreover, this traditionalism is encouraged by galleries and mu

seums that display and merchandise the tapes as the equivalent of editions of prints . Collectors purchase them as art objects, and audi

ences view them as chic home movies. The accumulated weight of art

history and current gallery-induced preciosity are brought to bear on

every tape that's shown. Given these conventional sources, formats,

contests, and modes of consumption, the tapes contain only minor

"discoveries" ; they are not experimental. . r pass over live performances, which continue to incorporate video

as a prop, as in the work of Jonas and Stoerchle, or which use it as

the equivalent of a performer, as in Ned Bobkoff's substitution of a

video tape recorder (VTR) for the audio recorder in Samuel Beckett's

Krapp's Last Tape . These performances are straightforward theater,

retaining the usual physical conditions of the art : an enclosed time!

space with an audience and an actor"animate or otherwise. When these

structural elements are constant from one era to another, any internal changes are merely changes in details. This unchanging theatrical

structure is worth mentioning in the context of video art tapes, because

they are presented to the public as if in a pocket movie theater. The closed-circuit, environmental videographers , in contrast, are

149

Till'. SEVENTIES

trying to make use of what in the medium is not like film or other

art. The most experimental feature of their work, it seems to me, is

its emphasis upon situational processes rather than some act canned as

a product for later review. Products do, of course, provide new expe

rience and influence thought. Hallucinogenic drugs, water skis, even

TV sets are examples. But art products tend to elicit stereotypical

responses; very little fresh experience or thought comes about from

them.

Among those working in closed-circuit video are Douglas Davis,

Juan Downey, Frank Gillette, Bruce Nauman, the Pulsa group, Ira

Schneider, and Keith Sonnier. Video for these artists is a system of

echoes, communications, reflections, and dialogues linking the self

with what is outside the self and back again. This hardware linkage

proposes to alter positively the behavior of human and nonhuman

participants alike, as if it were some infinitely readjustable ecology. (I

am intentionally using hyperbole here to emphasize a certain grandeur, or high seriousness, in these projects.)

Some works include real-time communiques between the public

and TV stations, using telephone and other rapid-message technolo

gies, all of them fed back into the TV output to be, in turn, modified

and commented upon by the participating public. Other works involve

elaborately constructed displays, with many monitors and cameras,

that visitors pass to see their own images in different views and in delayed time. Such mirrors of the individual may also be collaged with

pre taped and electronically generated material.

Still other works are assemblages of concentric or serially arranged stacks of monitors and cameras that show simultaneous views of the cosmos, nature, a city, and microcosmic life. And there are room-filling environments achieved solely with video projectors that blow up the small scale of the normal monitor and fill the walls with deserts, subways, and one's own real self.

Arising from the opposite point of view are the spare contemplative environments of a few bare walls (sometimes physically constric

tive), one or two fixed cameras, and a monitor showing a motionless

section of blank wall or doorway. They resemble those security mon

itors in expensive apartment houses: one waits for a thief to cross the

camera's path-and, of course, that "thief" is the visitor to the exhibit.

Intriguing as these works are, they are also discouraging. The level

15°

Vl n EO ART

of critical thought in them, their built-in assumptions about people, the indifference to the spaces into which the hardware is put, and the constant reliance on the glitter of the machines to carry the fantasy strike me as simpleminded and sentimental. For instance, there is the

notion, introduced by the Italians before 1914 and worn threadbare by

the sixties, that there is something vital about an all-at-once rapid Row of indiscriminate information, sensations, and activity between people

and surroundings-a notion that ignores the selective way people and

surroundings receive and exchange messages. There is the science

fi ction assumption that electronic communications technology can pro

vide a global and even cosmic consciousness, when nothing in the

world's extensive use of that technology to date suggests that that is so

or, if it is so, that we apprehend and apply such beatitude. Moreover,

it cannot answer to our clear need for privacy. The minimal, meditative

environments where extremely subtle body sensations and feelings are

stimulated rest on the assumption that meditation and privacy are

possible in a gallery situation; but it should be obvious nowadays that

everyone entering a gallery is immediately on display as a work of art.

One cannot be alone. A gallery is not a retreat. Everything becomes

art, not self-awareness . There is the utopian conviction, the last one with its roots in pro

gressive education, that if people are given a privileged place and some

sophisticated toys to play with, they will naturally do something en lightening, when in fact they usually don't. For example, Frank

G illette and Ira Schneider designed a collaborative Environment at Antioch College in 1969. It was a room with four persons, seated backto-back, facing four walls, two mirrors, four remote-control cameras, and a single monitor. As the artists describe it, "after an initial period

of self-consciousness, the subjects began to generate their own enterta inment. During the session, the subjects played with their mirrors and cameras, read poetry, drew, rapped, did sommersaults" (Radical

Software 2, no . 5). Playing around? Poetry' Rapping? Sommersaults? All that expensive technology, care, and work for behavior that has

been predictable in every so-called experience chamber since the eigh

teenth century! That is hardly experimental. But Gillette and Schneider are gifted artists with very good minds,

whose work interests me very much. I single out the Antioch piece

because it points up the frequent lapses in critical judgment among

15 1

Till'. SEVENTIES

trying to make use of what in the medium is not like film or other

art. The most experimental feature of their work, it seems to me, is

its emphasis upon situational processes rather than some act canned as

a product for later review. Products do, of course, provide new expe

rience and influence thought. Hallucinogenic drugs, water skis, even

TV sets are examples. But art products tend to elicit stereotypical

responses; very little fresh experience or thought comes about from

them.

Among those working in closed-circuit video are Douglas Davis,

Juan Downey, Frank Gillette, Bruce Nauman, the Pulsa group, Ira

Schneider, and Keith Sonnier. Video for these artists is a system of

echoes, communications, reflections, and dialogues linking the self

with what is outside the self and back again. This hardware linkage

proposes to alter positively the behavior of human and nonhuman

participants alike, as if it were some infinitely readjustable ecology. (I

am intentionally using hyperbole here to emphasize a certain grandeur, or high seriousness, in these projects.)

Some works include real-time communiques between the public

and TV stations, using telephone and other rapid-message technolo

gies, all of them fed back into the TV output to be, in turn, modified

and commented upon by the participating public. Other works involve

elaborately constructed displays, with many monitors and cameras,

that visitors pass to see their own images in different views and in delayed time. Such mirrors of the individual may also be collaged with

pre taped and electronically generated material.

Still other works are assemblages of concentric or serially arranged stacks of monitors and cameras that show simultaneous views of the cosmos, nature, a city, and microcosmic life. And there are room-filling environments achieved solely with video projectors that blow up the small scale of the normal monitor and fill the walls with deserts, subways, and one's own real self.

Arising from the opposite point of view are the spare contemplative environments of a few bare walls (sometimes physically constric

tive), one or two fixed cameras, and a monitor showing a motionless

section of blank wall or doorway. They resemble those security mon

itors in expensive apartment houses: one waits for a thief to cross the

camera's path-and, of course, that "thief" is the visitor to the exhibit.

Intriguing as these works are, they are also discouraging. The level

15°

Vl n EO ART

of critical thought in them, their built-in assumptions about people, the indifference to the spaces into which the hardware is put, and the constant reliance on the glitter of the machines to carry the fantasy strike me as simpleminded and sentimental. For instance, there is the

notion, introduced by the Italians before 1914 and worn threadbare by

the sixties, that there is something vital about an all-at-once rapid Row of indiscriminate information, sensations, and activity between people

and surroundings-a notion that ignores the selective way people and

surroundings receive and exchange messages. There is the science

fi ction assumption that electronic communications technology can pro

vide a global and even cosmic consciousness, when nothing in the

world's extensive use of that technology to date suggests that that is so

or, if it is so, that we apprehend and apply such beatitude. Moreover,

it cannot answer to our clear need for privacy. The minimal, meditative

environments where extremely subtle body sensations and feelings are

stimulated rest on the assumption that meditation and privacy are

possible in a gallery situation; but it should be obvious nowadays that

everyone entering a gallery is immediately on display as a work of art.

One cannot be alone. A gallery is not a retreat. Everything becomes

art, not self-awareness . There is the utopian conviction, the last one with its roots in pro

gressive education, that if people are given a privileged place and some

sophisticated toys to play with, they will naturally do something en lightening, when in fact they usually don't. For example, Frank

G illette and Ira Schneider designed a collaborative Environment at Antioch College in 1969. It was a room with four persons, seated backto-back, facing four walls, two mirrors, four remote-control cameras, and a single monitor. As the artists describe it, "after an initial period

of self-consciousness, the subjects began to generate their own enterta inment. During the session, the subjects played with their mirrors and cameras, read poetry, drew, rapped, did sommersaults" (Radical

Software 2, no . 5). Playing around? Poetry' Rapping? Sommersaults? All that expensive technology, care, and work for behavior that has

been predictable in every so-called experience chamber since the eigh

teenth century! That is hardly experimental. But Gillette and Schneider are gifted artists with very good minds,

whose work interests me very much. I single out the Antioch piece

because it points up the frequent lapses in critical judgment among

15 1

THE SEVENTIES

those who get seduced by fancy hardware. They become indifferent to

the cliches passed on in the name of modernity. Actually, their environment as described and diagramed seems to

me much more ritualistic and hieratic than the human response to it. The problem came about because the artists felt free to program the physical surroundings but held off giving their subjects a program appropriate to those surroundings. This may have been a misplaced fear of manipulating people, even though the room was designed to elicit responses and that can be construed as a manipulation. Whatever the reason, Gillette and Schneider didn't follow through holistically.

In general, when participatory art is shown in an exhibition context, both artist and viewer unconsciously expect it to be, and act like, a

picture-discrete and kept at a distance. When viewers are urged to become part of the art without further help or preparation, they feel put upon and become stereotypes.

I might add to the list of stereotypes the video artists' relentless

fondness for time-lag devices. These are the exact counterpart to echo

effects in earlier Musique Concrete. The idea im plied here is that

repetitive recall of the immediate past is an effective denial of the

future, hence proof of an eternal present. Perhaps, too, there is a popu

laristic appeal to the same experience from drugs. In any event, this is

not exactly a brand new philosophical discovery or one that illuminates

a world accustomed to forgetting its yesterdays and ignoring its to

morrows without the benefit of video environments. (Ironically, I find

tape art, which is relatively conservative, especially the kind that simply

records a theatrical performance, much less trivial on a conceptual

level. Undistracted by either the mystique or the technical problems

of gadgetry, videotape artists may spend more time in thought and fantasy.)

In the last analysis, environmental (tapeless) video, whose only prod ucts are heightened consciousness and the enlargement of useful experience, seems to me the only interesting video art. But it is still a lavish form of kitsch. Like so much Art Tech of recent years, video environments resemble world's fair "futurama" displays with their familiar nineteenth -century push-button optimism and didacticism. They are part fun house, part psychology lab. Such associations, and a sponsorship by art museums and galleries that have a tradition of hands-off, silent respect for what they show, practically guarantee a

152

vnn:o ART

superficial and cautious participation in what is supposed to be involv

ing. Participation is a key word here, but in this most experimental

branch of video, we succumb to the glow of the cathode-ray tube while

our minds go dead . Until video is used as indifferently as the telephone,

it will remain a pretentious curiosity.

153

III

THE SEVENTIES

those who get seduced by fancy hardware. They become indifferent to

the cliches passed on in the name of modernity. Actually, their environment as described and diagramed seems to

me much more ritualistic and hieratic than the human response to it. The problem came about because the artists felt free to program the physical surroundings but held off giving their subjects a program appropriate to those surroundings. This may have been a misplaced fear of manipulating people, even though the room was designed to elicit responses and that can be construed as a manipulation. Whatever the reason, Gillette and Schneider didn't follow through holistically.

In general, when participatory art is shown in an exhibition context, both artist and viewer unconsciously expect it to be, and act like, a

picture-discrete and kept at a distance. When viewers are urged to become part of the art without further help or preparation, they feel put upon and become stereotypes.

I might add to the list of stereotypes the video artists' relentless

fondness for time-lag devices. These are the exact counterpart to echo

effects in earlier Musique Concrete. The idea im plied here is that

repetitive recall of the immediate past is an effective denial of the

future, hence proof of an eternal present. Perhaps, too, there is a popu

laristic appeal to the same experience from drugs. In any event, this is

not exactly a brand new philosophical discovery or one that illuminates

a world accustomed to forgetting its yesterdays and ignoring its to

morrows without the benefit of video environments. (Ironically, I find

tape art, which is relatively conservative, especially the kind that simply

records a theatrical performance, much less trivial on a conceptual

level. Undistracted by either the mystique or the technical problems

of gadgetry, videotape artists may spend more time in thought and fantasy.)

In the last analysis, environmental (tapeless) video, whose only prod ucts are heightened consciousness and the enlargement of useful experience, seems to me the only interesting video art. But it is still a lavish form of kitsch. Like so much Art Tech of recent years, video environments resemble world's fair "futurama" displays with their familiar nineteenth -century push-button optimism and didacticism. They are part fun house, part psychology lab. Such associations, and a sponsorship by art museums and galleries that have a tradition of hands-off, silent respect for what they show, practically guarantee a

152

vnn:o ART

superficial and cautious participation in what is supposed to be involv

ing. Participation is a key word here, but in this most experimental

branch of video, we succumb to the glow of the cathode-ray tube while

our minds go dead . Until video is used as indifferently as the telephone,

it will remain a pretentious curiosity.

153

III

Formalism: Flogging a Dead Horse

(1974)

There is a medieval definition of God, later quoted by Descartes or

Pascal, that says, "God is a circle whose center is everywhere and

circumference is nowhere." Center and circumference have often been

exchanged in the retelling, but the definition remains a formal one.

Much earlier, Aristotle introduced into Western thought a complex

idea of the form of things that even today we ha ve not forgotten.

Things, he wrote, have not only an obvious shape, like that of a hand,

but also a unity or wholeness of parts. In addition, they possess an essential or conceptual form, which is the ideal state toward which they strive. I n this rich notion , as in most other aspects of Aristotle's philosophy, the physical world is analyzable, measurable, and reason

able, but it also seems to contain Platonic, vag uely mystical attributes apprehen sible, not by the senses, but by intelligence and intuition.

Together, the two examples evoke a reality that is apparently know

able yet increasingly intangible the more one knows. Hence in the

movement from a hand to God, the form becomes more and more

regular, yet less and less clear.

At its best, formalist practice in the art of the last hundred yea rs

resembles these views. Clarity, essentiality, measurability, control,

unity, and often a taste for some kind of geometry prevail; but at the

same time there is always a mystery and paradox; there lurks a per

vas ive faith that such a way of making art is a truer, deeper revelation

of reality than other ways that are only apparently true.

Thus a Malevich painting of a wh itened square tilted on its axis

and set into an off-white field may seem only minimally engaging to

the untrained viewer, but that artistic poverty, so to speak, is superficial.

Malevich's art intends our thoughts to be directed to a transcend ent,

superior state of being.

154

FO RM.'\ 1.I SM

r Ig. 14 Bucket and dirt. Photograph by Robert Cook ·

155

Formalism: Flogging a Dead Horse

(1974)

There is a medieval definition of God, later quoted by Descartes or

Pascal, that says, "God is a circle whose center is everywhere and

circumference is nowhere." Center and circumference have often been

exchanged in the retelling, but the definition remains a formal one.

Much earlier, Aristotle introduced into Western thought a complex

idea of the form of things that even today we ha ve not forgotten.

Things, he wrote, have not only an obvious shape, like that of a hand,

but also a unity or wholeness of parts. In addition, they possess an essential or conceptual form, which is the ideal state toward which they strive. I n this rich notion , as in most other aspects of Aristotle's philosophy, the physical world is analyzable, measurable, and reason

able, but it also seems to contain Platonic, vag uely mystical attributes apprehen sible, not by the senses, but by intelligence and intuition.

Together, the two examples evoke a reality that is apparently know

able yet increasingly intangible the more one knows. Hence in the

movement from a hand to God, the form becomes more and more

regular, yet less and less clear.

At its best, formalist practice in the art of the last hundred yea rs

resembles these views. Clarity, essentiality, measurability, control,

unity, and often a taste for some kind of geometry prevail; but at the

same time there is always a mystery and paradox; there lurks a per

vas ive faith that such a way of making art is a truer, deeper revelation

of reality than other ways that are only apparently true.

Thus a Malevich painting of a wh itened square tilted on its axis

and set into an off-white field may seem only minimally engaging to

the untrained viewer, but that artistic poverty, so to speak, is superficial.

Malevich's art intends our thoughts to be directed to a transcend ent,

superior state of being.

154

FO RM.'\ 1.I SM

r Ig. 14 Bucket and dirt. Photograph by Robert Cook ·

155

THE SEVENTI ES

A Frank Stella painting of parallel stripes in the shape of an angular U, which in turn shapes the canvas as a U, or, reading in reverse, a U-shaped canvas that is echoed throughout by stripes parallel to the border, is not simply repetitious; it can be taken as a bluntly elegant

exercise in "thingness." That is to say, if a stripe refers to another SHipe

next to it, and to another and another, and also refers to the material

object on which it is painted, a sort of internally consistent, self

declaring monologue occurs. The eye swings between immaterial stripe and thick support projecting from the wall, each lending the

other simultaneous flatness and density. As a metaphor of a difficult

idea, the canvas "for and of itself" alludes to age-old questions about

the possibility of individuality and free will ...

At its worst formalism has justified routine and dreary formulas

for making tasteful art without any of the blurry but necessary meta

physical considerations. This sort of academicism is what institutions

and political ideologists support since it represents the possibility of

quick, controllable norms, echoing what is desirable in the society.

What is either ignored or despaired of is the one romantic part of

formalism, its dream of vibrant perfection. My teacher, Hans Hof

mann, an occasionally formalist painter and always a formalist to his

classes, knew very well this elusive, arcane part of the life of forms.

He said once that you couldn't teach art at all, but you could certainly

teach the right direction to it, namely methods and exercises. It was

understood that one made one's art at home, "sacredly," while at the

school one did basically formal exercises from a model.

Now the formalist's opposite number, the antiformalist, has, on the

surface at least, an impatience with the detached , supra-individual,

rationally contained features of the esthetics of form. The antiformalist

seems to champion the release of energies, rather than the control of

them; he or she wants things indeterminate, muddy, or sensually lyric,

rather than proportioned and balanced . The true nature of being for

this kind of mind trembles somewhere betwee n personal emotion that

constantly reaches peaks and valleys and a morbid conviction that the

universe has no design.

But on closer examination, one is still dealing with a profound

involvement in form . The antiformalist simply replaces the appearance

of order with the appearance of chaos. Both order and chaos have a

substantial history of images that are still fed into daily life and

156

F ORMA LI SM

thought. By analogy, antiform is the structure of hell as the nether image of heaven. The shape of disorder, like that of order, is easily analyzable into typical part-lO-whole relationships. That is to say, stars

in the sky, dust on the Roor, garbage, people in a riot-any apparently random accumulation of whatever-can be grouped, arranged in sets,

classified, graphed, and systemized into both physical properties and

ex pressive ones. Hence the antiformalist's artwork is as much a form

as anything we can sense or know, probably because the human or

ganism cannot perceive or think except in patterns. But the meaning of the forms of antiformalism is the crucial difference here, for anti

formalism is associated with the so-called dark or obscure forces rather

than with light and clarity. Thus, in meanings and attitudes, the formalist's view of reality is

more indirect and meditative; or it is passionate on a transcendent

plane purged of personal idiosyncracy. It implies a complex, sometimes

grand scheme of nature that, once understood, is a source of wisdom.

T hat wisdom may affect daily life yet may be quite sufficient as an end

in itself. But the antiformalist, by definition, reacts to this stance; it is

the point of departure without which the conRict would be senseless.

Like the oedipal struggle of the child against the parent, it is a fight

w ithin the family, so to speak; and whatever positive change antifor

malism may achieve, it is at the same time a profound acknowledgment

of laws, orders, and ideas. For instance, the Dadaist Tristan Tzara's formula for making a.

poem could be construed for its time as the archetypal antiformalist

doct rine. He writes:

To make a dadaist poem Take a newspaper. Take a pair of scissors. Choose an article as long as you are planning to

make your poem. Cut out the article. Then cut out each of the words that make up this

article and put them in a bag. Shake it gently. Then take out the scraps one after the other in the

order in which they left the bag. Copy conscientiously.

157

THE SEVENTI ES

A Frank Stella painting of parallel stripes in the shape of an angular U, which in turn shapes the canvas as a U, or, reading in reverse, a U-shaped canvas that is echoed throughout by stripes parallel to the border, is not simply repetitious; it can be taken as a bluntly elegant

exercise in "thingness." That is to say, if a stripe refers to another SHipe

next to it, and to another and another, and also refers to the material

object on which it is painted, a sort of internally consistent, self

declaring monologue occurs. The eye swings between immaterial stripe and thick support projecting from the wall, each lending the

other simultaneous flatness and density. As a metaphor of a difficult

idea, the canvas "for and of itself" alludes to age-old questions about

the possibility of individuality and free will ...

At its worst formalism has justified routine and dreary formulas

for making tasteful art without any of the blurry but necessary meta

physical considerations. This sort of academicism is what institutions

and political ideologists support since it represents the possibility of

quick, controllable norms, echoing what is desirable in the society.

What is either ignored or despaired of is the one romantic part of

formalism, its dream of vibrant perfection. My teacher, Hans Hof

mann, an occasionally formalist painter and always a formalist to his

classes, knew very well this elusive, arcane part of the life of forms.

He said once that you couldn't teach art at all, but you could certainly

teach the right direction to it, namely methods and exercises. It was

understood that one made one's art at home, "sacredly," while at the

school one did basically formal exercises from a model.

Now the formalist's opposite number, the antiformalist, has, on the

surface at least, an impatience with the detached , supra-individual,

rationally contained features of the esthetics of form. The antiformalist

seems to champion the release of energies, rather than the control of

them; he or she wants things indeterminate, muddy, or sensually lyric,

rather than proportioned and balanced . The true nature of being for

this kind of mind trembles somewhere betwee n personal emotion that

constantly reaches peaks and valleys and a morbid conviction that the

universe has no design.

But on closer examination, one is still dealing with a profound

involvement in form . The antiformalist simply replaces the appearance

of order with the appearance of chaos. Both order and chaos have a

substantial history of images that are still fed into daily life and

156

F ORMA LI SM

thought. By analogy, antiform is the structure of hell as the nether image of heaven. The shape of disorder, like that of order, is easily analyzable into typical part-lO-whole relationships. That is to say, stars

in the sky, dust on the Roor, garbage, people in a riot-any apparently random accumulation of whatever-can be grouped, arranged in sets,

classified, graphed, and systemized into both physical properties and

ex pressive ones. Hence the antiformalist's artwork is as much a form

as anything we can sense or know, probably because the human or

ganism cannot perceive or think except in patterns. But the meaning of the forms of antiformalism is the crucial difference here, for anti

formalism is associated with the so-called dark or obscure forces rather

than with light and clarity. Thus, in meanings and attitudes, the formalist's view of reality is

more indirect and meditative; or it is passionate on a transcendent

plane purged of personal idiosyncracy. It implies a complex, sometimes

grand scheme of nature that, once understood, is a source of wisdom.

T hat wisdom may affect daily life yet may be quite sufficient as an end

in itself. But the antiformalist, by definition, reacts to this stance; it is

the point of departure without which the conRict would be senseless.

Like the oedipal struggle of the child against the parent, it is a fight

w ithin the family, so to speak; and whatever positive change antifor

malism may achieve, it is at the same time a profound acknowledgment

of laws, orders, and ideas. For instance, the Dadaist Tristan Tzara's formula for making a.

poem could be construed for its time as the archetypal antiformalist

doct rine. He writes:

To make a dadaist poem Take a newspaper. Take a pair of scissors. Choose an article as long as you are planning to

make your poem. Cut out the article. Then cut out each of the words that make up this

article and put them in a bag. Shake it gently. Then take out the scraps one after the other in the

order in which they left the bag. Copy conscientiously.

157

TilE ~F\'ENTIE S

The poem will be like you.

And here YOU are a writer, infinitely original a nd endowed with a sensibility (hat is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar.

The program is written out so that it scans like a poem itself, with seven short lines and four long ones. It can be read in couplets as AA,

AB, AB, AB, AA, and B as coda; or in triplets as AAA, BAB, ABA,

with an AB coda, both patterns neat, almost syllogistic. Considered as

three actions-finding a newspaper article, cutting it up, reassemhling

it-it can be a classic Hegelian closure: thesis, antithesis, synthesis.

Even the strategy can be judged a formal problem. In effect, Tzara

proposes the by now classic modernist ploy: when the enemy (i .e. , the

conventional artist) zigs, you zag. All zags constitute a special class of

objectives. It is first necessary to have a thorough idea of all the enemy's

moves, which make up the class of zigs. Then its opposite members

will be zags. If the enemy evokes metaphors of sensitivity, parade

crassness. If the enemy embroiders metric niceties in the lines of the

poem, botch up all the rhythms (as it seems Tzara has done in the

present example, at least from the evidence of the English translation).

Thus if Tzara had cut up a chapter from a novel of Proust in the

same way he cut up a newspaper, he would immediately have forfeit ed the secular impact of h is nonart materials and subject matter; the manifesto-poem would instead take on a more cultivated, literary tone and reference. The analyst would have to say in that case that Tzara

didn't quite zag; he zigzagged. In fact, the one zig Tzara was unwilling

to oppose was poetry itself. He shared with formalists and other kind5

of artists a belief in his exclusive access to truth forever denied the ordinary mortal.

Another case in point is the work of Jackson Pollock . The impact of Pollock's paintings (now softened by familiarity) at the time they

were made was that of a maelstrom. Even today, particularly in the

case of the large dripped works, one is swept along. The flung skeins and splatters of running paint, shot out and retracted in clotted tangles, reduce one to a helplessness Pollock found attractive. He said:

"When I am in my painting, I don't know what I am doing." Conscious volition was given up, or at least consciousness of the distinction between the "I" and the pa inting, between the acting self and the willing self. But discrimination between conception, creation, and

158

FO R MA LI SM

completion, in short hetween the parts of a "vhole and the whole itself, is a necessary attrihute of formalism. Thus Pollock would seem to be

an antiformalist. Nevertheless, Pollock's canvases are consistent in their recurrent

choice of fairly even dispersions of short gestural flurries and trials.

These pulsations are set into longer rolling streams of open forms with

unstable axes. Throughout there is an absence of marked zones of

contrast. As Pollock wrote about them, they have no apparent begin

ning, middle, or end. We feel they could go on forever. The effect of

energies in a state of becoming replaces the formalist's arrangements

of poised, completed configurations. That is, in rejecting one set of

formal elements and procedures, Pollock established another.

Moreover, there is another sense in which the formalist

antiformalist clash is misleading. I have written elsewhere ("Impurity")

that if we look at the overall Pollocks for an extended time- say, a

time equivalent to their making-the expressionistic tone of the ges

tural language tends to reverse itself. The heated jabs, swipes, and flowing body movements that we read from the rich surfaces slowly

neutralize one another and cool off. A calm stasis results , balanced and sublime. The frenzy is simply spirit, in psychological terms; optically, this is the effect of nearly equal high -impact forces impinging on one another in every part of the canvases.

In the same essay I suggested that the opposite reversal could he experienced before the very formal works of Mondrian. The ambiguities of figure-ground exchanges cause lines to bend , advance, and

recede irrationally. White spaces become warped positives , their black

edges are seen as abysses dropping far behind the white planes, and

the hues of red, yellow, or hlue, when they are used, cause further compli cations by temperature allusions and expansions and contrac

tions of scale. A Mondrian becomes more and more unstahle the longer

one looks (or, more properly, stares). One experiences vertigo.

The Pollocks thus emerge as an almost classical statement, the Mondrians as an ardent romantic one. What is elegant about this paradoxical aspect of formalism is that it resembles the medieval de

scription of God: it is confusing, but very clearly confusing. The epit

ome of this difficulty of simply pitting formalism against antiformal

ism is present in the music of John Cage. A less passionate personality

than Pollock, perhaps more ironic, Cage nevertheless has the same vast

sense of naturism. His welcome of accident and his taste for blurring

159

TilE ~F\'ENTIE S

The poem will be like you.

And here YOU are a writer, infinitely original a nd endowed with a sensibility (hat is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar.

The program is written out so that it scans like a poem itself, with seven short lines and four long ones. It can be read in couplets as AA,

AB, AB, AB, AA, and B as coda; or in triplets as AAA, BAB, ABA,

with an AB coda, both patterns neat, almost syllogistic. Considered as

three actions-finding a newspaper article, cutting it up, reassemhling

it-it can be a classic Hegelian closure: thesis, antithesis, synthesis.

Even the strategy can be judged a formal problem. In effect, Tzara

proposes the by now classic modernist ploy: when the enemy (i .e. , the

conventional artist) zigs, you zag. All zags constitute a special class of

objectives. It is first necessary to have a thorough idea of all the enemy's

moves, which make up the class of zigs. Then its opposite members

will be zags. If the enemy evokes metaphors of sensitivity, parade

crassness. If the enemy embroiders metric niceties in the lines of the

poem, botch up all the rhythms (as it seems Tzara has done in the

present example, at least from the evidence of the English translation).

Thus if Tzara had cut up a chapter from a novel of Proust in the

same way he cut up a newspaper, he would immediately have forfeit ed the secular impact of h is nonart materials and subject matter; the manifesto-poem would instead take on a more cultivated, literary tone and reference. The analyst would have to say in that case that Tzara

didn't quite zag; he zigzagged. In fact, the one zig Tzara was unwilling

to oppose was poetry itself. He shared with formalists and other kind5

of artists a belief in his exclusive access to truth forever denied the ordinary mortal.

Another case in point is the work of Jackson Pollock . The impact of Pollock's paintings (now softened by familiarity) at the time they

were made was that of a maelstrom. Even today, particularly in the

case of the large dripped works, one is swept along. The flung skeins and splatters of running paint, shot out and retracted in clotted tangles, reduce one to a helplessness Pollock found attractive. He said:

"When I am in my painting, I don't know what I am doing." Conscious volition was given up, or at least consciousness of the distinction between the "I" and the pa inting, between the acting self and the willing self. But discrimination between conception, creation, and

158

FO R MA LI SM

completion, in short hetween the parts of a "vhole and the whole itself, is a necessary attrihute of formalism. Thus Pollock would seem to be

an antiformalist. Nevertheless, Pollock's canvases are consistent in their recurrent

choice of fairly even dispersions of short gestural flurries and trials.

These pulsations are set into longer rolling streams of open forms with

unstable axes. Throughout there is an absence of marked zones of

contrast. As Pollock wrote about them, they have no apparent begin

ning, middle, or end. We feel they could go on forever. The effect of

energies in a state of becoming replaces the formalist's arrangements

of poised, completed configurations. That is, in rejecting one set of

formal elements and procedures, Pollock established another.

Moreover, there is another sense in which the formalist

antiformalist clash is misleading. I have written elsewhere ("Impurity")

that if we look at the overall Pollocks for an extended time- say, a

time equivalent to their making-the expressionistic tone of the ges

tural language tends to reverse itself. The heated jabs, swipes, and flowing body movements that we read from the rich surfaces slowly

neutralize one another and cool off. A calm stasis results , balanced and sublime. The frenzy is simply spirit, in psychological terms; optically, this is the effect of nearly equal high -impact forces impinging on one another in every part of the canvases.

In the same essay I suggested that the opposite reversal could he experienced before the very formal works of Mondrian. The ambiguities of figure-ground exchanges cause lines to bend , advance, and

recede irrationally. White spaces become warped positives , their black

edges are seen as abysses dropping far behind the white planes, and

the hues of red, yellow, or hlue, when they are used, cause further compli cations by temperature allusions and expansions and contrac

tions of scale. A Mondrian becomes more and more unstahle the longer

one looks (or, more properly, stares). One experiences vertigo.

The Pollocks thus emerge as an almost classical statement, the Mondrians as an ardent romantic one. What is elegant about this paradoxical aspect of formalism is that it resembles the medieval de

scription of God: it is confusing, but very clearly confusing. The epit

ome of this difficulty of simply pitting formalism against antiformal

ism is present in the music of John Cage. A less passionate personality

than Pollock, perhaps more ironic, Cage nevertheless has the same vast

sense of naturism. His welcome of accident and his taste for blurring

159

THE SEVENTIES

the edges between his art and the world beyond are as great as Pollock's or even greater. Just as Pollock 's painting has no definite frame, so the

sounds and silences in Cage's music could be continued indefinitely. Musical sound and noise (customarily divided) are really one; so are

art and life. If an in the high formal sense is what gives order to life's aimlessness, then Cage's music qualifies as anti formalist.

But Cage does not create his music in a disorganized way. His "chance operations"-already procedural by his choice of the word

"operation"-involve careful and lengthy preparations and the use of the I Ching or computer, both very formal tools.

Moreover, his pieces, childlike and often gently humorous, lack the antiformalist's virulence. The absence of sharp discontent-the anti part of antiformalism-and the presence instead of a fey positivism score the oversimplification of the formalist dialectic from either end

of the scale and do not account for the subtle shades of temperament really present in any live artist. They are inadequate, for instance, to explain so-called informalists.

Finally, as in the works of Pollock, Cage's music can be analyzed

into equivalences of silence and sound, musical and nonmusical, loud

and soft, and so forth. Intelligible patterns emerge, despite the initial

sensation of scattered disorder, no focus. But if Cage is not an anti

formalist, still he does seem to celebrate informality in the attention

he gives to chance Occurrences and to listening devotedly to the man

ifold sounds that fill the air at every moment. What shall we call him

if, according to our topic, we must assign him a place? Perhaps in his

worldview he is an American Zen Buddhist (or funny monist); in

technique he is a formalist; in his pieces he is a formalist in spite of

his techniques to make them indeterminate; but in the effect of his

music upon most listeners at this time, he is an antiformalist.

It could be argued that anytime you use a formal tool (like a grid)

to look at the world, whatever you look at will be formal (for instance,

it will always be gridded). Conversely, to the antiformalist or infor

malist seeing through those values, everything will seem antiformal or

informal. But this doesn't really happen, as I hope I have explained:

the anti formalist recognizes formality but abuses it; the informalist is

usually too inspired to spend time squabbling; and we who are not the

artist in question are faced with the growing absurdity of trying to divide matters into two distinct parts .

At its root, the problem with a theory of form is its idea of whole

160

F OR MA LISM

ness. Before any question of part-to-whole relationships and their significance can be asked, the whole must be identified. It must be "out

there," visible or, if not visible, at least deducible by some rational

means . When it turns out that the whole can't be located precisely or,

if approximately located, cannot be limited with an outline or kept

still, either all hell has broken loose or we're in another ball game. T think we are indeed in another ball game. When seemingly for

malist artwork becomes antiformal, and antlformal art becomes formal; when the artwork includes its vast history, its conceptual origins in the artist's mind, its processes of creation; when it also includes the surroundings and the perceiver, its economics and its future, then we

are faced with a contextual problem that old-fashioned formal esthetics

simply cannot handle.

But without a theory of form sophisticated enough to account for

a physical environment in constant flux, as well as for all the equally

changing qualitative features of human civilization, we are left with

a form-antiform approach to art that is about as novel as discovering

night and day, up anel down, laughter and tears . An updated formal

ism, however, even if it could be devised, seems just too unwieldy in

practical terms.

Apart from that reaso n, I suspect that on a metaphoric level , for

malism and its counterpart no longer hold much interest for us. The

very idea of form is in the last analysis too external, too remote, to

allow for urgent fantasies of integration, participation, and significa

tion brought about by an increasingly crowded and compressed planet.

Consider what is happening in much contemporary art. If a Rem

brandt were to be used for an ironing board (as Duchamp proposed),

or if, as is more usually the case, an ironing board or its equivalent

were to be placed, like a Rembrandt, in a museum, the issues that arise

relate to the motives, not the formalism or antiformalism of the acts.

100 many works of art today are made to function as situations, com

mentaries, or processes, rather than as discrete objects, for us to ignore

their contextual role. Formalism tends to presume the value of an ideal,

permanent standard.

Different questions-emerging in the sciences, the social sciences,

and even the arts-may offer several ways out of the bind. For ex

ample, what is the nature of thought? Is it totally verbal or not? What

is the relation between mind, speech, and culture? How and what do

we communicate? Do we communicate with so-called non intelligences

10'

THE SEVENTIES

the edges between his art and the world beyond are as great as Pollock's or even greater. Just as Pollock 's painting has no definite frame, so the

sounds and silences in Cage's music could be continued indefinitely. Musical sound and noise (customarily divided) are really one; so are

art and life. If an in the high formal sense is what gives order to life's aimlessness, then Cage's music qualifies as anti formalist.

But Cage does not create his music in a disorganized way. His "chance operations"-already procedural by his choice of the word

"operation"-involve careful and lengthy preparations and the use of the I Ching or computer, both very formal tools.

Moreover, his pieces, childlike and often gently humorous, lack the antiformalist's virulence. The absence of sharp discontent-the anti part of antiformalism-and the presence instead of a fey positivism score the oversimplification of the formalist dialectic from either end

of the scale and do not account for the subtle shades of temperament really present in any live artist. They are inadequate, for instance, to explain so-called informalists.

Finally, as in the works of Pollock, Cage's music can be analyzed

into equivalences of silence and sound, musical and nonmusical, loud

and soft, and so forth. Intelligible patterns emerge, despite the initial

sensation of scattered disorder, no focus. But if Cage is not an anti

formalist, still he does seem to celebrate informality in the attention

he gives to chance Occurrences and to listening devotedly to the man

ifold sounds that fill the air at every moment. What shall we call him

if, according to our topic, we must assign him a place? Perhaps in his

worldview he is an American Zen Buddhist (or funny monist); in

technique he is a formalist; in his pieces he is a formalist in spite of

his techniques to make them indeterminate; but in the effect of his

music upon most listeners at this time, he is an antiformalist.

It could be argued that anytime you use a formal tool (like a grid)

to look at the world, whatever you look at will be formal (for instance,

it will always be gridded). Conversely, to the antiformalist or infor

malist seeing through those values, everything will seem antiformal or

informal. But this doesn't really happen, as I hope I have explained:

the anti formalist recognizes formality but abuses it; the informalist is

usually too inspired to spend time squabbling; and we who are not the

artist in question are faced with the growing absurdity of trying to divide matters into two distinct parts .

At its root, the problem with a theory of form is its idea of whole

160

F OR MA LISM

ness. Before any question of part-to-whole relationships and their significance can be asked, the whole must be identified. It must be "out

there," visible or, if not visible, at least deducible by some rational

means . When it turns out that the whole can't be located precisely or,

if approximately located, cannot be limited with an outline or kept

still, either all hell has broken loose or we're in another ball game. T think we are indeed in another ball game. When seemingly for

malist artwork becomes antiformal, and antlformal art becomes formal; when the artwork includes its vast history, its conceptual origins in the artist's mind, its processes of creation; when it also includes the surroundings and the perceiver, its economics and its future, then we

are faced with a contextual problem that old-fashioned formal esthetics

simply cannot handle.

But without a theory of form sophisticated enough to account for

a physical environment in constant flux, as well as for all the equally

changing qualitative features of human civilization, we are left with

a form-antiform approach to art that is about as novel as discovering

night and day, up anel down, laughter and tears . An updated formal

ism, however, even if it could be devised, seems just too unwieldy in

practical terms.

Apart from that reaso n, I suspect that on a metaphoric level , for

malism and its counterpart no longer hold much interest for us. The

very idea of form is in the last analysis too external, too remote, to

allow for urgent fantasies of integration, participation, and significa

tion brought about by an increasingly crowded and compressed planet.

Consider what is happening in much contemporary art. If a Rem

brandt were to be used for an ironing board (as Duchamp proposed),

or if, as is more usually the case, an ironing board or its equivalent

were to be placed, like a Rembrandt, in a museum, the issues that arise

relate to the motives, not the formalism or antiformalism of the acts.

100 many works of art today are made to function as situations, com

mentaries, or processes, rather than as discrete objects, for us to ignore

their contextual role. Formalism tends to presume the value of an ideal,

permanent standard.

Different questions-emerging in the sciences, the social sciences,

and even the arts-may offer several ways out of the bind. For ex

ample, what is the nature of thought? Is it totally verbal or not? What

is the relation between mind, speech, and culture? How and what do

we communicate? Do we communicate with so-called non intelligences

10'

TilE SEVENTIES

like animals, plants, rocks, air? Are there intelligences in outer space? If so, what kind of language would allow us to communicate? Is it

mathematical? Is the invention of artificial life systems (say, bionics) a metaphor for a natural biological system? And is human culture such

a metaphor? Can we really distinguish between natural and artificial

conditions; that is, if the mind is natural and it creates a concept of

systems, are the systems artificial, or are systems metaphors of the way

the mind naturally works? If they are metaphors, are human beings

forever limited to being the model for all our knowledge of the objec

tive universe? How does culture-like science, technology, art-use

models? How does culture condition the questions as ked about the

nature of reality ? That is, how does rapid cultural change affect our

sense of time and space? How do these changes modify our inherited

concerns for perma nent human values and permanent artworks? If

art today often resembles nonart-insane behavior, road constructions,

the yellow pages of the telephone directory-what kind of dialogue is

going on with the nonart models? What is the connection between the

way people relate to one another, to thei'r natural and artificial envi

ro nments, and to their cultural artifacts ? The questions could go on

at length: but even these few may suggest to the a rtist possibilities for

bypassing the confinements of formalism.

Formalism, after all, posits a self-sufficient, closed universe of art

and lor mind . It says in effect that the esthetic state is made up of its

own resonances and needs only itself. It talks to no one but its own,

comes from nowhere but itself, and leads only to the perpetuation of

its own species. Formalism, for all its trad itional appeals to Apollo, is

a synonym for parthenogenesis: pure mentality, born outward to the

framed work of art, is its model ; the artist, in virginal isolat ion from

society, is its human em bodiment.

162

Nontheatrical Performance

(1976)

Traditional theater : an empty room except for those who've come to

watch. The lights dim. End of performance. Audience leaves.

West Berlin, 1973. Wolf Vostell arranged a Happening called Berlln Fever. It involved close to a hundred participants. Driving from various

parts of the city, they converged on a vas t empty field near the wall

dividing Berlin's western and eastern sectors. Above the wall in a tower

were armed border guards. At one edge of the field were small Rower

and vegetable gardens tended by local residents . The field itself had

been cleared of the ruins of buildings bombed in the las t war. It was

a warm, sunny September weekend. The plan given to the participants

read:

(A) Come with your ca r to Osdorfer Street in Berlin Lich terfel d

(dead end), las t stretch of the street on the right side.

(13) Take up a position with you r car in rows of ten each, as thi ckly as possible, with the cars next to and behind one another.

(C) At a signal start all the cars and try to drive as slowly as possible.

Try to remai n as tightly grouped as you started .

(D) If you have a compa nion in the ca r, he should w rite down how many times yo u shift gea rs, clutch and step on the gas . If you' re alone, try to be conscious of every smallest act ion. Add up all these activities

in your brain as psycho-esthetic productions .

(E) After 30 minutes of thi s ex tremely slow driving, get out of the car (turn off motor) and go to the trunk of your vehicle. There open and close the trunk lid 750 times; an d put a white platt inside and take it out 375 times. This ritual should be accomplished as fast as possible, without interruption, and without dramatization.

163

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Participation Performance

(1977)

L i v e radio and T V audiences participate by clapping and laughing on cues f rom the host, unt i l they do so spontaneously. Some members o f the audience are invited onstage to carry props around, sing, answer questions, act in skits, and play competit ive games. They thus pass (for a time) f r o m watching to d o i n g ; they are inside the action, generating it. Yet they k n o w they have a relatively m i n o r role. T h e show is being directed by someone else. T h e y w i l l return, sooner or later, to their seats in the audience. In fact, in their thoughts they never leave their seats.

Such participants are a sort o f mobile audience, acting for every-one's entertainment as i f they were real actors. They are "good sports." T h e y fo rm a bridge between the spectators and the showpersons. T h e M C and his or her staff do not come from a place in the audience. W h e r e you come f rom tells you what you are.

Audience-part ic ipat ion shows have evolved as popular art genres a long w i t h polit ical rallies, demonstrations, holiday celebrations, and social dancing. Parts o f the c o m m o n culture, they are k n o w n and accepted; the moves individuals must make are familiar, and their goals or uses are assumed to be clear.

Use to the user, however, can differ markedly f rom use to the observer (the nonparticipant). Observers w h o analyze culture in depth might be l o o k i n g for large abstract purposes in popular art forms: ceremonial , sexual, propit iat ional , recreational, and the l ike. For ex-ample, in the labor disputes o f the 1930s they might see a ritualistic s imilar i ty between a picket l ine and what happened inside a factory. Workers , carrying signs aloft, w o u l d pace a measured circle, accom-panying their march w i t h simple repetitive chants; the picket line could look remarkably like the mechanical assembly lines the workers were

I S I

T H E S E V E N T I E S

Fig . 15 Delivering ice for Allan Kaprow's Fluids, 1967, Pasadena. Photograph by

Bruce Ih eland.

shutt ing d o w n . A l t h o u g h they had stopped w o r k i n g , they continued w o r k i n g symbolically.

C h a r l i e C h a p l i n observed this s imilarity wonderful ly in his Modern Times, but the s t r ik ing workers in the film were mainly interested in getting more money. T h a t was sufficient reason for them to participate in the m i l l i n g c r o w d and take their places on the picket l ine w h e n they were scheduled. T h e anonymous developers o f the picket-line art form probably d i d not consider it an art form but must have sensed that ceremony was a way to achieve specific results, even i f it was not the only way. I consider the picket line an art form because my profession has taught me to do so.

Participation in anything is often a question o f motive and use. Those w h o seek symbols in action normal ly don't participate in strikes but engage in the operations o f analysis and interpretation. Because the un ion organizers o f pickets need bargaining clout, they participate in m a k i n g protest arrangements and pound ing on the management's tables. Because the workers need buy ing power, they start march ing and chant ing. A t least some of them do.

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PARTICI I 'ATIOX P E R F O R M A N (: E

C o m m u n a l art forms, inc lud ing those the public w o u ld readily call artistic, typically contain a m i x o f professional director/performers w h o have h igh visibil ity, semiprofessionals w h o are visible but carry out relatively simple jobs, and unski l led enthusiasts w h o swell the ranks and provide excitement or commitment . T h i s hierarchy is clear in the tradit ional July 4th parades o f smal l A m e r i c a n towns: there are the band leaders, musicians, and baton twirlers ; there are the flag and float bearers; the civic leaders in shiny automobiles; and the chi ldren w h o break away f rom parents to run along w i t h marchers w h o m they know.

In this k i n d o f parade everybody knows everybody else. T h u s the audience packed on the sidewalks has more than a passive role. Besides overseeing and apprais ing its relatives and friends in the procession, and releasing its ch i ldren and dogs to run beside the d rummers , it arrives early w i t h food and d r i n k , maps out preferred vantage places, dresses appropriately w i t h patriotic paraphernalia, carries ident i fy ing insignia o f local business affiliations, cheers, waves, and calls out fa-mi l i a r ly to i n d i v i d u a l paraders, w h o acknowledge them in turn by nods, smiles, and w i n k s .

A s a group, the c r o w d , l ike the marchers, is made up o f pla in aficionados and real experts w h o occasionally arrange subacts such as skits and the un fur l in g and raising o f banners and placards at appro-priate moments for the enjoyment o f the paraders, as wel l as for their immediate neighbors and the local press. Some of them wear costumes to stand out.

C o m m u n a l performances like July 4th parades are planned and given on special occasions, requi r ing preparations and individuals or groups w i t h skills to carry them out. T h e y are also intended to convey expressive effects such as patriotism. But when the community ' s tra-ditions are abandoned for idiosyncratic artistic experiments, the c rowd of k n o w i n g supporters and participants shrinks to a handful . A n d even so, what the handful actually knows or is supposed to derive f rom the works is uncertain and mute, seeming to have to do w i t h a shared openness to novelty, to being sensitized, to flexibility o f stance rather than to possessing a body o f hard informat ion and well-rehearsed moves. W h a t passes between the members o f this tiny circle are subtle signals about the values o f the group they belong to.

W h a t , then, is participation in these productions? T h e early H a p -penings and F luxus events that were in fact part ic ipatory—most were not (see my "Nonthea t r i ca l Performance" and M i c h a e l K i r b y , Hap-

183


penings | N e w Y o r k , 1965])—were a species o f audience-involvement theater a k i n to the radio and T V variety; they were also traceable to the guided tour, parade, carnival test o f s k i l l , secret society ini t iat ion, and popular texts on Z e n . T h e artist was the creator and director, in i t i a t ing audiences into the unique rites of the pieces.

T h e i r formats, therefore, were essentially famil iar ones in disguise, recal l ing " l o w " rather than " h i g h " theater and, in the case o f Z e n , w e l l - k n o w n meditational techniques. E v e n their subject matter was not particularly esoteric; it was a blend o f A m e r i c a n P o p elements, Expressionist/Surrealist f i lm imagery, and anthologized koans. A n d these were collaged together, wi thout transitions, in a manner that had become standard art fare everywhere.

W h a t was unusual for art was that people were to take part, were to be, literally, the ingredients o f the performances. Hence instruction in participation had to be more explicit than in c o m m u n a l perfor-mances and, given the special interests o f the audiences, had to be at the same moment mysterious.

These audiences were mainly art-conscious ones, accustomed to accepting states of mystification as a positive value. T h e context o f the performances was "art" : most o f the artists were already k n o w n , the m a i l i n g list was selective, a gallery was listed as sponsor, the perfor-mances themselves were held in storefront or loft galleries, there were reviews in the art pages o f the news media ; al l bespoke avant-garde experimentat ion. T h e audiences were thus co-religionists before they ever arrived at a performance. T h e y were ready to be mystified and further conf irmed in their group membership.

But they were not used to the real-time close physicality o f the experience. T h e y were accustomed to paintings and sculptures viewed f r o m a distance. Therefore an artist w h o wanted to engage them in sweeping debris f rom one place to another w o u l d have confederates begin to sweep and then pass the brooms around. T h e use o f debris, on another level, reassured an art w o r l d then occupied w i t h explor ing the junk o f our throwaway culture—-junf( was a pas sword—and not only was the act o f sweeping easy, but it was also a nonart act, dispos-able l ike its material .

S imi lar ly , i f the audience was to recite certain words , instruction sheets were given out in advance or cards were handed out d u r i n g a piece. But the words w o u l d be either simple utterances, such as "get e m ! " or lists or random groupings that could be read on the spot. T h e

184

P A R T I C I P A T I () N P F. R F () R M A N (: K

cues, vernacular like debris, also resembled contemporary poetry and echoed an art world's taste at the t ime for nonlinear clusters o f ele-ments.

T h e point is that the signals sent out by the artist and returned in acknowledgment by the part icipating audience were as appropriate to this segment o f the society as the signals and cues sent to general T V audiences are appropriate to them. T h i s may seem truistic, but partic-ipation presupposes shared assumptions, interests, language, meanings, contexts, and uses. It cannot take place otherwise.

T h e complex question o f famil iarity never arises in vernacular com-m u n a l performances, in w h i c h the unfo ld ing of events seems so i n -nocent and fo lksy—even when those events are as aggressive as strikes. Everyone knows what's go ing on and what to do. It is the outsider-scholar w h o reads the complexity and writes the script out in fu l l .

But it's the business o f artists to be curious about their doings; and the question o f how participation takes place d i d come up in the late fifties and early sixties. It was apparent to some o f us that the level and k i n d o f involvement was pretty t r iv ia l . Tasks on the order o f sweeping or reading words remain relatively mindless as long as their context is a loose theatrical event prepared in advance for an un in formed audi-ence. F a m i l i a r i z a t i o n , w h i c h could generate commitment , is quite i m -possible when a w o r k is performed only once or a few times (as it usually was then). A n d the pr incipal directorial role o f artist and col-leagues is locked in f rom the start, leaving only m i n o r satisfactions to the spectator-participants (whose sole recourse w o u l d be protest or revolt i f they cared that m u c h — a n d some did). T h e theatrical mode l was plainly inadequate; a different genre was necessary.

T w o steps were taken. O n e of them was to r i tual ize a m i x o f l i fel ike elements and fantasy, reject the staging area, and invite a number o f people to take part, expla ining the plan i n a spirit o f ceremony. N a t -urally, r i tual i sm is not r i tua l , and it was evident to a l l that what we were do ing was an invent ion, an interlude, c o m i n g not out o f belief and custom but out o f the artist. Its effect was vaguely archaic (thus tapping ample reserves o f nostalgia), yet because o f its real environ-ments, w h i c h included traffic, food f rom the supermarket, and w o r k -i n g T V sets, it was instantly modern . It worked . A s a move, it e l i m i -nated the audience and gave the piece autonomy.

.85


F o r some years this was the ma i n route fol lowed (not always strictly) by Kenneth Dewey, M i l a n K n i z a k , Mar ta M i n u j i n , W o l f Vos-tell , and me. K n i z a k and Vostell continue to work wel l as ritualists. Af ter 1966 1 discarded the mode, mainly because in the U n i t e d States there is no history o f h igh ceremony (for Westerners) as there is in older cultures, and it began to seem pompous to go on. So I turned my attention to the mundane, w h i c h Amer icans understand perfectly.

T h e other step, actually overlapping the first, was suggested by certain small pieces by George Brecht, Robert F i l l i o u , K n i z a k , and Sonja Svecova. These were to be, or could easily be, executed by one person, some in private, some in public. T h e y referred in a general way to intellectual games, treasure hunts, spiritual exercises, and the behavior o f street eccentrics, beggars, and petitioners. T h e y prompted the idea that a group w o r k could be composed, additively, o f such i n d i v i d u a l activities w i t h no attempt to coordinate them in any way. A performance could be s imply a cluster o f events o f varying length in any number o f places. ( John Cage's interest in chance and the unique , rather than the organized , sound event, was a helpful model.) A l l that was needed was a half-dozen friends and a list o f s imple things to do or th ink alone. Examples : changing one's shirt in a park recre-ation area; w a l k i n g through a city, crossing streets only w i t h persons wear ing red coats; l istening for hours to a d r i p p i n g faucet.

T h i s approach worked for a whi le , except that participants felt arbitrari ly isolated and tended to drift off into unmotivated indiffer-ence. T h e absurdity o f do ing something odd without an audience's approval , or of paying attention to ted ium, was o f course part o f the problem, even for those professing interest. But what may have been miss ing was a g round ing in ordinary experience that could replace the absent s t imulat ion o f an audience or cohesive c r o wd i n a ceremony.

In the late 1950s E r v i n g G o f f m an published The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, a sociological study o f conventional h u m a n re-lations. Its premise was that the routines of domesticity, w o r k , edu-cation, and management o f daily affairs, w h i c h because o f their very ordinariness and lack o f conscious expressive purpose do not seem to be art forms, nevertheless possess a distinctly performancelike char-acter. O n l y the performers are not usually aware o f it.

T h e y are not aware o f it because there is no frame around everyday transactions the way there is, literally, around a television program and, more figuratively, around a strike or parade. Repetitive daily oc-

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PA R II (: I P A T I O N P F R F O R M A N (: F.

currences are not usually set off f rom themselves. People do not th ink each m o r n i n g when they brush their teeth, " N o w I am do ing a per-formance."

But G o f f m an gives ordinary routines quotation marks by setting them off as subjects o f analysis. In this book and subsequent ones, he describes greetings, relations between office workers and bosses, front-of-store and back-of-store behavior, civilities and discourtesies in p r i -vate and publ ic , the maintenance o f small social units on streets and in crowded gatherings, and so forth as i f each situation had a pre-scribed scenario. H u m a n beings participate in these scenarios, spon-taneously or after elaborate preparations, l ike actors wi thout stage or audience, watching and cu ing one another.

Some scenarios are learned and practiced over a l i fetime. Table manners, for instance, acquired f rom ch i ldhood at home, are regi-mented and s impli f ied in boarding school or the army and are refined later on , let's say, for entertaining guests upon w h o m one wants to make an impression. T h e passage is f rom informal to formal to n u -anced manners ; most middle-class urbanites take part in the cont in-u u m and can move back and forth without g iv ing m u c h thought to the r ich body language, positionings, t imings, and adjustments o f con-versation and voice that accompany each mode.

T h e performance o f everyday routines, o f course, is not really the same as acting a wri t ten script, since conscious intent is absent. There is a phenomenal and experiential difference. Being a performer (like being a lawyer) involves responsibility for what the w o r d performer may mean and what being a performer may entail . N o r are everyday routines managed by a stage director, a l though w i t h i n the theatrical metaphor parents, officials, teachers, guides, and bosses may be con-strued as equivalents. But again, these mentors w o u ld have to see themselves as directors o f performances rather than instructors in so-cial mores and professions outside the arts. W h a t is interesting to art, though, is that everyday routines could be used as real offstage perfor-mances. A n artist w o u l d then be engaged in per forming a "perfor-mance."

Intentionally per forming everyday life is bound to create some curious k inds o f awareness. Life's subject matter is almost too famil iar to grasp, and life's formats ( i f they can be called that) are not famil iar enough. Focus ing on what is habitual and t ry ing to put a l ine around what is continuous can be a bit like rubbing your stomach and tapping

,87


your head, then reversing. W i t h o u t either an audience or a formally designated stage or clearing, the performer becomes simultaneously agent and watcher. She or he takes on the task o f " f r a m i n g " the trans-action internally, by paying attention in mot ion.

For instance, imagine that you and a partner are per forming a prescribed set o f moves d r a w n from the ways people use the telephone. You carry out this plan in your respective homes without intentional spectators. (Your families and friends, of course, may pass i n and out o f the scene.) You take into account that each o f you is t h i n k i n g o f the other, just as telephone callers normal ly do. But both o f you also k n o w that you are especially tuned to nuances o f voice, length o f pauses, and possible meanings o f the planned parts o f the conversations, w h i ch w o u l d not be normal . A n d you focus, addit ionally, on such unconscious but typical behavior as reaching for the receiver (quickly or slowly, after two rings or three?), changing it f rom ear to ear, pacing back and forth, scratching an i tch, dood l ing , replacing the receiver ( s lamming it?), nonessentials o f the communica t ion but constant accompani-ments. T h e feelings produced under these conditions are not s imply emotions; and the knowledge acquired is not s imply casual in forma-t ion. T h e situation is too personal and off ki l ter for that. W h a t is at stake is not so m u c h conforming to expectations about people's tele-phone activity as closely experiencing its obvious and h idden features.

U p to this point I have contrasted audience participation theater in popular and art culture w i t h participation performance relating to everyday routines. I'd l ike n o w to look more closely at this l ifelike performance, beg inning w i t h h o w a normal routine becomes the per-formance o f a routine.

Cons ider certain c o m m o n transact ions—shaking hands, eating, saying goodbye—as Readymades. T h e i r only unusual feature w i l l be the attentiveness brought to bear on them. T h e y aren't someone else's routines that are to be observed but one's o w n , just as they happen.

E x a m p l e : A friend introduces you to someone at a party, escorting h i m across the room. You stand about three feet f rom your new ac-quaintance, w i t h your mutua l fr iend between you, h o l d i n g the new acquaintance's a rm l ightly at the elbow. You look at this man's face, avo id ing his eyes; then to your friend's mouth , w h i c h forms the name; then back again to the mouth of the man. H e says hello a bit over-

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zealously and pushes out his hand w i t h some force (which you inter-pret as nervousness); you feel yourself move back a fraction o f an inch , automatically stiffening your hand for the impact as you raise it.

You move forward now. T h e hand is still coming . It seems to take too long . You shift your weight to your right foot because someone standing to your left w i t h her back to you is t a lk ing on the telephone, and you c a n t move on that side, as w o u l d be natural to you. You're ofT balance now and feel the man's hand jam into yours, the fingers closing. It is a small hand and his fingers have to travel to make their gr ip felt. T h e hand is w a r m and dry. You wonder how you w o u l d have met his advance on your other foot.

You sense the man's fingers finally closing around yours, and you hesitate before responding, then do so perfunctorily. You lean back, echoing the forward mot ion of his handshake. Your forearm becomes r i g i d , but you force it to go l i m p . You realize that your friend is wa i t ing for you to return the hello, but you've forgotten the courtesy in your examinat ion o f the encounter.

T r y i n g to sound cheerful, you say the name. T h e man looks fleet-ingly to your friend for clarification. You forget to say "g lad to meet you , " and when you remember, it's too late. You're g lancing now at the w r i n k l e s o f his hand, at his r i n g f rom some college, at the gray stain on his cuff. You p u m p his hand too many times. T h i s upsets h i m .

H e begins to wi thdraw, t ry ing to disentangle himsel f wi thout be-traying his ini t ia l expression of heartiness. Your friend steps into the silence w i t h details o f w h o each of you is. T h e w o m a n on the telephone is l i s tening to the person on the other end, and your friend's voice sounds too loud . She lights a cigarette and accidentally backs into you as she reaches for an ashtray, pushing you toward the man . H e pulls away further. T h e w o m a n doesn't notice and resumes ta lk ing . You're aware o f her voice and disl ike the cigarette smoke. You jerk your head in her direct ion, then br ing it back to face the man. H e has freed his hand and is lower ing it to his side.

N o w you shift your weight to a more comfortable posit ion, r o c k i n g slightly on your heels. Your right hand is still in the air. You look at it as i f it contained a message. You put it carefully in your pocket and raise your eyes to meet the man's. H e stares, not comprehending , and b l inks . Your glance swings aside to take in the room and others. H e definitely sees this move as a sign-off. Your friend continues t a lk ing , searching your face and body for clues to your behavior. H e isn't aware

189


himsel f that he feels something odd about you. You fol low his eyes w i t h yours and move a step to the right. Your feet are now planted f i rmly on the floor. T h i s effectively puts your friend in a l ine between you and the m a n , cutt ing h i m off f rom view. H e makes a polite excuse and leaves, but your friend remains and asks how your mother and father are feeling.

It is apparent to you that you have been using the situation as a study and have caused some m i n o r confusion. You are normal ly socia-ble and wanted your scrutiny to pass unnoticed. But you decide not to explain anything since your friend has just been called away.

Suppose, next, that all three o f you in the preceding exchange were involved intentionally as participants; suppose that there had been an agreed-upon plan to wait for some occasion when two o f you w h o d id not k n o w each other w o u l d be introduced by your m u t u a l fr iend. N o r m a l behavior w o u l d then become exaggerated, w o u l d lapse and peak strangely. T h e everyday routine w o u l d be a routine that talks about itself.

Performances like this generate a curious self-consciousness that permeates every gesture. You each watch each other watch each other. You watch the surroundings in detail . Your moves are compartmented in thought and thus slowed d o w n in perception. You speed up your actual pace to compensate; you w i l l your m i n d to integrate all the pieces that have separated out whi le you take part in very real h u m a n affairs. You wonder w h o is being introduced, two people, you to your-self, or both? You are not projecting an image o f a routine to spectators "out there" but are do ing it, shaking hands, nodd ing , saying the amen-ities, for yourself and for one another.

In other words , you experience directly what you already k n o w in theory: that consciousness alters the w o r l d , that natural things seem unnatura l once you attend to them, and vice versa. H e n c e i f everyday routines conceived as ready-made performances change because o f their double use as art/not art, it might seem perfectly natural to bui ld the observed changes into subsequent performances before they hap-pen, because they, or something like them, w o u l d happen anyway.

Prepar ing an Act iv i ty , therefore, can be considered a naturally ar-tificial act. It w o u l d include in its plan, or program, small retardations and accelerations of, say, handshaking motions ; elaborations o f pacing and juxtapositions o f other routines that are ordinar i ly present, like saying goodbye; repetitions (echoing al l routines' repetitiveness); re-

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versals; displacements; shifts in setting, such as shaking hands on dif-ferent street corners; and normal conversations and reviewings o f what is go ing on . Tradi t ional distinctions between life, art, and analysis, in whatever order, are put aside.

T h e A c t i v i t y Maneuvers was assembled using just this approach. Its basic routine is the courtesy shown another person when passing through a doorway. T h e fo l lowing program was given in advance to seven couples, w h o carried it out in the environs o f Naples in M a r c h 1976:

1 A and B passing backwards through a doorway one before the other

the other, saying you're first

passing through again moving in reverse the first, saying thank me being thanked

locating four more doors repeating routine

2 A and B locating still another door

both reaching to open it saying excuse me

passing through together saying excuse me

both reaching to close it saying excuse me

backing in reverse to door both reaching to open it saying after you passing through together

1 9 '


both reaching to close it saying after you


3 A and B locating still another door

passing through one before the other the first, saying I'll pay you the second, accepting or not


In brief ing the participants beforehand I made some general re-marks about daily social behavior and what Maneuvers had to do w i t h it. A n orientation has proved not only useful but necessary, since i n -variably no one knows how to deal w i t h such a project. Or ientat ion thus becomes part o f the piece, as does any discussion d u r i n g and after.

I pointed out that w i t h i n the forms o f politeness there is enough room to transmit any number o f complex messages. For instance, hold-ing a door open for someone to pass through first is a simple social grace, learned almost universally. But between persons o f the same sex or rank, there may be subtle jockeying for first or second position. E i ther position may signify the superior one, depending on the partic-ular circumstance.

In cultures that are facing changes in women's and men's roles, the tradit ional male gesture o f reaching for and ho ld ing open a door for a w o m a n can meet w i t h either rebuke or k n o w i n g smiles. In another vein , one can be shown the door (be ordered to leave) w i t h almost the same gross body movements as when being invited to go first. But there is never any doubt about what is meant.

Maneuvers, I continued, was an exaggerated arrangement o f such competit ive, often funny, exchanges between two indiv idual s as they go through doorways. W i t h repeats and variations resembling those o f slapstick movies that are played backward and forward , it might become unclear w h i c h side o f a door was " i n " and w h i c h "out . " After

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PA RTIC1 PAT ION P E R I" O K M A M ! I

finding ten or more different doors to carry out these moves, the par-ticipants might find the ini t ia l question o f being first or second prob-lematical .

Each pair ( A and B) went about the city and selected their o w n doorways. T h e y had no necessary connection w i t h the other partici-pants carrying out the identical program. D u r i n g the nearly two days allotted, they maintained their everyday routines as usual and fitted in the special routine o f the A c t i v i t y around shopping, eating, go ing to class, and socia l iz ing. A s it happened, most o f the fourteen participants shared classes at an art college and intermittently exchanged stories about what was going on.

Choices o f doorways reflected the personalities and needs o f the partners. Some preferred seclusion f rom the stares o f passersby. T h e y sought out alleyways, toilets, and suburban garages. Part o f their ad-mitted reason was embarrassment, but another part was the wi sh to internalize the process. Others enjoyed provok ing curiosity in public and went to department stores, beauty salons, movies, and train sta-tions. T h e y later realized they wanted an audience regardless o f its irrelevancy to the piece.

Despite these differences, a l l were struck by certain strange features o f the w o r k (which had been suggested to me when I was s tudying "doorway courtesies" as Readymades). There were four psychologically loaded twists on the verbal cliches that are traded when doorway cour-tesies are normal ly performed.

In part 1 the first person passing through a doorway backward hears "you're first," instead o f the c o m m o n "after y o u " ; when the pair run the scene f rontward , each says " thank me," presumably for ac-k n o w l e d g i n g the other's primacy.

Part 2 starts out as straight vaudeville between A and B but is skewed by their later statement, in the reverse reruns, when both o f them say "after you . " T h i s sounds proper but can only be sarcasm or irony in v iew o f part l's episode, i m p l y i n g that each secretly controls the maneuver by appearing to defer to the other. " T h a n k m e ? "

In part 3, w h i c h recaps part 1, A and B have a new chance to decide w h i c h one w i l l go first. But when the decision is made, the first says, " I ' l l pay you . " A n d the second can accept if the price is r ight or refuse i f it isn't. " I ' l l pay y o u " can be taken to mean " I ' l l pay you to remain i n second place," that is, "I can buy your subordination and flattery."

'93


Refusal to accept the money may be a way of asking for more or o f saying "I am not for sale." T h i s statement caused the most conster-nation i n the discussion after the Act iv i ty .

T h r o u g h o u t the three parts, the repetitions o f the routine al lowed A and B to switch their positions of first and second i f they wanted to and to maneuver for whatever psychological advantages they thought they had achieved or lost. Courtesies were the tools.

Rout ine expressions like "please" and " thanks " are ceremonial "massages." T h e i r equivalents were placed in this w o r k in such a way as to call attention to their strategic capabilities. "You 're first" elicits " thank m e " ; "excuse m e " elicits further "excuse me's" (like the famous Alphonse-Gas ton rendit ion) ; each can be translated into "pay m e " and " I ' l l pay you . " Courtesies are bills and payments for favors given and returned.

T h i s account doesn't attempt to go into the hilarious squeeze plays that occurred in part 2 when A and B went forward and backward through doorways at the same time. U n g a i n l y body contacts don't mix wel l w i t h formalities and when they do accidentally (here on purpose), al l you can say is "excuse me."

Ne i ther does it speak of the importance o f each environmental setting for the feel of the particular transaction as it happened. O b -viously, a bedroom doorway w i l l conjure one meaning for a couple and a bank doorway another. Fifteen such entrances and exits can add up to a r ich experience.

N o r has it said anything about the effect o f the piece upon couples o f the same and the opposite sex. T h i s , too, was crit ical and can be surmised to have provoked distinctive maneuvers between partners. A n d that all were Italians (except me) was significant.

F ina l ly , I mentioned that the participants were d r a w n f rom a professional art background. T h e i r prior investments o f t ime, energy, and values were called into some (serious) question by what they d i d . I cannot say anything more than this now, but it w o u l d be interesting to compare the experience o f a group of merchants, or a group o f sociologists, d o i n g the same Act iv i ty . T h e meanings construed, on h u -m a n , professional, and philosophical levels, might be very different.

'94

Performing Life

(1979)

C o m i n g into the Happenings o f the late fifties, I was certain the goal was to " d o " an art that was distinct f rom any k n o w n genre (or any combinat ion o f genres). It seemed important to develop something that was not another type o f paint ing, literature, music, dance, theater, opera.

Since the substance o f the Happenings was events in real t ime, as in theater and opera, the job, logically, was to bypass al l theatrical conventions. So over a couple o f years, I e l iminated art contexts, au-diences, single t ime/place envelopes, staging areas, roles, plots, acting ski l ls , rehearsals, repeated performances, and even the usual readable scripts.

N o w i f the models for these early Happenings were not the arts, then there were abundant alternatives in everyday life routines: brush-ing your teeth, getting on a bus, washing dinner dishes, asking for the t ime, dressing i n front o f a mirror , telephoning a f r iend, squeezing oranges. Instead o f m a k i n g an objective image or occurrence to be seen by someone else, it was a matter o f do ing something to experience it yourself. It was the difference between watching an actor eating strawberries on a stage and actually eating them yourself at home. D o i n g life, consciously, was a compe l l ing notion to me.

W h e n you do life consciously, however, life becomes pretty s t range—paying attention changes the th ing attended to—so the H a p -penings were not nearly as l ifelike as I had supposed they might be. But I learned something about life and " l i f e . "

A new art/ l i fe genre therefore came about, reflecting equally the artif icial aspects o f everyday life and the lifelike qualities o f created art. F o r example, it was clear to me how formal and cultural ly learned the act o f shaking hands is; just try to p u m p a hand five or six times instead o f two and you ' l l cause instant anxiety. I also became aware

195


that ar tworks o f any k i n d could be autobiographical and prophetic. You could read paintings like h a n d w r i t i n g , and over a period o f time chart the painter's ab id ing fantasies, just as you might chart writers ' thoughts f rom collections o f personal letters or diaries. Happenings , and later Act iv i t ies , being less specialized than paintings, poems, and the other tradit ional arts, readily lent themselves to such psychological insights.

Today, in 1979, I 'm paying attention to breathing. I've held my breath for years—held it for dear life. A n d I might have suffocated i f (in spite o f myself ) I hadn't had to let go of it periodically. Was it mine , after all? L e t t i n g it go, d i d I lose it? Was (is) exhal ing s imply a stream o f speeded up molecules squir t ing out o f my nose?

I was w i t h friends one evening. T a l k i n g away, our mouths were gently sp i l l ing air and hints o f what we'd eaten. O u r breaths, passing a m o n g us, were let go and reabsorbed. G r o u p breath.

Sometimes, I've awakened beside someone I loved and heard our breathing out o f sync (and supposed that was why I awoke). I practiced breathing in and out, copying her w h o slept and wondered i f that dance o f sorts was echoing in her dreaming .

There's also the breathing o f b ig pines in the w i n d you could mistake for waves breaking on a beach. O r city gusts s l a m m i n g into alleyways. O r the sucking hiss o f empty water pipes, the taps opened after winter . W h a t is it that breathes? Lungs? T h e metaphysical me? A c r o w d at a ball game? T h e ground g iv ing out smells in spring? C o a l gas in the mines?

These are thoughts about consciousness o f breathing. Such con-sciousness o f what we do and feel each day, its relation to others' experience and to nature around us, becomes in a real way the perfor-mance o f l i v i n g . A n d the very process o f paying attention to this c o n t i n u u m is poised on the threshold o f art performance.

I've spoken o f breathing. Yet I could have mentioned the h u m a n circulatory system, or the effects of bodies touching, or the feeling o f t ime passing. Universals (shareables) are plentiful . F r o m this point on , as far as the artist is concerned, it is a question o f a l l owin g those features o f breathing (or whatever) to join into a performable plan that may reach acutely into a participant's o w n sense of it and resonate its implicat ions.

H e r e is a sketch for a possible breathing piece. It juxtaposes the auditory and visual manifestations o f breath, moves the air of the

,96

P E R F O R M I N G L I F E

environment (by fan) to render it tactile, and ties the rhythmic move-ment o f breathing to that o f the ocean. In the three parts o f the piece the participant is first alone, then w i t h a friend (but they are kept apart by a glass membrane) , and again alone. T h e first part makes use o f self-consciousness; the second changes that to awareness o f self in another person; and the th ird extends self to natural forces but folds back on artifice in the form o f tape-recorded memory.

1 alone, studying your face in a chilled* mirror smiling, scowling perhaps

a microphone nearby amplifying the sound of your breathing

a swiveling electric fan directing the air around the room

gradually leaning closer to your reflection until the glass fogs over

moving back until the image clears

repeating for some time

listening

2 sitting opposite a friend (who has done the above)

a chilled pane of glass between you

your microphones amplifying your breathing your fans turning at opposite sides of the room

copying each other's expressions

matching your breathing

moving gradually to the glass until your images fog over

moving back until the images clear

repeating for some time listening

*Literally, a mirror propped against, or standing in, ice.

197


3 sitting alone at the beach

drawing in your breath and releasing it with the rise and fall of the waves

continuing for some time

walking along the waves' edge

listening through earphones to the record of your earlier breathing

Since this piece has not been performed, I can only speculate what w o u l d happen i n carrying it out. Breathing as an abstract idea is unex-ceptionable; l ike integrity it is desirable. A n d formal ly manipu la t ing verbal exercises on it might even provoke m i l d curiosity. But breathing as a real and particular event can be an a w k w a r d and painful business. A n y o n e w h o has jogged seriously or done breathing meditat ion knows that in the beg inning , as you confront your body, you face your psyche as w e l l .

I suspect that the innocent playfulness and poetic natur i sm o f the prescriptions in this piece could gradually become perverse and dis-t u r b i n g for participants, w h o might gain release f rom its deadpan literalness only by accepting a temporary alienation o f the breath f rom self.

Cons ider what the piece proposes to do. It exaggerates the normal ly unattended aspects o f everyday life (fleeting mist on glass, the sound o f breathing, the c irculat ion of air, the unconscious m i m i c r y o f ges-tures between friends) and frustrates the obvious ones ( looking at our-selves in a mir ror , breathing naturally, m a k i n g contact w i t h a f r iend, l i s tening to the ocean waves). T h e loudspeaker, the mir ror , the waves, the tape recording are all feedback devices to ensure these shifts.

Such displacements o f ordinary emphasis increase attentiveness but only attentiveness to the peripheral parts o f ourselves and our sur-roundings . Revealed this way they are strange. Participants could feel momentar i ly separated f rom themselves. T h e c o m i n g together o f the parts, then, might be the event's residue, latent and felt, rather than its clear promise.

198

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Alan Kaprow

Art Which Can’t Be Art

(1986)

It’s fairly well known that for the last thirty years my main work as an artist has been lo-cated in activities and contexts that don’t suggest art in any way. Brushing my teeth, for example, in the morning when I’m barely awake; watching in the mirror the rhythm of my elbow moving up and down . . .

The practice of such an art, which isn’t perceived as art, is not so much a contradiction as a paradox. Why this is so requires some background.

When I speak of activities and contexts that don’t suggest art, I don’t mean that an event like brushing my teeth each morning is chosen and then set into a conventional art context, as Duchamp and many others since him have done. That strategy, by which an art-identifying frame (such as a gallery or theater) confers “art value” or “art discourse” on some nonart object, idea, or event, was, in Duchamp’s initial move, sharply ironic. It forced into confrontation a whole bundle of sacred assumptions about creativity, professional skill, individuality, spirituality, modernism, and the presumed value and function of high art itself. But later it became trivialized, as more and more nonart was put on exhibit by other artists. Regardless of the merits of each case, the same truism was headlined every time we saw a stack of industrial products in a gallery, every time daily life was enacted on a stage: that anything can be estheticized, given the right art packages to put it into. But why should we want to estheticize “anything”? All the irony was lost in those presentations, the provocative questions forgotten. To go on making this kind of move in art seemed to me unproductive.

Instead, I decided to pay attention to brushing my teeth, to watch my elbow moving. I would be alone in my bathroom, without art spectators. There would be no gallery, no critic to judge, no publicity. This was the crucial shift that removed the performance of everyday life from all but the memory of art. I could, of course, have said to myself, “Now I’m making art!!” But in actual practice, I didn’t think much about it.

My awareness and thoughts were of another kind. I began to pay attention to how much this act of brushing my teeth had become routinized, nonconscious behavior, compared with my first efforts to do it as a child. I began to suspect that 99 percent of my daily life was just as routinized and unnoticed; that my mind was always somewhere else; and that the thousand signals my body was sending me each minute were ig-nored. I guessed also that most people were like me in this respect.

Brushing my teeth attentively for two weeks, I gradually became aware of the tension in my elbow and fingers (was it there before?), the pressure of the brush on my gums, their slight bleeding (should I visit the dentist?). I looked up once and saw, really saw, my face in the mirror. I rarely looked at myself when I got up, perhaps because I wanted to avoid the puffy face I’d see, at least until it could be washed and smoothed to

match the public image I prefer. (And how many times had I seen others do the same and believed i was different!)

This was an eye-opener to my privacy and to my humanity. An unremarkable picture of myself was beginning to surface, and image I’d created but never examined. It colored the images I made of the world and influenced how I dealt with my images of others. I saw this little by little.

But if this wider domain of resonance, spreading from the mere process of brushing my teeth, seems too far from its starting point, I should say immediately that it never left the bathroom. The physicality of brushing, the aromatic taste of toothpaste, rinsing my mouth and the brush, the many small nuances such as right-handedness causing me to enter my mouth with the loaded rush from that side and then move to the left side — these particularities always stayed in the present. The larger implications popped up from time to time during the subsequent days. All this from toothbrushing.

How is this relevant to art? Why is this not just sociology? It is relevant because devel-opments within modernism itself let to art’s dissolution into its life sources. Art in the West has a long history of secularizing tendencies, going back at least as far as the Hel-lenistic period. by the late 1950s and 1960s this lifelike impulse dominated the van-guard. Art shifted away from the specialized object in the gallery to the real urban envi-ronment; to the real body and mind; to communications technology; and to remote natu-ral regions of the ocean, sky, and desert. Thus the relationship of the act of toothbrush-ing to recent art is clear and cannot be bypassed. This is where the paradox lies; an artist concerned with lifelike art is an artist who does and does not make art.

Anything less than paradox would be simplistic. Unless the identity (and thus the mean-ing) of what the artist does oscillates between ordinary, recognizable activity and the “resonance” of that activity in the larger human context, the activity itself reduces to conventional behavior. Or if it is framed as art by a gallery, it reduces to conventional art. Thus toothbrushing, as we normally do it, offers no roads back to the real wold ei-ther. But ordinary life performed as art/not art can charge the everyday with metaphoric power.

From “Essays on the Blurring of Art and Life” by Alan Kaprow (Edited by Jeff Kelley)

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