Pub Date : 2022-07-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2110427
N. Seymour
The Routledge Companion to Contemporary Art, Visual Culture, and Climate Change, edited by T. J. Demos, Emily Eliza Scott, and Subhankar Banerjee, is a stunning achievement. It brings together fifty-five contributors from diverse backgrounds—including the Cherokee Nation, Lebanon, and South Africa—to think through climate-change-themed art and visual culture from regions ranging from Chiapas to Hong Kong. No comparable volume exists; as the editors point out, “within the environmental humanities . . . the visual arts are seldom foregrounded and sometimes sidelined,” while “art history as a discipline has . . . been slow in considering ecology and related environmental studies” (2). This achievement emerges at a curious impasse: climate change has advanced so as to become palpable to even the most privileged, while public responses—where they exist—often seem crushingly inadequate. Art and visual culture seem both necessary and dubious in this moment. To begin with, “climate change . . . presents profound representational dilemmas” (2) because of its lifetime-exceeding timescales but also because evidence of its violence regularly gets hidden, manipulated, or managed. As Caroline A. Jones points out in her chapter, “Atmospheres and the Anthropogenic ImageBind,” “idealistic images (the volunteer helping the oil-covered shore bird) were actively produced” by BP in the period after its Deepwater Horizon disaster, “as the corporation tripled its advertising budget” (247). In such a context, art and visual culture can function to reveal or counter-represent— though usually on much smaller budgets, if any. And yet such functions may prove to be a trap; images of climate disaster, particularly the more spectacular, can, as Birgit Schneider points out, “immobilize observers and put them in a state of sublime amazement” (271) rather than fomenting action. Further, those “representational dilemmas” may in fact be moot, given the aforementioned palpability of climate change: as contributor Sarah Kanouse narrates, “A few years ago, artists
由T. J. Demos、Emily Eliza Scott和Subhankar Banerjee编辑的《劳特利奇当代艺术、视觉文化和气候变化指南》是一项惊人的成就。它汇集了55位来自不同背景的贡献者，包括切罗基族、黎巴嫩和南非，他们从恰帕斯到香港等地区思考气候变化主题的艺术和视觉文化。没有可比的体积存在;正如编辑们所指出的那样，“在环境人文学科中……视觉艺术很少被重视，有时被边缘化，”而“艺术史作为一门学科……”这一成就是在一个奇怪的僵局中出现的:气候变化已经发展到甚至对最特权的人来说都是显而易见的，而公众的反应——如果他们存在的话——往往显得极其不足。在这个时刻，艺术和视觉文化似乎既必要又可疑。首先，“气候变化……呈现出深刻的代表性困境”(2)，因为它的寿命超过了时间尺度，也因为它的暴力证据经常被隐藏、操纵或管理。正如卡洛琳·a·琼斯(Caroline A. Jones)在她的章节《大气与人为图像绑定》(Atmospheres and the Anthropogenic ImageBind)中指出的那样，在深水地平线灾难发生后的一段时间里，英国石油公司“积极地制作了理想主义图像(志愿者帮助被石油覆盖的岸鸟)”，“公司的广告预算增加了两倍”(247)。在这种情况下，艺术和视觉文化可以起到揭示或反呈现的作用——尽管通常预算要小得多。然而，这些功能可能被证明是一个陷阱;正如Birgit Schneider所指出的那样，气候灾难的图像，尤其是那些更壮观的，可以“使观察者无法动弹，并使他们处于一种崇高的惊奇状态”(271)，而不是煽动行动。此外，考虑到前面提到的气候变化的可感知性，那些“代表性的困境”实际上可能是没有意义的:正如撰稿人莎拉·卡努斯(Sarah Kanouse)所述，“几年前，艺术家们
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Pub Date : 2022-07-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2110423
Vandana Baweja
The abstract, material, and technological reincarnations of Gandhi’s hut, spanning the sociopolitical vicissitudes of Indian history, are chronicled in Gandhi and Architecture: A Time for Low-Cost Housing. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1859–1948)—known as Mahatma Gandhi and Bapu (father), a sobriquet that refers to his status as father of the Indian nation—led nonviolent resistance movements against British colonial rule in India. Discourses on peace and developmental studies dominate Gandhian studies, the field of intellectual inquiry that investigates Gandhi’s political activism, his philosophy, and his critique of industrial colonial capitalism. Venugopal Maddipati’s Gandhi and Architecture is a much-needed book that fills a lacuna in the scholarship at the intersection of Gandhian thought and architectural discourses. The material genesis of Gandhian architecture in colonial India in the 1930s was Gandhi’s hut known as Adi Niwas, which the British spiritualist Madeliene Slade (1892– 1982) constructed in Segaon, a village in the Wardha district in the present-day state of Maharashtra in western India. Using Adi Niwas as a starting point, Maddipati investigates the subsequent cultural, ideological, ecological, and technological appropriations of Gandhi’s hut, both as an abstract idea and as a material artifact in the arena of low-cost housing. The artifactual manifestations of Gandhi’s hut covered in the book are the following: Adi Niwas (occupied by Gandhi in 1936) and Bapu Kuti, both in Segaon village in British India; the replica of Bapu Kuti in the International Exhibition on Low-Cost Housing in New Delhi, in independent India in 1954; Charles Correa’s generative modular housing framework at the Artistes’ Village in Belapur (1983–86), Navi Mumbai, in the state of Maharashtra; architectural prototypes (1978–98) by the Centre of Science for Villages (CSV) in Wardha City, Wardha District, Maharashtra; and finally, CSV’s forty houses built in the Wagdara village for the Kolam Samaj, an Adivasi (Aborigine) community in Wardha district. A first glance at the table of contents suggests that these five architectural registers may present a chronological narrative of the legacy of the Gandhian hut, but on closer reading it is obvious that Maddipati has carefully chosen these reimaginations of Gandhi’s hut at specific moments of crises and transition in Indian and world histories. These five architectural events are not presented in a linear narrative. Beginning in the 1930s, the book covers a time period of seventy-seven years, encompassing turning points not only in India’s history but also geopolitically transformative events. These critical moments include Indian independence and the partition of the Indian subcontinent into the nation-states of India and Pakistan in 1947; Gandhi’s assassination in 1948; India’s adoption of secularism, socialism, and Soviet-style modernization; the OPEC oil crises in 1973; and India’s transformation from a Nehruvia
{"title":"The Many Lives of Gandhi's Hut","authors":"Vandana Baweja","doi":"10.1080/00043249.2022.2110423","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1080/00043249.2022.2110423","url":null,"abstract":"The abstract, material, and technological reincarnations of Gandhi’s hut, spanning the sociopolitical vicissitudes of Indian history, are chronicled in Gandhi and Architecture: A Time for Low-Cost Housing. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1859–1948)—known as Mahatma Gandhi and Bapu (father), a sobriquet that refers to his status as father of the Indian nation—led nonviolent resistance movements against British colonial rule in India. Discourses on peace and developmental studies dominate Gandhian studies, the field of intellectual inquiry that investigates Gandhi’s political activism, his philosophy, and his critique of industrial colonial capitalism. Venugopal Maddipati’s Gandhi and Architecture is a much-needed book that fills a lacuna in the scholarship at the intersection of Gandhian thought and architectural discourses. The material genesis of Gandhian architecture in colonial India in the 1930s was Gandhi’s hut known as Adi Niwas, which the British spiritualist Madeliene Slade (1892– 1982) constructed in Segaon, a village in the Wardha district in the present-day state of Maharashtra in western India. Using Adi Niwas as a starting point, Maddipati investigates the subsequent cultural, ideological, ecological, and technological appropriations of Gandhi’s hut, both as an abstract idea and as a material artifact in the arena of low-cost housing. The artifactual manifestations of Gandhi’s hut covered in the book are the following: Adi Niwas (occupied by Gandhi in 1936) and Bapu Kuti, both in Segaon village in British India; the replica of Bapu Kuti in the International Exhibition on Low-Cost Housing in New Delhi, in independent India in 1954; Charles Correa’s generative modular housing framework at the Artistes’ Village in Belapur (1983–86), Navi Mumbai, in the state of Maharashtra; architectural prototypes (1978–98) by the Centre of Science for Villages (CSV) in Wardha City, Wardha District, Maharashtra; and finally, CSV’s forty houses built in the Wagdara village for the Kolam Samaj, an Adivasi (Aborigine) community in Wardha district. A first glance at the table of contents suggests that these five architectural registers may present a chronological narrative of the legacy of the Gandhian hut, but on closer reading it is obvious that Maddipati has carefully chosen these reimaginations of Gandhi’s hut at specific moments of crises and transition in Indian and world histories. These five architectural events are not presented in a linear narrative. Beginning in the 1930s, the book covers a time period of seventy-seven years, encompassing turning points not only in India’s history but also geopolitically transformative events. These critical moments include Indian independence and the partition of the Indian subcontinent into the nation-states of India and Pakistan in 1947; Gandhi’s assassination in 1948; India’s adoption of secularism, socialism, and Soviet-style modernization; the OPEC oil crises in 1973; and India’s transformation from a Nehruvia","PeriodicalId":45681,"journal":{"name":"ART JOURNAL","volume":null,"pages":null},"PeriodicalIF":0.5,"publicationDate":"2022-07-03","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"49093046","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2022-07-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2110440
J. Reznick
Abstract During the 1990s art historians established Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore as lesbian Surrealists whose oeuvre of gender-transgressing photomontages anticipated feminist explorations of gender performativity. Meanwhile Cahun and Moore’s artworks also circulated underground in Timtum: A Trans Jew Zine, where activist artist Micah Bazant celebrated Cahun as an anti-fascist trans artist who lived a gendered embodiment as yet unnamed. Investigating this understudied history as cross-temporal “touch” whereby Cahun and Moore’s work influenced the shape of politicized trans nonbinary identities, this essay considers Cahun’s gender nonconformity both within their own historical context and within ours. I argue that not only did Cahun and Moore live trans lives, but that their artwork explicitly opposed the medical and psychological discourses of their era which sought to find the “truth” of binary gender inside the bodies and minds of trans and intersex subjects. Working at the limits of photographic indexicality in order to point to the limits of the body’s indexicality, they theorized trans embodiment as an evasion of chronobiopolitical legibility. These conclusions shed new light on contemporary exhibitions in which Cahun and Moore’s work stands for the gender freedoms protected by the liberal nation state.
摘要在20世纪90年代，艺术历史学家将克劳德·卡洪和马塞尔·摩尔确立为女同性恋超现实主义者，他们的性别越界照片作品预示着女权主义对性别表演的探索。与此同时，Cahun和Moore的作品也在Timtum:A Trans Jew Zine地下流传，活动艺术家Micah Bazant在那里庆祝Cahun是一位反法西斯跨性别艺术家，他生活在一个尚未命名的性别化身中。本文将这段研究不足的历史视为跨时间的“接触”，通过这种接触，卡洪和摩尔的作品影响了政治化的跨性别非二元身份的形成，并在他们自己的历史背景和我们的历史背景下考虑了卡洪的性别不一致性。我认为，Cahun和Moore不仅过着跨性别的生活，而且他们的艺术作品明确反对他们那个时代的医学和心理学话语，这些话语试图在跨性别和双性人的身心中找到二元性别的“真相”。为了指出身体指数性的极限，他们在摄影指数性的限制下，将跨化身理论化为对时间生物政治可读性的逃避。这些结论为当代展览提供了新的视角，在这些展览中，卡洪和摩尔的作品代表了自由民族国家保护的性别自由。
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Pub Date : 2022-07-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2110436
A. Román, Michael Tymkiw
Abstract In this interview, Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles looks back on his roughly half-century career and reflects on some recurring issues that have defined his art. Key among them: a spectator’s act of walking or stepping on the ground; the iterative nature of Meireles’s process for making installations; and his interest in space, place, and circulation. The interview originally took place in October 2019, shortly after the opening of the artist’s retrospective Entrevendo—Cildo Meireles at SESC Pompéia; it has since been supplemented with material from exchanges with Meireles between August 2020 and May 2021.
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2077038
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2074753
Gabriel M. Nugent
abyme multiplies, image and audio get more distorted and cacophonous—three layers of Lynda perform, matched in motion. By framing the viewer’s encounter through these recursive screens, Benglis not only challenges any sense of video’s immediacy but also insists on the physicality of the medium and its playback devices. This is further emphasized in the moments when Benglis stands before the television set and annotates the recorded image, drawing with a thick black marker directly onto the glass of the monitor. The continuities between Benglis’s video art and her works that hang outside the darkened screening room are perhaps most evident in Collage (1973), as the video’s title might suggest. Much as Drawing #27 (1979)— installed just a few feet away—layers bits of fabric, string, tissue paper, plastic film, and metallic paper over wash, crayon, and pen, Collage creates a patchwork of color footage. The intelligibility of the shots (a hockey game, hands and arms darting in and out of the frame, encounters with three enormous oranges) comes in and out of focus, at times blurring into a technicolor excess. As in her other videos, Benglis creates spatial depth by having images appear simultaneously on and in front of the monitor. Robert Pincus-Witten once claimed that video offered Benglis “a perfect medium of gesture freed from materiality,” but Benglis piles each successive generation of image on top of the previous one much in the same way she layered brushstrokes of wax in her encaustic lozenges.7 The exhibition invites the viewer to track how Benglis’s processes and material investigations move from one technique to another. Much like the phase changes on display in the first room—liquid latex that clots into a rubbery pool and wax that melts and hardens—we can also observe modes of working changing states, jumping from medium to medium. The final gallery primarily features Benglis’s wall reliefs: bows and knots gilded in gold leaf or coated with sprays of zinc, copper, nickel, and aluminum. The wall text notes that for many of these pieces, Benglis worked with fabricators to achieve their “metallized final state,” and again the specter of Minimalism lurks in the background. What was the nature of this collaboration? For an artist so invested in the responsiveness of different materials, one imagines this did not look like Tony Smith ordering a sixfoot cube of hot-rolled steel over the phone, as he did for his sculpture Die (on view just outside the entrance to Benglis’s exhibition). It feels like a missed opportunity to not expound on Benglis’s work with fabricators after the exhibition so successfully construes her challenges to conventional notions of authorship. Across the gallery, the viewer is treated to a more textured account of the complex process required to twist and tie Moonglow Four (1985), a sand-cast glass knot glittering with metal inclusions. Far from demystifying the work, this careful description enlivens it, allowing the vie
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Pub Date : 2022-04-03DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2074754
Pınar Üner Yılmaz
Is art inherently good? Can one evaluate art detached from the conditions in which it has been conceived? Banu Karaca’s The National Frame: Art and State Violence in Turkey and Germany addresses these questions while engaging in ethnographical research on art from Istanbul and Berlin and surveying the management of art by looking into arts patronage and sponsorship, collecting and curating art, and cultural policies. The book opens with two anecdotes from the history of Turkey and Germany. The first recalls an art opening in 1993 of the work of the infamous Kenan Evren, leader of the brutal 1980 coup d’état and subsequent president of Turkey, who was responsible for numerous human rights violations and became a painter in later life. Without a doubt, such a prelude reminds the reader of the close ties between politics, the military, violence, and art production in Turkey, while the following example from Germany suggests the similarities between the Turkish and German settings. Karaca recalls the Hamburger Bahnhof ’s loan in 2004 from the Flick Collection, which had been accumulated with the fortune of Friedrich Flick, a convicted Nazi war criminal who had avoided paying reparations to Eastern European Jews for their forced labor. Following the anecdotes of corrupt financial support that fund the art world, Karaca, with her fieldwork and anthropological research undertaken between 2005 and 2011, offers the reader a new perspective on the anthropological analyses of the art world, one that considers cultural policies “from above” rather than cultural politics “from below.” Following that, Karaca illustrates how the German and Turkish modernization projects shared an awareness that art could be utilized to construct or underline a national “collective identity.” Karaca acknowledges that Turkey and Germany have followed different paths and do not share a similar time frame along the road to modernization, since imperial Germany pursued expansionist and colonialist policies while the Ottoman Empire was shrinking. However, Karaca convincingly grounds her analysis in poststructuralist and postcolonial critiques that have fundamentally unsettled the idea of linearly developing modernity. Building on the work of prominent scholars like Meltem Ahıska, Esra Akcan, Arjun Appadurai,
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