Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133303
Amin Alsaden
Militarization and organized violence are the primary causes of environmental degradation today. Informed by recent studies in political theory, environmental science, and art history, this paper argues that the war enterprise—rooted in the history of colonialism, slavery, and genocide, and sustained by extractive capitalism—is a force that has structured and continues to shape much of the world. Arab geographies, and specifically the region known as the “Middle East,” are highlighted here as the fulcrum of prolonged conflicts and frequent international intervention, largely motivated by a desire to control fossil fuels. From regular testing of new intelligent weapons and frequent deployment of lethal drones to armed factions waging guerrilla attacks on governments and civilians alike, violence in all of its contemporary manifestations cripples the region and has an environmental ripple effect globally. Ongoing warfare serves to obfuscate pressing issues such as rising temperatures, water scarcity, and deteriorating air quality, which are in turn exacerbating existing economic disparities and other sociopolitical predicaments that have plagued the region for decades. The paper surveys works by contemporary artists who interrogate the impact of conflict—Mona Hatoum, Abbas Akhavan, Thomas Hirschhorn, Shona Illingworth, and Ali Eyal—shedding light on issues that geopolitics constantly attempts to suppress. Beyond critique, these artists rethink the environment in ways that transcend the customary focus on natural habitats or climate change.
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Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133298
Jane M Blocker
Taking its cues from recent scholarship on the crisis of anti-Black violence, this essay revisits a constellation of art world events related to the 1991 police beating of Rodney King: Anna Deavere Smith’s 1993 performance Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992, a one-woman play about the riots sparked when King’s attackers were acquitted; the 1993 Whitney Biennial, which included the amateur videotape of the beating that had featured prominently in news coverage and during the trial; and a roundtable discussion about the Biennial that appeared in the journal October. Using the concept of the echo as a figure for a temporal “ongoingness,” I argue that racial disparity exists within art historical and art critical assumptions about time. By virtue of the echoic nature of police violence against African Americans, racialized subjects often have a different relationship to past-ness than white subjects, and thus the capacity to mark events as historical is a privilege to which not all subjects have equal access. Similarly, the ability to deploy the category of the contemporary in positive ways is differentially distributed. Inspired by Darby English’s suggestion that we listen for what “fights meaning” in works of contemporary art by and about African Americans, the essay harkens to the repetitions of the echo to reveal the ways in which time itself is racialized.
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Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133300
B. Cohen
Tuấn Andrew Nguyễn’s My Ailing Beliefs Can Cure Your Wretched Desires (2017) suggests that human-nonhuman relations are at an impasse. In this double-screen video installation, two animal spirits of subspecies that have recently gone extinct in Vietnam—the Javan rhino and a type of giant turtle—debate the possibility of animal liberation from humankind. Vietnam is a country with one of the most complex natural ecosystems on the planet, but it has suffered devastating histories of ecocide and animal extinctions through long histories of colonial and neocolonial violence. What does it mean to grapple with the posttraumatic time of extinction, or the aftereffects of the apparently complete annihilation of a whole species? Nguyễn’s video installation employs what I term an IPTSD aesthetic, or an aesthetic of interspecies and intergenerational posttraumatic stress disorder, representing long-term and collective trauma for animals. The video installation sweeps viewers up in an emotional rollercoaster—with its dizzying camerawork, affectively charged material, and dark, beating soundtrack—only to come to an apparent standstill in the debate for animal emancipation. Ultimately, how could we liberate animals from human violence? What could break the cycle? Mr. Rhino’s Communist rhetoric and Madame Turtle’ pacifist, Buddhist beliefs seem irreconcilable, yet the artwork interweaves a third perspective, drawing on Indigenous animist cosmologies in Vietnam to suggest the need for reimagined, interdependent human-nonhuman relations based on radical care, where people would recognize animal subjectivities and work toward interspecies empathy and long-term protection, toward stewardship of and solidarity with the Earth.
屠ấn Andrew Nguyễn的《我痛苦的信仰可以治愈你痛苦的欲望》（2017）表明，人与人之间的关系陷入僵局。在这个双屏视频装置中，最近在越南灭绝的两个亚种的动物灵魂——爪哇犀牛和一种巨型海龟——就动物从人类手中解放的可能性展开了辩论。越南是世界上自然生态系统最复杂的国家之一，但由于长期的殖民主义和新殖民主义暴力，它经历了生态灭绝和动物灭绝的毁灭性历史。与创伤后的灭绝时间作斗争，或者与整个物种明显完全灭绝的后果作斗争，意味着什么？Nguyễn的视频装置采用了我所说的IPTSD美学，或种间和代际创伤后应激障碍的美学，代表了动物的长期和集体创伤。这部视频装置将观众带入了一场情绪过山车——其令人眼花缭乱的摄影作品、充满感情的素材和黑暗、跳动的配乐——但在动物解放的辩论中却明显陷入停滞。最终，我们如何将动物从人类暴力中解放出来？什么可以打破这种循环？Rhino先生的共产主义言论和Turtle夫人的和平主义、佛教信仰似乎不可调和，但这件艺术品交织了第三个视角，借鉴了越南土著万物有灵论的宇宙观，表明需要在激进关怀的基础上重新想象、相互依存的人与人之间的关系，在那里，人们会认识到动物的主观能动性，并致力于物种间的同理心和长期保护，致力于管理和团结地球。
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Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133307
Blanca Serrano Ortiz de Solórzano
ABSTRACT Cuban artists have been politically engaged since the 1959 revolution. Although many scholars have since studied how Cuban artists have responded to the notions of utopia and dystopia on the Marxist-Leninist island, no one has examined how, for decades, artists have turned to the topic of construction as a metaphor for the creation of a socialist society. I examine the changing relationship between cultural creators and the state by analyzing artists’ inclusion of images of masons, cement, bricks, and hard hats in their works. Through their involvement with building-site imagery—from erecting actual apartment towers to imagining fantastical forms of housing—Cuban artists have long reflected on their conflicted feelings toward the role of art in Cuba and toward their commitment, as both citizens and art workers, to the revolutionary project.
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Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133314
R. Nelson
gets at the crux of The Milk of Dreams. In the midst of a global pandemic and poised on the precipice of climate catastrophe, we sit at a crossroads. Alemani and artists like Leeson recognize that our possible futures are extensions of histories and past precedents. Consequently, we cannot simply invent a new future without retroactively laying the past groundwork—whether it is through revising an existing archive or inventing a new one. A notable absence in “The Witch’s Cradle” is Surrealism’s founder, André Breton. Instead, Alemani includes letters to Breton from Nadja (Léona Delcourt, 1902– 1941), Breton’s famous muse. Nadja wrote twenty-seven letters to Breton following their first encounter in 1927—letters filled with psychic automatic writing and drawings featuring obscure occult symbols. Breton mined their encounters and correspondences to write the first Surrealist novel, in which Nadja became shorthand for a mode of surreal vision, rather than a fully formed person. In “The Witch’s Cradle,” we see a small piece of paper with a lipstick-and-pencil print of her own lip, the words “c’est moi” scrawled underneath. The indexical trace of her mouth and the declaration “it’s me” insists on her corporeal presence, and with it her role in shaping what became among the most influential movements of the twentieth century. “It’s me” likewise reminds us that Nadja has always been there in the shadows, along with the creatures, cyborgs, monsters, hybrid bodies, plants, and animals that populate this exhibition, conjured from the past and projected into the future.
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Pub Date : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133312
Paula Burleigh
Nearly every review of the Fifty-Ninth Venice Biennale cites its most impressive statistic: of the 217 artists participating in curator Cecilia Alemani’s international exhibition The Milk of Dreams, approximately 90 percent identify as women or gender nonconforming. This overwhelming majority enacts a radical reversal of the biennale’s statistical history, in which women’s contributions have typically hovered around 30 percent at best. Gender parity was only achieved in the most recent, 2019 biennale, with women-identifying individuals comprising 53 percent of artists in the central exhibition. The Milk of Dreams amounts to an intriguing course correction that signals not only new directions in contemporary art but reframes art history through alternative and gendered perspectives. I join the chorus of praise for Alemani’s exhibition, and I would add that there are other important representations afoot here. While some may (pejoratively) call this a “women’s biennale,” it is also (exuberantly) an exhibition of nonhuman actors: animals, plants, creatures, monsters, and cyborgs. In statements and interviews, Alemani has articulated her goal to illuminate the porous boundaries between human, animal, plant, and other nonhuman entities, in order to address such questions as “[W]hat are our responsibilities towards the planet, other people, and other life forms? And what would life look like without us?”1 The phrase “the milk of dreams” is taken from the title of an illustrated children’s book written and illustrated by Leonora Carrington in the 1950s. Carrington’s Milk of Dreams is a collection of tales and fables that range from darkly funny to horrifying. Most feature children and animals in concert with one another, bodies in various states of disassembly and hybridity. Heads fly off only to be reattached with chewing gum; a six-legged monstrous chihuahua woman wanders the streets bedecked in pearls. Abject images of bodily fluids and rotting meat foreground an insistently vulnerable corporeality of both human and nonhuman bodies. As cultural theorist Donna Haraway—whose influence is deeply felt in Alemani’s biennale—has succinctly written, “human beings are not in a separate compost pile.”2 Some artworks in the biennale grapple with these ideas head on: in the video Songs from the Compost: Mutating Bodies, Imploding Stars (2020) by Eglė Budvytytė (b. 1989, Vilnius, Lithuania), individuals move as though in a trance, bodies rhythmically contorting to slither, crawl, and flop in water, on lichen, and on sand, enacting the choreography of mysterious nonhuman organisms. Porous boundaries between bodies abound: in Christina Quarles’s (b. 1985, Chicago) paintings and drawings, for example, smears and drips merge already distorted bodies into one another, becoming a sexually indeterminate tangle of limbs. The global COVID-19 pandemic foregrounded our interconnectedness to nonhuman organisms, in that a virus too small for human eyes to see irrevocably cha
{"title":"A Beyond-Human Biennale","authors":"Paula Burleigh","doi":"10.1080/00043249.2022.2133312","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1080/00043249.2022.2133312","url":null,"abstract":"Nearly every review of the Fifty-Ninth Venice Biennale cites its most impressive statistic: of the 217 artists participating in curator Cecilia Alemani’s international exhibition The Milk of Dreams, approximately 90 percent identify as women or gender nonconforming. This overwhelming majority enacts a radical reversal of the biennale’s statistical history, in which women’s contributions have typically hovered around 30 percent at best. Gender parity was only achieved in the most recent, 2019 biennale, with women-identifying individuals comprising 53 percent of artists in the central exhibition. The Milk of Dreams amounts to an intriguing course correction that signals not only new directions in contemporary art but reframes art history through alternative and gendered perspectives. I join the chorus of praise for Alemani’s exhibition, and I would add that there are other important representations afoot here. While some may (pejoratively) call this a “women’s biennale,” it is also (exuberantly) an exhibition of nonhuman actors: animals, plants, creatures, monsters, and cyborgs. In statements and interviews, Alemani has articulated her goal to illuminate the porous boundaries between human, animal, plant, and other nonhuman entities, in order to address such questions as “[W]hat are our responsibilities towards the planet, other people, and other life forms? And what would life look like without us?”1 The phrase “the milk of dreams” is taken from the title of an illustrated children’s book written and illustrated by Leonora Carrington in the 1950s. Carrington’s Milk of Dreams is a collection of tales and fables that range from darkly funny to horrifying. Most feature children and animals in concert with one another, bodies in various states of disassembly and hybridity. Heads fly off only to be reattached with chewing gum; a six-legged monstrous chihuahua woman wanders the streets bedecked in pearls. Abject images of bodily fluids and rotting meat foreground an insistently vulnerable corporeality of both human and nonhuman bodies. As cultural theorist Donna Haraway—whose influence is deeply felt in Alemani’s biennale—has succinctly written, “human beings are not in a separate compost pile.”2 Some artworks in the biennale grapple with these ideas head on: in the video Songs from the Compost: Mutating Bodies, Imploding Stars (2020) by Eglė Budvytytė (b. 1989, Vilnius, Lithuania), individuals move as though in a trance, bodies rhythmically contorting to slither, crawl, and flop in water, on lichen, and on sand, enacting the choreography of mysterious nonhuman organisms. Porous boundaries between bodies abound: in Christina Quarles’s (b. 1985, Chicago) paintings and drawings, for example, smears and drips merge already distorted bodies into one another, becoming a sexually indeterminate tangle of limbs. The global COVID-19 pandemic foregrounded our interconnectedness to nonhuman organisms, in that a virus too small for human eyes to see irrevocably cha","PeriodicalId":45681,"journal":{"name":"ART JOURNAL","volume":"81 1","pages":"142 - 146"},"PeriodicalIF":0.5,"publicationDate":"2022-10-02","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"45261848","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 : 2022-10-02DOI: 10.1080/00043249.2022.2133301
Olivia White
Abstract In this paper I explore Constantin Brâncuși’s N*gress 1923–33 series, focusing mainly on the Bronze Head of a Black Woman (1926) in the collection of the Toledo Museum of Art (TMA), previously known as Blond N*gress. I begin by questioning the validity of the art historical canon and provide readers with a practical example of narrative reconstruction using an ethics-focused, feminist approach formed and executed within the walls of the TMA. I follow this with a broader investigation of Brâncuși’s representations of women to develop a more nuanced look at this canonical figure, while taking into consideration the author’s work with Bronze Head of a Black Woman. I conclude with a brief discussion on perceptions of value in the art world and the importance of continually reassessing museum narratives.
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