• Carsten Höller, Vitra Slide Tower, Weil am Rhein, Switzerland, 2014 (via ummhello)

  • Company No. 508, Dragon River Bridge, Da Nang, Vietnam, c. 2009-13 (via met)

  • Adrian PaciThe Column at Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume, Paris, France, 2013 (via vimeo)

  • Smiljan Radic, Serpentine Gallery Pavilion, London, England, 2014

  • El LissitzkyAbout 2 Squares, c. 1928 (via claeswar)

    (Source: mmg62ui35gyu24, via rosswolfe)

  • The art of hanging pictures, to steal a phrase from Kerry James Marshall, is a bit like the craft of using words to make sentences, which in turn cohere into paragraphs, which accumulate in the service of an idea. It is part didactic instruction, part ineffable feeling about what things work well together. Both rely on the principle that the space between pictures is not neutral, that the pictures themselves are not autonomous (unless they are placed in a way to suggest that), and that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Historically, in Western museums, arrangements of works thus took the form of curated rooms that were frequently nationalistic in nature; often they were teleological, championing some linear narrative of cultural progress. And these are the aspects of museology that came under justifiable scrutiny during the days of institutional critique and identity politics.

    But the arrangement of pictures, to steal another phrase, this time from Louise Lawler, wasn’t bound up with master narratives alone. It was also inextricably tied to the primary methodology of art history: that of “compare and contrast.” Famously extolled by art historian Heinrich Wölfflin (1864–1945), compare-and-contrast was the binary system of looking at any two works of art simultaneously (made possible by the advent of the slide lantern), which led, from the nineteenth century onward, to the establishment of art history’s fundamental categories—stylistic shifts, early and late styles, nationalist movements, ideological differences. However it was deployed, the underlying idea was that meaning is built through syntax, that syntax requires difference, and that difference is something to be staged or spatialized or, at the very least, invoked through the act of adjacency.

    True, this binary logic tended toward old sawhorses like “progress,” the “canon,” and “genius” (all contrast and no comparison). But I fear we may have thrown the baby out with the bathwater when we sought to debunk and eliminate all forms of binary thinking. In the end, wasn’t what was wrong with binary logic its unthinking production of hierarchies, almost all of which were designed to maintain the status quo? And yet today’s status quo is virulent pluralism. Too many recent exhibitions have taken their installation cues from art fairs and the like, more prone toward leveling than toward difference, more inclined toward the presentation of opinion than toward the dexterity of argumentation. Is there no way that we can imagine holding on to the productive syntactic function of compare-and-contrast? Is there no way we can imagine opening up the binary nature of the gesture to encompass the Barthesian third term? Have we totally given up on art history as the governing methodology, or even the deep structure, of museum exhibitions?

    —  Helen Molesworth, “Review of the Whitney Biennial" for Artforum, 2014(via grupaok)

  • Gentrification is violence. Couched in white supremacy, it is a systemic, intentional process of uprooting communities… [Its] central act of violence is one of erasure…. In an appallingly overwritten New York magazine article with the (I guess) provocative title “Is Gentrification All Bad?,” Justin Davidson imagines a first wave of gentrifiers much the way I’ve heard it described again and again: “A trickle of impecunious artists hungry for space and light.” This is the standard, “first it was the artists” narrative of gentrification, albeit a little spruced up, and the unspoken but the understood word here is “white.” Because, really, there have always been artists in the hood. They aren’t necessarily recognized by the academy or using trust funds supplementing coffee shop tips to fund their artistic careers, but they are still, in fact, artists. The presumptive, unspoken “white” in the first round of artists gentrification narrative is itself an erasure of these artists of color.

    —  Daniel José OlderGentrification’s Insidious Violence: The Truth About American Cities, 2014 (via wakie)

    (via shellypolitik)

  • Martin VlachUntitled, c. 2014

  • Martin VlachUntitled, c. 2014

  • Jamie Mills, Forests, 2013 (via beaubourg)

  • Bruna CanepaArranha-céu Outdoor, 2014 (via socks)

    (Source: miniatura77)

  • Bruna CanepaOne Man Building, 2012 (via socks)

    (Source: miniatura77)

  • What struck me about the Odyssey is that all of us, from the time we begin to think, are on an odyssey. … And I think this is what makes the story so lasting, so classic, and applicable to everyone.

    —  Romare Bearden, “On Art,” c. 1970 (via carlos)

  • Joseph Altschuler, Mari Altschuler, and Zachary Morrison, “Oscar Upon a Time” for Fairy Tales Competition, 2014

  • Now these I named derive their origin from other living forms. There is one bird which reproduces and renews itself: the Assyrians gave this bird his name—the Phoenix. He does not live either on grain or herbs, but only on small drops of frankincense and juices of amomum. When this bird completes a full five centuries of life straightway with talons and with shining beak he builds a nest among palm branches, where they join to form the palm tree’s waving top. As soon as he has strewn in this new nest the cassia bark and ears of sweet spikenard, and some bruised cinnamon with yellow myrrh, he lies down on it and refuses life among those dreamful odors.—And they say that from the body of the dying bird is reproduced a little Phoenix which is destined to live just as many years. When time has given to him sufficient strength and he is able to sustain the weight, he lifts the nest up from the lofty tree and dutifully carries from that place his cradle and the parent’s sepulchre. As soon as he has reached through yielding air the city of Hyperion, he will lay the burden just before the sacred doors within the temple of Hyperion.

    —  Ovid, “The Myth of the Phoenix" from Metamorphoses, 8 CE (via etext)