What these two examples suggest to me is that we are barking up the wrong tree by trying to define installations. Installations do not all share a set of essential characteristics. Some will demand audience participation, some will be site-specific, some conceptual gags involving only a light bulb.
Installations, then, are a big, confusing family. Which brings us to the second question. Why are there so many of them around at the moment? There have been installations since Marcel Duchamp put a urinal in a New York gallery in 1917 and called it art. This was the most resonant gesture in 20th century art, discrediting notions of taste, skill and craftsmanship, and suggesting that everyone could be an artist. Futurists, Dadaists and surrealists all made installations. In the 1960s, conceptualists, minimalists and quite possibly maximalists did too. Why so many installations now? After all, two of this year's four Turner prize candidates are installation artists.
American critic Hal Foster thinks he knows why installations are everywhere in modern art. He reckons that the key transformation in Western art since the 1960s has been a shift from what he calls a "vertical" conception to a "horizontal" one. Before then, painters were interested in painting, exploring their medium to its limits. They were vertical. Artists are now less interested in pushing a form as far as it will go, and more in using their work as a terrain on which to evoke feelings or provoke reactions.
"Many artists and critics treat conditions like desire or disease as sites for art," writes Foster. True, photography, painting or sculpture can do the same, but installations have proved most fruitful - perhaps because with installations the formalist weight of the past doesn't bear down so heavily and the artist can more easily explore what concerns them.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
stab at a definition
First question first. What are installations? "Installations," answers the Thames and Hudson Dictionary of Art and Artists with misplaced self-confidence, "only exist as long as they are installed." Thanks for that. This presumably means that if the ice cream van man took the handbrake off his installation Van No1, it wouldn't be an installation any more.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
When is a room not a room?
There was a bit of a fuss at Tate Britain the other day. A woman was hurrying through the large room that houses Lights Going On and Off in a Gallery, Martin Creed's Turner prize-shortlisted installation in which, yes, lights go on and off in a gallery. Suddenly the woman's necklace broke and the beads spilled over the floor. As we bent down to pick them up, one man said: "Perhaps this is part of the installation." Another replied: "Surely that would make it performance art rather than an installation." "Or a happening," said a third.
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Change
Change has been the one constant in my life. While staring out at the bleak Wisconsin winter, I think back to my beginnings on a warm tropical island. The biggest change was probably the first — moving from that buzzing Spanish-speaking isle to the sleepy sea-side town that was Tampa in 1978. It took me some time to realize that the other pre-schoolers could not understand my native tongue. Before long, I too was speaking their language.
Five years later I, an excited eight-year-old girl, boarded a school bus in New Jersey. The excitement quickly turned to fear as I heard rampant swearing in the back of the bus. I was truly shocked when the bus driver did nothing to stop the vulgarity. In my schools in Florida such behavior would have met with a bar of soap and a visit to the principal’s office. A year later, I had a "Jersey" accent, and had started swearing too.
After nine years my family then moved to a place called "a whole ’nother country": Texas. I discovered that everything is bigger in Texas, from the size of a glass of ice tea to the distances on the road. My mother added barbecued brisket to the regular menu of turkey and Idaho potatoes on Monday and arroz con pollo on Tuesday.
The incredibly friendly Texans, wearing cowboy boots and going to high school football games on Friday nights, seemed a totally different breed from my friends in New Jersey. A slight drawl entered my speech.
In two years time, I found myself in the mountains of rural Bolivian. As part of a team of doctors and students researching hypertension on a group of African- Bolivian villagers, I quickly learned a new vocabulary that included medical and anthropological terms. The greatest test of my linguistic abilities came when a villager accused me of drinking blood samples in some kind of vampire-like witchcraft ritual. I had to bridge a vast cultural gulf to explain a DNA isolation and analysis protocol in Spanish to someone who had never heard of a gene much less a double helix.
A year later I stood in a line at a McDonalds outside Buenos Aires asking for a sorbeto with a Puerto Rican accent and receiving a blank stare in return. I did not realize that in Argentina the word for straw was papote. Working at the U.S. embassy, I could clearly see the obvious differences between the U.S. and Argentina, but being out among the people and actually experiencing the culture helped me begin to understand and appreciate the subtle differences which, when taken together, make up a people.
Each place I have lived has its differences, from the obvious distinctions of Wisconsin and Texas weather, to the regional variations of the Spanish language. I bring with me wherever I go a part of those places and the impact they have had on my life, most evident to others by the variations in my speech. Beneath all the accents, however, lies something more significant, for I believe who you are is immeasurable more important than where you were. When I was younger, I could not clearly discern between situations where I should or should not adopt the ways of those around me. With maturity however I have come to understand the crucial difference between adaptation and assimilation. I have chosen to reject the vulgarity of the New Jersey school bus; I have also adopted the Texans’ warm and friendly manner. Having experienced frequent moves to very different surroundings, I can adapt without compromising what is important to me while learning from each new setting.
A sign hung in my garage for many years that said, "Home is where you can scratch where it itches." To me this means that home is wherever you are comfortable and secure with yourself and your surroundings. I will be at home and prepared to meet new challenges wherever I am. Starting over so many times has taught me not to fear failure, but rather to embrace opportunities for change.
Five years later I, an excited eight-year-old girl, boarded a school bus in New Jersey. The excitement quickly turned to fear as I heard rampant swearing in the back of the bus. I was truly shocked when the bus driver did nothing to stop the vulgarity. In my schools in Florida such behavior would have met with a bar of soap and a visit to the principal’s office. A year later, I had a "Jersey" accent, and had started swearing too.
After nine years my family then moved to a place called "a whole ’nother country": Texas. I discovered that everything is bigger in Texas, from the size of a glass of ice tea to the distances on the road. My mother added barbecued brisket to the regular menu of turkey and Idaho potatoes on Monday and arroz con pollo on Tuesday.
The incredibly friendly Texans, wearing cowboy boots and going to high school football games on Friday nights, seemed a totally different breed from my friends in New Jersey. A slight drawl entered my speech.
In two years time, I found myself in the mountains of rural Bolivian. As part of a team of doctors and students researching hypertension on a group of African- Bolivian villagers, I quickly learned a new vocabulary that included medical and anthropological terms. The greatest test of my linguistic abilities came when a villager accused me of drinking blood samples in some kind of vampire-like witchcraft ritual. I had to bridge a vast cultural gulf to explain a DNA isolation and analysis protocol in Spanish to someone who had never heard of a gene much less a double helix.
A year later I stood in a line at a McDonalds outside Buenos Aires asking for a sorbeto with a Puerto Rican accent and receiving a blank stare in return. I did not realize that in Argentina the word for straw was papote. Working at the U.S. embassy, I could clearly see the obvious differences between the U.S. and Argentina, but being out among the people and actually experiencing the culture helped me begin to understand and appreciate the subtle differences which, when taken together, make up a people.
Each place I have lived has its differences, from the obvious distinctions of Wisconsin and Texas weather, to the regional variations of the Spanish language. I bring with me wherever I go a part of those places and the impact they have had on my life, most evident to others by the variations in my speech. Beneath all the accents, however, lies something more significant, for I believe who you are is immeasurable more important than where you were. When I was younger, I could not clearly discern between situations where I should or should not adopt the ways of those around me. With maturity however I have come to understand the crucial difference between adaptation and assimilation. I have chosen to reject the vulgarity of the New Jersey school bus; I have also adopted the Texans’ warm and friendly manner. Having experienced frequent moves to very different surroundings, I can adapt without compromising what is important to me while learning from each new setting.
A sign hung in my garage for many years that said, "Home is where you can scratch where it itches." To me this means that home is wherever you are comfortable and secure with yourself and your surroundings. I will be at home and prepared to meet new challenges wherever I am. Starting over so many times has taught me not to fear failure, but rather to embrace opportunities for change.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
chinese story
"The State of Yu and the State of Guo are neighbor stated as closely related as lips and teeth. The State of Yu cannot exist independently if the state of Guo is destroyed. Your precious stones and fime hores are just left in the care of the monarch of the State of Yu." So Duke Xian of the State of Jin accepted Xun Xi's plan. When the monarch of Yu saw the precious gifts, he was elated,and readily promised to let the Jin army pass through his state. Hearing the news, Gong Zhiqi, one of the ministers as the State of Yu, hastened to admonish the monarch, saying," That won't do.For the State of Yu and the State of Guo are neighbor states as closely related as lips and teeth. Our two small states are interdependent, and can help cach other when problems crop up .If the State of Guo were destroyed, it would be difficult for our State of Yu to continue to exist. As the common saying goes, if the lips are gone ,the teeth will be cold, The teeth can hardly be kept if the lips are gone. So it won't do at all to allow the Jin army pass our state." The monarch of the State of Yu said," The State of Jin is a big state. Now they here specially to present gifts to us with the intention of being on friendly terms with us. Under suchcircumstances, how can we refuse to allow them to pass through our state?" Hearing this, Gong Zhiqi sighed repeatedly. Knowing that the State of Yu would soon be destroyed, Gong Zhiqi left the State of Yu together with his whole family. As expected, the troops of the State of Jin, allowed to pass through the State of Yu, destroyed the State of Guo and on their return trip captured the monarch of the State of Yu who went out personally to meet them, htus destroying the State of Yu as Well. This story appears in the chapter " The Fifth Year of Duke Xi " in Zuo zhuan,the famous commentary by Zuo Qiuming on The Spring and Autumn Annals. The set phrase " if the lips are gone, the teeth will be cold " is used to mean that two persons or things share a common lot and that is one fails ,the other is in danger.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
learn chinese resource
Today,i see a web to learn chinese.Now I share for you!
learn chinese online:http://www.chinesepal.cn/
learn chinese link
learn chinese: www.chinesepal.cn/first/learn-chinese/
learn chinese online:http://www.chinesepal.cn/
learn chinese blog
andy guo:gwb-chinese.blogspot.com
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