Mar 5, 2016

Law as Symbol: Taryn Simon’s "Paperwork and the Will of Capital" at Gagosian Gallery


(c) Taryn Simon


Taryn Simon, Paperwork and the Will of the Capital is on view at 
Gagosian Gallery 
555 West 24th Street 
February 18 - March 26, 2016

           Throughout much of her artistic career, Taryn Simon (b. 1975) has utilized the power of visual media—including photography, sculpture, video, and performance—to critique systems of power. Her work exposes the dark side of existing practices and, in particular, the ways in which law affects the lives of people. Simon exploits the dual record-keeping and fiction-making role of photography to document and fabricate the invisible. For example, in The Innocents series (2003), the artist shames the flawed American criminal justice system by photographing wrongfully convicted men at the sites of their alleged crimes. Such works reveal the inadequacies or, more often, harms that result from the current systems in place. Her works compel the question: whom are these laws meant to serve?
            Simon’s work answers that the law is meant to serve its people, but the practical applications of law often do not reflect this purpose.  Law exists to maintain order that will facilitate a free society in which people can pursue happiness without impinging upon the pursuits of others. However, law is often used against the very people it was meant to serve and protect.

(c) Taryn Simon
  
          If Simon’s previous work exposed the perverse applications of law, her most recent body of works on display at Gagosian Gallery reveals another side of law: its empty and symbolic nature. Part humor, part lament, we often joke that politicians are full of crap. Unfortunately, the statement is funny because it is often true. Simon’s photographs and sculptures highlight the artificiality and hopelessly symbolic nature of international treaties: perhaps some of the emptiest promises by one group of politicians to another.
            The power of these works—the large photographs in particular—stems from captivating images that, despite their startling vividness, remain harmless to the viewer.
We use flowers as harmless speech. We buy flowers most often as symbolic gestures to commemorate an occasion or to express particular sentiments to others. We use flowers as harmless objects of contemplation, to provide visual reminders of such sentiments and occasions.
Such speech-flowers are fragile and ephemeral. Their visual and olfactory pleasures expire as quickly as the feelings of the occasion begin to fade from our memories. When they lose their value as sensory pleasure-givers, we toss them out. Unlike other symbolic gifts, we readily dispose of flowers because of their purpose as temporary symbols.[*]

(c) Taryn Simon

            Simon highlights the utterly symbolic and superficial role of flowers—and the occasions they were to commemorate—by exaggerating the surface beauty of flowers that were once sitting on the tables where international powers signed various agreements. Most of the photographs show exquisite arrangements in intensely vivid colors, all against equally striking and beautifully color-blocked backgrounds. However, the texts accompanying the mesmerizing centerpieces state the common fate of all these treaties: failure of the signatories to implement them.
The artist thereby disturbs the easy assumptions held by many people, that once codified into law, the harms addressed by the law will remedy themselves. Her beautiful photos and their accompanying texts expose this as a faulty assumption, which presumes the automatic integration of such agreements into real life. However, laws do not execute themselves—people do.
            First, many international treaties are not self-executing; local governments must pass laws that allow their execution. Even after the agreements are passed as local laws, law truly exists—and therefore holds power—when it is enforced in everyday life. Without enforcement, these international agreements remain as mere words on paper, nice and fanciful ideas, and nice gestures by participating governments, yet nothing more.
            The horror bestowed upon us by Simon’s beautiful work stems from the realization that this is actually how legal systems in general work, and that substantial harm can result from the nature of law as a multi-step process. A law may be passed because of a felt need to address existing problems, but the law can only fulfill its initial purpose when it is executed properly in everyday life, down to the police men, government agencies, and the judiciary.

(c) Taryn Simon

Today, when instances of misapplication and faulty enforcement of the law continue to demonstrate the shortcomings of the current system, Simon’s recent work prompts a second look at law as “mere words,” and invites us to emancipate it from its purely symbolic status toward a working system that better serves its true master: the people.


[*] The other side of this sad fate of flowers as symbols is that if one does not wish their flowers to meet their inevitable destiny in the trash, one must prematurely remove them from their life-extending environments in water and place them between the pages of a book—or a flower-press, as Simon has—and crush them live in the name of preservation.

Jun 18, 2015

Christine Ay Tjoe: Perfect Imperfection

First Type of Stairs (2010), oil on canvas.

My review of Christine Ay Tjoe's solo as it appeared on ArtAsiaPacific:

A curator’s hand can make or break an artist’s work. “Perfect Imperfection,” the first solo exhibition in Korea of prominent Indonesian artist Christine Ay Tjoe, is evidence of one such making. The show reflects the deep understanding the curator has of the artist’s work that is needed to provide an informative framework of her artistic practice and development: from Ay Tjoe’s graphic influences to her beautifully colorful oil canvases. With over 60 works displayed across the three floors of SongEun ArtSpace in Seoul, the exhibition—organized by guest curator Jasmine Prasetio—leads the viewer through the past 15 years of Ay Tjoe’s practice by following the artist’s recurring spiritual metaphors: from darkness and light to somewhere between and within, and also the future. In her body of work, the artist converts Christian biblical references into secularized, spiritual inquiries of universal experiences that we share as human beings.

Jubah Barabas #01 (Barabas' Robe #01) (2008), acrylic on canvas.

The title of the exhibition aptly summarizes Ay Tjoe’s search for the balance between abstraction and figuration, and between control and free flow. The artist’s works are visual representations of her struggle with her own faith and its tension with her undeniable humanness. The painting Jubah Barabas #01 (Barabas’ Robe #01) (2008) exemplifies this constant balancing act, featuring abstract, intertwined figures, in which elements of light and darkness are inextricable linked to one another. Insatiable hands reach out from the obscured, floating bodies—in search of something and with a sense of perpetual longing. The constant strife that arises from the coexistence of our earthly and spiritual desires is perhaps the curse of being human, positioned somewhere between an animal and a transcendent, or an angel and a monster.

Interior / wall view of Journey Without Distance (2011), oil on canvas.

While the theme of insatiable human desires and spiritual transcendence over such worldly attachments pervade much of Ay Tjoe’s work, the artist’s search for a resolution serves as an open conclusion on the last floor of the gallery space. One cannot see the entirety of the large-scale painting Journey Without Distance (2011), because of its proximity to an adjacent wall and the lack of light. Just like how we often go about our everyday without pausing to take in the whole picture of our lives, this expansive painting—suspended from the ceiling and meant to be viewed from a 50-centimeter distance—allows viewers only glimpses of the three-paneled canvas at a time. Viewers must cautiously walk the narrow and dark path between the wall and canvas, following the painting’s soft fields of muted beige gradations, outlined and entangled by the white, red and black lines traced with her signature oil sticks.

The Last Layer (2012), oil on canvas, and video animation projection (2012-14).


The highlight of the exhibition is indisputably The Last Layer (2012), a red-hued painting that hangs isolated in a darkened space partitioned by black curtains. The chapel-like sanctuary achieves maximum effect when the projection of The Last Layer Video Animation (2012–14) spreads outward from the center of the aforementioned painting. The projection shows leafy, red shapes—a recurring motif in Ay Tjoe’s paintings—that turn round and round, like an array of flickering coins gradually spreading out on the floor and ceiling of the gallery space. The effect is mesmerizing: the red canvas appears otherworldly and, for a moment, transports the viewers to a sublime experience. Upon leaving the room, however, one comes to the realization that the search for a resolution is not over, and that our predisposition for inner strife will continue as long as humanity itself.



“Perfect Imperfection” is on view at SongEun ArtSpace, Seoul, until June 20, 2015.

Oct 16, 2014

Absence and Neglect


For some reason
I actually thought that there actually did exist some sort of ontological dispute taking place through or under the guise of an ostensibly linguistic dispute about the definition of art, as manifested by recent lawsuits involving appropriation artists.

Silly me.

It all comes down to money.

Why did I think I could place art in a category that operates differently from others? 
Even though I made conscious and even performatively public criticisms against the infiltration of money into the way in which our cultural products are distributed and legitimized…

For some reason
I thought my discovery of the intersections between law, language, art, philosophy, and other abstract ways in which we understand the world around us was somehow special. Law, especially, because I had never quite understood anything about it until recently.
Art is the same. Money dictates its operations. 

What I had given superficial attention turned out to be a horrible monster, which I am happy I did not endorse so enthusiastically—the rich are winning the copyright litigations and “redefining” the “definition of art”! 

Is this a good thing for art or is it just the victory of those with money?
I can’t tell if it pushes art to go further and into another kind of territory, or if it merely demonstrates the reach of capitalism’s power into a variety of realms such as art and other cultural affairs. 


It feels good to rant again.

But probably another long silence will pass.

Jul 6, 2014

Fluid Pot of Koreans in NYC: On "KOREA" at FiveMyles

View of Yooah Park's Music Box series (2013) and North Korean posters (from left to right) by Kim In Chang and Ji Jeong Sik.


“KOREA” at FiveMyles Gallery
558 St. John’s Place
Brooklyn, NYC

June 25 – July 13, 2014

            The exhibition simply titled “KOREA,” curated by Han Heng-Gil, is a rare occasion, if not the first here, that has provided an opportunity for New Yorkers to view contemporary works by North and South Korean artists within the same space. Mr. Han has been around the New York City art scene as a curator at The Jamaica Center for Arts & Learning and, over the years, has developed relationships with Korean artists who have both passed through the cultural hub for brief residencies as well as those who have decided to stick around for a longer term. Han occasionally travels back and forth to NYC and South Korea, but the current exhibition at FiveMyles Gallery in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, is the result of a trip the curator recently made to North Korea. He was fortunate to have been able to bring back several paintings by North Korean artists, whose work are on display with those of South Korean as well as Korean American artists.
            Whenever I see an art exhibit as of late, my focus increasingly turns to the curatorial efforts: the way in which the selected art works are displayed as a whole, their flow as overcoming and complicating what the individual works may offer in isolated or otherwise different contexts. Sometimes a curator makes or breaks art works by their arrangements in a given space. My interest in “KOREA” lies in the clear traces of the curator’s hand. When visitors walk into the gallery, the visual divide between the two sides of the space is clear: the two dimensional works along the left side of the space are monochrome, while the works along the right side burst in a clash of vivid colors. In the middle of the floor between the two divides, bronze busts of the former president of South Korea, Lee Myung Bak, and the likewise former ruler of North Korea, Kim Jong-Il, turn around on the floor—just moving in for, or breaking away from, a kiss.

View of SunTek Chung's Me and You, You and Me, 2011 in foreground, projection of Kelvin Kyung Kun Park's Cheonggyecheon Medley (2011) and N. Korean posters (from left to right) by Kim Young Il, Ha Ju Won, and Kim In Chang.

            The bronze work, titled Me and You, You and Me, 2011, is by SunTek Chung, a born-and-raised American. Its position at the center of the space casts a curious light on the nature of the entire show itself: was this convergence of North and South Korean art work—and a critique of North-South relations—only possible by virtue of its locale in New York City, a third-party? NYC serves as the neutral ground (arguably the DMZ in this context) in which the curator (also a “global” citizen in a sense, though South Korean by nationality) is able to articulate a possible utopia or instigate a dialogue about the relationship between two nations whose separation, Mr. Han seems to suggest, have been imposed—and still exist—artificially.
            The installation of the art works indicates the artificiality of the divide between North and South (similarly applicable to East and West, but that is indeed another discussion à la Edward Said). The monochrome side of the exhibit is particularly interesting especially in context of the recent Korean monochrome “trend” as legitimized by exhibitions in “Western” spaces (Alexander Gray Associates in NYC, for one) and the climbing prices for such representative mid- and late-career artists such as (now Guggenheim veteran) Lee Ufan and Park Seo-bo. In contrast, perhaps the nearly intrusive vividness of bright colors on the right side of the gallery may even appear too cheesy and “pop.”

View of the left side of the gallery, including works by Pang In Soo, Kim Tcha Sup, Choi Gye Keun, Choi Il Dan, and Ri Chang.


“KOREA,” however, does not clearly indicate which of the works are by North, South, or Korean American artists. The majestically tacit North Korean monochrome ink paintings hang next to South Korean ones, whereas the display of colorful North Korean propaganda posters from 2007 are interspersed by the equally (if not more) colorful paintings by New York-based Yooah Park and a projection of Cheonggyecheon Medley (2011) by Kelvin Kyung Kun Park, a UCLA and CalArts graduate, who grew up around the world. Kelvin Park’s film portrays South Korean metal shops during the nation’s time of modern development and Yooah Park’s paintings prod at questions about “couples,” but juxtaposed with the propaganda posters, all of their differences melt into a single visual image.

South Korean artist Lee Kakyoung's Window View, 2012

The inclusion of Lee Kakyoung’s video work acts as a humorous visual summary of the almost deceptive melding of the so-called national and cultural divides within the entire exhibition. The work, titled Window View, 2012, is the sole piece placed at a narrow wall adjacent to the monochrome side, only visible when one turns one’s body fully toward the left-hand side. The sneakiest is the work itself: what appears from a distance as a slightly open window penciled onto the surface is actually accompanied by a video projected only onto the open crack of the drawn window. Small people move around busily outside (inside?) this fictional opening.

The best thing about the exhibition, though, is that the visual result achieved by the curatorial efforts overcomes what could have been a cheesy, ideologically propaganda-esque, and utopia-driven project about a “united” Korea. The simultaneous dissonances and resonances offered by the visual selection of works in “KOREA” reaches beyond a singular argument for a possible utopia, but rather opens a dialogue. During my visit, I overheard other visitors argue whether or not the Kelvin Park’s film projection was a North Korean film. We need fresh eyes to look at our world anew in order to change it for the better. I received some hope today that it may still be possible with art.