Guest post by Jeriah Hildwine
Recently on display at 65 Grand was An Object In The Woods, featuring artwork by Bob Jones.Â One of Jones’ works is titled Ghillie Suit.Â I hardly needed the title to know what it was about; I’m quite familiar with that soft-edged overspray of Krylon Camouflage Ultra-Flat spray paint (available in Brown, Olive Green, Black, and Khaki) anywhere, particularly with the telltale silhouettes of foliage (in this case hay).Â The association is a fond one, and the work fits well into Jones’ theme.Â It is a distinctly rural image, the quintessential “object in the woods.”
A ghillie suit is a garment intended to provide the wearer with concealment, typically in a wooded environment (although desert and snow versions do exist).Â The most common etymology is that the garment was named after the gillies (“lads” or “servants”), who were Scottish game wardens tasked with protecting a landowner’s game from poachers.Â These gamekeepers sometimes wore suits of shredded rags to help them blend in with their surroundings, either as a form of portable hunting blind or to conceal themselves from the poachers they were pursuing.Â The suits entered military usage with the Lovat Scouts, a Scottish Highland unit of the British Army formed during the Second Boer War (1879-1915).Â This unit served as sharpshooters, and were in some ways the antecedents of the military sniper, who remain the primary users of ghillie suits to this day. [Read more]
Photographer Larry Sultan has died at the age of 63. The New York Times reports that the cause was cancer. From his obituary:
Larry Sultan, a highly influential California photographer whose 1977 collaboration, â€œEvidenceâ€ â€” a book made up solely of pictures culled from vast industrial and government archives â€” became a watershed in the history of art photography, died on Sunday at his home in Greenbrae, Calif. He was 63.
The cause was cancer, said his wife, Katherine, who is known as Kelly.
In the mid 1970s using a grant and a letter of introduction from the National Endowment for the Arts, Mr. Sultan and Mike Mandel, who had met as students at the San Francisco Art Institute, somehow managed to persuade several large companies, agencies and research institutions like the Bechtel Corporation, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the San Jose Police Department and the United States Department of the Interior to let them rummage through their documentary photo files.
Highly influenced by the West Coast brand of Conceptualism then percolating out of places like the California Institute of the Arts, both men were interested, as Mr. Mandel later said, in exploring photography as â€œmore than just the modernist practice of fine-tuning your style and way of seeing.â€ The pictures they chose from the archives, out of the hundreds of thousands they examined, were a strange, stark, sometimes disturbing vision of a late-industrial world: a space-suited figure sprawled face down on a carpeted floor; a car consumed in flames; a man holding up a tangle of weeds like a trophy; a shaved monkey being held down by a gloved hand.
Some of the images seemed to have been picked for their uncanny resemblance to installation art being made at the time. But the 59 photos published, with no captions to explain what they showed or where they came from, pursued a much broader, Duchampian agenda of harnessing found photographs for the purposes of art while using them as a way to examine the society that produced them. The critic Kenneth Baker of The San Francisco Chronicle wrote that the project demonstrated brilliantly the degree to which â€œwe have no calculus to unravel relations between what a picture shows and what it explains.â€
You can read more about Sultan’s Pictures from Home, a photographic series on his parents’ lives post-retirement, here, as well as an essay that Sultan wrote about his photographic series The Valley for the L.A. Weekly here.
Editors’ Note: Liz Nielsen’s is the last post in our week-long series on Apartment Galleries in Chicago, all of which were originally written for Floor Length and Tux’s “Untitled Circus” event a few weeks ago. A number of essays on Chicago’s thriving domestic/apartment gallery art space scene were solicited from local writers/artists/curators involved in the running of such spaces, and we posted some of them here on Bad at Sports as a way to extend the discussion. I’ll be posting some summarizing thoughts on this series later on, along with links to where you can find a .pdf file containing additional essays on Chicago’s Apartment Galleries written for the Untitled Circus event. Please feel free to email us with your comments at firstname.lastname@example.org, or if you’d like to contact the folks at FLAT directly, you can email Erik at erik@ floorlengthandtux.com.
Guest Post by Liz Nielsen
A few thoughts
Erik Brown and Michael Thomas invited me to write down my thoughts regarding the recent spurt of apartment/domestic/project spaces in Chicago with the intent of pushing forth a few waves of constructive criticism that might consequently enable some of these spaces to re-calibrate their homegrown efforts. Now, I run my own space too, the Swimming Pool Project Space in Albany Park, and so I began by looking at my own reflection in the mirror and asking myself why I do what I do, and why I am where I am.
I am a Chicago artist. I have seen my reflection many times but this time I saw something, a stark reality, with more clarity than I had seen in the past.Â Louder than ever before I heard a resonating sentence echoing inside my head:Â If Chicagoâ€™s art scene is second or third tier then naturally it produces second or third tier artists.
But if Chicagoâ€™s art scene is second or third tier, does it follow that it would naturally produce second or third tier artists? I am better than that.Â I know that we are better than that.
So the question becomes: can Chicago raise the bar? Can it rise above the standards set by third tier expectations? Do we ourselves want honorable mentions, or gold medals? The artists who do make it into the top tier usually leave Chicago shortly before or immediately after their success starts to happen. So this leads me to wonder, if Chicago artists want to be gold medal-winners and recipients of national and international recognition, must we leave Chicago?
Iâ€™ve been running circles in my mind trying to figure out why we are where we are, and why we donâ€™t, apparently, have the means to get the gold.Â We obviously have the energy.Â The innumerable independent spaces are one indication of this.Â I have come up with several reasons but there is one that I continually spiral back to, and that is that Chicago has very few â€œparent galleriesâ€, relative to the number of artists. At risk of being cutesy, parent galleries are the commercial venues that give us artist children shelter, that help us with our homework, hang our work on the refrigerator, talk us up like crazy, send us to art camps/residencies, and above all help us grow into the artists that we are capable of becoming. As it stands, hundreds of art students are pumped out of our schools in Chicago every year â€” and these are great schools â€” only to be orphaned with nowhere to show, nowhere to go.
So we parent ourselves.
We build our own tree-houses and clubhouses in the backyard or in our living rooms.Â We start our own spaces and exhibit our own work. We share our own ideas and show our friends. But to a certain extent, the pragmatic facts of â€œbeing an orphanâ€ wear us down: the fact that the challenge of making work increases when weâ€™re also completely responsible for ourselves, for promoting our art, and paying the bills through other means. In the end, these tree-house projects, no matter how exciting and productive in certain instances, donâ€™t bring in much money, and donâ€™t get enough support from the city or its institutions, and eventually most of us run out of gas without even making it onto any sort of global art map. [Read more]
Guest Post by Jennifer Breckner
Some Notes on Hosting
Brian Oâ€™Doherty, in his seminal 1976 book, Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space, takes the traditional gallery space to task, critiquing the manner in which its white walls became the de facto authority that conferred the status of art upon any object that resided within its space. Serving as a template, the white cube formatâ€”white walls, rectangular or square shape, wooden floors, and lit from the ceilingâ€”may be utilized anywhere and continues to be implemented widely, including in most of Chicagoâ€™s beloved apartment galleries.Â What are some tactics for moving beyond this model in these types of smaller domestic environments so that a more equitable space may be envisioned?
Presented as neutral but being far from it, the sanitized, white-walled space came into being during Modernism and quietly claimed more and more power over time so that eventually it became more important than the art that was displayed within.Â â€œWe have now reached a point where we see not the art but the space first,â€ asserts Oâ€™Doherty. Â The white-cube model continues to be the premier method for the display of art within institutions such as the formidable museum, blue chip commercial gallery, and even the not-for-profit â€œalternativeâ€ gallery.Â Its structure conveys knowledge and authority; it asks of the viewer a quiet, almost religious-like devotion.Â While it often is a useful background for artwork to be seen on, the white-walled gallery may also be a place of exclusion and judgment where privilege, breeding, economic status, educational background, and social cache allow various stages of access and exclusion. It is a space of contention, often leaving visitors in the precarious position of questioning their right to be there.
If this type of space is rife with anxiety and power, then shouldnâ€™t the apartment gallery be an antidote to this situation since the power within these spaces resides with individuals who have broader latitude and more autonomyâ€”because the stakes are not as high as the commercial gallery or museumâ€”to experiment with setup?Â Yet most Chicago apartment gallerists seem interested in perpetuating the white cube and all its inherent structure and exclusions, even if the directors are not consciously aware that they are doing this.Â In large part, the use of this modernist template is due to the fact that most apartment gallery owners are renting the space that they live in and serious changes to the infrastructure of their domestic space could have a negative effect on their lease. Or perhaps they do not see the gallery space as elitist and find it useful to follow the professional set-up.Â More importantly, though, the institutionalization of exhibition methods has infiltrated even the tiniest self-produced endeavor and carries such weight that many individuals see their apartment gallery as a calling card to gain entrance to the realm of more professional institutions.
There are many of these self-initiated exhibition venues that do away with the materials of everyday life and gravitate towards the white cube blueprint.Â An article on Chicagoâ€™s apartment galleries mentions an owner who was pleased that the exhibition part of her living space resembled a commercial venue and that all of the evidence of people living there had been removed out of sight. This kind of approach is a mistake for how can oneâ€™s living space compete with the likes of a commercial gallery?Â Instead of the domestic space striving to be more commercial and always falling short of the pristine effect and voice of authority that the museum or formal gallery embodies, the focus should be on finding inventive and innovative strategies of display that mingle art with living materials. [Read more]
Guest Post by Caroline Picard
On the matter of public (1) space : or my apartment gallery is an arctic explorer
â€œâ€˜Oh, you have a roommate?â€™
â€œ â€˜Yeah, sheâ€™s actually here right now, but sheâ€™s sick….Donâ€™t do thatâ€”sheâ€™s trying to sleep.â€™
â€œI heard them but pretended to remain asleep by keeping my eyes closed; [closing your eyes] is what passed for privacy then. My â€˜roomâ€™ was in a corner of the kitchen on the other side of a folding screen. If you were tall enough, you could see me from either side at any time. The above exchange took place during the installation of a show when I happened to have a cold. I lived at the Green Lantern from 9/06 to 8/07. Recently out of college, I moved to Chicago to get my bearings. I had just spent two years living in the French countryside with no heat, no car, no Internet, no noise, no zines, no sushi, no shows, no jargon. When I moved in, I had never owned a computer. Suddenly I was in the middle of an art scene. [Read more]