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    5 Institutions to Visit During Shanghai Art Week, Where Museum Shows of Western Contemporary Art Reflect Regional Demand

    Shanghai Art Week returns this year with yet another edition focused a domestic audience rather than those coming from abroad due to stringent Covid-19 travel restrictions. But this does not mean that the art on show is primarily domestic.
    While foreigners may still have trouble with setting foot in China, (some) art does not. Between the works on offer at gallery booths at the two art fairs opening this week—West Bund Art & Design and Art021—and the auction houses’ sale previews, art aficionados stuck in the country will be treated to a veritable buffet of art from abroad. Western artists, who have been selling well at auctions in Asia, are also the stars of some of the biggest institutional shows in Shanghai this month. Read on for the highlights.

    Yuz Museum, Shanghai
    Herman Bas, “Choose Your Own Adventure”October 28, 2021–January 9, 2022
    Shara Hughes, “The Bridge”November 6, 2021–January 9, 2022
    Hernan Bas, The Young Man & the Sea (2020). Private collection, Korea. Courtesy the artist and Lehmann Maupin, New York, Hong Kong, Seoul, and London.
    The Shanghai museum founded by Chinese-Indonesian entrepreneur and collector Budi Tek has given the stage to two Americans who are making their solo debuts in mainland China. “Choose Your Own Adventure” is a survey of the career of Miami-born artist Herman Bas over the past two decades, featuring more than 20 paintings and early video installations. Among the highlights are his detailed and alluring figurative paintings. “The Bridge,” meanwhile, is a solo presentation by the Brooklyn-based painter Shara Hughes, with examples of her most recent enigmatic landscapes created during the pandemic featuring in the museum’s Yuz Project Space.

    Long Museum West Bund
    George Condo, “The Picture Gallery”September 26–November 28, 2021
    Pat SteirOctober 23, 2021–January 3, 2022
    Pat Steir, Rainbow Waterfall (2021). © Pat Steir. Courtesy of Lévy Gorvy.
    Two more solo exhibitions of Western artists can be found at the West Bund branch of Long Museum, founded by mega-collector couple Liu Yiqian and his wife, Wang Wei. Billed as the largest solo exhibition of George Condo to date, “The Picture Gallery,” curated by the New Museum’s Massimiliano Gioni, is a sizable retrospective of the American artist. The exhibition showcases nearly 200 paintings, sculptures, and drawings that reflect Condo’s trajectory from the late 1970s to present. Since the artist introduced in Hong Kong in a selling exhibition at Sotheby’s in 2018, where he was presented side by side with works by Pablo Picasso, Condo has been a cause célèbre in the Asia market.
    The eponymous solo presentation of the American artist Pat Steir, on the other hand, is marketed as the artist’s “love letter to China.” The show is the first in the country to take a deep dive into the artist’s ink-inspired practice over the past four decades and foregrounds her iconic “Waterfall” series paintings, from those that she began creating in the late 1980s to the new, large-scale painting Rainbow Waterfall (2021).
    Longlati Foundation
    Derrick Adams, Amoako Boafo, and Vaughn Spann, “Behind This Wall”
    Tala Madani, “It Was as if the Shadows Were Lit Up”November 9, 2021–February 28, 2022

    Cofounded by Singapore investor David Su and Chinese artist Chen Zihao, the Hong Kong-registered Longlati Foundation has chosen a the triumverate of Derrick Adams, Amoako Boafo, and Vaughn Spann—whose works have been popular at auctions in Asia in recent years—to inaugurate its new Shanghai space, which pledges to support young artists. The portraits featured in this group show, drawn from the foundation’s collection, seek to explore and redefine the idea of Blackness. Concurrently, the foundation is presenting the “Corner Projections” painting series by Tehran-born, Los Angeles-based Tala Madani.
    Prada Rong Zhai
    Nathalie Djurberg and Hans Berg, “A Moon Wrapped in Brown Paper”November 11, 2021–January 9, 2022
    Nathalie Djurberg & Hans Berg, Dark Side of the Moon (2017). Courtesy of the artists and Tanya Bonakdar Gallery.
    A historic, circa-1918 residence restored with precision by Prada is the jewel-box setting for a show by the Swedish artist duo Nathalie Djurberg and Hans Berg. Staged with the support of Fondazione Prada and curated by Yang Beichen, the exhibition features a range of sculptures and videos made between 2000 and 2019 that take visitors on a journey through an imaginative universe conjured by dark fairy tales. The monstrous characters may seem like they have traveled from a different realm, but, says Yang, the stories have profound connections with the complexity of our contemporary world.
    Shanghai Fosun Foundation 
    Alex Israel, “Freeway”November 10, 2021–February 15, 2022
    A self-portait by Alex Israel in the collection of Derek and Chrsten Wilson. Photo by Eileen Kinsella
    The American artist Alex Israel’s first museum-scale exhibition in China has taken two full years to realize and delivers a vast body of work in a range of media, from paintings and moving images to sculptures, installations, and interviews. Highlights include his “Self-Portrait” and “Sky Backdrop” series. “I hope to invite the Chinese audience into my head,” the artist said in a video about the exhibition. “I hope the exhibition makes you ask questions, makes you feel, think and reflect on our culture.” Following the presentation in Shanghai, the exhibition will travel to Chengdu, where the Fosun Foundation will open a new space next spring.
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    Artist Arthur Jafa Takes an Abstract Turn in His First New Film Since His Golden Lion-Winning Project for the Venice Biennale

    This weekend, a beloved New York art institution came back for one night in a big way. Up on 127th Street, Gavin Brown’s Enterprise reopened its doors for the first time since shuttering in summer 2020 to present the American debut of artist Arthur Jafa’s new film, AGHDRA (2021).
    Though the first floor offered its own excitements—Rirkrit Tiravanija cooked masses of paella for the crowd, followed by a party complete with several dance-offs between artists—the fourth floor of the space was where the magic really happened.
    At this stage in Jafa’s career, any new work is something of an event. This film is his first in three years and follows Love Is The Message, The Message Is Death (2016), which made him a sensation, and The White Album (2018), which won the Golden Lion at the 2019 Venice Biennale. It arrived in New York with little fanfare—and no advance press attention—via an Instagram post on Jafa’s page.
    AGHRDA (2021) significantly slows down the artist’s typical rapid-fire collaged imagery set to a maximal score, instead calling on viewers to lose themselves in one droning horizon. Unlike his previous work, its imagery is entirely computer-generated, not found.
    Jafa’s visual language may have shifted toward the abstract in this piece, but it’s also part of the same conversation he’s been having for years. This time around, he interrogates Afrofuturism as the very matter that creates Earth breaks down, while calling back to the transatlantic slave trade.
    A portion of the new film, then still in progress, was previewed at a MoMA PS1 event in January 2020, and the full version debuted at Jafa’s retrospective at the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art this past spring. It is on view in New York until December 5.
    Arthur Jafa, AGHDRA (2021). Photo: Annie Armstrong.
    For a lengthy 85 minutes, AGHDRA will keep you staring directly at the sun. Computer-generated waves emulate the ocean turned black, the texture of which has alchemized into a material that looks like coal or cooled lava. The sun moves through both day and night in a toxic haze.
    The longer you watch, the more you feel your breath constrict. Eventually, the waves periodically rise to block out the sun—not quite providing relief from it, but rather instilling a feeling of dread. Earlier this year, Jafa foreshadowed AGHDRA‘s darker tone to the New York Times, saying, “I’m an undertaker. I don’t do the uplift thing.”
    The film is a notable evolution for Jafa, who has expressed discomfort with the way Love Is the Message, The Message Is Death, a found-media video collage about Black life, was so enthusiastically embraced by white audiences. (“People were getting this eight-minute epiphany,” he explained. “Even when people said, ‘Oh I cried,’ the very cynical part of my brain suspected some kind of arrested empathy with regard to the experience of Black folk.”)
    After the 2020 murder of George Floyd, a coalition of 15 museums looped the film on their websites for an entire weekend, its searing jump-cut clips of Black triumph and injustice flashing across screens in the homes of people around the world.
    Jafa’s follow up, the White Album, brought his raw Internet-surfing style to whiteness, juxtaposing clueless YouTube pundits, a sinister paramilitary type, and even his former dealer Gavin Brown.
    With AGHDRA, Jafa continues to resist easy consumption and easy answers. After 85 minutes of staring into Jafa’s sun, perhaps surface-level fans of his work will walk away with a new understanding of what he has to say. But it’s clear they are no longer, and may have never been, the artist’s primary audience.

    “Arthur Jafa: AGHDRA” is on view at 439 W 127th Street, New York, through December 5.
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    The Vatican Library Just Opened Its First Permanent Contemporary Art Gallery a Stone’s Throw From the Sistine Chapel

    A contemporary art exhibition has opened in a new dedicated gallery in the Vatican Apostolic Library, which is normally only accessible to scholars, and Pope Francis was on hand for its inauguration on November 5. Funded by the heirs of the American philanthropist Kirk Kerkorian, and organized by the Atlanta-based Sanctuary of Culture Foundation, the library’s first public exhibition space is meant to “support the culture of encounter,” according to librarian Cardinal José Tolentino de Mendonça.
    The inaugural show, titled “Tutti. Umanità in cammino” or “Everyone: Humanity on Its Way,” features work by Italian artist Pietro Ruffo inspired by the most recent papal encyclical, an open letter released to the Catholic clergy and laity that expresses the pope’s views on a particular aspect of church doctrine. The document, titled Fratelli Tutti and published last October, includes the pope’s thoughts on brotherhood and “social friendship”, based on the writings of Saint Francis of Assisi.
    Ruffo was commissioned to create a new work for the gallery, engaging with themes of migration and travel, according to a Vatican statement, “underlining the difficulties and the beauty of the encounter between people of different origins.” The installation The Clearest Way takes over the Vatican Library’s Sala Barberini, with Ruffo’s rolled botanical prints lining the 17th-century wooden bookcases, transforming the room “into a lush tropical forest,” according to the Catholic News Agency.

    De Mendonça said that the Vatican is seeking to strengthen its arts and culture programming through such opportunities of “history meeting the present.” And so, along with Ruffo’s work, the exhibition space includes manuscripts and geographical drawings from the Vatican Library, like a 20-foot-long 17th-century map of the Nile river by Ottoman explorer Evliya Çelebi and Chinese world maps dating to the 16th century.
    “The encounter with the immense patrimony of the Vatican Apostolic Library was for me a journey into knowledge, geography, and the history of humanity,” Ruffo told CNA, adding that “the dialogue between my research and the terrestrial and celestial maps of different eras and cultures outlines a humanity that is increasingly interconnected and responsible for the fragile relationship with its ecosystem.”
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    Prospect New Orleans Made ‘a Million Compromises’ to Open. Here’s How Organizers Pulled It Off Without Compromising the Art

    Less than two months before the fifth edition of Prospect New Orleans was set to commence this past August, Hurricane Ida devastated the Louisiana city. The fate of the triennial—which was already postponed a year by the pandemic—was once again up in the air. 
    Looming over the dilemma was a kind of perverse irony. The show’s central theme is about how the cycles of the past shape the present, and Ida no doubt recalled another tropical storm, Hurricane Katrina, from which the inaugural Prospect triennial was born 13 years ago. And so organizers of this year’s event decided to push on, too. 
    “It became evident quite quickly that it was important for us to pursue the exhibition,” said Diana Nawi, who curated the show with Naima Keith. As with so many events canceled over the past year and a half, the city’s residents needed a “mark on the calendar.”  
    “What we’ve heard over and over again is how excited people are for Prospect to be open right now,” added Keith. 
    Diana Nawi and Naima J. Keith, the show’s curators. Courtesy of Prospect New Orleans.
    The first slate of Prospect’s 50-plus projects opened last month, with more to come over the following weeks, including new work by artists Dawoud Bey, Dineo Seshee Bopape, and Nari Ward. 
    The slowed rollout wasn’t ideal, but the landscape of New Orleans’s venues changed dramatically over the last year. It was one of the many concessions Keith and Nawi were forced to make as they battled an onslaught of logistical obstacles. Travel restrictions limited site and studio visit opportunities, while supply chain shortages challenged the production of certain artworks. The show’s catalogue, meanwhile, was delayed for months at a shipping port. 
    “A million compromises were made, but I don’t feel that the show was compromised in the slightest,” said Nawi. “It’s a stronger, better show for everything that has challenged it.”
    Most of the show’s participants evolved their contributions over the last year as well, some due to material considerations, others in the name of addressing the current political moment. 
    An installation of new work by Dawoud Bey Vistors on view in “Prospect.5: Yesterday we said tomorrow.” Photo: Jose Cotto.
    Glenn Ligon’s neon sculpture listing the names of toppled confederate statues has been updated with new entries, for instance, while new artworks by Willie Birch and Celeste Dupuy-Spencer reflect the January 6 attack on the United States Capitol. (All three artists’ offerings will go on view at the Ogden Museum of Southern Art this week.)
    For her part, Adriana Corral, who had planned to erect an inverted gravestone made of bulletproof glass, decided to reallocate her commission funds, donating the majority to mutual aid in New Orleans. 
    “I think the show is a really moving testament to what people are thinking about, what is important here in New Orleans, and how that reflects out to the larger nation and world at this moment,” said Nawi. It’s critical, she went on, “to bring people here and see what culture means, what the stakes of culture are here.”
    “Prospect.5: Yesterday we said tomorrow” is on view now through January 23 at various locations in New Orleans. 
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    In Pictures: The New Museum Opens This Year’s Very Subtle Triennial, Filled With Earthy Tones and Muted Imagery

    The title of this year’s New Museum triennial is “Soft Water Hard Stone.” It’s a moniker that alludes to the natural world, to folk wisdom, and to the kind of quiet, insistent force that makes change over time—the idea being that even something as pliant as a soft current of water, over time, has an effect.
    Curated by Margot Norton and Jamillah James, with the assistance of Jeanette Bisschops, the resulting show does indeed land gently. It’s a show of a lot of things that either lay on the ground or look like they were just picked up off the ground, and things that vaguely evoke a ruin. It is all washed-out colors and neutrals and graphite grays. It has a cool emotional tone (though not a cold one).
    There are almost no big, central images—it’s a lot of things you have to look at like puzzles, for details. Even the big things and the figurative work feel faceless and diffuse somehow. The mental afterimage the show leaves is of a lot of people standing with their backs to you, talking in low tones.
    It offers plenty to think about. As I put together my own thoughts on it, here are some photos of the show, so you can get a taste for yourself.

    4th Floor
    Cynthia Daignault, As I Lay Dying (2021) and Gabriel Chaile, Mamá Luchona (2021) in the New Museum Triennial. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Tanya Lukin Linklater, An Amplification Through Many Minds (2019). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Jeneen Frei Njooti, Fighting for the Title Not to Be Pending (2020). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Various works by Kang Seung Lee. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Nadia Belerique, HOLDINGS (2020-ongoing). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Brandon Ndife, Pistachio (2021) and Market Fare (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Brandon Ndife, Pinched (2021) and Ripe Today, Finally (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Two panels from Cynthia Daignault, As I Lay Dying (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    A work by Erin Jane Nelson. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Gabriela Mureb, Machine #4: stone (ground) (2017). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Alex Ayed, Untitled (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.

    Stairway Gallery
    Alex Ayed, Untitled (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Gabriela Mureb, Machine #3: belt (small) (2013-21). Photo by Ben Davis.
    3rd Floor
    Kate Cooper, Somatic Aliasing (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Krista Clark, Annotations on Shelter 5 (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Tomás Díaz Cedeño, 1000 Años (2019). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Haig Aivazian, All of Your Stars Are But Dust on My Shoes (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Yu Gi, Flesh in Stone Ghost #8 (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Krista Clark, Annotations on Shelter #3 (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Ambera Wellman, Strobe (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Laurie Kang, Great Shuttle (2020-21) and Root 2020-21). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Jes Fan, Networks (for Rupture) (2021) and Networks (for Extension) (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Iris Touliatou, Untitled (Still Not Over You) (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Works by Harry Gould Harvey IV (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Sandra Mujinga, Pervasive Light (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.

    2nd Floor
    Three works by Goutam Ghosh. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Bronwyn Katz, Xãe (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Angelica Loderer, Untitled (ribbons) (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Alex Ayed, Untitled (Sail II) (2020) and Untitled (Sail IV) (2020). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Ima-Abasi Okon, Put Something in the Air: The E-s-s-e-n-t-i-a-l Mahalia Jackson Blowing Up DJ Pollie Pop’s Chopped and Screwed Rendition of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries — Military-Entertainment Complex Dub [Jericho Speak Life!]*(Free of Legacy)* (2017). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Works by Ann Greene Kelly. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Blair Saxon-Hill, Emergency Contact (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Christina Pataialii, Footsteps in the Dark (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Kahlil Robert Irving, Routes&Roots[(SaintLouis NewYork (returnflight)] MEMORY MASSES (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Works by Ann Greene Kelly. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Wallpaper and various untitled works by Evgeny Antufiev and [foreground] Hera Büyüktaşcıyan, Nothing further beyond (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Works by Evgeny Antufiev. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Foreground: Hera Büyüktaşcıyan, Nothing further beyond (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Rose Salane, 60 Detected Rings (1991-2021) (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Amalie Smith, Clay Theory (2019). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Gaëlle Choisne, Temple of Love—Love to love (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Lobby Gallery
    Arturo Kameya, Who can afford to feed the ghosts (2021). Photo by Ben Davis.
    Amy Lien and Enzo Camacho, waves move bile (2020). Photo by Ben Davis.
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    At the Shed, Instagram-Ready Art Collective Drift Serves Up a Spectacle Made of Floating Pillars and Lightweight Ideas

    I’m a bit split about “Fragile Future,” the slick collection of installations by Amsterdam-based experience-art duo Drift (a.k.a. Lonneke Gordijn, Ralph Nauta, and their “multidisciplinary team” of helpers), currently at the Shed.
    In terms of what you see and experience, the show is fun. If you like Christmas light shows or Las Vegas magic acts—and I do personally like both these things—this will hit the spot. It’s art in that register.
    But it also aims to be more than just fun. Drift wants its work to be taken seriously, to both inspire and to “ask fundamental questions.” And I just don’t know if I can take it that seriously.
    Taking Drift seriously as art wasn’t as much of a concern in the recent past. As a group they were well-regarded, but their output was mainly Design Miami fare. Starting about 5 years ago, however, Drift began to assume a new profile as visual art itself took a more and more high-tech, experiential turn, and the proliferation of Instagram environments started to put pressure on museums (call this the Rain Room effect).
    They’ve been drawing interest around the world—literally from NASA to Burning Man—via their work with choreographed drones, and recently Drift was picked up by Superblue, the new for-profit outfit sprung from the side of the Pace mega-gallery, which is pitching itself as a dedicated purveyor of interactive immersive art as a disruptive new market force. (In fact, it is Superblue’s curator who gets credit as organizing “Fragile Future,” with the Shed seemingly reduced to helper status in its own venue.)
    Drift was previously on the edge of the art world, in a quirky category of design-that-is-almost-art. Now it has leapfrogged so that it is being watched as something like the future of art. So there’s more at stake in “Fragile Future” than whether it is pleasant or not.
    Installation view of Drift’s “Fragile Future” at the Shed in New York. Photo by Ben Davis.
    In the Shed show, the sequence of Drift-engineered attractions is designed so that the works escalate in ambition as you go along. In a first gallery, you find the show’s title work, Fragile Future (2007–21), a complex concatenation of lamps, each pinpoint LED light embedded in what appears to be a real, fluffy dandelion, filling the shadowy space with hazy, optimistic halo.
    Drift, Coded Coincidence at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Passing to the next gallery, you come upon Coded Coincidence (2021). Air currents whip around inside a long rectangular area enclosed by nets, within which Drift has deposited a large number of small, lightweight LED nodules. Lifted by the intermittent gusts, the lights bluster around in the dark, forming swarms of arabesque-ing sparks in the air, skittering from one end to the next in a way that is supposed to evoke seeds carried by the wind.
    Drift, Ego, at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    Turning a corner, you arrive at Ego (2020–21), a setup of diaphanous fabric panels suspended in the air by cables. As mechanized winches around the edges pull cables in and out in a pre-programmed sequence, the fabric is flexed into a number of different forms, each suggesting a different emotional state: a stable box, a tortured cone, a defeated plane slumping to the floor.
    This is the piece here that comes closest to making you feel something in “Fragile Future.” But then it is literally an exercise in forcing inanimate matter to pantomime emotion, conveying a bit of the sense of watching a robot flex facial features mechanically, cycling through human expressions.
    In any case, these pieces are all engaging enough. But what everyone will remember from “Fragile Future,” is Drifters, the show-stopping main attraction/performance, staged at select times as the centerpiece.
    You approach this spectacle via a prologue gallery where two connected films play. One shows New York street scenes in which giant blocks of concrete float mysteriously through the air. The other depicts similar concrete blocks being birthed from the ground in the wilderness, congregating over a plane and assembling together into some kind of immense, mysterious Tower of Babel.
    Stone blocks assemble in a film shown in Drifters at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    After getting the sense of these films, you turn another corner and emerge into the Shed’s vast concert hall, its four-story ceiling towering above you. And there, actually levitating in the air above your head, are six of the enchanted concrete blocks—just like those in the film, only now in real life. (One such block was shown, to crowd-pleasing effect, at the Armory Show a few years ago, and was one of the works that made Drift’s reputation in the art world.)
    A portentous, droning soundtrack projects awe and reverberates around you. The magic blocks are spotlit from all sides, with clouds of rock-concert smoke being expelled into the air periodically to accent it all with an atmosphere of drama.
    A smoke machine at work during the Drifters performance at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    At first, these floating pylons drift aimlessly above, like rubble deposited in space by some kind of antigravity ray. Then, as you venture beneath them, or walk around the edges to get different views and marvel, the blocks gradually seem to wake up and to move with a kind of gathering purpose.
    The music swells. The blocks unite into a pattern.
    The first time I saw this show, the blocks assembled themselves vertically, formed a circle, and then descended deliberately until they were hovering just beyond the reach of the tallest person. It brought to mind an audition for a Stonehenge musical. Another time, they all went horizontal and formed a line, weaving deliberately in and out.
    Visitors view Drift, Drifters, performed at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    After each assembly, the blocks return to their more random and dispersed state, drifting around aimlessly for a bit before coming to life again, a cycle of about 20 minutes.
    This is vintage Big Fun Art, and photogenic as hell. As to what it makes you feel or think about, Drifters benefits from your memories of countless Hollywood films and video games where some kind of mysterious alien structure comes to life to transmit some kind of coded cosmic epiphany. But what is the substance of that epiphany?
    Starting with this show’s name, “Fragile Future,” and extending through all the press around it, the artists’ own statements, and the wall text, there is an insistence on a specific mission for Drift, one that is somehow both grandiose and indistinct. The Shed advertises artists who address “urgent environmental themes in their work in order to challenge their audiences to think differently about their connections to Earth,” offering “a hopeful atmosphere for imagining a different world.”
    Visitors view the floating blocks in Drifters. Photo by Ben Davis.
    All the works but Ego here feature variations on that promise of environmental consciousness-raising in their texts. But there is one remaining body of work I haven’t yet mentioned is particularly and uncharacteristically clear about how Drift views its purpose: the “Materialism” series, consisting of multicolored, differently sized rectangular volumes arranged together on displays.
    Via work descriptions, you quickly discover that each cluster represents the exact volume of different materials used in a variety of everyday tools: the work called Bike, for instance, is composed of a large rectangular volume of rubber, an aluminum rectangle, a smaller lacquer rectangle, and so on, to suggest bike components; iPhone is a dense cluster of tinier squares, in glass, stainless steel, polycarbonate, lithium cobalt oxide, graphite, etc.
    Drift, iPhone 4S (2018). Photo by Ben Davis.
    “Everything that is bought and consumed has an impact upon complex systems of resource extraction, labor, manufacturing, and distribution,” the text explains. “The ‘Materialism’ series thus calls for contemplation on how people deal with the raw materials at their disposal.”
    Beyond the general unease with toxic consumer culture that pervades affluent consciousness right now, this enjoinder reflects a very specific debate about values going on within the design field. Numerous designers—including, famously, Dieter Rams, who is credited with creating the Apple aesthetic—have decried how design has played a role in lubricating a system of thoughtless consumption that is destroying the earth. Designers stand accused of encouraging people to covet cool forms and forget the underlying costs.
    I’d argue that Drift’s “Materialism” series remains a little simplistic and mystifying in the designer-ly, materials-centric way it conveys this critical thought to its audience. Plenty of artists, from Allan Sekula to Jimmie Durham to Mika Rottenberg to Cameron Rowland, have forged sophisticated, thoughtful, and poetic ways of documenting the chains of human labor, energy expenditures, and environmental costs embedded in things we take for granted. And I doubt that it truly comes as a shock to the average Shed-goer that their bike is made of rubber and aluminum.
    Nevertheless, there is something interesting about Drift’s deconstructive design gesture, and it is unusually concrete in pointing to what they think they are doing that’s serious.
    Returning to the enigmatic spectacle of Drifters, you can see the forms of the floating mystery blocks echoing the same rectangular volumes used in the decompositions of the iPhone and the bike—symbolizing a return to elemental reality, the basic building blocks of the world laid bare.
    A stone block is depicted emerging from the muck in “Fragile Futures” at the Shed. Photo by Ben Davis.
    This message is not super clear, conceptually, because the Drifters are obviously meant to be concrete blocks, their main distinguishing feature being that they are studded with holes where rebar formwork ties usually stabilize the concrete during production. They thus evoke the built architectural environment, not elemental materials—even though, in the film, the blocks seem to be shown emerging whole from nature.
    My guess is that the holes are a scenographic device, not a conceptual one. If the floating blocks were simple gray volumes, they wouldn’t look like much. Your mind wouldn’t readily register the illusion of a heavy thing behaving unnaturally.
    At any rate, the idea of Drifters comes into view in relation to the “Materialism” series: We have become alienated from our built environment, and the floating blocks represent some kind of higher, harmonious state of consciousness where we are returned to considering and respecting it.
    One of the blocks from Drifters. Photo by Ben Davis.
    But the “concrete block as symbol of utopian promise” idea does not really land (so to speak), does it? It takes too long to figure it out, and the intellectual payoff for the effort is too thin. This narrative doesn’t explain what you see so much as vaguely justify the spectacle with an eco-gloss.
    Notably, while “Materialism” is all about the critical gesture of detailing the fundamental components of design objects we take for granted, the labels for Drifters very deliberately do not explain how the floating-block trick works—and Drift are very clear that they don’t want to explain. That would kill the magic. (If I had to guess, I’d say the blocks are big, disguised balloons, with some kind of interior drone setup so they can be steered. The soundtrack, in addition to telegraphing wonder, serves to cover what seems to be the keen of hidden rotors.)
    That kind of opacity is fine if the note we are trying to hit is arena-rock, design-art entertainment—which is what this is. But that’s the reverse, really, of getting back in touch with how our world actually works, beneath all the bells and whistles of hyper-designed consumerism.
    You may be mildly inspired at the Shed that someone figured out how to make something that looks like a movie special effect happen in real life. Alas, making more and better spectacular environments is not something I have ever really doubted our society can do, so as art, “Fragile Future” does not provide me with some kind of spiritual salve or inspire me to “imagine a different world.” I can just enjoy it and then go back to work.
    “Drift: Fragile Future” is on view at the Shed, New York, through December 19, 2021.
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    ‘Curating Is Always About Desire’: Artist Tiona Nekia McClodden on Her Exhibition Paying Homage to Revered Queer Filmmaker Barbara Hammer

    For the inaugural show at its new space, Company Gallery has mounted the first solo show in New York dedicated to the feminist filmmaker Barbara Hammer since her death in 2019. Titled “Tell me there is a lesbian forever…”, the show is curated by artist and filmmaker Tiona Nekia McClodden, who delved deep into Hammer’s archive to gather videos, photos, and drawings from the first few decades of her practice starting in the late 1960s, when she came out as a lesbian, rode off on a motorcycle with a Super-8 camera, and started creating her experimental films, such as Dyketactics in 1974.
    The exhibition, which also features a range of material from Hammer’s papers—love letters, diaristic poems, and her copy of an FBI report on mid-century lesbian rights group the Daughters of Bilitis—performs the labor of building queer community, forging affective bonds across time and across generations. McClodden’s insightful presentation of Hammer’s early work looks at a much beloved figure from new angles, insisting on its relevance for younger queer people.
    Recently, we spoke to McClodden about Hammer’s 1972 BMW motorcycle, queer biography, and curating as a practice driven by desire.
    The sole artwork of yours in the show is a 1972 BMW motorcycle that you had restored—the same model that Barbara drove in the 1970s. It seems this piece is the conceptual heart of the exhibition and speaks to so many of the themes that you’ve drawn out in Barbara’s work: biography, memory, sensuality, romanticism. How does the motorcycle reflect your own relationship with Barbara, both as a person and as an artist of an earlier generation?
    Barbara Hammer, Haircut (1985) still. Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    It’s really cool to be able to talk about this, because I don’t think people understand that Barbara and I didn’t have a long relationship. The first time I ever met her was in 2018, and by that time she was dying. Before that, going all the way back to 2002 in Atlanta when I was trying to be a filmmaker, I knew her work. 
    I would go to Outwrite Bookstore, the LGBT coffee shop, and they had a section of lesbian magazines—Diva, Girlfriend. These magazines were how I knew that there were lesbian filmmakers at all and there were only a couple of filmmakers included like Barbara, Cheryl Dunye, Michelle Parkerson. But Barbara was special because she was experimental. 
    When I was working on the show, the first thing that came to me was the bike. There was always one image of Barbara that stuck with me—a photo of her on the road in Baja, California where she’s wearing leather on that bike. I wanted the bike to kind of be this accountability partner, because it felt like something that was an extension of Barbara’s physical being, it had such an intimate interaction with her body. I decided to foreground this thing that is very physical, very sexy. I decided that I wanted it to be this mirror and to be reflective, something that would always catch what was around it. 
    Installation view, “Barbara Hammer: Tell me there is a lesbian forever…” Courtesy of Company Gallery.
    I see a real insistence on queer biography with the materials you’ve included—not in the traditional sense of lionizing the artist, but giving a sense of the intertwining of social circumstances, sexuality, and artistic practice. The earliest works you include are from the year that Barbara left her husband and came into her own as a lesbian, taking a motorcycle across the country. How did you seek to present her biography through these objects? 
    Using the archival materials, I wanted to go into her head. I thought that was a good way to counter the hyper-sexualized narrative around her work. I selected these things that were actually very difficult texts. She’s dealing with her coming out but there’s also these repetitive,  manifesto-type poems where she’s stating: “This is what I want, this is what I want, this is what I want.” 
    In these texts from her archive, she works out a lot of her anxieties around being perceived as this deviant type of person. And I felt very comfortable to include these personal, diaristic texts because Barbara was the one who prepared her archive before it was sent to the Beinecke Library at Yale.
    Barbara Hammer, FBI Report, Daughters of Bilitis (1985). Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    One of the things that I love is the way you’ve insisted on blurring the line between “art” and “ephemera” or between gallery and archive. For example, you’ve framed a copy that Barbara owned of the FBI report on the Daughters of Bilitis, or one of her transparencies. It seems you’re asking the viewer to really think hard about what is a work versus what isn’t. What was behind your decision to do this?
    It comes from my own practice of looking at ideas around biomythography and rememory. As I was curating the show, I still wanted to hold true to my own interests. Here I am, this Black dyke, looking at this very white woman, so there has to be somewhere where I process this through my subjectivity and the things that I know that allow for a different read of a person. 
    With Barbara’s show, I really wanted to deal with blurring the line between archive and art, because a lot of her practice deals with issues around documentary. There’s sometimes more fiction in it than people would believe. 
    When it came to the Daughters of Bilitis FBI report, specifically, I immediately thought: “This is going in a frame.” Immediately, I thought about it as a work of art. I was thinking of it as part of the mission of her practice. The FBI report was just as real or as fictitious as some of the documentaries that she made.
    Installation view, “Barbara Hammer: Tell me there is a lesbian forever…” Courtesy of Company Gallery.
    In the exhibition text, you talk about Barbara’s love letters reaching you through the person you love. As a PhD candidate at Yale, your partner was able to visit the university library on your behalf when it was closed to the public during COVID. There is a picture in the vitrine downstairs of her hands sorting through the archive. Do you see curating as a labor that is laden with desire, that is defined by affective bonds?
    I think, for me, it is because it has to be. I want to make sure that people understand that it’s an artist that’s curating this because curating, quite frankly, is somewhat of a violent position. It’s really about cutting. You could really twist somebody’s shit up. But curating is always about desire. Like when I did the Julius Eastman show at the Kitchen, it was almost to the point of a madness, but that was what that work required—it is obsessive. 
    Barbara’s work had a more romantic disposition to it. Because of that, I depended on my fiance in a way that I had never before. I could have asked someone else at Yale to visit the archive for me, but I wanted her to do it and I said, “I need you to do it because I love you. It’s about this lesbian identity. I trust what you will find attractive in the archive.” 
    The second day she went she told me that I should flag this really intense letter to Barbara from this woman named Corky that said, “Tell me there’s a lesbian forever.” She just bust out laughing because the letter was so intense, but I knew in that moment that it had to be the title of the show. 
    And that photo of her hands in the archive became something that felt very true. That is the affect of this show, that kind of engagement with another woman. She cared for me in real time. That was a moment for me to deal with my love, in this way, where this woman was also dealing with her love in this letter.
    Barbara Hammer, Hand Print “Lesbian” (1985). Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    How does the show’s title speak to the ways that younger generations of queer people interpret, embrace, and/or reject elements of earlier communities?  Lesbian (as well as dyke) were words so important to Barbara’s practice and the period that she made work in, but they aren’t necessarily favored today. What is your own relationship to these terms? 
    I’m a Black dyke. It’s a word that I’ve always returned to. I think that one of the things that Barbara and I have in common is that there have been some complicated situations in our respective lives and practices where there has been this forced antiquation of the idea of lesbian or dyke. I find that to be dangerous because it’s an identity that is always evolving. So my thing with the show was to show Barbara to be this woman who was constantly interrogating her identity. 
    I wanted the show to attract an intergenerational crowd. There are older lesbians who have felt like they can’t come into certain spaces because they’ll be seen as antiquated by younger folks. Because I’m 40—I’m not too old yet and I’m also not that young—I felt like I could do this middle ground thing where there’s a place for everybody. And that revealed itself at the opening because so many people came from all over the spectrum of identity, age, everything. 
    My goal has always been to figure out how to bridge the past with the present and show that it’s not a looking back, looking forward thing. It’s more looking side to side—and that’s really what this was about for me.
    Follow Artnet News on Facebook: Want to stay ahead of the art world? Subscribe to our newsletter to get the breaking news, eye-opening interviews, and incisive critical takes that drive the conversation forward. More

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    ‘Curating Is Always About Desire’: Artist Tiona Nekkia McClodden on Her Exhibition Paying Homage to Revered Queer Filmmaker Barbara Hammer

    For the inaugural show at its new space, Company Gallery has mounted the first solo show in New York dedicated to the feminist filmmaker Barbara Hammer since her death in 2019. Titled “Tell me there is a lesbian forever…”, the show is curated by artist and filmmaker Tiona Nekkia McClodden, who delved deep into Hammer’s archive to gather videos, photos, and drawings from the first few decades of her practice starting in the late 1960s, when she came out as a lesbian, rode off on a motorcycle with a Super-8 camera, and started creating her experimental films, such as Dyketactics in 1974.
    The exhibition, which also features a range of material from Hammer’s papers—love letters, diaristic poems, and her copy of an FBI report on mid-century lesbian rights group the Daughters of Bilitis—performs the labor of building queer community, forging affective bonds across time and across generations. McClodden’s insightful presentation of Hammer’s early work looks at a much beloved figure from new angles, insisting on its relevance for younger queer people.
    Recently, we spoke to McClodden about Hammer’s 1972 BMW motorcycle, queer biography, and curating as a practice driven by desire.
    The sole artwork of yours in the show is a 1972 BMW motorcycle that you had restored—the same model that Barbara drove in the 1970s. It seems this piece is the conceptual heart of the exhibition and speaks to so many of the themes that you’ve drawn out in Barbara’s work: biography, memory, sensuality, romanticism. How does the motorcycle reflect your own relationship with Barbara, both as a person and as an artist of an earlier generation?
    Barbara Hammer, Haircut (1985) still. Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    It’s really cool to be able to talk about this, because I don’t think people understand that Barbara and I didn’t have a long relationship. The first time I ever met her was in 2018, and by that time she was dying. Before that, going all the way back to 2002 in Atlanta when I was trying to be a filmmaker, I knew her work. 
    I would go to Outwrite Bookstore, the LGBT coffee shop, and they had a section of lesbian magazines—Diva, Girlfriend. These magazines were how I knew that there were lesbian filmmakers at all and there were only a couple of filmmakers included like Barbara, Cheryl Dunye, Michelle Parkerson. But Barbara was special because she was experimental. 
    When I was working on the show, the first thing that came to me was the bike. There was always one image of Barbara that stuck with me—a photo of her on the road in Baja, California where she’s wearing leather on that bike. I wanted the bike to kind of be this accountability partner, because it felt like something that was an extension of Barbara’s physical being, it had such an intimate interaction with her body. I decided to foreground this thing that is very physical, very sexy. I decided that I wanted it to be this mirror and to be reflective, something that would always catch what was around it. 
    Installation view, “Barbara Hammer: Tell me there is a lesbian forever…” Courtesy of Company Gallery.
    I see a real insistence on queer biography with the materials you’ve included—not in the traditional sense of lionizing the artist, but giving a sense of the intertwining of social circumstances, sexuality, and artistic practice. The earliest works you include are from the year that Barbara left her husband and came into her own as a lesbian, taking a motorcycle across the country. How did you seek to present her biography through these objects? 
    Using the archival materials, I wanted to go into her head. I thought that was a good way to counter the hyper-sexualized narrative around her work. I selected these things that were actually very difficult texts. She’s dealing with her coming out but there’s also these repetitive,  manifesto-type poems where she’s stating: “This is what I want, this is what I want, this is what I want.” 
    In these texts from her archive, she works out a lot of her anxieties around being perceived as this deviant type of person. And I felt very comfortable to include these personal, diaristic texts because Barbara was the one who prepared her archive before it was sent to the Beinecke Library at Yale.
    Barbara Hammer, FBI Report, Daughters of Bilitis (1985). Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    One of the things that I love is the way you’ve insisted on blurring the line between “art” and “ephemera” or between gallery and archive. For example, you’ve framed a copy that Barbara owned of the FBI report on the Daughters of Bilitis, or one of her transparencies. It seems you’re asking the viewer to really think hard about what is a work versus what isn’t. What was behind your decision to do this?
    It comes from my own practice of looking at ideas around biomythography and rememory. As I was curating the show, I still wanted to hold true to my own interests. Here I am, this Black dyke, looking at this very white woman, so there has to be somewhere where I process this through my subjectivity and the things that I know that allow for a different read of a person. 
    With Barbara’s show, I really wanted to deal with blurring the line between archive and art, because a lot of her practice deals with issues around documentary. There’s sometimes more fiction in it than people would believe. 
    When it came to the Daughters of Bilitis FBI report, specifically, I immediately thought: “This is going in a frame.” Immediately, I thought about it as a work of art. I was thinking of it as part of the mission of her practice. The FBI report was just as real or as fictitious as some of the documentaries that she made.
    Installation view, “Barbara Hammer: Tell me there is a lesbian forever…” Courtesy of Company Gallery.
    In the exhibition text, you talk about Barbara’s love letters reaching you through the person you love. As a PhD candidate at Yale, your partner was able to visit the university library on your behalf when it was closed to the public during COVID. There is a picture in the vitrine downstairs of her hands sorting through the archive. Do you see curating as a labor that is laden with desire, that is defined by affective bonds?
    I think, for me, it is because it has to be. I want to make sure that people understand that it’s an artist that’s curating this because curating, quite frankly, is somewhat of a violent position. It’s really about cutting. You could really twist somebody’s shit up. But curating is always about desire. Like when I did the Julius Eastman show at the Kitchen, it was almost to the point of a madness, but that was what that work required—it is obsessive. 
    Barbara’s work had a more romantic disposition to it. Because of that, I depended on my fiance in a way that I had never before. I could have asked someone else at Yale to visit the archive for me, but I wanted her to do it and I said, “I need you to do it because I love you. It’s about this lesbian identity. I trust what you will find attractive in the archive.” 
    The second day she went she told me that I should flag this really intense letter to Barbara from this woman named Corky that said, “Tell me there’s a lesbian forever.” She just bust out laughing because the letter was so intense, but I knew in that moment that it had to be the title of the show. 
    And that photo of her hands in the archive became something that felt very true. That is the affect of this show, that kind of engagement with another woman. She cared for me in real time. That was a moment for me to deal with my love, in this way, where this woman was also dealing with her love in this letter.
    Barbara Hammer, Hand Print “Lesbian” (1985). Courtesy of the artist and Company Gallery.
    How does the show’s title speak to the ways that younger generations of queer people interpret, embrace, and/or reject elements of earlier communities?  Lesbian (as well as dyke) were words so important to Barbara’s practice and the period that she made work in, but they aren’t necessarily favored today. What is your own relationship to these terms? 
    I’m a Black dyke. It’s a word that I’ve always returned to. I think that one of the things that Barbara and I have in common is that there have been some complicated situations in our respective lives and practices where there has been this forced antiquation of the idea of lesbian or dyke. I find that to be dangerous because it’s an identity that is always evolving. So my thing with the show was to show Barbara to be this woman who was constantly interrogating her identity. 
    I wanted the show to attract an intergenerational crowd. There are older lesbians who have felt like they can’t come into certain spaces because they’ll be seen as antiquated by younger folks. Because I’m 40—I’m not too old yet and I’m also not that young—I felt like I could do this middle ground thing where there’s a place for everybody. And that revealed itself at the opening because so many people came from all over the spectrum of identity, age, everything. 
    My goal has always been to figure out how to bridge the past with the present and show that it’s not a looking back, looking forward thing. It’s more looking side to side—and that’s really what this was about for me.
    Follow Artnet News on Facebook: Want to stay ahead of the art world? Subscribe to our newsletter to get the breaking news, eye-opening interviews, and incisive critical takes that drive the conversation forward. More