The inspiration for this piece came when author Joshua Weibley was paid by MoMA to perform two artists’ work. During the course of one of these performances–when he was employed to execute Roman Ondák’s piece “Measuring the Universe” during the summer of 2009–he collected about 30 tourist photos of himself in action from online image-sharing websites. The images in the post come from the collection of tourist photos.

Take art as a series of images and take an image as the interrelationship of elements working together to form a singular impression: this definition accounts for images in painting that coalesce from brushstrokes, images in literature that coalesce from words and any other images produced by whatever means in the name of art.

Tourist photo of Weibley, left, working at MoMA for artist Roman Ondák's Measuring the World.

This “working together” of elements on their way to constituting an image betrays the nature of images in art: they perform labor to produce meaning. (This is part of the phrase “it just works” that one might say when stepping back from a work of art.)
Now, meaning aside, value is applied to work speculatively. $15.00, for example, may be assumed to be the value of what a factory worker produces in the period of an hour, but that much value may not in fact be produced by the worker being paid it. The only constant material attached to $15.00/hr that can be verified is the presence of the worker. When there is no worker, there is no pay.

Roman Ondák's Measuring the World, at MoMA, 2009

Because the presence of its workers (or performers) is the basis of performance, what is produced in performance work is inseparable from the process of producing it. This is to say that performance is inseparable from its value: it is immediately value-able, which is then to say that its evaluation is a part of the performance as well.
Appreciation—a name for evaluation which happens to imply monetary value—is, in fact, a parallel performance and like performance art, it is a kind of labor which can be held up for evaluation. “I value your opinion” is one (probably less than trustworthy) example of this kind of valuing being, in turn, valued.

detail, Weibley's hand at work for Roman Ondák's Measuring the World at MoMA, 2009

All evaluations are not held equivalent though. Different opinions carry different import or value as an effect of the person whose experiences they emerge from. Connoisseurs, for instance, are so because they are known to have a critical facility (sometimes called “critical capital”) built up in experience: they know what they are looking for in something because they have a history of association and familiarity with it. Likewise, seasoned performers’ actions are preemptively treated as precious and their experience in practice allows them to know (so to speak) how to act.

Roman Ondák's Measuring the World, at MoMA, 2009

It has, however, already been said that value is speculative: in evaluating it, one can have expectations of a thing based on past experience (which does heavily inform one’s perception), but one cannot know without experiencing it. This is how, similarly to performance, all that can be verified of evaluation as a process is the presence of an individual or body performing it.

Work in translation, Roman Ondák's Measuring the World, at MoMA, 2009

Unlike other art forms submitted to the process of evaluation, performance disappears as quickly as it appears and what happens in that appearance can only be generally anticipated by a performer, much less so the audience. The work might not go according to plan, but that will simply become part of what receives value then and there.

Weibley takes a break from working in Roman Ondák's Measuring the World, at MoMA, 2009

No-one knows with any certainty whether a performance will be good, bad or if it will be met with indifference. All that is certain is the image of performance work these concerns provide. Two parties (performing bodies of the piece and those in the audience) will be present together in the occurrence of two valuable working processes unfolding simultaneously in a beautiful, momentary symmetry.

Execution is essential to understanding. The way in which an idea is conveyed, a picture made, or an installation constructed greatly influences the viewer’s interpretation of the piece. This is true regardless of artistic intents or aesthetic penchants. Even with supplemental information, such as wall text or artist’s statements, poorly executed work will be neither convincing nor appealing.

The limits of our curiosity and imagination require craft to make up that deficit.[1] If viewers are not stimulated by what they see, they will struggle to form a relationship with the work. Viewers must also be able to translate sensory stimulation into some sort of meaning, be it independent of or in harmony with the artist’s motivation for creating the work. If this translation does not happen the viewer-object relationship becomes only a passing fling.

Of course, successful execution is highly subjective. Artists spend entire careers refining their craft. They repeat subjects and replicate styles endlessly toward perfection. Aesthetic and cultural trends change over time, making that search for ideal execution all the more difficult. These unfavorable odds aside, Philadelphia currently boasts several exhibitions that rather successfully assert the merits of good execution and its place in contemporary art. Among them are Tristin Lowe’s Mocha Dick recently at the Fabric Workshop and Museum, the work of Myra Mimlitsch-Gray at Wexler Gallery, and Lee Stoetzel’s Big Bike at the Galleries at Moore.

Mocha Dick is a white sperm whale 52 feet in length. That Tristin Lowe, working with the FWM studio, built the whale with industrial felt, thread, zippers, and an internal vinyl support system changes little. Mocha Dick is still a whale. The fibrous felt really appears to be blubbery skin. Cleanly stitched lines meander the body like scars and wrinkles. Appliqued barnacles pock the surface, as do the inset holes and protruding bumps that make for convincing wounds and healing tissue. Overall, each curve and contour, volume and mass, is true to nature. Even the zippers, functional necessities for joining separate pieces of felt around the inflated core, create a texture that, if not anatomically accurate, at least follows the animal’s structure with graceful subtlety.

Tristin Lowe, Mocha Dick, industrial felt over inflated form

Lowe’s attention to detail makes viewing Mocha Dick feel like an encounter with a whale. To marvel at the artist’s skillful work is to contemplate the bodily equivalent each stitch represents. It is an experience more authentic than seeing Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, which consists of an actual dead tiger shark in formaldehyde. (As Hirst’s shark continues to decompose, that comparison will only become truer.) No, the felt whale is not real, but Lowe allows viewers to suspend disbelief and imagine that they are confronting the leviathan that tormented sailors in the South Seas and later inspired Meville to write Moby-Dick. The emotions or thoughts this interaction might generate – be they panic, intrigue, compassion, or loss – are precisely what Lowe seeks to elicit.[2]

Myra Mimlitsch-Gray’s altered kitchenwares at Wexler Gallery combine recognizable objects with improbable shapes. Bowl and Saucer is made of “given silver by Sharon Church” set into a silver base. Suspended at irregular angles, the bowl and saucer seem truly wedded to the slick pool below. Other objects, all cast in iron, resemble hearty cookware deformed beyond belief: twelve elongated Brat Pans hang neatly in a row on a wall; Freestanding Skillet sits upright on its one flattened, stretched edge; Four-Handled Skillet merges (or splits) two two-handled skillets, themselves total oddities.

Myra Mimlitsch-Gray's Bowl and Saucer, courtesy of Wexler Gallery

Myra Mimlitsch-Gray's Brat Pans, courtesy of Wexler Gallery

Myra Mimlitsch-Gray's Four Handled Skillet, courtesy of Wexler Gallery

These conundrums of silver and iron straddle a boundary between real and absurd that is mitigated by expert treatment of material and proportion. Bowl and Saucer is in fact an actual bowl and saucer made for Mimlitsch-Gray by another artist, but the silver dishes have been arranged to produce curious effects.[3] The scene is in one sense magical, the instantaneous transformation of molten silver into finished goods, and back again. Yet it also illustrates the mundane task of washing dishes. Meanwhile, Mimlitsch-Gray’s iron objects, which are entirely custom cast, seem somehow utilitarian despite their lack of function. The Brat Pans almost beg viewers to fry up foot-long sausages, or find three friends to help make a big omelet in Four-Handled Skillet.

Big Bike, by Lee Stoetzel, is a fixed-gear bicycle unlike any other. As the name indicates, it is massive, roughly twice normal size. From stem to crank and wheel to wheel, Big Bike is also built entirely of wood. The inclusion of so many small details – from the individual chain links to the rear tire’s air valve – might propel viewers to climb on and ride away. If only they were so tall. Stoetzel’s choice of wood, though, is of equal note. Fractured mesquite, a natural degraded wood, has a grain marked by irregular holes and grooves. In Big Bike, such material inconsistencies translate as the grime and wear expected of a city bike. They also streak across the object like lines simulating motion.

Lee Stoetzel, Big Bike, fractured mesquite, up until July 4 in the Window on Race

Because Stoetzel has modeled his giant wooden bike so perfectly after its smaller, mostly metal relative, the difference in material and size are all the more evident. Were the wheels not true nor the frame correctly proportioned, this would not be so. But since such inaccuracies do not cloud the viewer’s engagement, they may instead contemplate how Stoetzel’s use of wood and enlarged scale influence the object’s reading. Is Big Bike just fantasy, a once functional but now deteriorating relic of an extinct superhuman race? Or is there a socially relevant parallel between the natural materials and cycling’s environmental benefits? Perhaps a more physical reading is instead expected: the bike, though ostensibly fragile, is sturdy, a powerhouse both on the streets and in our imaginations.

Taken as three separate examples, the work of Tristin Lowe, Myra Mimlitsch-Gray, and Lee Stoetzel together exemplify how careful execution can be the foundation for expressing abstract and transcendent ideas. They also point to the use of illusion as a key device for instigating a deeper art experience. More accurately, they maintain altered illusions, wherein normalcy is upset in limited ways. Flesh becomes fabric with Lowe, Mimlitsch-Gray disfigures familiar cookware, and Stoetzel replaces one part metal and rubber with two parts wood, but other variables remain constant. The unchanged and recognizable characteristics end up being the viewer’s introduction to the work.

This modified illusionism, and the degree of precision requires, also highlights each artist’s use of materials – fabric, metal, and wood – traditionally assumed under the heading of craft. While such usage in contemporary art is nothing new, craft remains a tricky word. It refers to a set of practiced skills, a process by which something is made, or even the visual qualities of a finished product. It also identifies certain categories of objects and specific historical movements. Most provocatively, and somewhat perplexingly, craft is regularly used as a foil to art, implying that since craft is very focused on materiality, then art asserts meaning beyond itself.[4]

This belief is prevalent, however generalized it may be. Art is commonly understood in terms of broader concepts, as most exhibition labels, artist statements, and art history books will attest. Craft, on the other hand, seems contently introverted, focusing on physical characteristics to the point of fetishization. This dichotomy is flawed, though. Not only does it allow art to be sloppy and permit craft to be dull, but it encourages polarized camps of allegiance. Worse, it ignores artists like Lowe, Mimlitsch-Gray, and Stoetzel who, in refusing such definitions, create work that is both intellectual provocative and visually striking.

John Vick is a curatorial fellow in the Department of Prints, Drawings, and Photographs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He has a Master’s degree in Art History from the University of Pennsylvania.

Notes:

[1] Our busy and distracted lives and interactions are also limited factors – see the May 22 posting “One Quiet & One Loud.”

[2] More of Lowe’s finely made, full-scale felt sculptures were on view at the Fleisher/Ollman Gallery. The works there relating to Mocha Dick prompted similar feeling of unlikely confrontation. Lowe’s quotidian objects, such as a chair and whiskey bottle, also on view, emphasized the beauty of his handiwork and suggested a softer, even tired, version of reality. Also see Libby’s review of the FWM show.

[3] Such usage is reminiscent of Robert Rauschenberg’s 1953 Erased de Kooning Drawing or Martin Kippenberger’s Modell Interconti, a 1987 table made from a Gerhard Richter painting.

[4] Note for further reading: The recent book Thinking Though Craft, by Glenn Adamson, does a lot to address the complex interplay between art and craft. It is excellent in both content and organization. Rather than try to precisely situate one term against the other, Adamson considers general perceptions of craft and gives examples of where such principles intersect with modern and contemporary art. A more thorough review and summary of the book can be found in the September 2008 issue of Art in America.

Successful artworks seem to fall under one of two humors – they can call attention to themselves overtly or be so plainly understated as to provoke curiosity. This has been true of modern art for quite a while. Consider the simultaneous success of the frenetic work of Jackson Pollock and the contemplative work of Mark Rothko. At present, when images, video, and sound are more readily available then ever before, art’s ability to demand attention or stand quietly waiting to be engaged seems all the more important.

This is especially true given the way in which much contemporary art is seen. Most people visit galleries during crowded openings or events. In Philadelphia, the Vox Populi and Copy galleries are perhaps most notable in this regard. First Fridays there are massive parties. (And they have only grown with the arrival of new upstairs neighbors Tiger Strikes Asteroid and Progressive Sharing.) As people work their way through the galleries, looking at and/or listening to what is on display, they are also searching for the people they know. Socializing blurs the art experience.

This is not a repudiation. Art’s social function is one of its most valuable features. It is, no doubt, commendable that any gallery or group of galleries can promote and sustain such events. But in accepting that, another question lingers. How does that social function influence the making and viewing of art? Two recent installations, one at Vox and the other at Copy, addressed this interaction. Though quite different, both seemed to acknowledge the opening night atmosphere, even using it to their benefit.

Linda Yun’s It Is What It Is was installed at Vox Populi during the month of February 2009. The piece included three elements: a false wall with a rectangular cutout, a strip of colorful metallic streamers strung in an arc across the cutout, and an oscillating fan mounted to a floor stand. The room was separated from the rest of Vox by a black curtain and was dark except for back-lighting behind the cutout. The fan spun, blowing air around the room. The streamers gently fluttered and flickered in the dim glow. Visitors could circulate through the room to gain different points of view or inspect the apparatus.

Despite her title’s claim and the simple materials she used, Yun’s installation did not make immediate sense. The cutout was lit to create an optical illusion (in the manner of James Turrell) whereby it appeared to be both a hollow recess and a painted surface. With the lights low and the fan on the room’s far side, the movement of the streamers seemed inexplicable. But these mysteries were eventually revealed. Walking through the gallery, the cutout became more legible as an empty space. A ring of holiday lights could be seen illuminating it from behind. Even the lazy, slightly delayed rhythm of the fluttering streamers seemed less irregular with time. Deception gave way to understanding. The installation was what it was, down to the fan’s exposed cord.

FUCK “THIS” PLACE, by Jamie Dillon, debuted at Copy Gallery on May 1. It too had three main components: a tennis ball machine, tennis balls, and a gong spray painted with the installation’s title. (For technical reasons, the tennis ball machine has since been removed.) The tennis ball machine was positioned in one corner, the gong suspended in another. Triggered by a remote control in the artist’s possession, the machine periodically shot tennis balls across the gallery. Each ball hit the gong, causing a crashing reverberation, and then bounced around until coming to a rest. Chicken wire barring entrance to the space kept balls from rolling out.

With a thundering bang echoing from the gallery every few minutes, Dillon’s installation could not be missed. Visitors were aware of it being there well before seeing it. If this built anticipation, a look in the space was instantly demystifying. The system was plainly straightforward. This shot those into that – CLANG! Watching from behind the fence as the tennis ball machine rumbled in its pre-launch routine, the viewer felt oddly sympathetic. All that preparation and expended energy for such a brief climax. The gong was right. Fuck this place.

Apart from their use of utterly banal materials, the installations by Yun and Dillon could not have looked less alike. Had they been shown side by side, their differences would have been all the more apparent. The first was hidden from plain sight by a curtain while the second used sound to announce its presence from far away. Darkness or false walls obscured the workings of one, but not of the other. Viewers could walk around the space of Yun’s installation. Dillon’s was fenced off, allowing only one distanced point of view. In terms of time (and sound), the fan blew the streamers with a consistent, predetermined rhythm. The tennis balls were shot at the gong irregularly at the artist’s whim. Even the two titles – one a deadpan disclaimer, the other a vulgar exclamation – were opposites.

Where the two installations did coincide was in their apparent self-consciousness. They were both aware of their own contrived presence and the audiences they addressed. For them, the gallery environment was an opportunity for self-enhancement. It Is What It Is did so with curious optical devices that arrested perception and stimulated inquiry. The viewer had to slow down, ensuring a more engaging interaction with the piece. FUCK “THIS” PLACE exploited the viewer’s imagination and expectations to critique the potential of art. Existing desires and practices were intensified, reinforcing the work’s premise.

The respective interactions between these two pieces and their audiences are significant because they occur via confrontation with the social nature of art. Yun defied the notion that viewers can glance their way through a gallery. Challenging people to explore the tricks of her installation, she also offered an opportunity for relevant discussion. Dillon, on the other hand, mocked the tendency for art to be ignored in favor of socializing. His installation was a center of attention that promised to disappoint over and over again, allowing viewers to keep moving on. Clever, critical, and captivating, both works stood out against the crowds.