Dimensions Winter 2011 by Dimensions Art Journal

Dimensions Winter 2011

Contents

Letter from the Editors

Art in the Streets in the Museum Angie Shih

Artist Profile: Tameka Norris Susanna Koetter & Emma Sokoloff

Scale & Value in the Photographic Print Andrew Wagner

Catalogue

Helmut Newton: Angles on Desire Liz Snow

Artist Profile: Madeline Kelly Maggie Neil

Credits

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Though we have previously arranged our issues around a given theme—travel, replication, omission—for this issue we have asked our contributors to write features based on their own interests. Nonetheless, a common question seems to run through this semester’s pieces: how have artists responded to changing hierarchies of visual media in recent decades? Responding to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art’s recent Art in the Streets exhibition, Angie Shih explores how street art might retain its affective resonance in spite of the museum’s monopoly on viewing. Andrew Wagner investigates the problem of why largescale photographic prints have called for record prices in an increasingly digital world. Finally, Liz Snow profiles photographer Helmut Newton and the rise of fashion photography in postwar Europe. In each case, the art objects at stake play against the boundary defining high art. This boundary (the existence and location of which, of course, is not agreed upon) becomes even more tenuous when new visual media—the photograph, the graffitied wall—come into the view of the art world. In this issue we also profile the work of two artists in the Yale community—Madeline Kelly (MC ,12) and Tameka Norris (MFA ,12)—and feature a selection of individual works by undergraduate artists. We hope you enjoy. Ilana Harris-Babou and Robert Liles 5

Art in the Streets in the Museum Angie Shih

FEATURE

As Banksy’s works continue to sell for astonishing amounts of money and the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art reports record visitor numbers to their exhibit Art in the Streets this past summer, it’s difficult not to wonder why street art has such incredible resonance at this moment. Oddly, its existence is not new, as street art in its various forms (simple “tagging” of an artist’s name or even more elaborate artistic images) has existed nearly from antiquity. Declarations of love have been found carved into the streets of Pompeii and impromptu ads for brothels exist in the ruins of Ephesus; the need to communicate so directly seems almost as old as time. So then what can explain the sudden nearmania for works of street art—the books, the documentaries and the fascination—what sets now apart from then? I like to think that it somehow has to do with control and street art’s ability to force us to let go of it. Though this may not be the whole story, there is a way in which control and our relationship to it is decidedly different now than it was in the past. Our technological ability to have total control and split-second omniscience of both our life and the lives around us has reached heights previously unimagined. And street art, with its capability to surprise, to yield the unexpected, provides refreshing moments when our life, if only for a split second, is not how we imagined it would be. When coming upon a piece of street art for the first time,

the viewer is momentarily taken aback. It’s this moment of shock, distinct and outside of our allknowing worlds, that maybe lends street art such a modern day-resonance. Surprise is at the root of Banksy’s success. In fact, I see surprise as one of the defining elements of contemporary street art on a larger scale. Banksy, perhaps the most lauded of street artists, labeled himself an “art terrorist;” this title could well describe most other key figures in the movement as well. The engrained feeling of an attack or invasion, the astonishment of it, is central to this medium. Most notably, in what is perhaps his most politically charged piece, Banksy stenciled nine images in 2005 on the surface of the Israeli West Bank Barrier, which separates Israel from the Palestinian West Bank. The structure is sometimes referred to as the Apartheid Wall and has been described as “contrary to international law” by the International Court of Justice for wrongly restricting the ability of Palestinians to travel freely through the West Bank. Banksy’s images on this controversial wall range from that of a long ladder reaching to the top of the nearly-30-foot wall to two whimsically stenciled children, digging with beach shovels through the wall, revealing an illusionistic view of paradise beyond—art terrorism indeed. This series is tremendously important because it is perhaps his most pure example of how street art enacts a loss of control on upon the viewer. On what is maybe the last surface one might expect to see art, Banksy forces passers-by into a dialogue with the art and the very wall it draws attention to. And this forced interaction, to me, is the most authentic interaction one can really have with art: completely unfiltered, from the hand of the artist to the eye of the viewer. The most common way in which our society 7

views art involves the museum or the gallery. The viewer is self-selected and prepared. By choosing to make the journey to the museum, the viewer elects to see art and be involved with it that day, at that time, in that mindset. They are prepared. But street art, notably the West Bank series, jars the viewer out of that locus of control, surprises them into contemplating an aesthetic object that they’re not be prepared to see, in fact, that they might not want to see at all. Even more powerfully, this series demonstrates how street art, almost in an authoritarian manner, does not allow anyone to stand aside and avoid the issues raised by the work. The art is intimately related to its site, both in its intent and in an immediate physical sense; it is impossible to move the work without damaging either it or its supporting surface. Richard Serra, whose large metal work, Tilted Arc, was once infamously removed from New York’s Federal Plaza for obstructing free passage, championed the cause of site-specific art. “To remove the work is to destroy it,” he insisted. Street art, which may relate to site even more intimately than Serra’s works did, disintegrates without the street. Without context, it grapples for meaning. In Berlin, an astronaut painted in black takes up the entire side of a building that faces the busiest subway line in and out of the city and he reaches out his empty hand toward the viewer. His faceless helmet and heavy gear look sad and purposeless. His loneliness is untouchable. But by night, the street lights throw shadows beneath his empty hand, adding into the composition the silhouette of a nearby flag, which blows in the wind. Suddenly, he is a space explorer who has marked his territory, a conquistador of a distant planet, mission completed. If you see him at night, his faceless helmet and his heavy gear suddenly seem victorious. Street art has the 8

ability to acquire this sort of change in meaning, derived from its dynamic and fluctuating environment. Typically, despite the strong attachment to its original site, street art is ultimately removed. But street art is not only painted over in acts of censorship and omission. Street art is also removed to be preserved–to be owned. This past summer, Art in the Streets came to Los Angeles (and will be coming to the Brooklyn Museum next March). Flooded with visitors, street art pieces, and works in the style of street art, it was the second most popular exhibit the MOCA has ever had. But while thinking about those gallery spaces filled with graffiti, Serra’s words ring in my ears: to remove is to destroy. What happens to that moment of surprise? It disappears as works are carted into museums, displayed in rows, put beside labels. Having read reviews, heard the names of the artists, the visitors marching past these works have come specifically to see the art. But as they cycle in and out of the various spaces, they are not experiencing street art with its full vitality. When seeing art necessarily means making the journey to a museum, the viewers are self-selected and the art is devoid of context. Street art was never created to stand alone against a white wall. No label or explanatory sign could ever recreate its original context. These labels and the engineered placement of pieces on those white walls enact a subtle—but powerful—loss of freedom in our aesthetic judgment caused by the necessary intervention of the museum into our art viewing. The very existence of a piece in a museum is already a hint to viewers: someone, most likely the curator or donor, thought this was a good piece; the visitor is inherently subjected to this assertion of worth. Like layers of distorting glass stacked before

us—the choice of the curators, the design of the museum, the text on the label, the placement of one piece next to another—our view is quietly obscured before us. How can a viewer decipher what they really think behind these filters? Most frightening of all, as we examine how the essence of street art gets chipped away in its move into the museum, is that this distortion is not merely specific to street art. These filters apply to all art forms in museums. Perhaps street art is just the catalyst to reexamine the role of museums in our art-viewing experience today. Museums are filled with unavoidable, built-in boundaries that we walk within as we peruse their spaces. They are responsible for guiding and therefore controlling our experience of artworks. The viewer never discovers a work of art the way he or she might on the street: alone, in surprise, without the filters. On the street, one can make his or her own choices—the question of “Is this a good artwork?” has no provided answer. Perhaps you would hate that mammoth astronaut staring you down every day. The ability to make that aesthetic judgment is freer because of the work’s location outside of the museum. Nobody in a seat of authority or knowledge has declared it worthy of public display. In addition, the volatility of the work’s street-environment creates a liveliness one might be hard pressed to find anywhere else. You might change my mind about the astronaut one night when you notice the waving flag for the first time. Street artists seem, for the most part, to be aware that museums pose a threat to the essence of their work. Banksy, for one, put up a work in San Francisco that declares, in dripping red letters: “THIS’LL LOOK NICE WHEN ITS FRAMED. ” But this cynical, stereotypically anti-establishment voice contradicts the fact that Banksy himself holds gallery shows. Perhaps

even he has resigned to the inevitability of his highly acclaimed works eventually ending up in museums, despite his dissatisfaction with the non-immediacy of the gallery context. I don’t venture to declare that we must abandon museums, here and now. In fact, I think they can be beautiful facilitators of dialogue between patrons and artworks. They are stewards of our world’s cultural artifacts and I do think that one can have authentic experiences within museum walls. But I still see a nagging shadow of a problem unresolved, just on the periphery of my vision. Museums, with their rooms after rooms filled with various pieces never meant to stand beside each other, their labels that might push and prod the viewer into narrow alleys whose walls they can’t see beyond, do not deliver to us the most authentic way to experience art. So how do we reach that authenticity? Street art splashes paint onto city streets, drawing art-viewers out of their little white boxes. With its spray-cans and stencils, it tries to shock us out of our complacency, to revitalize art viewing. While street art is certainly not replacing museums, its newfound resonance in the past couple decades at least attempts to question the monopoly of museums on art viewing. There is the hope, however naive, that we can experience art spontaneously, authentically, as works blooming directly from the issues themselves to confront those who most refuse to be confronted. Somewhere along perhaps the most divisive barrier since the Berlin Wall, two young children with beach shovels look out at you as they fill up a little yellow bucket. Above them is a small glimpse of paradise.

Tameka Norris Susanna Koetter & Emma Sokoloff

ARTIST PROFILE

“Im that black Cindy Sherman and that little Kara Walker. Basquiat resurrected from the dead motherfucka... All up in UCLA !” For her senior thesis as an undergraduate at UCLA , Tameka Norris transposed the language and aesthetic of hip hop onto the backdrop of her college campus. This first line is repeated throughout this 5:47 min long YouTube video, Licker, in which Norris traverses UCLA ’s grounds, starting from a university hallway locker and eventually moving to an outdoor sculpture garden, where she provocatively mounts and licks the breasts of a multimilliondollar female nude. This video’s treatment of both popular culture and the narrative of art history sets the stage for her current work as a Yale University MFA student. Understanding that the medium of her work, YouTube videos, is universally available to any web surfer, Tameka Norris confronts the interplay between vernacular and academic culture. Although enrolled at the Yale School of Art as a Painting concentration, Norris has recently been exploring the possibilities of digital media and its internet existence. But despite her investigation of this technologically current genre, Norris still considers herself a contender within the larger art historical canon. She also views herself as an active (though not at all solitary) member of the greater Yale community. In her Semester at Yale Series, Norris weaves together a 10

conglomeration of observations into caricatures, either of herself or of her peers, each accounting their daily experiences at the Yale School of Art. In displacing sources of her work to an ambiguous realm, Norris unveils an unexpectedly valid encapsulation of her environment. She fluctuates in a personal narrative from what may seem like mockery to startling sincerity, articulating perspective through carefully pieced “momentary truths,” or instances of conversation that are casually mentioned and just as quickly forgotten. She collages the found material of social interaction, using herself as mediator, or medium, to project the ideas of these interactions via constructed personalities. Norris especially prods the relationship of consumer to producer, observer to artist, artist to art history, in her third Semester video, where she performs verbatim the script for Alex Bag’s 1990s video Semester Series at SVA. While in her Licker video, Norris explicitly references the names of three art stars of the late twentieth century, here she never admits that she is reenacting the work of Alex Bag, a lesser known contemporary figure. In both instances, though, Norris questions whether fluency and familiarity with the art world is necessary for her viewer to fully understand or “appropriately” respond to her work. In fact, upon seeing her third Semester video for the first time, Norris’s father telephoned her, upset that she claimed that, “my parents really fucked me up, and so did high school!” In using herself as a vehicle for performance, Norris assumes responsibility not only for herself but also for the institutions she alludes to and represents. The ambiguity of her content and medium—wavering between questions of autobiographical and previously authored narrative, as well as vernacular and formal media—has oddly enough ascribed new,

unexpected interpretations of “true” expression. Norris notes that she never really considered the extent of her audience until she stumbled upon a forum on Gradcafe, a utilitarian graduate school application networking site akin to College Confidential, where her Semester Series videos were used as a warning to those applying to Yale Art School. Alex Bag’s script includes melodramatic complaints, which naive and paranoid Gradcafe users interpreted as honest words spoken by a possibly depressed and/or medicated Norris. This confusion brings up the point of accessibility and validity, commenting on the arbitrary preciousness imposed on “high” art. Norris’s utilizes YouTube to project herself and her work on a large, even universal, scale. With its pervasive release and cost-free availability, Norris’ work inherently blurs its art historically and/or artistically fluent audience with those unfamiliar. Just as she both presents and risks herself by assuming publicized caricatures, so too does she both valorize and also question YouTube as a new medium in today’s technologically immersed culture. So go ahead, take out your iPhone, and search “Tameka Norris” on YouTube. (That is, if you haven’t already.)

TAMEKA NORRIS

Still from the Licker video Dimensions variable

Still from the Semester at Yale series Dimensions variable

Scale & Value in the Photographic Print Andrew Wagner

FEATURE

Editor’s note: Since the writing of this article another large-scale print by Gursky out-sold Sherman’s Untitled #96. In November 2011, Gursky’s Rhein II, measuring six by eleven feet, sold at Christie’s for $4,338,500.

“The Judgement Seat of Photography.” October 22 (1982): 35.

Earlier this year, Cindy Sherman’s Untitled #96 (1981) sold at Christie’s for $3,890,500, making it the most expensive photograph ever sold. Sherman’s photograph broke the auction record set by Andreas Gursky’s 99 Cent II Diptychon (2001), which sold for $3,346,456 in 2007 at Sotheby’s. (1) While such prices are perhaps to be expected given the importance of these photographs, in the context of the history of photography it is surprising that singular photographic prints have sold for millions of dollars. The acceptance of photography as a legitimate art form is relatively recent; for decades the photograph’s reproducibility was thought to devalue the art object rather than create valuable objects. In the 1950’s MoMA’s photography department would pay no more than $20 for a photographic print, and at a 1953 MoMA Christmas sale it was possible to purchase an Ansel Adams photograph for less than $25. (2) While an artwork’s price is not necessarily a reflection of its artistic quality, it can illuminate trends in how the artwork is perceived and valued. In this case, the prices of Sherman and Gursky’s photographs reveal a serious change in the art world’s perception of photographs as precious art objects, an ironic about-face from photography’s days as being considered disposable and easily reproduced. What is it that allows these photographs to be precious, culturally valuable works? For one, both photographs are feats of technical skill. 14

Gursky’s 99 Cent II Diptychon, a diptych comprised of two photographs of a 99 cent store, was shot using large-format cameras. Such cameras are difficult to operate, and allow for incredible clarity of detail. Sherman’s Untitled #96, meanwhile, is a carefully staged self-portrait, with Sherman making extensive use of makeup and costume to transform herself into a character. But what is especially notable about these two objects is their large-scale print size, which elevates them to the role of precious art objects. Untitled #96, for instance, has a scale of two by four feet—quite large for a photographic print. Gursky’s 99 Cent II Diptychon, meanwhile, is a massive diptych of two photographs, each photograph measuring 6.79 by 11.06 feet—the entire work measuring an enormous 14 by 22 feet. These defy the characteristically intimate scale of traditional photography; these two prints use their impressive size to instill in the viewer a sense of reverence. The prints’ scale also emphasizes their technical facility; the size of Untitled #96 makes its gorgeous color palette, tender beauty, and cinematic qualities far more evident. The massiveness of Gursky’s work, meanwhile, allows viewers to lose themselves in the clarity of detail in the piece, and in turn, better see the work’s technical mastery. The large scale of these two prints sets them apart from the kind of photographic image to which we have become accustomed. We encounter photographs daily—in newspapers, magazines, or online—and the frequency with which we see photographs can add to our perception of them as disposable. The size of these two prints, however, suggests that they are distinct from common photographs. There is a subtle, slight hierarchy at play: the suggestion is that these photographs have received a larger size than most photographs because they are more

important, and of a higher artistic quality. This highlights a paradox within Sherman’s Untitled #96. The piece is part of a series unofficially titled Centerfolds, referencing the work’s structural resemblance to the centerfold image in Playboy magazines. Yet, due to the large size, work transforms, rather than passively resonates, a centerfold seen in a Playboy magazine. Untitled #96’s physical size allows it to be a high-art take on a mass-media photographic form. The large size, furthermore, places the photographs closer to paintings. Even art photographs for many years had a small print size, and the production of larger prints did not begin until the early ‘80s. In 99 Cent II Diptychon, the massive size is far more in line with the tradition of painting than photography. Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950, for example, has a similar scale, measuring roughly eight by 17 feet. While many photographers work in series, creating a group of photographs which address a similar subject, each Gursky work, including 99 Cent II Diptychon, is meant to stand on its own. As such, Gursky’s work almost assimilates itself into our understanding of painting, and we, in turn, imbue within the work the same reverence and value that we would to a painting. The fact that 99 Cent II Diptychon makes use of the diptych structure, a form originally used for ecclesiastical purposes that has a strong history in the tradition of painting, only accentuates the work’s similarities to paintings. Likewise, while Sherman’s Untitled #96 was produced within a series (the centerfolds), its title de-emphasizes its place within a series and instead portrays it as a singular work in Sherman’s oeuvre (the 96 refers to the photograph as the 96th photographic work Sherman had ever created, and not the 96th print in the “centerfolds” series). By using large sizes more typically reserved for

paintings than photographs, Untitled #96 and 99 Cent II Diptychon are more easily assimilated into our own understandings of paintings as precious objects to be treated with reverence. For decades, the photograph was thought to signify the beginning of the end of a certain conception of art; that artworks could now be more easily reproduced and disseminated was thought to mean that our understanding of art objects as rare and valuable would disappear. However, this was not the case, and instead of photography changing our views on art it has instead been assimilated into them. We now view photographic works such as Untitled #96 and 99 Cent II Diptychon with as much reverence as we do Guernica. Large print sizes have become increasingly popular for photographs, while the 8 ½ by 11 inch print is becoming more of a rarity. The decision to print large was, perhaps, a reaction against perceptions of photography as disposable: in order to overcome charges that photography was not art, or a lesser art, photographers took on the standards and scale of fine art objects and adapted them into their work. However, it is difficult to know how much longer the large print will be popular. Our experience of photography has become increasingly digitized and carried out in miniature on our computer screens—the future of the large print remains to be seen.

Catalogue Selected works by undergraduate artists

FARAH AL-QASIMI

Untitled Digital image dimensions variable

LEERON TUR-KASPA

Eye-lift Oil on canvas 39’’x29’’

ANNA RENKEN

Möbius Reach Lithograph on paper 6.5” x 5.5”

CAMILLE LABARRE

Surveillance Various yarns, crochet Dimensions variable

Death Triptych Various wires and yarns, crochet Dimensions variable

KAT OSHMAN

Untitled Acrylics on masonite, 8’x4’

The Demise of the Big Bad Wolf Oil on canvas, 5’x3.5’

ISABELLA HUFFINGTON

Cluster Sharpie on poster board 44” x 34”

Helmut Newton: Angles on Desire Liz Snow

FEATURE

The goal of fashion photography has tended to involve desire—either for the model, the clothes, or both. During the 1930’s, the addition of artificial light to high-fashion photography allowed photographers to experiment with a degree of sensuousness that had been difficult to express in previous years. In the 1940’s, advances in camera technology allowed photographers to leave their studios to experiment in a wider range of environments. However, the coming of World War II also drew photographers to scenes of war, producing in the field of photography a juxtaposition between soft, sensual models and rough, violent backgrounds. As Helmut Newton began his mature work, the norms of fashion photography were trending towards an independent model, usually depicted outside and in motion. The fashion model helped represent the woman as a consumer, no longer simply a homebound mother. Newton worked within this context but also pushed the confines of the model’s role in the photograph to further extremes. Newton not only changed the way women were portrayed in high fashion photography but also altered the perception of the female nude in art. Born in Germany in 1920, he grew up mostly in Australia. He started his career in fashion photography in London in the 1950’s but became more prolific in Paris while working for Vogue in the 60’s and 70’s. His photographs not only portrayed clothing, but also presented the model as a powerful, erotic being.

As his career progressed, Newton started regularly photographing nude women or women wearing just heels, lingerie, or luxurious furs. Two Pairs of Legs in Black, taken in Paris in 1979, depicts the backs of two women’s legs in leather high heels, thigh-high black stockings, and black leotards. The room in which they are photographed is filled with ornate furniture, a crystal chandelier casting a soft light, and a marble fireplace. The comfortable opulence contrasts with a computer and a man dressed in a suit opposite the models, appearing to confront the faces the viewer cannot see. The viewer is made to feel uncomfortable; he/she could easily read these women as prostitutes given the setting, which marked a significant departure from what was considered appropriate in fashion photography at the time. The viewer seems to be looking on an intimate scene in which the two women gain power from one other, evidenced by their holding hands. The sharpness of their heels and the modernity of the computer juxtaposed with the antique quality of the room create a dichotomy common throughout Newton’s work. The female’s power is derived from a sexualized strength. The women he photographed are not unaware of their objectification; rather, they acknowledge that they are on display and possibly even objectify their viewer in return. Even in a photograph like Private Property, which shows a woman in a playboy bunny outfit on a balcony in New York reveling in the sunshine, the model is not facing the camera. She asks the viewer to look at her, but this is an invitation that appears to come about by conscious choice. Newton suggests in photographs such as these that a woman chooses to be observed as a sexual object, and that this act can in itself be empowering. However, this message is complicated by the fact that playboy 25

bunnies were the archetype of the objectified woman; the title of “private property” even suggests that the woman is owned by a man the viewer cannot see. It does not seem entirely possible that taking sexualized photographs of women can empower them. Newton’s signature photographs gave models the aloof, detached look now typical of high fashion. “Rue Aubriot” for French Vogue on the streets of Paris typifies this look. There are two models, one fully naked except for a pair of heels and a hat, and the other in a suit, standing together, mirroring each other’s angular body positions. Both women are not looking at the camera, but seem indifferent. As this photo was taken for a fashion magazine, the clothes on the model are clearly merchandise meant to be sold. However, Newton includes the nude woman for another reason. Perhaps the sexualization of one model will draw more attention to the photograph and sell, reinforcing the adage that sex sells. The more masculine clothes of one model contrast with the stark nakedness of the other, and the two models seem to derive power from their interaction with one another. While the traditions of fashion photography and depicting the female nude were typically objectifying, Helmut Newton became known for empowering women. Additionally, Newton often photographed women from behind, recalling the subservient position of the female nude seen throughout the history of art, such as Gauguin’s notoriously downward-facing women. A particularly powerful example of Gauguin’s misogynistic portrayal of Tahitian women is The Spirit of the Dead Keeps Watch, in which a Tahitian woman lays on her stomach on a bed, gazing seductively at the viewer. The viewer is clearly intended to be a European man attracted to the 26

supplicant native. However, Helmut Newton upends this tradition by photographing women from behind but simultaneously emphasizing the power and athleticism of the female body. Instead of lying down nude, inviting the male gaze, Newton’s models appear clad in more powerful garb, leather or stilettos, and standing. Standing endows them with a power; they are not simply lying on a bed or couch waiting for the man to see them. In Two Pairs of Legs in Black, for example, the viewer is looking up from the ground with the models’ elongated legs above him/her in the foreground. This play with height is often featured in Newton’s photographs; Newton’s models often appear high above the rest of the crowd, heightening their sense of domination and power. Instead of portraying the horizontal woman inviting the male viewer, Newton’s photographs force the viewer to acknowledge the authority of the models. Newton transformed fashion photography, especially of the nude or mostly-nude female form, by empowering the models without destroying their strong sexuality.

Madeline Kelly Maggie Neil

ARTIST PROFILE

“I do so much work that is in the public sphere and part of the reason I like being a graphic designer is ‘cause I’m not in the art world, I’m out in the street and part of the entertainment industry, and I find that if I do anything weird or strange or subversive in that context, it’s twice as interesting as if I were working in the art world.” –Mike Mills, Graphic designer and director of “Beginners” Madeline Kelly’s art trajectory began with painting. A family portrait of hers hangs at her parent’s house. “It’s super realist,” she explains, adding, “my painting teachers always told me to loosen up, but I like that complete control.” It seems to be this tendency towards meticulousness that compelled her to try graphic design, now her major. The aesthetic power of Kelly’s piece Nitrogen, in which a thick stripe of negative space diagonally bisects text, justified so as to form a rectangle, rests on this drive to control. Only a person in love enough with order would see that with exclusively straight lines and perfect angles something so beautiful could emerge. In this case it seems to be the mix of the tension of the piece, created by the interplay between the triangles, and its lightness, created by the amount of space and typography and simple shapes that make it at once interesting and satisfyingly pleasing.

If graphic design attempts, like all art forms perhaps, towards aesthetic good sense, unlike the other art forms it genuflects to an objective. Once the designer understands what needs to be communicated, every single aesthetic choice must be made to support it. Kelly starts big, literally. On a wall of her room, in the company of Impressionist Posters (which Kelly says she is attracted to for their loose, free appearance, so opposite from her own, though made possible, of course, only by punctilious attention to detail), is a large white-board. She then, in her own words, “takes a step back,” and chooses two or three leads that feel strong, and ultimately reduces her options to a single idea. Kelly considers the whole thing an editing process. “There is a certain freedom of thinking, “ she ascertains, “but the execution is hyper controlled. If something doesn’t have a purpose, eliminate it. You know your design is done when you can’t take anything away.” While this necessary methodology is much more constrained than other art forms, it is no less creative. Bodoni: A didone dissected, for example, maintains a complexity and ingenuity without sacrificing its commitment to clarity of expression. The front cover’s abstract, floating shapes form a surprisingly attractive mélange; the shapes are unusual, their utility and identity are not immediately clear. The back cover provides all the answers: each shape is but a blown-up piece of a letter from the typeface Bodoni, and the cover merely mimics the slant of the exhibit at the Beinecke Library, which it was made for. It is surprising and inviting, but simple, and focuses on getting its point across quite literally, finally. Graphic design is also unique among art forms because of the position it holds in the public sphere. It is supposed to attract the 27

viewer, but always for utilitarian purposes. The designer is responsible for the viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reading, so she must take into consideration all modes of interpretation. For instance, Kelly explains that in designing for the womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s center, she had to be especially careful to appear politically neutral and pay attention to slight details that could be construed as offensive. And then thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the importance of researching the project to ensure accuracy and precision. Always, the ultimate objective is attracting the viewer. Kelly seems perfectly suited to graphic design, essentially because she manages to funnel her meticulousness into an artistic product. In the future, she hopes to continue adding complexity to her work, increasing layers and levels of design, always working towards improving her ability to simultaneously stay true to her objective while maintaining integrity, pulling the viewer in, and ultimately creating a unique piece of work.

Bodoni: a didone dissected Dimensions variable

Design Systems Dimensions variable

Bodoni: a didone dissected Dimensions variable

Editors-in-chief

Ilana Harris-Babou Robert Liles

Associate editors

Alexandra Dennett Susanna Koetter Emma Sokoloff

Design & typography

Chika Ota

Thank you

We would like to thank the History of Art Department, the Yale University Art Gallery, and the Yale Center for British Art for their support. Printed at Yale Printing and Publishing Services in New Haven, CT.

October 27, 2011– February 12, 2012

ya l e c e n t e r f o r b r i t i s h a r t 1080 Chapel Street, New Haven, CT 06520 Tuesday–Saturday, 10–5; Sunday 12–5 Free admission | 877 BRIT ART | britishart.yale.edu

Co-organized by the Yale Center for British Art and the Royal Academy of Arts, London. This exhibition is supported by an indemnity from the Federal Council on the Arts and the Humanities.

Johan Zoffany, The Gore Family with George, Third Earl Cowper (detail), ca. 1775, oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection