Northwestern Art Review | Issue 16: Breaking Frames

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ISSUE 16 | SUMMER 2016

BREAKING FRAMES. NAR | 1

NAR ‘16- ‘17 MASTHEAD

EXECUTIVE BOARD

President | Chloe Gardner Print Editor in Chief | Andrea Herskowich Director of Design | Emily Kappes Director of Public Relations | Isabel Schwartz Director of Finance | Emily Hollingworth Director of Events | Mimi Khawsam-ang

STAFF

Caroline Bell Grace Devlin Ilana Herzig Charlotte Hu Anna Kubacsek Catherine Malloy Helen Murphy Natalie Pertsovsky Elizabeth Philip Kylie Richards Kate Slosburg Bradley Smith Jacob Stern Kathryn Watts Faye O Yang

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Letter from the President Dear Reader, Northwestern Art Review is on the precipice of something exciting.

This spring, we welcomed seven new members into our organization, each bringing a much needed new perspective, energy and new ideas about art history, architecture, music, performance art, couture, design, and new media. This summer, our members will be working everywhere, from the Gagosian Gallery in NYC to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. And this fall, our members will be expanding their perspectives of art and culture while studying abroad in cities like Copenhagen, London, Paris, Vienna, Hong Kong, Florence...the list is endless.

Given all of these changes and developments, we are thrilled to present our sixteenth journal, Breaking Frames. We think that this quarter’s theme perfectly encompasses NAR at this particular moment in time; NAR as an orgnization itself is breaking frames. As spring quarter passed, we questioned how to widen our engagement with the art world, how we expand our notions of what makes something art, and how to excite and engage those who do not normally seek art at Northwestern.

But, more importantly, we as an organization are learning how to break into the art industry, and shape it to fit our own unique idea of art.

As I said, NAR is truly on the precipice of something new. We hope that the compilation of essays in this journal inspires you, as they have us, to expand your notions of art, to engage with the art world and to feel empowered to break frames yourself, however that may be.

Sincerely, Chloe Gardner President

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Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, During the submission process and publication of Northwestern Art Review’s sixteenth journal, the editorial team was drawn to essays that described non conventional art and explored new realms and reinventions of expression and creativity.

The essays featured in the Summer 2016 journal challenge traditional ideas—as well as viewer expectations— about art. The art mentioned does not just hang on the wall or sit on pedestals; instead they tower, dangle, stretch, mirror, and even flow into each other. Readers are expected to understand the gestures of abstract art beyond the canvas, challenging the boundaries of orthodox art by inserting a cool, contemporary perspective into the traditional sphere of high art. A playful imposition and consideration literally connects art to the world around us.

Artists always seem to want to show that they are capable of something new and different. From fashion to food, anything is fair game and these artists use their unique materials in a way that transcends their original purpose, creating true art. The materials are not just eccentric though, the artists attempt to test the way people think about commodities and what it means to produce art.

We often are surprised by how what we might find vanguard in one art form can seem deeply conventional to another. Living in a time where artists can freely embrace anything they choose, where the challenge is less about a stylistic allegiance and more about finding a uniquely individual language and looking inward for expressing something new, artists disrupt the confines of genres, ideologies, and mediums of art. Constantly “breaking frames,” the artists exist in dialogue with each other and the modern world around them.

As a spokesperson for the Northwestern Art Review, I would like to extend acknowledgments to Chloe Gardner, the fervent and amazing president whose constant support and persistence has made the production of this journal possible. I would also like to extend a huge appreciation to Emmy Kappes, who put together and designed an incredible journal layout for us. Additionally, I would like to thank the entire editorial team for making the selection process for this journal an amazing and unforgettable experience.

This journal edition represents the talented and well-written essays of students from universities across the country. On behalf of Northwestern Art Review and myself, I would like to thank each and every student who submitted their work to the journal—these individuals and their appreciation for the arts keep our journal relevant and prosperous, and without them there would be no discourse among the driving themes of this journal.

I am so fortunate to have been involved with such a wonderful organization and the assembly of this summer journal.

Andrea Herskowich Editor-in-Chief (Journal)

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In The Issue 6

IT ALWAYS BEGINS WITH DUCHAMP...

BUT WHAT HAPPENS AFTER HIM? ALICE CENTAMORE | NYU ‘18

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“THE RITES OF SPRING”: KANSAI YAMAMOTO AND DAVID BOWIE CHRISTINE EVANS | PARSONS ‘19

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MOVING TOWARDS PARTICIPATION: THE PROTO-PARTICIPATORY INNOVATIONS OF KINETIC ART DANIELA MAYER | NYU ‘16

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THE PEZ DISPENSER: ESTABLISHING INTERACTIVE CANDY WANDA NYAIRO | UCLA HE DIDN’T START THE FIRE: THE GREAT CHICAGO FIRE OF 1871 AND FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT’S FREDERICK C. ROBIE HOUSE SAMANTHA ROSENTHAL | NU ‘16

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IT ALWAYS BEGINS WITH DUCHAMP... BUT WHAT HAPPENS AFTER HIM? ALICE CENTAMORE | NYU ‘18

I

n the book Gender Trouble, Judith Butler analyzes the nature and the characteristics that define gender. In her studies, she brings two fundamental terms to the attention of the reader, which are indispensable to understand her argument: “performativity” and “performance.” Regarding the first word, Butler refers to the ability of acts, gestures, and words to define a determined condition (in her argument, the difference between genders and the idea of gender itself). With the second term, instead, the author discusses the process of experiencing and “acting a condition.” Society, along with its expectations and repetitions over time, molds the notion of gender, thus dividing this category into two separate types. The establishment of differences has its origins in language, which has the power to enact the existence of a group. In our quotidian dialogs, there are words that we naturally associate with the category of male or female. At their origins, these words are not actually gendered. However, because they have the ability to change, they end up shaping our understanding of genders and they influence our way of living the condition of gender. Once categories have been constructed, gender becomes a performance; a show in which the fabricated distinctions are dramatically avowed. Out of the womb, the body is a malleable being, without specific boundaries. Its insertion within a form is caused by political and social pressure. Once the borders are erected, gender is a performed act,

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whose identity has been constituted by performative terms.

In 1913, Marcel Duchamp questions the understanding of artworks and art itself by deciding that a bicycle wheel turned upside-down and placed on a stool is a piece of art. Bicycle Wheel is the first non-sculpted sculpture, whose recognition as art is entirely based on the power held by the artist [Fig. 1]. Similar to how a judge can sentence a criminal to serve time in prison, and a priest can legally declare two individuals married, the artist has the power to decide what art is. The process of research and selection of an object concretizes its transition from everyday ite into artwork, whereas its classification in the category of art is based on the power of performativity. This process is summarized in the term “Readymade,” which Duchamp coinedhimself. When Duchamp physically places the wheel on top of the “pedestal” and declares the creation of a new work of art, he has changed the nature of a traditional object. In other words, he has legalized the existence of art through gesture and language, which become so persuasive because of the role that Duchamp occupies in society. In Apropos of “Readymades” from 1961, he writes:

One important characteristic was the short sentence which I occassionally inscribed on the “ready made”. That sentence instead of describing the object like a title was mean to carry the mind of the spectator towards other regions more verbal.

Fig 1: Bicycle Wheel

by Marcel Duchamp

photo credit: Gagosian

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Fig 2: The cabinet george brecht, 1959

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The artist has enacted a social change, modifying the meaning and understanding of art through a performative action. Duchamp was aware of the privileged position that characterized art and the figure of the artist and, while simultaneously mocking and exploiting this condition, he laid the foundations for a new direction for art. He did not only liberate the master-creator of objects from the burden of authorship, but he cracked the stone on which the definition of art and its function had resided for centuries. After the fabrication of several Readymades and the definitive abandonment of painting, in the 1920s, Duchamp proceeds to manufacture a female alter ego, Rrose Sélavy. This character allows us to make a connection between Butler’s theory on the creation and show of gender and Duchamp.

The idea, the action, and the naming of the fictive, female character is based on the execution of the power of performativity. Because Duchamp is an artist, his gestures have the authority to attribute roles and functions, and Rrose Sélavy is the product of the exercise of this power. Duchamp never appeared to the public as Rrose Sélavy, he would limit himself to dress up like her; nevertheless, he would still experience the character by acting her out, specifically through photographs.

The dynamic of living as the female alter ego, even if it was for a brief amount of time, can be considered a very primitive form of performance, grounded on the artist’s performative power. As suggested by John Howell describing Duchamp as Sélavy:

Word of mouth among certain circles made a diffuse form of permanence out of the act. For most of his career, Duchamp traded on this cachet of enigmatic presence, a compound of temperament,conscious manipulation, and fiscal reality. […] His actions came to resemble unattended performances.

Comparably, Butler explains that the mechanism of living a certain gender is an act – a performance. However, Duchamp transformation into Rrose Sélavy cannot be considered the quintessence of a performance in art; the body is not yet instrumentalized as the main medium,

and the action is entirely based on the performative force of words and actions.

Even though the rise of performance in art cannot be considered a linear form of evolution from performativity, it is necessary to point out some of the crucial practices that brought to the complete abandonment of an object-medium, substituted by a body-medium. The roots of performance art can be traced back to Fluxus: a multidisciplinary approach to art that allowed the transition from objects of contemplation to objects that can be used and moved in space. The moment in which the audience is invited to break the threshold can be considered the connecting bridge between a simple state of appreciation, to a physical and mental mode of consumption. For example, Ay-O’s Finger Box (1963) and George Brecht’s The Cabinet (1959) [Fig. 2] favor the interaction between art and the viewers. These objects can be read under two conditions: the performative context in which the artist assembles the content of a case and places the final composition in the art gallery (causing the transformation from commodities to artworks); and the performance act that witnesses the audience’s tactile exploration and usage of the elements housed in their containers. Mechanical actions converge into collective pieces, art becomes alive, and performance establishes its roots. The discovery of these works is also based on a temporal factor.

Additionally, the fact that their activation is usually preceded by a list of precise instructions given by the artist implies the juxtaposition of time and score, a combination of the Duchampian and Cagean lessons, which is summarized as an Event.

Other artists identified as part of Fluxus, such as Yoko Ono and Shigheko Kubota, staged more proper performances rather than Events, in which the work of art is both created in time and constituted by the time in which the performance develops. In fact, Shigheko Kubota lets a brush stuck between her legs guide her action on the horizontal plane, whereas Yoko Ono challenges the audience to act on her clothes and body.

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Anterior to the birth of Fluxus and Events, we could take into consideration Jackson Pollock’s actions on the canvas or Robert Rauschenberg’s imprints of Susan Weil’s outline onto blue print paper: their bodies move in space, resulting in an “unattended” performance, which takes place in the private realm of their studios. As an essential element in the creation of the object, Pollock needs to exercise his spontaneous and energetic action to throw and drip color throughout the canvas, whereas Rauschenberg has to spread his bodily presence over the surface to portray the entirety of his wife’s figure. Because of the prominent body component and the interest in the action that accompanies the process of painting or taking photographs, it is plausible to consider the contribution of these two artists as a source that favored the rise of performance in art. This is emphasized by the fact that, unlike Duchamp’s transition from male to drag figure (of which we only have the photograph of the final stage of the transformation), we have a photographic documentation of the gestures perpetrated by both Pollock and Rauschenberg during the process of creation. Furthermore, at Black Mountain College in 1952, Rauschenberg, together with Cage and Merce Cunningham, planned and staged a very hectic performance that can be considered the first true Happening. As can be seen from the sketch, the audience and performers are located on the same level, and the viewers are allowed to float freely around the various performances that are simultaneously taking place in the space. This quasi-dada event, which was the result of the diverse stimuli drawn from the backgrounds of its three creators, erased the presence of an art object, which is entirely substituted by the actions unravelling in that specific moment in time and space. Similarities can be found with Allan Kaprow’s 18 Happenings in 6 Parts (1959) and Yard (1961). The auxiliary element for all of these works is the will to shift from a concrete object to an immaterial action, which contrasts the understanding of art as a commodity and attempts to spread an equalitarian approach between the audience and

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performers. In addition, the viewers are invited to participate and they represent a functional component in the realization of the piece of art.

Happenings are also the manifestation of the need of art to demonstrate itself physically in space and to be freed from the conventions of the pictorial plane and the solidity of sculptures.

Happenings are a fundamental link of the chain that solidifies the concept of performance as a set of acted and lived gestures, historicized in what is known as “Performance Art.” In the new form of expression, the centrality of the body reaches its climax and the time-based conditions in which the performance unravels create an opportunity to test and explore the potential body.

For example, we can think about Chris Burden’s Shoot (1971). Here, objects, which were considered useful tools in Happenings, are entirely subjugated to the functions and needs of the body. In the 1970s, therefore, performances become a fertile ground for the trial and exploration of the limits and the precarious condition between life and death, human relationships, and independence. Regardless of the theme explored, the body is the quintessential element and the sole medium. As a collateral consequence, the idea of narcissism is expanded and articulated in modern terms. Finally, the audience is not included in the realization or definition of the performance, and a new, arguable division is erected between artist and audience.

This analysis of the development and difference of the notions of performativity and performance, based on a chronological logic for the sake of conciseness, should not suggest the assumption that once the idea of performance has reached an autonomous condition, the theory of performativity is abandoned. The two concepts simultaneously continue to exist and develop, conjugated according to the historical conditions that the artist decides to enquire. In the contemporary realm, there are instances in which performativity and performance do not exist solely on two parallel dimensions; rather, the possibility of coexistence and encounter between the

two notions is emphasized, such as in the case of Walid Raad. The Lebanese artist operates by taking advantage of archival research and proceeds to construct a story, framing the production of knowledge on the ongoing crisis between Lebanon and Palestine. Through the translation of collective memories and facts into the architecture of an archive, Raad also explores the fictive elaboration of history, the production and delivery of knowledge, and the distribution of information (for instance, through newspapers).

Unlike Duchamp, where the act of performativity is expressed in the Readymade, which is the final form of the expression of creativity, Raad prepares a lecture to explain the discoveries of his studies and collection of documents. In this instance, the act of performativity is articulated in a performance – a lecture – where Raad is both an artist performing as a lecturer and a lecturer preforming as an artist. The explication of the archive can be considered an exercise of the power dynamic of performativity, which takes on a role that uses categorization in order to illustrate the contemporary condition of the crisis of the Middle Eastern lands. However, the ultimate objective of the lecture is to explain and define art.

As can be seen from this essay’s attempt to schematize and simplify the notions of performativity and performance, the two concepts have very complex characteristics, which are difficult to crystallize and empirically define in time. In spite of their diverse nuclei of significance, there is the possibility that these ideas continue to evolve and change; increasing their ramifications and forms of expressions as art takes on new challenges and mediums. Albeit filtering through different personal sensibilities, some contemporary artists already have attempted to join the two approaches, presenting new forms of art that can be both performative and performed. However, the multitude of hues that is contained within these notions is still open for discovery and exploration. In addition, perhaps it is in our present circumstance – which tends to reject static depictions and yet still remains unsure about the new dynamic of art manifestation – that

performance and performativity will be investigated and articulated in new modes that will unlock a new possibility of dialogue and intellectual confrontation between the two.

----Works Cited BUTLER, JUDITH. 1990. “”Women” As the Subject of Feminism.” In Gender Trouble, by Judith Butler, 2-8. New York and London: Routledge Classics.

BUTLER, JUDITH. 1990. “From Interiority to Gender Performatives.” In Gender Trouble, by Judith Butler, 183-93. New York and London: Routledge Classics.

DUCHAMP, MARCEL. 1961. “Apropos of “Readymades”.” In Art in Theory 1900 - 2000: An Anthology of Changing Ideas, edited by Paul Wood and Charles Harrison, 819. USA: Blackwell Publishing.

HOWELL, JOHN. 1977. “Art Performance: New York.” Performing Art Journal (Performing Art Journal, Inc) 1 (3): 28- 39.

MOWITT, JOHN. 1990. “Performance Theory as the Work of Laurie Anderson.” Discourse (Wayne State University Press) 12 (2): 48-65.

PAWLOWSKI, TADEUSZ. 1982. “From Happening to Performance.” Philosophica 30 61-74.

ROBINSON, JULIA. 2009. “From Abstraction to Model: George Brecht’s Events and the Conceptual Turn in Art of the 1960s.”

October (The MIT Press) 127: 77-108.

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“THE RITES OF SPRING”: KANSAI YAMAMOTO AND DAVID BOWIE CHRISTINE EVANS | PARSONS ‘19

Dressed head to toe in an otherworldly black and white striped jumpsuit, the flaming red-haired creature boldly staring down the camera appeared to be neither male nor female, but rather an extraterrestrial being, seemingly made of stardust. This being was none other than the legendary singer, songwriter, actor and record producer, David Bowie, in his most iconic alter ego: Ziggy Stardust. Born in 1947, David Robert Jones, later known as David Bowie had a talent for the arts, excelling at a young age in music, dance and theatre. These skills propelled Bowie to become the music legend he was destined to be. Throughout his career, Bowie adopted several personas most notably, Ziggy Stardust, a flamboyant, androgynous character that allowed him to explore the boundaries that defined strict gender norms. As part of his exploration, Bowie chose outrageous garments to wear as his costumes, including the iconic black and white jumpsuit titled, “Rites of Spring”, designed by Japanese designer Kansai Yamamoto and photographed by Masayoshi Sukita. Originally from Yokohama, Japan, Kansai Yamamoto, studied civil engineering at Nippon University and fashion at Bunka Fashion College.

Yamamoto was known for his eccentricity, boldness and daring ability to play with color and pattern in women’s wear. He incorporated elements of “Kabuki”, the traditional costumes of Japanese musical theatre, into his designs, highlighting their unconventionality.

While performing at Radio City Musical Hall in 1973, Bowie encountered Yamamoto, after donning one of his kabuki dresses, originally designed for a woman.

In that moment, the singer and the designer formed a strong bond that led to a collaboration that pushed the boundaries of gender in the music and fashion industries. Kansai Yamamoto challenged the relationship between gender and fashion by purposefully creating androgynous, wearable works of art to make an eye catching political statement. David Bowie recognized Yamamoto’s genius and shared his passion for making

bold statements through fashion. In choosing Yamamoto’s iconic, 1973 black and white jumpsuit, Bowie, as Ziggy Stardust, helped to build Yamamoto’s brand throughout the world and together they transformed the fashion industry into a creative space for wearable experimentation, redefining the meaning of gender and sexuality.

Yamamoto and Bowie challenged the concept of gender within the fashion industry to make a statement on the importance of individuality and sexual exploration. When interviewed about meeting Bowie for the first time, Yamamoto stated, “He has an unusual face, don’t you think? He’s neither man nor woman… there’s this aura of fantasy which surrounds him.” Bowie’s ability to capture the essence of both male and female traits as Ziggy Stardust, illustrates his confidence, not only as a performer, but also in himself. He experimented with gender norms in a time when self-exploration was questioned and criticized by many throughout society. The dynamic pair was able to push this exploration through their collaborative work, and shared interests in kabuki, modernsci-fi and androgyny. In a story for Elle Magazine, Yamamoto’s relationship with Bowie was described by journalist Erin Donelly, as follows: “Yamamoto’s floaty women’s wear creations helped cement Bowie’s androgynous look during his Ziggy Stardust tour, and a long-term relationship was born.” The pair’s successful effort to challenge gender norms, through Yamamoto’s eccentric, brightly colored geometric patterns, and femininely cut garments, featuring kimono sleeved mini-skirts, and Bowie’s famous flaming red hair and head-to-toe make-up, would not have been possible without the contributions of both the designer and the performer. Bowie and Yamamoto fed off of each-other’s creativity in order to produce, jaw dropping looks that caused people to question what gender meant in society.

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Through their creative collaboration, Yamamoto and Bowie challenged the fashion industry by presenting show-stopping, androgynous costumes such as the unique jumpsuit worn by Bowie at his Aladdin Sane 1973 concert. Taking inspiration from kabuki, known for its “sensuous nature of performance” and “…fluidity of its gender roles, with male actors often performing standard female parts” , Bowie and Yamamoto together made the black and white jumpsuit iconic. Tom Spender of the BBC notes, “They didn’t just show the clothes, they performed them”, with reference to Yamamoto and Bowie combining style, form and function to create elaborate costumes for the stage. Yamamoto created wearable works of art not only to make a fashion statement, but also to create pieces with functionality and movement to ensure the best performance possible. In this way, Bowie could perform a show that would make headlines and create news that would ultimately make Yamamoto’s designs nearly as famous as Bowie’s performances. In reflecting upon the work they had done together, Yamamoto states:

At the time, David Bowie was all about transcending gender. I didn’t know anything about concepts like that, so I remember thinking whoa when I saw him wearing clothes I had designed for women.

The clothes were influenced by hikinuki, the method of changing costumes quickly in kabuki. The audience in New York saw the costumes transform a few times during the show. I realized I had done something really cool when everyone in the audience got on their feet and clapped.

Yamamoto’s “Rites of Spring” design proved his ability to capture the fascination that followed androgyny. His flamboyant jumpsuit, paired with Bowie’s styling of flaming red hair, fiery eye-makeup, with hues of gold and orange, and sky-high platform shoes, highlighted unearthly qualities about Bowie.

The triangular jumpsuit, constructed from a stiffened, Lurex material, as indicated by the shine of the fabric, retained a sense of movement through the white stripes that cascade along the form, from the center of the sternum, down to the flair of the pant legs. The design provoked feelings of awe and played with the issue of gender by including elements drawn from both male and female clothing. This androgynous look challenged the ideals of fashion in the 70’s.

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Bowie and Yamamoto’s extravagant collaborations impacted the industry by providing a template for performers and designers to experiment with sexuality and gender identities. In a story for VICE Magazine, journalist Kazumi Hayashi stated: “...it could be argued that Bowie’s persona, Ziggy Stardust, had a greater impact on sex, fashion, and the gender-bending pageantry of 70s glam rock that would eventually follow.” Yamamoto and Bowie’s forward thinking laid a foundation that many performers would later use as a tool to start their own careers. In paying tribute to Bowie following his death, Brian May, lead guitarist of Queen, recalls the evening he performed with Bowie at the tribute concert for Freddie Mercury, lead singer of Queen, stating, “David’s duet with Annie Lennox that night is legendary. But pretty much everything David did was legendary. Never predictable, never classifiable, immensely lateral thinking and fearless, he stands as one of Britain’s greatest musical creators”. In an interview with Rolling Stone Magazine, Lady Gaga, known for wearing Yamamoto’s pieces in her own show in Japan, discusses how Bowie’s Aladdin Sane tour forever shaped her. Gaga states, “I was 19 years old, and it just changed my perspective on everything, forever. It was an image that changed my life… ‘Watch That Man’ came on and, I mean, that was just the beginning of my artistic birth.

I started to dress more expressively. I started to go to the library and look through more art books.

I took an art history class. I was playing with a band.” Gaga also stated, “‘[Bowie’s music was] a lifestyle of total immersion in music, fashion, art and technology.’ ‘You meet or see a musician that has something that is of another planet, of another time, and it changes you forever,’ she said. ‘I believe everyone has that, don’t you? That one thing you saw as a kid that made you go, ‘Oh, okay. Now I know who I am.’” Both May and Gaga attribute the success of their careers to the late star and his courage to step outside the norms of society. Without Yamamoto at his side, Bowie would never have made the impact he did upon so many people and artists whose lives and careers he inspired. Bowie and Yamamoto stood out as figures of hope for those who were afraid to express themselves, whether sexually or simply by pushing the limits of style. Through their collaboration, these artists forever changed music, fashion and society.

Yamamoto’s groundbreaking designs and his extraordinary collaboration with David Bowie redefined the role of gender in the fashion industry. As the industry continues to grow and change in the 21st century, we can use their example to create exciting new designs that challenge gender and sexuality, and redefine not only fashion but also society. Breaking the associations between expression of gender norms and sexuality may raise many questions, but ultimately this bold step will lead to greater equality for men and women. By encouraging individual freedom and expression in fashion, society will become more accepting of all kinds of self-expression, providing a safe community for all people, no matter how they choose to classify themselves. The road ahead will not be easy, but with the creativity, support and encouragement from the stars of fashion, music and art, the ideal of achieving individual freedom within all realms seems within our grasp.

----Works Cited ADDUCCI, SHANNON. “DAVID BOWIE’S ZIGGY STARDUST-ERA STYLIST RECALLS DRESSING HIM IN ICONIC JUMPSUIT.” Pret-a-Reporter. Last modified January 14, 2016. Accessed February 8, 2016.

ANOTHER PUBLISHING. “Starman Waiting in the Sky: A Tribute to David Bowie.” AnOther. Last modified January 11, 2016.

Accessed May 1, 2016.

CINQUE, TOIJA. Enchanting David Bowie: Space/Time/Body/ Memory. Edited by Christopher Moore and Sean Redmond. N.p.: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015.

DONELLY, ERIN. “KANSAI YAMAMOTO ON HIS FASHION COMEBACK AND DRESSING DAVID BOWIE.” Elle, November 1, 2013. Accessed February 8, 2016.

LEIGH, WENDY. Bowie: The Biography. New York, NY: Gallery Books, 2014.

LEWIS, DANNY. David Bowie Style. New York, NY: Bloomsbury USA, 2012.

MAY, BRIAN. “Brian May Tells How David Bowie and Queen Wrote the Legendary Track Under Pressure.” Mirror. Last modified January 11, 2016. Accessed April 28, 2016.

PAFFORD, STEVE. BowieStyle. N.p.: Ombibus Press, 2000.

PERONE, JAMES E. The Words and Music of David Bowie. The Praeger Singer-Songwriter Collection. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2007.

ROLLIN, LUCY WADDEY. “Baryshnikov Meets Bowie: Androgyny and the Popularity of Ballet.” Studies in Popular Culture 7 (1984): 78-85.

ROUTHIER, RAY. “USM Professor Has David Bowie Covered.”

Portland Press Herald. Last modified March 10, 2013. Accessed March 27, 2016.

SNAP GALLERIES 2016. “Masayoshi Sukita.” Snap Galleries.

Accessed February 17, 2016.

SPENDER, TOM. “David Bowie’s Iconic Outfits.” BBC News.

Last modified January 11, 2016. Accessed April 30, 2016.

SUKITA, MASAYOSHI. David Bowie- Watch That Man III-Aladdin Sane Tour - 1973. Photograph. BBC News. January 11, 2016.

Accessed February 1, 2016.

WALDREP, SHELTON. Future Nostalgia: Performing David Bowie. N.p.: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015.

WORDPRESS. “Kansai Yamamoto, from Ziggy Stardust to the Kansai Super Show.” A. G. Nauta Couture. Last modified February 7, 2016. Accessed February 17, 2016.

THE ZIGGY STARDUST COMPANION. “The Ziggy Stardust Costume Gallery.” The Ziggy Stardust Companion. Last modified February 22, 2004. Accessed April 29, 2016.

HAYASHI, KAZUMI ASAMURA. “Some Cat from Japan.” VICE. Last modified February 18, 2014. Accessed February 17, 2016.

JOHNSON, EMILY. “Kabuki and the Art of…David Bowie?”

Inside Japan. Last modified January 11, 2016. Accessed April 29, 2016.

KREPS, DANIEL. “Lady Gaga: ‘My Whole Career Is a Tribute to David Bowie.’” Rolling Stone. Last modified February 21, 2016.

Accessed April 28, 2016.

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MOVING TOWARDS PARTICIPATION: THE PROTO-PARTICIPATORY INNOVATIONS OF KINETIC ART DANIELA MAYER | NYU ‘16

Standing at the precipice of Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty, one may feel an immense sense of awe at the giant, spiraling rock and dirt runway rising from the Great Salt Lake in Utah. Yet, no matter how impressive, this sensation of looking at the Earthwork is not enough; for it to be completed, the viewer must transcend being a simple spectator and enter the work, thus becoming an active participant in the creative process.1

Although always in consideration, the importance of the viewer’s role in art has rapidly expanded in conception since the 1960s, moving from passive spectator to integral contributor. While this transition is admittedly indebted in part to the advent of time-based performance art, such as Allan Kaprow’s various “Environments” and “Happenings,”2 its origins lie in the interest in sculpture and its ability to insert itself into the space of the viewer.3 It is from here that we can trace the path that led to the creation of installations and monumental abstract sculpture that, rather than insert themselves into the viewers’ world, alter or build spaces for the viewer to inhabit.

Through the invention of these “new worlds,” one can see the rising importance of a viewer’s participation in relation to a work of art, as their presence and responses are necessary to activate thesestructures. At times, the viewer’s experience and meaning may even surpass that of the artist, as was the case for Richard Serra’s infamous Tiled Arc, which evoked such an oppressive sensation that it was removed. 4

And so, from their chance interactions with Fluxus objects, such as George Brecht’s The Cabinet, in which the viewer is told to open a cabinet and move around the pieces5, to their experience with the artwork becoming the meaning behind the work, as with their passage along the Spiral Jetty,6 to the importance

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of their reception in determining an artwork’s merit – or demerit - it is clear that viewers are no longer seen as standers-by, but vital parts of the art itself. It is in this way that we can claim these sculptures to be Participatory Art, as despite variance in level, the focus of the artworks is never the object itself, but the very act of creating - be it an emotion or otherwise - that necessitates the viewers’ active involvement for completion.

This practice of Participatory Art did not arise overnight, nor did it arise quickly; rather its trajectory was set in motion long before any of the aforementioned Post-WWII sculptures with the rise of Kinetic Art, especially that of innovative artists Marcel Duchamp and Alexander Calder. Through their playfully serious experimentations with movement, “machines”, performance, and chance, these artists laid the conceptual foundation on which Participatory Art would eventually build.

Apollinaire once wrote, “It will perhaps be reserved for an artist as disengaged from aesthetic preoccupations, as occupied with energy as Marcel Duchamp, to reconcile Art and the People.” While Duchamp viewed this statement as a totally imagined farce,7 his Kinetic artwork, for all that it was unconcerned with participation, was often full of potential for chance interactions with passersby (assuming they had the ability to see them). Only a year after creating a “static representation of movement”8 with his thenshocking Cubist painting Nude Descending a Staircase, in 1913 Marcel Duchamp created the first readymade9- as well as the first kinetic sculpture - by attaching a found bicycle wheel atop a stool, which he aptly named Bicycle Wheel.10 While the readymade was revolutionary for its insistence that artistic selection determines what is art,11equally incredible is the fact that this sculpture was created with the intention of being spun. When questioned about what inspired

SPIRAL JETTY

BY ROBERT SMITHSON

NAR | 17

its creation, Duchamp said, “To see the wheel turning was very soothing, very comforting, a sort of opening of avenues on other things than material life of every day. I liked the idea of having a bicycle wheel in my studio. I enjoyed looking at it, just as I enjoy looking at the flames dancing in a fireplace.”12

Free from the idealizing pedestal or gallery context, the Wheel, standing at just above four feet,13 seems the perfect height for one to lean, and one can imagine a visiting guest being obliged to rest their palm and spin it while at the artist’s studio. In this sense, the piece is participatory - but this aspect did not translate when it leftthe private context.

A replica – the original was lost - was first displayed at the Climax in 20th Century Art, 1913 exhibition at the Sidney Janis Gallery in New York, but there is no record of it being spun. In fact, only one version of the Wheel – created in 1960 by critic Ulf Linde and artist Per Olof Ultvedt for Pontus Hulten’s Bewogen Beweging (Art in Motion) exhibition – was ever said to be.14 However, Duchamp never mentioned this discrepancy as a concern, as, when speaking about the Wheel, he only ever expressed interest in the actual movement and not the fact that others may be able to activate it.15 With that said, considering the hierarchy of painting that was still very much in effect at the time of its creation, even if early 20th century viewers had been given the opportunity to see the Wheel in 1913, the sculpture’s appearance may have been so shocking that the audience would not have known how to react to, let alone interact with, the Bicycle Wheel.

It was Duchamp’s own ‘shocking’ encounter that led him away from painting and towards the readymade. In 1912, he, the sculptor Constantin Brancusi, and the painter Fernand Léger were browsing the Paris Aviation Show, when they came across a wooden airplane propeller. Legend has it that Duchamp, inspired by the object, turned to Brancusi and said, “It’s all over for painting. Who’ll do anything better than that propeller? Tell me, can you do that?”16 This chance confrontation with modern technology was responsible, at least in part, for his departure from painting and move to “anti-retinal art”- a term he used to describe his anti-painterly aesthetic.

Somewhat ironically, in pursuit of the anti-retinal, Duchamp began experimenting with the “purely optical”17 via Op Art, creating the first sculpture in his “Precision Optics” series, Rotary Glass Plates, in NAR | 18

1920. Perhaps inspired by the Paris Aviation Show encounter, this sculpture appears very propeller-like with its five black and white striped glass blades of varying lengths and intervals, that, when spun by a motor, create the illusion of concentric circles. It is in the use of the motor that we find the proposition for audience participation, for, unless they pressed a button to activate it, it would not spin to reveal this illusion. In this piece, however, it is the potential for participation that is most effective, for, as noted by Lars Blunck, the main concern of the sculpture was the play with spatial dimension – which could be achieved whether spun or not.18 And so, although participation was possible, it was not necessary for the completion of the work.

A similar paradox is encountered with Duchamp’s 1925 Rotary Demisphere (Precision Optics), another multimedia, mechanized kinetic piece, whose papiermâché demisphere rotates to create the illusion of a continuous spiral. Inscribed along a protective copper plate with a plexiglass dome are the words “Rrose Sélavy et moi esquivons les ecchymoses des esquimaux aux mots exquis” which spin in tandem with the Demisphere when attached.19 Literally translated this means, “Rrose Sélavy and I dodge the Eskimos’ bruises with exquisite words” – a sentence Duchamp chose for the ways the sounds echo one another and mimic the spiraling of the Demisphere.20 However, this effect is lost unless spoken aloud, as the phrase is full of double-entendres; even the name of Duchamp’s female alter-ego, Rrose Sélavy, is a pun meant to be pronounced “Eros, c’est la vie” - Eros (love/sex), that’s life.21 As this piece was constructed to look stimulating even when at rest,22 the viewer must activate the work through the performative utterance of the inscribed phrase, thus generating the spiraling effect even when the Demisphere was still. It is only through this action that the viewer can totally understand the sculpture, - and yet, Duchamp provided no written instructions that would inform one to do more than look, suggesting the viewer’s comprehension of the artistic intention was of minimal importance to the art.23

This seeming disregard of the spectator may come as a surprise, considering the well-known assertion by Marcel Duchamp in the 1957 lecture “The Creative Act” that the spectator determines the meaning behind, and so completes, a work of art.24 While this affirms the importance of the viewer’s input in

determining the final meaning of an artwork, Duchamp at times refused to participate in exhibitions because he dreaded the opinions of those who attended.25 This contradiction is explained by the fact that it was not the “Public” of contemporaries that Duchamp was concerned with, but the thoughts of the “Public of posterity.” In a 1956 interview with James Johnson Sweeney, he said this, “The danger is in pleasing an immediate public; the immediate public that comes around you and takes you in and accepts you and gives you success and everything. Instead of that, you should wait for fifty years or a hundred years for your true public. That is the only public that interests me.”26 And so, despite its innovation, Duchamp’s kinetic artwork was only pseudo-participatory, as the viewers must participate in order to comprehend his work in entirety, but whether or not they did this was secondary to Duchamp compared to the meaning they chose to impart to the artwork.

It comes as little surprise that the transient French artist, Duchamp, who split his time between New York and Paris, would be acquainted with the transient American artist, Alexander Calder, who, in 1926, was also splitting his time between New York and Paris.27 It was, in fact, Duchamp, who upon visiting Calder’s studio in 1931, became entranced with his motorized wire sculptures and suggested they be called “Mobiles” - a pun on the French word that refers both to “motion” and “motive.”28 However, as an active tinkerer, Calder had been experimenting with mechanized kinetic sculpture long before these mobiles, starting with his Calder’s Circus in 1926.29

More than a sculpture, the Circus was a performance; a multimedia, miniaturized version of a circus, performed by Calder using predominantly wire figures with kinetic elements. The level of kinetic involvement varied, from Calder moving figures by hand to more complex devices, such as a horse that, when attached to a component linked to a hand-crank, would appear to gallop on its own around the “circus ring” until another lever was pulled that catapulted a rider onto its back. While there is evidence other’s performed the Circus30 - and it is known that an assistant partook for at least one act31 – this piece was far more theatrical than it was participatory. Nevertheless, the viewer was clearly always in consideration, and, unlike Duchamp, Calder went out of his way to ensure the audience’s understanding and enjoyment. In order to accommodate the viewers, depending on if it was

performed in New York or Paris, Calder would modify the language the Ringmaster - played by the artist would use to narrate and introduce each of the acts.32 He was also sure to include many, literally built-in, jokes33 to maintain the crowd’s attention, especially as, in its final iteration, the Circus could last up to two hours.34 In this sense, we see the comprehension, and reception, of the contemporary viewer as becoming increasingly important to the success of a work of art.

After Duchamp saw his mobiles, he arranged for Calder to have an exhibition at the Galerie Vignon in 1932, and even suggested the show’s title, Calder Ses Mobiles.35 Although Calder had already mounted a successful solo exhibition at the Galerie Percier the previous year, this new exhibition was created with the conscious intention of featuring his kinetic sculptures.36 The Ses Mobiles exhibition consisted of fifteen “motor mobiles” and fifteen “hand mobiles” (which were activated through a hand-crank). One such kinetic sculpture was Mobile à Moteur “Red Frame”, which featured a red frame, two white balls rotated at a high speed, a black spiral that turned (and appeared to climb) at a slower speed, and a swinging black pendulum that would extend out of the frame at a slower speed still.37

Most of Calder’s contemporaries in the Abstraction-Création movement were impressed by the “motor-mobiles,” and yet one disapproved: Calder’s friend, and leader of the Abstraction-Création movement, Piet Mondrian. Mondrian felt the various accelerations of the abstract elements were divergent blunders, and that the whole work should be still.38 As it was he who inspired Calder to pursue abstraction after a famous visit to his studio,39 his opinion was clearly important to the artist, who later relayed the influence of Mondrian’s thoughts to a friend, “Now I feel that beauty of motion is a very real thing – unrelated to any definite machinery.”40 Although he still created motorized sculptures, this ideology nonetheless led Calder to arguably his most famous artworks: the hanging mobiles. In addition to being free from motors, the linear wire sculptures’ reliance on chance air currents for their movement allowed Calder to evade the monotonous, repetitive motions he disliked in his own “motor mobiles.”41 One such work is the Lobster Trap and Fish Tail, which was commissioned in 1939 by the Museum of Modern Art’s advisory committee to hang over the Museum’s entry-stairwell at the time.42 Taking its inspiration from fish tackle, the NAR | 19

untitled, 1937 alexander calder

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large, multicolored wire mobile appears weightless and delicate while simultaneously filling the space with its scale and never-ending movement, which reflects effortless motion underwater. Hanging above the entry-stairwell, the movement of Lobster Trap would have been somewhat influenced by the comings-and-goings of the museum’s visitors – however, this engagement was passive at best. While there is evidence that the hanging mobiles have at times be pushed or blown to, at least initially, set them in motion, as was clearly the case for the photograph of Hanging Mobile, 1936, this was not the norm. Although it’s difficult to say whether this was a result of Calder’s preference or merely a convention of art galleries and museums – he was said to be delighted when he saw a child blowing on one of his mobiles at his 1964 Retrospective at the Guggenheim museum43 - the possibility for direct contact with the artwork was far less significant than his innovations with chance.

As once expressed by the French philosopher and playwright, Jean-Paul Sartre, “Mobiles have to draw their mobility from some source… They feed on air, they breathe, they borrow life from the vague life of the atmosphere.”44 Thus, we see, unlike the artwork of Duchamp, whose meanings were subjected to chance reading, Calder’s hanging mobiles were always subject to the physical influence of their surroundings. And so, Calder furthered Duchamp’s release of the artist from the role of sole creator by allowing his artwork to have a life of its own, outside of his control, and amicably surrendered its literal form to chance influences and encounters – a concept that would become incredibly important to Participatory Art.45

It is important to note that, while Kinetic Art set the foundations for Participatory Art starting in the 1920s, the dominance of painting prevented the fruition of its legacy until much later. Perhaps the most important early recognition of its influence is the 1955 exhibition in Paris at the Galerie Denise René, Le Mouvement. This exhibition centered on artists tackling questions of movement in sculpture, and featured Duchamp and Calder as pioneering figures in Kinetic Art, as well as the work of several other artists living in Paris at the time: Robert Jacobsen, Victor Vasarely, Yaacov Agam, Pol Bury, Jesus-Raphael Soto, and Jean Tinguely. While the work of Agam most strikingly allowed for viewer intervention with moveable wooden

pieces, such as his Signes Pour Un Langage46, it was Tinguely’s experiments with machines that best reveal the intersection of Kinetic Art and Participatory Art as it moved towards the 1960s.

Jean Tinguely was a Swiss artist who rose in influence in the 1950s and 60s as a founding member of the avant-garde French movement Nouveau-Réalisme (New Realism) that, as noted by Julia Robinson, “deployed the media of real space and real time.”47 The year before the Le Mouvement exhibition, he had begun creating “metamechanical”48 artworks: kinetic sculptures and reliefs powered by motors or hand-cranks that would move randomly in order to set pictorial forms in motion.49 One such sculpture was Prayer Mill IV - from his series of Prayer Mills - a wire sculpture constructed of many pronged wheels, which, when activated by a hand crank, would turn like the gears of a machine. However, unlike a machine that aimed to consistently create a precise replica, the Mills were constructed in such a way that the circles would jerkily change direction depending on the amount of force exerted. As noted by curator Pontus Hulten, these sculptures were thus “anti-machines,”50 as the aim of their repetition was imprecision, which embraced the ever-changing “mechanics of chance.”51

The element of chance was increased in Tinguely’s 1959 solo exhibition, Métamatics de Tinguely at the Galerie Iris Clert in Paris, for which he created fifteen “métamatics”– motorized machines of varying appearance with moving arms that, when attached to drawing implements, could create abstract drawings or paintings.52 Although he had presented two drawing machines at the Le Mouvement show, these new métamatics proved far more innovative as they required audience participation. By inserting a token or coin into a machine, such as Méta-Matic No. 6, selecting between the numerous different-colored drawing materials presented, and placing one in the machine’s clamp at the desired distance, the machine’s operator could, in theory, create a completely unique abstract picture.53 Tinguely made no effort to limit the audience that could interact with his art, and, in violation of the conventions of fine art, had his show advertised by men wearing sandwich boards who passed out flyers.54 In addition to this, Iris Clert created a competition for the best méta-matic drawing, which was judged by a jury of some of the best-known names in the Parisian art circles.55 The efforts to motivate the NAR | 21

exhibition-goers to partake were incredibly successful, meriting over 5,000 visitors –including Marcel Duchamp56. In this way, Tinguely went above and beyond to ensure his artwork was co-created by three parties: himself, the machine, and the visitor.57

While the look of the drawings poked fun at Tachisme, the dominant French abstract-painting movement at the time,58 their creation also expressed an attempt to remove the artist from the creative process. Although Tinguely did take ownership of the méta-matics, which he patented,59 he relinquished this over the drawings they created, as seen from the switch between signing to stamping the artworks.60 After initially signing the drawings, at the Méta-Matics exhibition he instead provided a stamp that read, “Painting made in collaboration with Méta-Matic No. X, by Jean Tinguely” with a line below “by_________”, and another two lines for date and location61. Although his name is still included in the stamp, and there is an admittedly pragmatic element to this considering the volume of drawings created, its important to note that it featured a print of his name rather than a print of his signature. Through this literal exclusion of his hand and the ability of the spectator to stamp their drawings themselves, Tinguely removed the idea that he ever even viewed the picture.

Therefore, although his machine’s guided the viewer’s experience, the focus of the drawings produced was nonetheless the collaboration of the viewer with the object rather than their collaboration with the artist.

Tinguely’s méta-matics can thus be described as truly participatory, as the machines required the viewer’s intervention to fulfill their purpose.

This, however, was not the case for all of Tinguely’s kinetic art. Tinguely’s next méta-matic, Méta-matic No. 17, stepped back from participation and towards performance. This sculpture was created for the Paris Biennale in 1959, and, being too large to house indoors at 10 feet tall, was placed outdoors in the courtyard of the Musée D’art Moderne.62 Unlike previous méta-matics, once it was set up and the motor started, the sculpture did not require further assistance from either the viewers or the artist. Métamatic No. 17 could move independently and draw fluently along a roll of paper, which it then cut into individual drawings. Other elements added to the spectacle, such as the fan that blew the cut drawings towards the viewers, the large balloon that captured the machine’s exhaust and would pop on occasion, startling NAR | 22

the crowd, and the lily-of-thevalley perfume that was released from the machine to cover the foul smell its exhaust.63 While these elements reveal that Tinguely was still considering the viewer’s total experience, it also stripped them from their role as collaborator and returned them to spectator.

This creation was not a result of Tinguely’s inability to create participatory art, especially as later works incorporate the viewer once more,64 but simply reveals his purely secondary interest in it. As he once said, “For me the machine is first and foremost an instrument that allows me to be poetic. If we respect machines and enter into their spirit we maybe able to make a joyful machine, and by ‘joyful’ I mean ‘free’, isn’t that a fantastic idea?” And so, we see that, like the Kinetic Art of Duchamp and Calder, the interest was in the art itself and the motion it could create autonomously.

Much like the famed painting-machine Duchamp saw in Raymond Roussel’s play Impressions D’Afrique in 191265, these Kinetic artworks were focused on separating the artist from the art, and so the resulting viewer-integration was a byproduct rather than the intention. Nevertheless, without the innovations of these artists, the contemporary viewer may still be considered nothing more than a pair of eyes to look upon a creation, rather than an active contributor in the artistic process.

footnotes Krauss, Rosalind E. “7: The Double Negative: A New Syntax for Sculpture.” In Passages in Modern Sculpture. New York: The Viking Press, 1977. 282.

1

Robinson, Julia. “Before Attitudes Became Form.” In New Realisms: 1957 – 1962: Object Strategies Between Readymade and Spectacle, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2010. 35.

2

Jean Selz, “In the Labyrinth of Forms,” in Selz, Modern Sculpture: Origins and Evolution, London: Heinemann, 1963.12.

3

Kwon, Miwon “Sitings of Public Art: Integration Versus Intervention,” in Kwon, One Place After Another: Site-Specific Art and Locational Identity. Cambridge and London: MIT Press, 2004. 79-82.

4

5 Marter, Joan, M. Off LimitsL Rutgers University and the Avant-garde, 1957-1963. Newark, N.J.: Newark Museum, 1999. 90.

Krauss, Rosalind E. “7: The Double Negative: A New Syntax for Sculpture.” In Passages in Modern Sculpture. New York: The Viking Press, 1977. 282.

6

Duchamp’s response when Pierre Cabanne recited this quote to him in an interview was, “I told you: he [Apollinaire] would say anything. Nothing could have given him the basis for writing such a sentence. Let’s say that he sometimes guessed what I was going to do, but “to reconcile Art and the People,” what a joke! – Cabanne, Pierre, Marcel Duchamp, and Ron Padgett. Dialogues with Marcel Duchamp. New York: De Capo Press, 1987. 38.

7

8

(Cabanne, 1987, p. 111)

In an interview with Pierre Cabanne, Duchamp noted that the term “readymade” was not in use until 1915, two years after the Bicycle Wheel’s initial creation. (Cabanne, 1987, p. 47) 9

“Marcel Duchamp. Bicycle Wheel. New York, 1951, (third Version, after Lost Original of 1913).” MoMA. Accessed October 1, 2015.

10

Krauss, Rosalind E., “3: Forms of Readymade: Duchamp and Brancusi,” in Krauss, Passages in Modern Sculpture. New York: The Viking Press, 1977. 72-73.

11

Schwarz, Arturo. The Complete Works of Marvel Duchamp. New York: H.N. Abrams, 1969.

588.

12

“Marcel Duchamp. Bicycle Wheel. New York, 1951, (third Version, after Lost Original of 1913).” MoMA. Accessed October 1, 2015.

Dessins-Portraits featured his wire portraits to ease viewers into the abstract part of his oeuvre.

(Meyer-Busen, 2013. p.92) This description is based on Calder’s own description, as cited by Pontus Hulten. (Hulten, 1955, p. 34) 37

Meyer-Busen, Susen. “Alexander Calder: Avant-Garde in Motion.” In Alexander Calder: Avant-Garde in Motion, 92. Dusseldorf: Kunstsammlung Nordhein-Westfalen, 2013.

38

39

13

Blunck, Lars. “Between Gadget and Re-made: The Revolving History of the Bicycle Wheel.”

TOUT-FAIT: The Marcel Duchamp Studies Online Journal 1, no. 3 (2000). Accessed October 1, 2015.

14

Alemberg, Gusaf. Notes on Participatory Art: Toward a Manifesto Differentiating It From Open Work, Interactive Art and Relational Art. Central Milton Keynes: AuthorHouse, 2010. 38.

15

Andreotti, Margherita, and Brancusi. 1993. “Brancusi’s “golden Bird”: A New Species of Modern Sculpture”. Art Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 19 (2). The Art Institute of Chicago: 135-203.

16

Blunck, Lars. 2011. “”Purely Optical Things” on Marcel Duchamp’s Precision Optics”. Artibus Et Historiae 32 (63). IRSA s.c.: 272.

17

According to a letter from Duchamp to his sister, an alternate name for the sculpture was “Monocle.” This is a pun, as the three-dimensional object appears to create two-dimensional shape from a frontal view. Although this is heightened when spun, even at rest the structure plays with spatial depth. (Blunck, 2011, p. 272) 18

19

Rrose Sélavy was Duchamp’s female persona. (Schwarz, 1969. 706).

“Marcel Duchamp. Rotary Demisphere (Precision Optics). Paris, 1925.” MoMA. Accessed October 1, 2015 20

Krauss, Rosalind E., “3: Forms of Readymade: Duchamp and Brancusi,” in Krauss, Passages in Modern Sculpture. New York: The Viking Press, 1977. 74.

(Meyer-Busen, 2013. p. 92)

41

(Hulten, 1955, p. 34)

“Alexander Calder. Lobster Trap and Fish Tail. Roxbury, Connecticut, 1939.” MoMA. Accessed October 1, 2015.

42

Guerrero, Pedro E., Calder at Home: The Joyous Environment of Alexander Calder. New York: Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1998. 107.

43

Warren, Lynne, and George Baker. “Calder’s Mobility.” In Alexander Calder and Contemporary Art: Form, Balance, Joy. London: Thames & Hudson, 2010. 107.

44

45

Duchamp, Marcel, Michel Sanouillet, and Elmer Peterson. The Writings of Marcel Duchamp.

New York, N.Y.: De Capo Press, 1989. 184.

It is unsure if Jacques Doucet, the man who commissioned Rotary Demisphere, was aware of this play on words. - (Duchamp, 1989, p. 185)

Bordier, Roger. Le Mouvement / The Movement Paris Avril 1955. Paris: Editions Denise René, 1975. 13.

Robinson, Julia. “Before Attitudes become Form.” In New Realisms: 1957 – 1962: object Strategies Between Readymade and Spectacle. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. 2010. 23.

47

The name “Meta-Mechanical” came from Pontus Hulten, who felt the associations with “metaphysical,” “metaphor,” and “metamorphosis,” as well as the fact that the word “méta” could mean “with” or “after”, was appropriate. (Hulten, 1988, p. 27) 48

49

(Hulten, 1988, p. 16)

50

(Bordier, 1975, p. 37)

51

(Hulten, 1988, p. 16)

52

Pardey, Andres. Museum Tinguely Basel: The Collection. Basel: Museum Tinguely, 2012. 52.

23

24

Duchamp, Marcel. “The Creative Act.” Lecture, Houston, April 1957.

In a 1925 letter to Jacques Doucet, the man who commissioned the Rotary Demisphere, Duchamp implored him not to exhibit the work, fearing that attendants would view the globe as “anything other than ‘optics’” (Duchamp, 1989, p. 185) 25

26

(Duchamp, 1989, p. 133)

Calder lived predominantly in Paris from 1926 until 1933, when he returned to the United States to evade the rising political power of the Nazis. – (Meyer-Busen, 2013. P. 122) 27

28

Rower, A.S.C. Calder Sculpture. Washington: National Gallery of Art, 1998. 25.

Calder continued to add “acts” and expand his Circus until 1931, when it became too big to carry around easily in suitcases. - Le Cirque De Calder. Directed by Carlos Vilardebo. Performed

by Alexander Calder, Louisa James Calder. France: The Anthony Roland Collection of Films on Art, 1961. Film.

Due to the variation in material, length of time, color, and machine itself, Pontus Hulten asserted that no two drawings could ever be identical. (Hulten, 1988, p. 55) 53

Robinson, Julia. “Before Attitudes become Form.” In New Realisms: 1957 – 1962: object Strategies Between Readymade and Spectacle. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. 2010. 32.

54

55

One machine alone, No. 12, was said to have produced over 2,300 miles of painting. (Hulten, 1988, p. 55) Hanor, Stephanie. “Jean Tinguely’s Métamatics.” Métamatic Research Initiative. January 3, 2010. Accessed October 1, 2015. 2.

57

58

In the 1961 short film, “Le Cirque De Calder” a man is seen working one of the chariots (Calder works the other) during the “chariot race.” – (Vilardebo, Le Cirque De Calder).

32

(Vilardebo, Le Cirque De Calder).

The performance of the Circus is brimming with humor, both verbal and visual. In one act, Calder pulls a lever to release chestnuts from below the lion’s pedestal, thus mimicking the animal defecating to uproarious laughter. (Vilardebo, Le Cirque De Calder).

33

34

(Rower, 1998, p. 26)

(Hulten, 1988, p. 56)

Satz, Aura. Articulate Objects: Voice, Sculpture and Performance. Oxford: Peter Lang, 2009.

143.

59

60

30

31

(Hulten, 1988, p. 55)

56

29

Pontus Hulten once wrote, “They can dance, juggle and do a trapeze trick. Their arms and legs move; when Calder himself is operating them they can perform marvelous tricks.” – implying that others besides Calder enacted this. - Hulten, Pontus. “Vicarious Freedom or on Movement in Art and Tinguely’s Meta-mechanics.” In Jean Tinguely: A Magic Stronger than Death, 32-35. New York: Abbeville Press, 1955.

(Alemberg, 2010. P. 8-11)

46

21

22

(Meyer-Busen, 2013. p. 90)

40

(Hanor, 2010. p. 2)

Robinson, Julia. “Before Attitudes become Form.” In New Realisms: 1957 – 1962: object Strategies Between Readymade and Spectacle. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. 2010. 32.

61

The decision to place Méta-matic No. 17 outdoors was also influenced by the protests from the Tachiste artists, many of whom were also exhibiting and viewed Tinguely’s work as an affront to their paintings. (Satz, 2009, p. 142) 62

63

(Hulten, 1988, p. 56)

Tinguely’s contribution to the Bewogen Beweging show featured “push-button” participatory artwork. - “Pollock’s Concreteness: Painterly Performance or Performative Painting?” in exh. catalogue Explosion! Action-Painting-Action, (Stockholm: Moderna Museet, 2012).

64

Krauss, Rosalind E., “3: Forms of Readymade: Duchamp and Brancusi,” in Krauss, Passages in Modern Sculpture. New York: The Viking Press, 1977. 69-72.

65

Calder, Alexander. Calder; an Autobiography with Pictures. New York: Panthon Books, 1966.

127.

35

36

By request of the gallery, the 1931 exhibition Alexander Calder: Volumes-Vecteurs-Densites;

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THE PEZ DISPENSER: ESTABLISHING INTERACTIVE CANDY WANDA NYAIRO | UCLA

The multiple narratives about the PEZ mechanical pocket dispenser make it a significant design object and they influence and are influenced by the multiple functionalities of the object. An example of such a narrative is the one surrounding the word PEZ, which comes from the German word Pfefferminz (peppermint). This abbreviation is the starting point for an exploration of the object’s history, commercial trajectory and changing presence in the market and in popular culture. It is because this design object is embedded in so many different layers of meaning that it becomes difficult to categorize; but it is precisely the complexity of this categorization that makes this object worth analysing. This essay aims to historically and culturally contextualize the PEZ dispenser, to reveal the reasons for its popularity by analysing its production, consumption, and position in the design and art world.

PEZ dispensers, originally developed by Oscar Uxa in 1948, were created to provide a sanitary and effective way to contain and dispense peppermint breath mints. The mints were produced to help and encourage Austrians to quit smoking, and start ‘PEZing’ instead.

As such the first PEZ dispensers produced, named Box Regulars and they did not have character heads but instead resembled cigarette lighters, complete with a ‘tilter’ that is stylized as a flip switch.

While the mints were a solution to a socio-cultural problem, the dispenser was a solution to a packaging design problem. This re-usable, re-fillable, mechanical pocket dispenser made it easier to hygienically store and access the product being consumed.

Thinking about the PEZ dispenser in thefield of packaging design illustrates that the design adhered to the “form follows function” (Sullivan) principle. Since the dispenser was being marketed to adults it was less

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playful and more sleek and compact, and it could be operated efficiently with one hand to allow consumers to multi-task. It could be argued that the Box Regulars sought to change people to suit the world – or rather to fit into a world in the future, where smoking would not be as prevalent. In some ways, this particular design fits into the ‘possible’ cone of the speculative design cone because this object provides a link and a path between the then present world and a desirable future world. The object was representative of a particular socio-cultural problem of the time and of an attainable future world where this problem would be non-existent or at the very least, would be less widespread.

At this point, it seems that the packaging of the mints came second to the mints; meaning that the design of the object enabledphysical consumption of the mints before any other kind of consumption. In other words, the functionality of the design was strongly influenced by the smoking narrative that influenced the design and the consumable product. However, once the object entered the U.S market, all this changed.

Perhaps this is because of its catchy, accessible name.

Or perhaps this is because athough cigarettes are always an aspiration to adulthood, candy – even a flavour as strong as peppermint – is always reminiscent of childhood.

This next phase in the life of the PEZ dispenser is indicative of the power of the consumer and the importance of fluidity in the design of a commercial, massmarket product. Once PEZ hit the U.S market, it gained more popularity with children than with adults, so the design of the dispensers and the flavour of the mints had to change to accommodate this new demographic. This is when the iconic PEZ dispensers with the character heads began to be produced.

GRAPHIC BY EMILY KAPPES

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Starting in the late 50s, PEZ created dispensers whose character heads immortalized significant socio-cultural figures, majority of which were fictional, in a relatively trivial way. Although the physical consumption of the mints was still central to the marketing/selling of the product, the design of the object enabled a different kind of consumption, one that was entertainment-oriented. In other words, unlike in the previous phase of the PEZ dispenser, the consumable product inside the package was not the only thing being sold – the package itself was being sold, the dispenser was becoming as, if not more, popular and valuable than the mints. Additionally, they marketed characters and narratives from children’s literature.

These character heads made figures like Santa Claus and so on, tangible and consumable in a way that made them more present and permanent in popular culture and especially in children’s lives.

As a child, I remember treating my PEZ dispensers as toys – my friends and I would frequently use our dispensers to play. The fact that the character heads helped make the object more perceptible as a toy demonstrates, once again, that the design of this object reflects Sullivan’s principle. But in retrospect, this shift in functionality was also probably to do with the fact that, as a child, it was easier to use the object as a toy than as a refillable, mechanical dispenser. Personally, I always had a hard time refilling my dispenser because the neck would never stay up long enough for me to arrange the candy and I found that very frustrating. In my opinion, the dispenser was more valuable than the mints because it was more original and unlike anything I had encountered before whereas the candy tasted quite average, to be honest.

This disparity between the quality of the candy and the quality of the dispenser made the dispenser more of a marketable object than the candy and that contributed to the change in the type of consumption that the design enabled.

Consequently, this object belongs to the field of game toy design, just as much as packaging design since it is capable of encouraging informal play among children and that in turn requires them to construct unique narratives – narratives in which they sub-consciously reflect on the presence of these popular culture figures in their lives. In a sense, the design was changing the world to suit us because we, as children playing with these objects, were creating realities of our own that were solely dependent on our perception NAR | 26

of this object in the world. With the idea of speculative design in mind, it can be argued that these particular dispensers lie in a zone beyond the ‘possible’ cone – the “zone of fantasy” (Dunne and Raby 4), where entertainment value is key and where the world we construct in our imagination has fewer links to the real world, depending of course on how each individual constructs this fantastical world.

Today, the PEZ dispenser can be categorized as an ornament because it has become this collectible icon of popular culture that is traded, sold, and celebrated online, in novelty stores and at conventions.

It is arguable that the change in the form of the object (adding ‘feet’ to make it more stable) led to this change in its functionality. Since it can now stand on it’s own properly, there is less incentive for people to pick it up, use it and play with it and more incentive for people to simply observe it. This loss of tactility suggests that sometimes function follows form as opposed to other way around because in this instance, it was a change in the design/form that triggered a change in functionality.

The PEZ dispenser can, therefore, be classified as a piece of art since more value is now placed on its socio-cultural narratives as opposed to its functionality. I have arrived at this reasoning because if we consider the definition of design as Mickey Mouse PEZ Dispenser (with ‘feet’), created c. 1987 functional art then surely once the functionality is removed from an object, all that is left is the art. The fact that there is a museum dedicated to this object - Burlingame Museum of Pez Memorabilia in California – also indicates this shift of the object from being a commercial design to being a piece of art.The object is no longer produced and consumed for the same reasons and in the same way as it was.

Moreover, given this shift in functionality, what kind of consumption does the object now enable?

Even though it isn’t as popular in the mass market as it once was, it is still being produced which means there is still demand for it and people still find value in its existence. However, it is arguable that the object is now a bespoke design catering to PEZ enthusiasts, also known as ‘PEZheads’. Hence, I would say that the type of consumption that is occurring now is a sentimental one and what is on sale now, is neither mints, nor a toy, but rather nostalgia.

Previously, the design enabled physical consumption of the mints because its form and functionality were closely related to the conspicuous narrative of smoking. Soon after, the design enabled a consumption centred on entertainment since the form and function were closely related to popular culture narratives that the consumer constructed and adapted according to their perception and imagination. Now, the design enables a sentimental consumption that is more about archiving the past and evoking fond memories – particularly childhood memories. The value of the PEZ dispenser now is not in the quality of it’s content (i.e. the mints), or in the quality of its functionality (i.e. how it stores and dispenses the mints), or in the quality of its form (i.e. its appearance and how we interact with it) – instead it is in the quality of its nostalgic appeal.

Building on this idea of the PEZ dispenser now being sentimentally consumable, one could go so far as to say that this object has even become a kitsch object. Kitsch objects are described as mainly serving a decorative purpose and possessing an exaggerated sentimentality that is ironic. The irony stems from the fact that the object is a “once-removed aesthetic” (Harris) meaning that it appropriates a popular culture trope. On the surface, PEZ dispensers are clearly Kitsch because they re-appropriate fictional popular culture figures like Mickey Mouse among others, in a seemingly trivial way.

There is however a much deeper connection between Kitsch and the PEZ dispenser that is best demonstrated in a Seinfeld episode, titled The PEZ Dispenser, where Jerry, so delicately introduces a Tweety Bird PEZ dispenser into a space and time that it could not be further unrelated to! By juxtaposing this object with a piano recital, Jerry creates a humour and irony that perhaps only those who experienced the PEZ dispenser craze and can sentimentally relate to it, will truly appreciate. However, even to people who don’t know about this object, the sheer randomness of it’s presence and Elaine’s uncontrollable laughter, coupled with the close-up shot of the lone PEZ dispenser occupying Elaine’s seat at the end, is enough to indicate a childish and harmless, yet odd re-contextualization of this object – a re-contextualization that is completely Kitsch.

To conclude, I think it would be interesting, and even necessary to continuously revisit the critique of popular culture icons and designs such as this one,

because it’s important to build a healthy curiosity about and then document such narratives as they unfold. Personally, I would like to see how far designers could carry the idea of “interactive candy” (Townsend) and the different directions it could go in. After all, the mystery and brilliance of the PEZ dispenser lies in its adaptability; in the way it has been reinvented from one decade to another to perform roles and functions that it was never originally intended for. And this is precisely the essence of popular culture, an essence that coincides with the ethos of commercial enterprise when products are at their most successful. Popular culture icons are popular because they are portable and acquisitive, moving from geographical location to another, from one demographic to another, from one function to the next enjoying an accessibility that seamlessly links design, art, narrative, and public memory.

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Works Cited DUNNE, ANTHONY, AND FIONA RABY. Speculative Everything: Design, Fiction, and Social Dreaming. Cambridge: MIT, 2013. Print.

HARRIS, DAN. “Tastes.” Design Futures Lecture. UCLA, Los Angeles. 7 Apr. 2016. Lecture.

“Kitsch.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, n.d. Web. PEZ, “Fun Facts.” PEZ | Fun Facts. PEZ Candy Inc. Web. PEZ, “History of PEZ.” PEZ Candy. PEZ Candy Inc. Web. PROKOP, JESSICA. “The History of Pez Iconic Candy Dispensers.” Candy Favorites.

SIMS, DAVID. “”The Suicide”/”The Subway”/”The Pez Dispenser”- A review. · Web. TOWNSEND, ALLIE. “All - ( 100 Greatest Toys.” Time. Time Inc., 16 Feb. 2011. Web. YURKEVICH, VANESSA. “5 Things You Didn’t Know About the Pez Dispenser.” CNNMoney. Cable News Network, 6 May 2015.

Web.

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Robie House Exterior shot

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HE DIDN’T START THE FIRE: THE GREAT CHICAGO FIRE OF 1871 AND FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT’S FREDERICK C. ROBIE HOUSE SAMANTHA ROSENTHAL | NU ‘16

As late as 1892, twenty-one years after that initial mysterious spark of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, “a mound of iron debris, huge independent objects permanently forged together by the heat of the fire, still littered the site of Burnham and Root’s new Masonic Temple” (Miller 65). Despite the significant passing of time, many of the corpses of Chicago’s former architectural structures remained scattered across the landscape like open wounds. And although much of the city had been rebuilt by 1880, journalistic distortions reporting that no one had died in the fire, in conjunction with Chicago’s demonstrated ability to build tall and quickly, contributed to the illusion that the fire no longer consumed the consciousness of those inhabiting the Midwest’s greatest metropolis.

The fire’s destruction radically transformed the relationship between Chicagoans and their city’s architecture as “Things thought solid and permanent melted and disappeared, leaving only their shadows in the undifferentiated rubble” (Miller 68). Chicago became a city of shock victims whose sudden amnesia revealed an instinctual means of survival rather than evidence of irrationality. The loss of buildings made Chicago’s inhabitants strangers in their own city. One victim remembers, “‘for three days after the fire we walked through the streets, covered everywhere with heaps of debris and parts of walls, and could not help comparing ourselves to ghosts’” (Miller 68). The failure of Chicago’s architecture to protect the city from the fire required a complete reevaluation of not only the construction of the city’s buildings, but also of those styles that had previously defined its urban landscape.

The Great Chicago Fire, which ravaged the city for three days, provided those who experienced it with a unique opportunity to consider and even scrutinize the character and direction of their society (Pauly 668). For several weeks following the event, publications and pulpits alike debated “the dangers of overly rapid urban growth, the relative turpitude of cities, and the place of Christian values in a business culture” (Pauly 668). The image of Chicago in flames reminded a hyper-biblically aware American population of Sodom-and-Gomorrah, causing many to question whether the fire had been a providential judgment sent to an especially sinful city. On Sunday, October 29, 1871, a week after the fire, the Mayor of Chicago urged his constituents to utilize the day for humiliation and prayer. The humiliation, according to Mayor Mason, was “‘for those past offenses against Almighty God, to which these severe afflictions were doubtless intended to lead our minds’” (Pauly 672).

The confirmation from the mayor regarding the fault of human sin in the tragedy of the fire must have convinced many in Chicago that reform was not only required for the perseverance of daily life, but also essential for the securement of a successful future.

The immediate aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire presented the city with a blank slate on which to rebuild itself. The people’s distrust in both the strength of the city’s previous architecture and in its own public morality seemingly contributed to the style of building that emerged almost thirty years later at the turn of the century. J. M. Van Osdel’s Court House, constructed in 1857 in Chicago, “was the building most clearly associated with the city’s past and its desire for the future” (Miller 68). And because

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it housed records of births, deaths, and land deeds, the majority of Chicagoans experienced some form of connection to the building. The Court House’s architecture displayed an amalgamation of neoclassical and continental styles, an apparently pretentious allusion to the grandeur of the great buildings of Europe (Miller 68). However, the building’s evident desire to associate with the stylishness of Europe failed because of its one accommodation to reality. The story-high flight of stairs, which stood on a steep grade and allowed people to enter the building safe and dry, prevented the Court House from achieving the same sense of unity and grandiose that existed in the European architecture from which it was modeled. Van Osdel’s building demonstrates the then common prioritizing of passing fashion over soundness in structure in Chicago.

Despite the ubiquitous threats of fire safety and the problems for foundations caused by the water-saturated soil, pre-fire Chicago architects preferred likening it to Athens or Rome as opposed to building a city that could actually survive. Ironically, “The solidity of architecture, arguably its most important feature given Chicago’s hostile climate, became in fact a secondary consideration” (Miller 69). Chicago’s fashionable architecture proved a costly illusion.

The majority of interpretations regarding the fire’s source pointed in two distinct directions. The first examined the state of American society; and the second scrutinized the state of American architecture.

Frederick Law Olmstead, a renowned landscape architect, surveyed the fire’s damage in Chicago for the Nation. He attributed much of the fire’s destruction to the extravagant style of building in Chicago. He wrote, “Chicago had a weakness for ‘big things’... The faults of construction as well as of art in its great showy buildings must have been numerous. Their walls were thin, and were often outweighted with gross and coarse misornamentation” (Pauly 673). The future of American architecture existed in limbo as architects and laypeople alike wondered what building might look like in light of the destruction caused by fire in the city of Chicago. The Albion, a New York weekly, hopeful that cities would cease from using wood in their buildings wrote, “‘The Chicago of the future, we have no doubt, will be much more handsome than that of the past. It will be a city of stone, brick, and iron, and not of wood’” (Pauly 674). And in 1889, eighteen years after the fire, it would appear that then young architect Frank Lloyd Wright, working on his own home NAR | 30

in Oak Park, Illinois, answered those cries for architectural reform with a unique style that was as durable as it was distinctly American.

Contemporary reviews and later academic scholarship on Wright’s work do not attribute the emergence of his style as a direct response to the needs of Chicago and the American public following the Great Fire. Much of the writings about Wright instead commend the genius of the architect whose background and subsequent unique ideologies provided him with the insight and innovation to create what would later become identified as the Prairie Style. However, comparisons between those articulated architectural desires in the aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire and the style that ultimately defined Wright’s oeuvre show them to be intrinsically connected. Chicagoans, in the aftermath of the fire, required structures that not only protected them from the elements, but also stylistically grounded them to the city in which they lived. The former destruction of their city demanded that they once again feel connected to the land in a profoundly personal way. Wright’s eradication of ornamentation and emphasis on simplicity would achieve a reestablishing of faith both in the Midwest and in this need for rapid urban expansion that had contributed to the fire’s original destruction.

However, despite a retrospective awareness of this quality to Wright’s work, none of his contemporaries appear to make the same connection, at times criticizing those architectural elements that actually seemingly filled the void left by the fire.

American assessment of Wright’s architecture, “during his first forty or more years of practice is amazingly slight, with the most significant of these dating from the period 1897-1912” (Brooks 103).

Harriet Monroe, a Midwesterner, a poet, and the biographer of Chicago architect John Root, reviewed Wright’s architecture on the occasion of the Chicago Architectural Club’s annual exhibition in 1907. For Wright, this was his first major showing in five years (Brooks 111). And while she deciphers charm in his dwellings, she calls his style, “an interesting experiment... at times even bizarre... without grace or ease or monumental beauty” (Brooks 111). Russell Sturgis, the foremost architectural critic of his day, writing on Wright’s Larkin Building in Buffalo, exclaimed, “The lover of architecture who looks at a building so entirely removed as this one from traditional styles feels a shock of surprise, and this surprise is the reverse

of pleasant” (Sturgis 116). He condemns Wright for failing to include moldings or any other indications of elements purely for the sake of architectural effect (Sturgis 116). Montgomery Schuyler, another distinguished architectural critic working at the same moment, also rejected Wright for his lack of ornamentation. Schuyler, in an article for Architectural Record in 1912, explained, “The stark unmodelled transitions give an air of something rude, incomplete, unfinished.

The buildings seem ‘blocked out’ and awaiting completion rather than completed.” (Schuyler 119). Monroe, Sturgis, and Schuyler articulate similar sentiments regarding Wright’s decision to eliminate ornamentation. The simplistic nature of his designs differed significantly from those styles, which had previously dominated the Chicago landscape. These critics seemingly fail to acknowledge that Wright may have been accommodating a population that did not want to be reminded of the architecture that had has so tragically failed them thirty years before. These writers evidently did not realize the greater impact of the fire’s destruction, perhaps because its flames had not yet ceased from burning in their more recent memories.

Despite these seemingly unkind reviews, many of Wright’s contemporaries commended his work during his lifetime, although never citing its associations with the Chicago Fire. Robert C. Spencer, Jr., writing in 1900, adequately summarizes Wright’s work in a piece he contributed to Architectural Review. He commends Wright’s designing of those simple, less-costly homes. He writes, “These modest buildings... embody new thoughts and new ideas. They have life. They express clearly and consistently certain ideals of home and of quiet, simple home life” (Spencer 106). And he continues by suggesting that Wright’s architecture represents solutions to those problems “which have been developing slowly among our people of the intelligent middle class.” (Spencer 106).

Despite asserting that connection between Wright’s architecture and those emerging problems belonging to the middle class, Spencer makes no mention of the Chicago Fire and the subsequent rebuilding that followed. Even Monroe derives a similar association as she iterates, “these [dwellings] seem to grow out of the ground as naturally as the trees, and to express our hospitable suburban American life... as spontaneously as certain Italian villas express the more pompous and splendid life of those old gorgeous centuries” (Monroe 112). And in Schuyler’s somewhat scathing review he

too, even in condemning Wright’s lack of functional modifications of surface or of line, actually acknowledges the quiet youthfulness of his architecture. He writes, “Mr. Wright [has] the root of the matter... [his] works are of good hope, in contrast with the rehandling and rehashing of admired historical forms in which there is no future nor any possibility of progress” (Schuyler 121). For those critics who both condemned and admired Wright’s work, his emphasis on geometry and lack of ornamentation, architectural details that ultimately defined the Prairie Style, set his work apart from the other structures that were becoming part of Chicago’s new landscape. And while his contemporaries seemingly attribute his innovative style to a unique genius, the substantial amount of time between twentieth century and twenty-first century scholarship places Wright within a group of architects working towards the same goal. The Chicago Fire, therefore, becomes a significant social phenomenon by which to read Wright’s architecture rather than the means by which Wright initially acquired substantial commissions.

Wright, in his first important essay on architecture, which he wrote in the spring of 1908, exclaimed, “‘Radical though it be, the work here illustrated is dedicated to a cause conservative in the best sense of the word’” (Smith 7). Wright’s sensitive awareness of the relationship between the architectural metaphor to the state and to the lesser institutions of which its fabric is made up appears consistently through the architect’s writings (Smith 10). In 1900, Wright wrote, “‘civilization must take the natural man to fit for his place in this great piece of architecture we call the social state’” (Smith 10). Wright attained his sense of society and self from his own upbringing in the Midwest. The architect came from a family of farmers and devout Unitarians who bequest him with a deep appreciation for the land and for nature (Birk 10). The American Midwest became more than just the physical place of childhood for the architect; it became also “a metaphor for his vision of the American spirit – courageous, independent, and practical” (Birk 9). The progression of his career shows an architect whose style matured as he did, as his structures became more and more integrated and reflective of their natural and cultural settings (Birk 9). The contemporary interest and commission of private homes that essentially destructed classical architectural norms reveals a people struggling to rejoin modernity after their entire NAR | 31

city lay destroyed. The Great Chicago Fire recreated a prairie-like landscape in this Midwestern metropolis, as the majority of its previously decorative and ornate buildings lay flat on the land. The culmination of Wright’s architectural style represented all that Chicago required in the aftermath of the fire: structures with strong foundations, rooted to the land, and constructed in a style that pushed relentlessly forward towards modernity.

The Frederick C. Robie House, often regarded as the quintessential Prairie House, stands near the University of Chicago in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago. Wright constructed the house between 1907 and 1909 for Frederick C. Robie, a prosperous young bicycle manufacturer. Wright, in the construction of this structure, allowed a complete free flow of space by eliminating the wall as a visual barrier. His utilization of window screens and projecting terraces effectively removes the normal boundaries between the exterior and the interior. And the structure is “rooted firmly to the ground by its central chimney core, evoking a sense of familiar security and solidity” (Birk 20). Wright successfully distanced himself from other architects by emphasizing open and flowing space. H. Allen Brooks, a Wright scholar and writer, condemns much of modern academia that “indiscriminately uses such phrases as ‘open space’ and flowing space,’ whether they are discussing interiors by Wright... or any number of 20th-century architects... as they reveal basic misconceptions concerning Wright’s achievement” (Brooks 7). The architect’s spaces, according to Brooks, are much more open and flowing than those that ever previously existed. Wright’s interiors, in both their design and psychological impact, are profoundly different from those which they are often associated (Brooks 7). The Robie House is a perfect of example of Wright’s capacity for achieving a sense of expansiveness that the building’s exterior seemingly denies.

Although the dining room and living room have in common their outer walls, the “wall” that actually separates the two rooms is a freestanding fireplace (Figure 4) (Brooks 10). Brooks writes, “Due to the absence of corners (no visual ‘stop’ signs) it is impossible to tell where these outer walls terminate, or when they are no longer part of the space in which you are standing” (Brooks 10). Wright’s capacity for eliminating any visual breaks in the Robie House gave autonomy to the viewer whose position, rather than any other predetermined structural boundaries, determines the space.

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Wright’s Robie House “embraced the principles of the machine age and used clean, geometric designs to create a technologically advanced building” (Birk 71). The extension of the sweeping horizontal lines, elements that became intrinsically linked to the Prairie House, alludes to those trains that sped quickly across the midwestern region of the United States.

Clay Lancaster, in his essay “Transportation Design Elements in American Architecture,” commends the Robie House for maintaining its sense of spaciousness and privacy despite being placed in close proximity of neighboring homes. He attributes this to the home’s visual references to transportation, which successfully create an illusion of movement in an otherwise highly concentrated neighborhood. Wright’s utilization of long bands of limestone trim, Roman brick, and radical cantilevers “render the building a vivid symbol of shelter” (Birk 71). The Prairie School, to which Wright belongs, is considered uniquely American, transforming the Robie House into more than just a residence but rather into a statement of America at the beginning of the twentieth century. The distinctly American qualities of this style appear in its theoretical connection with nature; its emphasis upon a close relationship between building and landscape; the openness of the interiors and exteriors of the rooms; and, finally, “the uniquely American acceptance of the machine as a natural and essential compliment to the architectural process” (Brooks 11). These qualities appear consistently throughout the Robie House, which is as grounded in its location as it is seemingly ready to take flight.

Modern interest in Wright’s architectural legacy reveals shifting interpretations of the Robie House and the Prairie Style. Lisa Taylor, the Director of the Cooper-Hewitt Museum, writing in 1984, nearly twenty-five years after Wright’s death, attributed that renewed interest to Wright’s capacity “for formal invention without parallel in the history of American architecture” (Taylor 7). The Robie House, in comparison to the architecture that preceded it, effectively demonstrates such an interpretation. The building is one of Wright’s most daring designs. The then bewildering length of the cantilevered roof over the living room terrace stresses the theme of a house that stretches towards the horizon. Wright’s capacity for accentuating the roof of the home, which seemingly expands protectively across the entire structure, firmly establishes that this structure is a shelter. The

robie house interior view

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architect’s insistency on unity in design exists in the Robie House in its horizontality that appears not only on the exterior boundaries of the home, but also on the more comforting fluidity of the interior walls. Taylor’s analysis of Wright’s work demonstrates the art historical tendency of formulating the artistic genius through scholarly discourse. And while her praise represents a significant majority of literature related to the architect, the writings of other scholars reveal different forms of evaluation that point to a more intentioned genius than a seemingly celestially enlightened one.

David Van Zanten, in his essay “Schooling the Prairie School: Wright’s Early Style as a Communicable System,” approaches Wright’s architecture critically, questioning the traditional canon with which his work has typically been evaluated. And although he does not connect the conception of Wright’s architecture to the Chicago Fire, he does cite an apparently evident correlation between the geometric purity of the Prairie Style and its expedited assembly, which achieved “a kind of mechanical self-generation in architectural composition” (Van Zanten 71). The Robie House is especially praised for its geometrically pleasing aesthetic, a look that essentially expands the home beyond its physical boundaries. And while many critics have understood this aesthetic as emblematic of the architect’s genius, the rationality of its design may, according to Van Zanten, actually relate more to the architect’s desire for feasibility in construction. Barry Byrne, one of Wright’s draftsman, perhaps shamefully suggested that Wright had “developed a system by which a design could be made to generate itself on the office’s boards once [he] had set it in motion with a general layout” (Van Zanten 71). Van Zanten’s claims are only further implicated by the real Frederick C. Robie, who in an interview with his son in 1958, said of the construction progress, “‘The plans were so perfect that [the building’s contractor] afterward told me that he might as well have been making a piece of machinery’” (Robie 49). Wright’s apparent eagerness for building soundly and quickly exemplifies a genius that is different from ones previously described by scholars like Lisa Taylor. Van Zanten’s interpretation of Wright’s genius supports the notion that the architect designed with the intention of acknowledging the Chicago Fire and its architectural implications because it reveals the architect’s evident interest in building quickly and assertively for a people that deserved safe and aesthetically pleasing NAR | 34

structures. The design features of the Robie House were not only representative of an aesthetic genius, but also of a rational and considerate one.

The architectural qualities of the Robie House successfully respond to those desires expressed in the aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire. The home is not made primarily of wood and it is unapologetically distinct from those previous architectural styles, which favored ornamentation over soundness of design. The home has become a symbol of the American Midwest at the turn of the century. And despite the absence of the Great Chicago Fire’s relevance in relationship to the Robie House and Wright’s other architecture in previous academic scholarship, the connection really only becomes apparent in retrospectively understanding the fire and its immediate repercussions in conjunction with the arrival of Wright in Chicago. Both of these events require an analysis that is only possible with a significant passage of time. The desire among many art historians to immortalize the artist prevents the secure welding of such a connection. Much of the academic writings about Wright commend him for his unique genius at “deconstructing the box” and completely redesigning “the look” of the American Prairie in the twentieth century. However, perhaps it was not innate genius that created the Robie House and Wright’s other Prairie Style dwellings, but rather the genius of an architect who anticipated the needs of patrons who had witnessed the mass destruction of their city; a destruction which was largely the fault of architectural errors. And while Wright may have truly reinvented the wheel, there is much reason to believe that even more than that, he filled a void. The genius of the Robie House was not born out of nothing.

Wright’s architecture, like many other artistic styles and movements, is a product of its time, fulfilling that very basic human need for efficiency, shelter and security.

Works Cited BIRK, MELANIE. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie. New York: Universe, 1998.

14 BROOKS, H. ALLEN. “Frank Lloyd Wright and the Destruction of the Box.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 38.1 (1979): 7–14.

BROOKS, H. ALLEN. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie School. New York: Braziller, 1984.

BROOKS, H. ALLEN, AND DONALD D. WALKER. Writings on Wright: Selected Comment on Frank Lloyd Wright. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1981.

CHAN, CHIU-SHUI. “Exploring Individual Style Through Wright’s Designs.” Journal of Architectural and Planning Research 9.3 (1992): 207-38.

HOFFMANN, DONALD. “Dismembering Frank Lloyd Wright”.

Design Quarterly 155 (1992): 2–5.

McASLAN, JOHN. “Frank Lloyd Wright in Chicago”. RSA Journal 143.5463 (1995): 78–78.

MILLER, ROSS. The Great Chicago Fire. Urbana: U of Illinois, 2000.

LANCASTER, CLAY. “Transportation Design Elements in American Architecture”. American Quarterly 8.3 (1956): 199–215.

PAULY, JOHN J.. “The Great Chicago Fire as a National Event”. American Quarterly 36.5 (1984): 668–683.

ROBIE, FREDERICK C. “My Robie Knew What he Wanted (1907/1958).” Writings on Wright: Selected Comment on Frank Lloyd Wright. Ed. H. Allen Brooks. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1981. 47-51.

SATLER, GAIL. “The Architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright: A Global View.”Journal of Architectural Education (1984-) 53.1 (1999): 15-24.

SCULLY, VINCENT. “Frank Lloyd Wright and the Stuff of Dreams”. Perspecta 16 (1980): 9–31.

SMITH, NORRIS KELLY. Frank Lloyd Wright; a Study in Architectural Content. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1966.

VAN ZANTEN, DAVID. “Schooling the Prairie School: Wright’s Early Style as a Communicable System.” The Nature of Frank Lloyd Wright. Eds. Carole R. Bolon, Robert S. Nelson, and Linda Seidel. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988.

70- 85.

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art

is what you can get away with.

- andy warhol

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