The Tate Modern in London announced on Monday that it had purchased one of Ai Weiwei’s famous installations of life-size, hand-painted porcelain “Sunflower Seeds.” It bought 8 million of the 100 million seeds that were on view in a giant installation at the museum a year and a half ago. The mini-version was bought directly from the artist, officials at the Tate said, and the remaining 92 million seeds have been returned to Mr. Ai.
When “Sunflower Seeds” was originally installed in the Tate Modern’s cavernous Turbine Hall, the museum encouraged visitors to touch and even walk on the piece. But it reversed course days later after officials found that the movement of the crowds released hazardous dust. It was also determined that there were traces of lead in the paint.
The new acquisition may be less than one-tenth the size of the original, but it is still a lot bigger than a sunflower piece by Mr. Ai that Sotheby’s sold in London last year, one of an edition of 10 works each composed of 100,000 seeds. That version was bought by an unidentified telephone bidder for $559,394, or about $5.60 a seed. The Tate would not say what it had paid for its eight million seeds, but did say that it managed the purchase with help from the Tate International Council, the Art Fund and the collectors Stephen and Yana Peel.
By RICHARD B. WOODWARD
New York
Has any American artist ever enjoyed a career as streamlined as Cindy Sherman's? Since taking off in this city at the Times Square show in 1980, the photographer-cum-performer from Long Island via Buffalo has ascended on a steady ride to the top of the art world, seemingly without effort.
Cindy Sherman
The Museum of Modern Art
Through June 11
Museum of Modern Art'Untitled Film Still #21' (1978).
So esteemed by institutions that the retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art is her third (the Whitney Museum honored her first, in 1987, when she was only 33), she long ago achieved pop status with baby boomers. Name-dropped in lyrics by Chicks on Speed and on HBO's "Six Feet Under," she is overdue for a guest spot on "The Simpsons."
To be acclaimed without inspiring resentment from the art press or her fellow artists is little short of miraculous. No one minds that for 35 years she has been making the same kind of photograph: self-portraits that depend on a Lon Chaney-like repertoire of disguises to address questions about social reality and the vulnerabilities of the female body. The spectrum of characters she has created with this simple formula, everyone seems to agree, is dazzling.
Her popularity isn't hard to explain. Most of her pictures aren't brain-teasers and can be read at a glance. Too much has been written about Ms. Sherman's art reflecting the ocean of images from movies and television that surround us. (The MoMA catalog essay by the show's organizer, associate curator of photography Eva Respini, continues this tired and wrong-headed line of thought.)
It's true that Ms. Sherman's pictures often refer to other pictures. The justly celebrated "Untitled Film Stills" series from 1977-80, seen here in its entirety, relies on her audience's knowing the sources for her characters in Hollywood and European cinema. But to interpret these female types through the lens of Jean Baudrillard, the French sociologist who proclaimed that the "simulacrum" of media had replaced lived experience, is to miss the empathy and self-amusement behind her role-playing. Critics love to bedizen her photographs in fancy theories, but Ms. Sherman seldom overthinks. The most impressive aspect of her work may be how economically she orchestrates her three-ring circus of effects.
Ms. Sherman is a superb caricaturist and comedienne who with body language, props, hair, make-up, facial expressions, backgrounds and camera angles can signal exactly how she wants her audience to feel about her subjects. Unlike, say, Matthew Barney's rococo mythologies, the sets never engulf the point of her photographic cartoons.
The artists who came to mind as I walked through the MoMA show were not those her own age, but Honoré Daumier and Thomas Rowlandson, and the actresses Tracey Ullman and Meryl Streep. Ms. Sherman's stage-directed tableaus also come out of the history of American illustration and advertising as well as postmodernism, rootstock that MoMA could have exposed had it shown her 1987 travesty of Norman Rockwell's Thanksgiving meal.
Ms. Respini's essay cites the feminist artists Hanne Wilke and Lynda Benglis as forerunners. But there is nothing truly confessional or shocking about Ms. Sherman's self-portraits. She does not bare her own breasts or buttocks, only prosthetic ones. Her wigs and masks don't conceal so much as they expose the visible flaws and grotesque insecurities of the characters she plays.
In public, she is similarly recessive and shy. Her art may be overexposed, but she is not. Even when she became the unwanted subject of a 2008 documentary, "Guest of Cindy Sherman," co-directed by ex-boyfriend Paul H-O, she emerged as unblemished and guileless in contrast to the venal poseurs who rule the international art world in the film.
Despite offers from megagalleries, Ms. Sherman has remained for more than 30 years with Janelle Reiring and Helene Winer, founders of Metro Pictures, the New York space that launched her. Her one professional misstep may be the Hollywood movie she directed in 1997, "Office Killer." (It goes unlisted in the catalog chronology.)
If fame seems not to have afflicted her with a monstrous ego, Ms. Sherman is stoked by healthy fires of ambition. She has spoken of being irritated that her male counterparts from the early 1980s—Robert Longo, Richard Prince, Eric Fischl, David Salle and Julian Schnabel—were more quickly rewarded by the market.
Her 1989 series based on Old Master paintings exhibits her sweet revenge. These pictures, gorgeously installed here against burgundy walls, reflect the diminished status of women and of photography in art history. Playing figures of both sexes in portraits by Raphael, Caravaggio and others, she is climbing into the ring with a stable of canonical male artists while also cheekily humanizing the men and women in the gilded frames. Instead of sabotaging the originals, the act of photographing herself in these guises restores the overvarnished past to the momentary hazards of actual life. Her version of a Holbein ambassador imagines him as a bushy-eyed nerd. An Ingres aristocrat with an appraising gaze is a floozie gone to seed.
With the leveling laughter of comedy, Ms. Sherman has cut women as well as men down to size since the "Untitled Film Stills." That top prices for her prints have surpassed those for all but a few of her contemporaries can be a point of pride for women everywhere. Whether casting herself as abused or haughty, she speaks for those who refuse to be patronized or ignored.
Why is MoMA devoting another retrospective to someone who has already exceeded her share of attention? Wouldn't it be more timely for a curator to elevate some of the younger artists (Nikki S. Lee, Laural Nakadate, Yasumasa Morimura, to name three) who have followed Ms. Sherman's example in first-person photography? Her influence has extended backward as well, bringing renewed notice to Victorians (Lady Clementina Hawarden) and gender-bending surrealists (Claude Cahun) who took on various costumed personae.
But if Ms. Sherman was not the first woman to dress up and act out for the camera, her single-minded exploration of this method may be unique. The MoMA survey justifies its existence by tracking a deepening of sympathies since the Whitney retrospective. There are no indications that constantly photographing herself has left her feeling sick of her own image.
Ms. Respini strengthens Ms. Sherman's weakest series, the clowns from 2004, by dispersing them throughout the rooms and making these sexually and emotionally ambivalent figures a key to her work. Suspicions about the manipulative powers of her face and body, and of photography and art, have been central concerns of hers. With a few easy and readable cues, she can appear as distant as a movie star or as vulnerable as the cursed Ovidian gods and goddesses in her so-called Fairy Tales series from the mid-1980s.
The so-called Society Portraits, in the last rooms at MoMA, are her latest pictures (2000-2008) and my favorites. Here, she manipulates her own face and body with frightening precision, cutting ever close to the bone. Digital tools have allowed her to be multiple people in party scenes and to improve the often muddy color seen in her earlier work.
Ms. Respini is too polite to discuss what is obvious about these middle-age women clutching at remnants of their youthful selves. Ms. Sherman is at a stage in life (58 years old) when everyone stares in the mirror and considers what plastic surgeons might do to allay time's ravages. These doyennes are not unlike the collectors whose support makes possible extravagant shows like this one at MoMA. The artist is not so gently biting the jeweled, liver-spotted hands that have fed her career so richly. At the same time, she is facing down the inevitable atrophy of her own mortal flesh. Any laughter these frail creatures give rise to gets caught in the throat.
Mr. Woodward is an arts critic in New York.
A version of this article appeared Mar. 7, 2012, on page D7 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: The Roles of a Lifetime.
via online.wsj.com
By PETER PLAGENS
Significant modern sculpture has been generally assumed to be pretty big, made out of metal or some kind of assemblage, uncolored or at least muted, rough-hewn or "tough," and certainly without utilitarian allusions. Ken Price, who died Feb. 24 in Taos, N.M., at age 77, made relatively small objects out of clay, many of them brightly painted, very smooth and, if not exactly useful around the house, at least wittily referential of that possibility. Price was a ceramist—he studied with the celebrated Peter Voulkos at the Otis Art Institute kilns near downtown Los Angeles, and got a master's degree from Alfred University's renowned two-year ceramics program in just one year—who became a sculptor, who became a great, sui generis artist on the order of Francis Bacon or Sidney Nolan.
Los Angeles County Museum of Art/Matthew Marks/Ken Price/Fredrik Nilsen'Zizi' (2011)
Part of Price's uniqueness—especially in today's logorrheic, theory-besotted art world—was his straightforwardness. At a talk he gave seven years ago at Don Judd's Chinati Foundation in Marfa, Texas, Price said: "I can't prove my art's any good or that it means what I say it means. And nothing I say can improve the way it looks." The first of his works to be noticed were the circa-1960 football-size "eggs," intensely painted in color schemes of eye-boggling pinks, greens, oranges and yellows, and augmented with openings inside of which lurk dark, glossy, larvae-looking stuff. Then he went to cups—hilariously impractical vessels with bodies of snail forms or Constructivist geometry (imagine a Gerrit Rietveld chair for your morning coffee)—that are like nobody else's, before or since.
Price was born on the west side of Los Angeles on Feb. 16, 1935, and raised in comfortable circumstances. (He was privileged enough to take some trumpet lessons from Chet Baker.) His parents designed and built a home close to the beach, so their boy was ready, willing and able to surf practically every day. The sport was a big deal to him (the announcement for one of his shows at the groundbreaking Ferus Gallery contains a photograph of Price standing straight up on a board in a wave, arms triumphantly outstretched), and surfing trips to Baja California, brought him into contact with one of the major influences on his aesthetic, Mexican curio shops. He spent six years in the 1970s, in fact, on a never-completed (but exhibited in parts) project called "Happy's Curios," named after his wife. It consists of cabinets of hand-made homages to Mexican commercial pottery, Day of the Dead imagery, satiny cloth and flowers.
San Francisco Museum of Modern Art/Ken Price/Fredrik Nilsen
'L. Red' (1963)
A quietly affable fellow, Price could break out of his beloved studio labor (which he thought was the greatest blessing of being an artist) to create the occasional album cover (for his friend Ry Cooder), illustrations for poetry books (by Harvey Mudd and Charles Bukowski) and liquor labels (for a favorite brand of mezcal). He also taught for 10 years (1993-2003) where he first went to college, the University of Southern California, before finally decamping to Taos.
Although it's almost contrary to the joyful, just-look-at-it spirit of Price's art, his art-historical importance must be mentioned. When Price, Voulkos, John Mason, Billy Al Bengston and a few others got together at the Otis kiln, the Los Angeles modern-art world was, if it palpably existed at all, provincial and behind the times. The Otis ethos was "Let's make whatever the hell we feel like making as fast as we can while being so technically proficient it's scary." Coupled with Los Angeles's lack of a brooding avant-garde such as New York's, and with Los Angeles's cars-and-plastic visual environment, it formed the basis of the great Southern California art revolution currently being celebrated in the Getty-sponsored plethora of "Pacific Standard Time" exhibitions. (Mr. Price had three sculptures in the Getty's own lead PST show—now closed—and is one of the featured players, along with Voulkos and Mr. Mason, in Scripps College's current PST exhibition, "Clay's Tectonic Shift.") At the time of his death, Price was working with the Los Angeles County Museum of Art on a 50-year retrospective, a show that will turn up in 2013 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—where, if it isn't a gobsmacking revelation of the first water, something's wrong with New York.
In more academic terms, the art of Ken Price is a lively link between the austerity of Minimalism (he never wasted a curve or a color) and the inclusiveness of postmodernism (his work can remind you of everything from Constantin Brancusi to American Indians to Japanese woodblocks), proving that in art there are no real ruptures, only intriguingly disguised continuities. But in the end with Price it's the object—not history, not theory, not jockeying for position among cities—that counts. Somebody asked him why there were as many as 70 coats of reworked and pitted acrylic paint on his late, obsessively crafted, bloblike sculptures. "That's so it looks good rather than bad," Price replied. Nothing anyone can say about his work can improve upon that.
Mr. Plagens is a New York-based painter and writer. He writes the bi-weekly gallery-review column for the Journal.
A version of this article appeared Mar. 6, 2012, on page D7 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Words Need Not Apply.
via online.wsj.com
They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.
Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.
Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.
One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)
That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.
You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.
Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.
Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”
But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.
“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.
“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.
via nytimes.com
They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.
Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.
Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.
One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)
That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.
You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.
Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.
Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”
But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.
“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.
“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.
via nytimes.com
They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.
Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.
Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.
One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)
That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.
You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.
Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.
Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”
But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.
“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.
“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.
via nytimes.com
For many, the Florida Everglades’ spectacular vistas exist in black and white images from the lens of landscape photographer Clyde Butcher.
Butcher’s large-format prints hang in museums around the country, adorn Florida’s Capitol and even brighten Miami International Airport. Five decades after he moved to Florida, drawn by Ivan Tors’ mid-’60s TV series Flipper, Butcher is guided by the same belief: nature matters.
“Cities have to realize that the country is very important or we couldn’t live in the cities. Where else are they going to get their oxygen from? Where are they going to get their food from?” he said from his home near Sarasota.
Unbeknownst to many, Butcher turned his lenses on the Caribbean’s largest island a decade ago, producing images that will be on view in South Florida for the first time in Cuba: The Natural Beauty, opening Thursday at Miami’s Center for Visual Communication.
Fellow Florida coastal photographer Barry Fellman, the center’s director, didn’t know at the time that Butcher made visits to Cuba in 2002 in conjunction with the University of Miami and the United Nations.
“I was very surprised with his act of making pictures in Cuba. He hadn’t talked about it before at that point in his career,” Fellman said.
“I was very excited he was taking on this challenge. He has an incredible gift for sensing periods of space and can arrive in a spot and instinctively feel what it’s about.”
What Butcher saw in Cuba stirred his inner activist.
“Nature traverses politics. There are political problems between the two countries, but nature is not one of them,” the photographer says.
“The importance of nature is the same to us as it is to them — maybe even more important to them. They have a better relationship with nature than we do. It was exciting to see a country that is unspoiled, unlike America. We raped Florida, and Cuba is about the size of Florida and look how pristine it is compared to Florida. They haven’t messed up their country like we have.”
Granted, he says, he’s speaking about rural Cuba. He visited the Sierra del Rosario and Escambray waterfalls, the Sierra Maestra mountains and forest lands in Camaguey, Pinar del Rio and La Plata but not Havana or other major cities.
The Kansas City-born Butcher, 69, generally eschews travel, but he says the Cuban countryside felt like home. Printing his lavish black and whites of mountainsides, lush jungles, grassy swamps and sandy beaches proved more challenging than taking them.
“These were not easy negatives to print,” he said.
Getting the right shot often proved a matter of luck.
“We didn’t have the opportunity to spend time waiting for the right light. We had to work in a darkroom, sunrise to sunset.”
Fellman hopes political changes on the island spur interest in protecting the environment — here and there.
“They tell us the Castro era is coming to an end. Now is a pivotal moment to pay attention to the intensely rich resources the country offers,” Fellman said. “Now is the time to preserve and maintain.”
Butcher’s goal with Cuba: The Natural Beauty, which is also a 72-page book from the University of Florida Press, is to alter perceptions Cubans have of their own land.
“I think people are going to have a good experience seeing their country in a different world than the cars and hotels and poverty and all the things people like to photograph over there.
“Basically, something that relates to everyone is nature, and that’s the reason I did it.”
Follow @HowardCohen on Twitter.
via miamiherald.com
via miamiherald.com
When people think of famed surrealist Salvador Dalí, more often than not it’s one of his 1,500 paintings that comes to mind. Maybe even Destino, the Disney-animated short the Spanish artist produced in 1945.
Often overlooked, but as significant in understanding Dalí, are the hundreds of sculptures he created before he died in 1989 at age 84 in his birthplace, Figueres, Spain.
“Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality,” Dalí once said. Still, with raised Dalíesque eyebrows, people exclaim, “I did not know Dalí did sculpture.”
With the Wednesday opening of Dalí Miami at the Design District’s Moore Building, perhaps they will.
Along with his glass masterpiece Montre Molle (Melting Clock, 1971) the gouache Spring Rain (1949) and the rare intaglio The Grasshopper Child (1934), the 200 works on view will include 70 sculptures, among them Dalí’s 1964 bronze Venus de Milo with Drawers and the 1972 bronze, Winged Triton.
On Friday, High Line Art, the public art program of the New York park built on a historic elevated rail line, announced its plans for its spring 2012 season. Work on view will include, in April, a new contribution by the Scottish artist David Shrigley to the High Line Billboard series, presented on a 25-by-75-foot billboard next to the park on Tenth Avenue at West 18th Street, and films and videos in the High Line Channel series, an outdoor program featuring projections on a building to the east of the High Line at West 22nd Street after dark.
Also in the spring, High Line Art will present performance art pieces by Alison Knowles (April 22, Earth Day), Channa Horwitz (May 17) and Simone Forti (May 24), on and around the High Line. And the park’s first group exhibition,“Lilliput,” inspired by Jonathan Swift’s “Gulliver’s Travels,” will assemble sculptures of diminutive scale by various artists, scattered along the High Line.
On Friday, High Line Art, the public art program of the New York park built on a historic elevated rail line, announced its plans for its spring 2012 season. Work on view will include, in April, a new contribution by the Scottish artist David Shrigley to the High Line Billboard series, presented on a 25-by-75-foot billboard next to the park on Tenth Avenue at West 18th Street, and films and videos in the High Line Channel series, an outdoor program featuring projections on a building to the east of the High Line at West 22nd Street after dark.
Also in the spring, High Line Art will present performance art pieces by Alison Knowles (April 22, Earth Day), Channa Horwitz (May 17) and Simone Forti (May 24), on and around the High Line. And the park’s first group exhibition,“Lilliput,” inspired by Jonathan Swift’s “Gulliver’s Travels,” will assemble sculptures of diminutive scale by various artists, scattered along the High Line.