PARIS — In 1947, at the urging of Paris gallery owner Pierre Loeb, anguished French poet, actor, philosopher, madman, genius, playwright, and director Antonin Artaud fêted Vincent Van Gogh in a bizarre but exquisite text that rails against universal imbecility.
PARIS — Free-floating habits are often hard to abandon. The term “video” as a definable medium — and thus “video art” — is now essentially archaic, due to the convergence of all capture technologies into post-media computer manipulated moving image/sound files.
PARIS — The post-media suggestion itself has been the subject of deliberation for around two decades now. This audacious anthology cleverly brings some of these historical texts together, along with newly commissioned ones, to explore the shifting ideas and speculative practices associated with the idea of post-media.
PARIS — Unlike the widely ridiculed Costume Institute show PUNK: Chaos to Couture, a show that examined punk’s impact on high fashion from the movement’s birth in the 1970s through its enduring influence today, Europunk: An artistic revolution, recently closed at Cité de la Musique, was rigorously periodic (ending in 1980) and broader in range.
PARIS — Theatre of the World, currently on view at La Maison Rouge, raises the thorny issue of the individual and particular against the homogeneous collective.
PARIS — My long encounter with Philippe Parreno’s vast but fey exposition Anywhere, Anywhere, Out Of The World was anything but otherworldly.
PARIS — I was lucky enough, and I am old enough, to have been in the audience of Philip Glass and Robert Wilson’s Einstein on the Beach in 1976 at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, and then again at The Brooklyn Academy of Music in 1984.
SAINT-PAUL DE VENCE, France — The very idea of philosopher as art curator deeply interests me. One swiftly dreams of what Gilles Deleuze might have done with the opportunity to curate an art exhibition at MoMA: Art and Alloverness perhaps? Or Michel Foucault: the New Panopticons at the Centre Georges Pompidou?
Is it still possible to imagine a book purporting to be about the circulation of images and art within the saturated global network that never mentions the existence of net art and digital art?
Dissing the Stedelijk Museum’s new Mels Crouwel–designed wing, New York Times critic Michael Kimmelman off-handedly compared the building to a “ridiculous” bathroom tub that suggested to him the sensation of “hearing Bach played by a man wearing a clown suit.” On the speed-rail ride back to Paris from a visit to the Amsterdam institution, it occurred to me that he completely got it wrong. Mels Crouwel did not give the museum a tub; he gave it a captivating sarcophagus, an often tub-shaped funeral receptacle designed to hold a corpse. And that is as it should be. After all, modernism is long dead.