In his 1973 essay “Approaches to What?,” an underground classic of documentary aesthetics, French writer Georges Perec opposes the drive to find meaning primarily in “the big event, the untoward, the extra-ordinary: the front-page splash, the banner headlines.”
Taking its title from a line in Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes, E.J. McAdams’ site-specific installation, “Trees Are Alphabets,” consists of salvaged sawed-off tree branches, most about seven or eight feet long, sculpturally arranged on the terrace of The Bronx Museum of the Arts.
In the past five or six years, Clifford Owens’ provocative performance work has begun to garner notable, sometimes polarizing, attention.
Like a Choose Your Own Adventure story or a game of Mad Libs, the elliptical title of Lorraine O’Grady’s 1983 performance piece, “Art Is…,” creates space, playful and inviting, for structured audience participation.
It has often been said that writing about art is like dancing about architecture. Nearly as often, it has also then been said: But I’m going to do it anyway.
In a 1946 letter to the anthropologist Ruth Benedict, poet Charles Olson articulated what has become a quietly influential conception of historiography in poetry circles. “There has been, is too much of everything, including knowledge,” he contended, quite presciently, “because it has not been winnowed.”