Exhibition Prosthetics 2nd Ed.

Songs without words #6

Bedford Press Editions

Exhibition Prosthetics by Joseph Grigely Conversation with Hans Ulrich Obrist and Zak Kyes

Some Stories Various Questions

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Some Stories Various Questions One of my favorite museum installations is a small display that can be found in the Henry Ford Museum at Greenfield Village in Dearborn, Michigan. The installation consists of an oak pedestal and a glass vitrine. The vitrine holds a glass chemistry test tube that is sealed with a cork. Beside it is a small label which states:

E d i s o n ’s l a s t b r e a t h?

It is alleged that Henry Ford asked Thomas A. Edison’s son, Charles, to collect an exhaled breath from the lungs of Ford’s dying hero and friend. This test tube was found at Ford’s Fair Lane mansion, along with Edison’s hat and shoes, after Clara Ford’s death in 1950.

This modest installation is titled Edison’s Last Breath? — Not Edison’s Last Breath, stop, but Edison’s Last Breath, question mark. As the label says, it is merely “alleged” that Henry Ford asked Edison’s son to collect one final sighing breath from the 5

Exhibition Prosthetics

Some Stories Various Questions

lungs of the great American inventor. What is compelling to me is not whether the story is true or not, but that the story exists as it does, narrated within the vitrine. If exhibitions involve “showing,” they also involve a process by which the act of showing is subsumed by the act of telling — of constructing narratives that elide distinctions between words and images, or between artifacts and artifictions.

The question is — does it matter? Does it matter how museums narrate, describe, and otherwise footnote the objects they display? Or as Philippe Parreno stated in a recent text-based work: “What do you believe, your eyes or my words?”

This situation is not a new one. It has been discussed previously by literary scholars in the field of textual criticism & bibliography, and is also the premise behind a book I published in the 1990s, Texualterity: Art, Theory, and Textual Criticism.

Textual criticism is a literary practice that explores how texts relate to each other, how they derive (or “filiate”) from each other, and how they are disseminated in culture. The discipline especially tries to define the parameters of what constitutes boundaries: where does a poem begin & end?

A question like this asks us to consider how the same poem published in different contexts is both materially and ontologically different. We could just as well take the same question and apply it to an artwork: where does an artwork begin & end?

Or, where does an exhibition begin & end? Is an exhibition just about the materialization of specific

works of art, or is it also — and if so, in what ways — about the various conventions that go into the making of exhibitions, which include press releases, announcement cards, checklists, catalogues, and digital-based media?

Conventions like these are representations.

We engage in different kinds of representations both because of the implausibility of re-presenting, and also because representation is a means by which we further, through the use of language and images, and through a process that is both otherwise and otherhow, the reach of the real. It is for this reason that the relationship between publication practices and exhibition practices deserves closer scrutiny. Both can be described as modes of dissemination —a process by which the various arts are brought to an audience of readers, viewers, and listeners. I use the critical term “exhibition prosthetics” to describe an array of these conventions, particularly (but not exclusively) in relation to exhibition practices. Perhaps out of habit, we seem decidedly inured to the experience of conventions like these. They are a part of the machinery of exhibiting — we read titles, labels, and catalogues because their authority establishes for the artwork a sense of place. In this respect, moving closer to the artwork involves moving away from the artwork — to look closer at fringes and margins and representations, and ask what seems to me a very fundamental question: to what extent are these various exhibition conventions actually part of the art — and not merely an extension of it?

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Exhibition Prosthetics

Some Stories Various Questions

Racine St. Building

Darpa Limb Prototype

It remains forever displaced in the process of being placed.

I want to start with an example of a human prosthesis: an arm. A prosthesis is an attachment, an extension. The OED notes that the first modern usage of the prosthesis as a medical term occurred in 1706; it is defined as, “That part of surgery which consists in supplying deficiencies, as by artificial limbs, teeth, or by other means.” That is, a prosthesis remediates — it fills, it extends, it supplements.

But it does not do this without also becoming a part of, not apart from, the body that it fills, extends, and supplements. As the literary critic David Wills wrote: the “prosthesis is inevitably about belonging.”

“Belonging” seems to me the perfect word to describe the complexity of this relationship.

The prosthesis originates from a desire to make whole, while acknowledging that the task is an impossible one; that is, that the prosthesis creates some degree of semblance, some degree of verisimilitude, but can never become what has been lost.

Not far from my home in Chicago is a building that I think about often. It is located at the corner of Racine and Adams Street. Every morning I walk past it while taking my dog for a walk. For several years, it was what we call a “mixed use” loft building — part business, part residence. (Although, as I write this, the business part is being converted to a Montessori school.) The main entrance is at the front of the building; there is a stairway with six steps that lead to the lift. People who use wheelchairs cannot access the building from this point of entry. They must go around to the side of the building, where a specially designated wheelchair lift has been installed in the car park. This location separates and isolates users from the pedestrian flow of the sidewalk. The lift was installed while the building was being retrofitted. The very process of “retrofitting” reminds us of that change to a building, like change to a text, that involves a process of hyphenation. It is in a situation like this that

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Joseph Grigely with Hans Ulrich Obrist and Zak Kyes Architectural Association, February 18, 2009

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In Conversation

E x h ibit ion P rost het ic s le c t u re poster, 2 0 09

ZAK KYES — Thank

you very much Joseph for the lecture. That was a wonderful showing and telling about the acts of showing and telling. I thought I would begin this conversation with my first encounter with your work, which was not in a gallery or exhibition, but within the pages of some of the incredible publications and printed matter that you shared with me after we first met in New York. In an earlier conversation, Joseph said something that was particularly resonant with the direction we are working in at the AA: the idea of using publications to take the work “somewhere the exhibition doesn’t go.” To question the extent to which publications and their representations are actually a part of the work, rather than merely a documentation of it, is particularly essential to consider as art and design discourse is increasingly articulated through an ever-increasing flood of books and magazines.

As part of a younger generation, and as a graphic designer, whose raw material is language, I felt an urgency to show this work here. Now I would like to open up to a conversation for about thirty minutes and then we can take some questions from the floor.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST — First

of all, many thanks to Joseph and Zak. In these infinite conversations with Joseph, one of the things we’ve never spoken about is epiphany. In an interview I read the other day, you spoke of an epiphany in your thinking about ephemeral notes that hearing people have written to you for over twenty years. One night in the early nineties you were having dinner with a friend and afterwards 41

Exhibition Prosthetics

In Conversation

there were scraps of paper all over the table with fragments of conversation written on them. I am curious what exactly happened that night. Could you tell us about this epiphany you had?

was maybe two or three years before we met. At that time your first exhibitions were already a growing archive of hundreds of pieces of paper. Since then your archive has grown immensely and I am curious, could you tell us about the state of your archives? You have also done large-scale pieces, like “White Noise”: the chapel we showed in “Voilà” at the Musée d’Art moderne de la Ville de Paris. It was almost like a Rothko Chapel made out of thousands and thousands of little papers — that was almost ten years ago.

JOSEPH GRIGELY — Up

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White Noise, 2001

to a certain point in the late eighties, I was having conversations with people where I asked them to write down what they were saying. Ever since I became deaf at age ten, I would try to lip-read people, but it didn’t work very well.

Lipreading is really hard because so many words look alike on the lips. For instance, when you say “vacuum,” it looks like you’re saying “fuck you”!

I had a lot of misunderstandings, so I asked people to write. One night I had this long dinner with a friend and there were papers all over the table, plates, floor, and chairs. So I gathered them up and put them in a pile. A week later I put them on the studio floor and I didn’t know what I was looking at. I learned from them. I saw writing on top of writing, some writing went off the page, and a few drawings.

I realized that this isn’t mere writing; this is talking on paper. There’s a difference between writing and talking on paper. So it became a matter of saving the papers and learning from them.

It took me a few years before I finally tried to remake them into something that could be called art. The first several curators that I showed the work to said, “What is this stuff?” It took a while before some people got interested. The first curator to respond to it was Bill Arning at White Columns in 1993.

HUO — That

There are many different ways you archive this work. For instance, we saw a piece composed of only colored papers, which reminded me of nineteenthcentury novelist Adalbert Stifter. Similar to you, he had a large archive of books. Rather than classifying them alphabetically or by subject, he suggested that we classify our books according to color.

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