Mel Bochner

Colour My Mind AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

Unless you find yourself in a public place in the presence of bystanders, I suggest that you read the following aloud: MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE, TOP DOG, HEAD HONCHO, KING OF THE HILL, NUMERO UNO, THE BIG ENCHILADA, THE BOSS, THE DECIDER, RULE WITH AN IRON HAND, GOTCHA BY THE BALLS.1

Notice the deep intake of breath required for its recitation, the downward cadence that leads from the adoration worthy of a Marvel comic hero to the colloquial derision of somebody you fear yet cannot help but respect, and ends with the aggressive smugness of having asserted your own sense of superiority.

Now read this: AMAZING! AWESOME! BREATHTAKING! HEARTSTOPPING! MIND BLOWING! OUT-OF-SIGHT! COOL! WOW! GROOVY! CRAZY! KILLER! BITCHIN’! BAD! RAD! GNARLY! DA BOMB! SHUT UP! OMG! YESSS!2

Here, the voice ascends from the overused exclamations of prescribed enthusiasm to more intense expressions of approval to youthful street slang, finishing in the near-orgasmic expression of success – the moment for which late-Capitalist culture asks us to strive at all times.

And finally, try this one: OH WELL, THAT’S THE WAY IT GOES, IT IS WHAT IT IS, WHAT CAN YOU DO?, WHAT WILL BE WILL BE, DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP, SHIT HAPPENS, NOTHING EVER CHANGES, JUST LEARN TO LIVE WITH IT… 3 Installation view, In the Tower: Mel Bochner, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, 2011

12

AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

This time around, we exhale as we utter the words, the body mirroring the sense of deflation conveyed by an increasingly

phlegmatic set of popular idioms for persuading oneself to compromise.

‘Amazing!’, ‘Oh Well’, ‘Gotcha by the Balls’. Language is performative, as is painting. Both are bound by complex sets of conventions that we learn to decipher, but of which in everyday life we are not consciously aware. Language can be spoken, recited, written and read. Most of us are experienced in all of the above activities. They are what we do to communicate, to connect with others, to create a social bond. The act of painting is usually performed by one person only, the artist. Then another type of performance takes over: that of looking. The first to look is the artist, generally in his/her studio. Once a work is exhibited publicly, others join in, bringing to a work their own subjective readings.

Mel Bochner’s recent ‘thesaurus paintings’ intertwine an unusual number of the performative acts described above, playing the conventions of painting off against those of language, reading against looking, with colour providing the vital bond between the two. These paintings can be read – quite literally – as much as viewed; they can be recited aloud like a piece of poetry or theatre, or read quietly to oneself. The latter is closer to the way we look at them as paintings, silently retracing the complex web of Bochner’s compositional manoeuvres. At this point, words dissolve into patterns, horizontal word chains into diagonals and zig-zags of colour that dart across the paintings’ surfaces. The initial impulse is to read the words, yet the longer we look at the paintings and become absorbed by our visceral responses to colour and all that it entails – contrast, light and weight – the more the written word takes a back seat.

Bochner ceaselessly probes language and its workings by jotting down word chains in his notebooks. Often, the starting point is provided by an expression that he overhears or chances upon in conversation. With the help of Roget’s Thesaurus, he then builds up word chains that are not unlike concrete poems – a process

13

Colour My Mind AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

Unless you find yourself in a public place in the presence of bystanders, I suggest that you read the following aloud: MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE, TOP DOG, HEAD HONCHO, KING OF THE HILL, NUMERO UNO, THE BIG ENCHILADA, THE BOSS, THE DECIDER, RULE WITH AN IRON HAND, GOTCHA BY THE BALLS.1

Notice the deep intake of breath required for its recitation, the downward cadence that leads from the adoration worthy of a Marvel comic hero to the colloquial derision of somebody you fear yet cannot help but respect, and ends with the aggressive smugness of having asserted your own sense of superiority.

Now read this: AMAZING! AWESOME! BREATHTAKING! HEARTSTOPPING! MIND BLOWING! OUT-OF-SIGHT! COOL! WOW! GROOVY! CRAZY! KILLER! BITCHIN’! BAD! RAD! GNARLY! DA BOMB! SHUT UP! OMG! YESSS!2

Here, the voice ascends from the overused exclamations of prescribed enthusiasm to more intense expressions of approval to youthful street slang, finishing in the near-orgasmic expression of success – the moment for which late-Capitalist culture asks us to strive at all times.

And finally, try this one: OH WELL, THAT’S THE WAY IT GOES, IT IS WHAT IT IS, WHAT CAN YOU DO?, WHAT WILL BE WILL BE, DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP, SHIT HAPPENS, NOTHING EVER CHANGES, JUST LEARN TO LIVE WITH IT… 3 Installation view, In the Tower: Mel Bochner, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, 2011

12

AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

This time around, we exhale as we utter the words, the body mirroring the sense of deflation conveyed by an increasingly

phlegmatic set of popular idioms for persuading oneself to compromise.

‘Amazing!’, ‘Oh Well’, ‘Gotcha by the Balls’. Language is performative, as is painting. Both are bound by complex sets of conventions that we learn to decipher, but of which in everyday life we are not consciously aware. Language can be spoken, recited, written and read. Most of us are experienced in all of the above activities. They are what we do to communicate, to connect with others, to create a social bond. The act of painting is usually performed by one person only, the artist. Then another type of performance takes over: that of looking. The first to look is the artist, generally in his/her studio. Once a work is exhibited publicly, others join in, bringing to a work their own subjective readings.

Mel Bochner’s recent ‘thesaurus paintings’ intertwine an unusual number of the performative acts described above, playing the conventions of painting off against those of language, reading against looking, with colour providing the vital bond between the two. These paintings can be read – quite literally – as much as viewed; they can be recited aloud like a piece of poetry or theatre, or read quietly to oneself. The latter is closer to the way we look at them as paintings, silently retracing the complex web of Bochner’s compositional manoeuvres. At this point, words dissolve into patterns, horizontal word chains into diagonals and zig-zags of colour that dart across the paintings’ surfaces. The initial impulse is to read the words, yet the longer we look at the paintings and become absorbed by our visceral responses to colour and all that it entails – contrast, light and weight – the more the written word takes a back seat.

Bochner ceaselessly probes language and its workings by jotting down word chains in his notebooks. Often, the starting point is provided by an expression that he overhears or chances upon in conversation. With the help of Roget’s Thesaurus, he then builds up word chains that are not unlike concrete poems – a process

13

Portrait of Robert Smithson, 1966 Pen and ink on graph paper 19.4 × 17.1 cm | 7⅝ × 6¾ in

Working Drawing for Master of the Universe, 2010 Ink and charcoal on paper 27.6 × 22.9 cm | 10⅞ × 9 in

14

AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

that he had first explored in his word portraits of friends like Eva Hesse, Sol LeWitt or Robert Smithson in the 1960s. This process, however, is less mechanistic than is often described. Far from leading from one clear synonym to another, there are variations carefully re-ordered by the artist, so that the final list is more akin to a set of Chinese whispers with the meaning slowly shifting from one expression to the other, and the spaces and punctuation marks in between as important as the words themselves. In the paintings, this space between often entails the purest moments of colour, the luminous ground on which each differently coloured letter is inscribed in impeccable freestyle handiwork.

The use of the thesaurus, and the way in which it applies scientific rigour to something as amorphous and hard-to-grasp as a living language, is symptomatic of the way of thinking that has underpinned Bochner’s oeuvre for the past 45 years or so.

On first encounter, especially his early work may seem cerebral and in thrall to academic thinking when, in fact, it is far from a self-absorbed intellectual exercise. Seeking to understand the conventions by which we see and verbalise what is in front of our eyes, that is, by which we share our perception of reality through language, is at the heart of Bochner’s project. If his sophisticated use of language expresses the logical and rational side of this endeavour, then his ever more exuberant use of colour attests to his growing recognition of its limits. Colour both eschews and challenges language. If I say ‘red’, what type of red do I mean?

And how could I define it further? One double-page spread in Bochner’s notebooks contains a table ordering artists’ paints by their manufacturers and product names (see pp.1, 214). The names are sheer poetry: Zinc Buff, Persian Rose, Pozzuoli Earth, Dioxine Purple, Sfumato Grey, Verditer Blue. Yet they tell us little about the exact shade, unless we are familiar with the products and hence know the system of conventions underpinning the different labels.

Painting is mostly discussed through language – apart from by painters who discuss painting by making other paintings.

Language in relationship to the visual arts became all the more important during the period of Bochner’s early career, when there was a dramatic increase in critical writing and theory. Many artists (including Bochner) responded by seizing control of part of this discourse themselves. From a secondary tier of interpretation, language was promoted to a primary medium of expression.

Historically, the striving for precedence between word and image goes back a long way. Greek Orthodox icons are ‘written’, not painted, no icon being complete unless it entails at least some words, often carefully disguised. Jehovah forbids his followers to try to make an image of God, as does Muhammad on behalf of Allah, with the result that in Judaism and Islam mimetic language

takes the role that visual representation occupies in European Christianity and, by extension, in most Western art from the Renaissance onwards. It is perhaps little wonder therefore that as the 500 year-old rule book of representation came under increasing pressure with the rise of modernism, a growing number of words found their way into painting, starting with the frequent usage of newsprint in the fractured still lifes of Braque and Picasso. In most of these cases, the preeminence of language and the ‘sign’ led to colour being sidelined. Where language dominated, colour subsided, whether in the grey-brown palette of early Cubism or the grey-scales of Jasper Johns’ strongest textbased works.

The same, to some degree, is true of Bochner’s own trajectory. One of the last paintings by the 22-year-old artist that can be considered amongst his early works is a square masonite board covered in thick layers of brown oil paint. Colour is a scientific and perceptual phenomenon as well as a material one. Whereas Newton argued that the totality of the prism-coloured rays of light produces white, or colourless light, the sum-total of material paint – the stuff from the tube – produces an ill-defined brown instead. Thus Bochner’s small painting arguably contains all colours with the effect that no single one is any longer discernible and that all the light perceptually entailed in bright colour has been swallowed by the swamp of faecal-coloured paint. As Bochner abandoned the making of paintings in order to probe instead the medium’s conventions, colour began to play an ever more subordinated role. However, it never quite disappeared. In 1970, he made his seminal installation entitled Theory of Painting (pp.68–71). Newspapers are spread on the floor so as to create four distinct areas. In some instances, they are neatly organised into clearly defined rectangles; in others, they form a less regular arrangement. Each field of paper serves as ground for one or multiple shapes created with bright blue spraypaint. Similar to the newspaper ground, these shapes can consist of a single large rectangle or a multitude of smaller ones that follow no discernible rule. Four pairs of words written directly onto the wall articulate the relationships between figure and ground enacted by the spray paint and the newspapers on the ground: cohere/cohere; cohere/disperse; disperse/cohere and disperse/disperse. These are the key strategies that Bochner’s generation of US-American painters inherited from their Abstract Expressionist ancestors and Clement Greenberg’s formalist discourse. If painting was defined by the relationship between support and painterly medium, with the surface the arena of their encounter, then these were the only routes left to explore: to subvert the conventional rectangle of easel painting or to apply the medium in ways that no longer resembled brush on canvas, as Lynda Benglis, for instance, did in

Pablo Picasso The Architect’s Table, 1912 Oil on canvas mounted on panel 72.6 × 59.7 cm | 28⅝ × 23½ in

Untitled, 1964 Oil on masonite 30.5 × 30.5 cm | 12 × 12 in

15

Portrait of Robert Smithson, 1966 Pen and ink on graph paper 19.4 × 17.1 cm | 7⅝ × 6¾ in

Working Drawing for Master of the Universe, 2010 Ink and charcoal on paper 27.6 × 22.9 cm | 10⅞ × 9 in

14

AC H I M B O RC H A R DT- H U M E

that he had first explored in his word portraits of friends like Eva Hesse, Sol LeWitt or Robert Smithson in the 1960s. This process, however, is less mechanistic than is often described. Far from leading from one clear synonym to another, there are variations carefully re-ordered by the artist, so that the final list is more akin to a set of Chinese whispers with the meaning slowly shifting from one expression to the other, and the spaces and punctuation marks in between as important as the words themselves. In the paintings, this space between often entails the purest moments of colour, the luminous ground on which each differently coloured letter is inscribed in impeccable freestyle handiwork.

The use of the thesaurus, and the way in which it applies scientific rigour to something as amorphous and hard-to-grasp as a living language, is symptomatic of the way of thinking that has underpinned Bochner’s oeuvre for the past 45 years or so.

On first encounter, especially his early work may seem cerebral and in thrall to academic thinking when, in fact, it is far from a self-absorbed intellectual exercise. Seeking to understand the conventions by which we see and verbalise what is in front of our eyes, that is, by which we share our perception of reality through language, is at the heart of Bochner’s project. If his sophisticated use of language expresses the logical and rational side of this endeavour, then his ever more exuberant use of colour attests to his growing recognition of its limits. Colour both eschews and challenges language. If I say ‘red’, what type of red do I mean?

And how could I define it further? One double-page spread in Bochner’s notebooks contains a table ordering artists’ paints by their manufacturers and product names (see pp.1, 214). The names are sheer poetry: Zinc Buff, Persian Rose, Pozzuoli Earth, Dioxine Purple, Sfumato Grey, Verditer Blue. Yet they tell us little about the exact shade, unless we are familiar with the products and hence know the system of conventions underpinning the different labels.

Painting is mostly discussed through language – apart from by painters who discuss painting by making other paintings.

Language in relationship to the visual arts became all the more important during the period of Bochner’s early career, when there was a dramatic increase in critical writing and theory. Many artists (including Bochner) responded by seizing control of part of this discourse themselves. From a secondary tier of interpretation, language was promoted to a primary medium of expression.

Historically, the striving for precedence between word and image goes back a long way. Greek Orthodox icons are ‘written’, not painted, no icon being complete unless it entails at least some words, often carefully disguised. Jehovah forbids his followers to try to make an image of God, as does Muhammad on behalf of Allah, with the result that in Judaism and Islam mimetic language

takes the role that visual representation occupies in European Christianity and, by extension, in most Western art from the Renaissance onwards. It is perhaps little wonder therefore that as the 500 year-old rule book of representation came under increasing pressure with the rise of modernism, a growing number of words found their way into painting, starting with the frequent usage of newsprint in the fractured still lifes of Braque and Picasso. In most of these cases, the preeminence of language and the ‘sign’ led to colour being sidelined. Where language dominated, colour subsided, whether in the grey-brown palette of early Cubism or the grey-scales of Jasper Johns’ strongest textbased works.

The same, to some degree, is true of Bochner’s own trajectory. One of the last paintings by the 22-year-old artist that can be considered amongst his early works is a square masonite board covered in thick layers of brown oil paint. Colour is a scientific and perceptual phenomenon as well as a material one. Whereas Newton argued that the totality of the prism-coloured rays of light produces white, or colourless light, the sum-total of material paint – the stuff from the tube – produces an ill-defined brown instead. Thus Bochner’s small painting arguably contains all colours with the effect that no single one is any longer discernible and that all the light perceptually entailed in bright colour has been swallowed by the swamp of faecal-coloured paint. As Bochner abandoned the making of paintings in order to probe instead the medium’s conventions, colour began to play an ever more subordinated role. However, it never quite disappeared. In 1970, he made his seminal installation entitled Theory of Painting (pp.68–71). Newspapers are spread on the floor so as to create four distinct areas. In some instances, they are neatly organised into clearly defined rectangles; in others, they form a less regular arrangement. Each field of paper serves as ground for one or multiple shapes created with bright blue spraypaint. Similar to the newspaper ground, these shapes can consist of a single large rectangle or a multitude of smaller ones that follow no discernible rule. Four pairs of words written directly onto the wall articulate the relationships between figure and ground enacted by the spray paint and the newspapers on the ground: cohere/cohere; cohere/disperse; disperse/cohere and disperse/disperse. These are the key strategies that Bochner’s generation of US-American painters inherited from their Abstract Expressionist ancestors and Clement Greenberg’s formalist discourse. If painting was defined by the relationship between support and painterly medium, with the surface the arena of their encounter, then these were the only routes left to explore: to subvert the conventional rectangle of easel painting or to apply the medium in ways that no longer resembled brush on canvas, as Lynda Benglis, for instance, did in

Pablo Picasso The Architect’s Table, 1912 Oil on canvas mounted on panel 72.6 × 59.7 cm | 28⅝ × 23½ in

Untitled, 1964 Oil on masonite 30.5 × 30.5 cm | 12 × 12 in

15

Abstraction/Corruption BRIONY FER

Color sticks in one’s eyes like something caught in one’s throat.

Ad Reinhardt

It is easy to get caught in the crossfire of Mel Bochner’s recent paintings. Words ricochet back and forth across a room in a hailstorm of words that hit you and sometimes hurt you. Colour runs riot. Words and colours fight each other. For Bochner, it seems, painting is conflictual because it has to be. There is something fundamentally antagonistic about his work even when the words in the paintings seem fairly benign.

If words can be hurled, like insults, so can colours be thrown at the viewer. If they are bright and brash they tend to stand out; if pale and subtle, they tend to recede but not necessarily. Colour plays endless perceptual and metaphorical games with us. The lack of fit between the colours and the words lends each of Bochner’s paintings its own internal set of contradictions.

Sputter (2010; p.24) contains a list of words which runs on and ends with a final ‘gasp, choke, sob, croak’ – but the colours of each letter are all pretty blues and pinks and pastels. Obscene (2006; pp.134–35), with its near-monochromatic whites and greys and pearlescent neutrals, is almost elegant. Nothing (2003; pp.130–31) consists of lots of differently coloured letters on a black ground, from which words in very bright yellow or orange jump forward, while those in blue or mauve hold back. The effect is full of hard definition – which is to say, it is something rather than nothing.

These aspects – which are just some aspects of what it feels like to look at one of the ‘thesaurus paintings’– do not sit comfortably with what we would expect of an abstract painting. And yet Bochner has said that all his work, from the very beginning, was fuelled by his understanding of abstraction. Abstract painting was only ever a breath away: even when he made photographs, he has said, he was working ‘in the space of painting’ or ‘as if’ they were paintings.1 It is his relationship to the problems of abstraction (both theoretical and historical) that I want to think about here.

As Bochner has developed the possibilities of using language as a material for painting, the relations between the words and colours have become increasingly complex and elaborate. This

density makes the paintings in an important sense unreadable.

The linear sequences of words are sabotaged by colour that scatters and disperses your attention in unexpected visual rather than verbal ways. In Sputter, for instance, halfway down the painting, right at the centre, infantile glossolalia erupts in the midst of the sounds of dying: ‘bawl, burble, blubber’. The word ‘Bur-ble’ is split over two lines: words and meanings disintegrate.

This is a lifetime in and of words coming to an end, garbled by colour.

Elsewhere, language degenerates as you move down the painting, descending both literally and metaphorically into slang or swear words. A word at the top of a painting like ‘nonsense’ will descend through ‘crock of shit’ to ‘verbal diarrhea’. The foot of the painting is filthy and verbose. It becomes an abject bodily base. Popular forms of speech, colloquialisms, improvisational language and slang litter the work. Words can ‘dirty’ the idea of painting just as much as the Smears (1968/2010; pp.80–81) or the viscous and bodily screens of vaseline literally did in the series of photographs called Transparent and Opaque (1968/2008; pp.82– 83) that he made in 1968.

James Meyer has recently called Bochner an American realist, and what is most insightful about this observation is that it does not preclude him from being at the same time an artist almost entirely fuelled by pictorial models drawn from abstract painting.2 The force of the work’s critique is precisely that it questions the conditions according to which paintings make meaning. It invites us to think about the historical possibilities of abstraction after modernism by making something new out of the impasses that have beset it.

In 1957 Elaine de Kooning wrote a famous parody called ‘Pure Paints a Picture’ for a regular series devoted to contemporary painters in Art News.3 It was a funny piece that took comic aim by characterising the foibles – for which read mad didacticism – of a certain kind of abstract artist. Pure is an abstract painter who lives

Sputter, 2010 Oil on canvas 203.2 × 152.4 cm | 80 × 60 in

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BRIONY FER

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in a large white loft and who only paints white paintings – a thinly veiled satirical portrait of Ad Reinhardt. A crazy zealot, Pure can’t bear anything that contaminates the essence of painting – even colour. In one of the best passages – part of which Bochner would cite in his text ‘A Compilation for Robert Mangold’ – Pure was pronouncing on colour: Pure explains that since ‘A painting must have no color’, his shelves are lined with tubes of colour that he never touches (permanent green light and alizarin crimson are the pigments he ‘most prefers to reject’).4 Reinhardt preferred to reject the kind of subjectivist gestural painting that he associated with Willem de Kooning, and even more he preferred to reject the elements of figuration that continued to contaminate it.

Bochner’s own relationship to Reinhardt is significant and not straightforward. He has said of Elaine de Kooning’s piece that Reinhardt really did remain Mr Pure and that: An idea existed after the war that abstraction had something like a sacred duty to fulfill. Anything less than ‘abstract’ was tainted, or impure, or corrupt (as in De Kooning’s desire to paint the figure).5

No one was more extreme in their articulation of that sacred duty than Reinhardt, earning himself the soubriquet ‘the black monk’.

As arch-puritan, he was also the most articulate spokesman of abstraction’s postwar impasse and of what he referred to as the ‘art-politics syndrome’.6 In major accounts of postwar art Reinhardt’s role has been underestimated – as has Bochner’s – so the relation between them is worth unpicking. Reinhardt ‘found’ black in 1956 and continued to paint black, as well as red and blue, monochromes until his death in 1967. Having expunged everything that was extraneous from the canvas he painted subtly – almost imperceptibly – differentiated surfaces that revealed faint crosses or other shapes that emerged only after looking at them for a period of time. His writings, lectures and notes endlessly elaborated this strategy of refusal. In one essay for example, living up to the name of Pure, he enumerated his ‘no’s’: ‘In painting, for me no fooling-the-eye, no window-hole-in-the-wall, no illusions, no representations, no associations, no distortions…’ The list – he often fired off lists as his weapon of choice – continued for over a page, ending with ‘no confusing painting with everything that is not painting’.7 In 1966, Bochner made a group of word-portraits on graph paper of people to whom he was close or whom he admired. The words are collated from the lists of synonyms found in Roget’s Thesaurus and find themselves placed in odd juxtapositions (‘rest’ next to ‘deafen’, ‘torpid’ next to ‘stifled’ and so on). Of all

these portraits, the one of Ad Reinhardt is perhaps the closest to his recent paintings in one or two respects: it isn’t so much that he stretched out the shorter words to make them fit the width of the column or that these therefore appear bigger – but rather, that we perceive some words as more assertive than others. Words like ‘shut up’ or ‘gag’ seem to come out at you and therefore contradicting the word ‘quiescent’ that is the trigger for the portrait in the first place. Of course, it is different when Bochner goes on to making paintings using colour later on, but the Reinhardt portrait seems to be a very early instance of this form of antagonistic address.

But if this is a portrait, then in what way is it – could it be – of Reinhardt? Given that Reinhardt was notoriously loquacious, we can deduce that it was his monochrome painting that provided the starting point of ‘silence’ – or can we?8 And what does it mean, anyhow, for a painting to be silent? The ricochet effect back and forth – there it is again – is far from quiescent but wordy and frenetic. Which in some respects brings us back to Reinhardt himself – who made pure abstracts that would seem to silence language and yet was full of words.

Reinhardt wrote constantly – and wrote in a beautiful and unmistakable hand in black indian ink on sheets of notepaper in which the letters take physical shape. It’s an unmistakable hand, and he set out his notes in the manner of the layout man that he was (he had trained as a graphic artist9) but also in ways quite as suggestive of a calligram by Apollinaire. Bochner’s portrait takes the form of two handwritten symmetrical columns, which also mimics Reinhardt’s preoccupation with symmetry in his paintings but also draws attention to the contradictory directions that were at play in the work, that cut against the grain of pure abstraction.

Words that hit you like ‘dummy-up’ or ‘shut-up’ suggests the ways silence is forced on you, that it can be a kind of violence even. It is hard to describe the effects of the words. For example, ‘lifeless’ could be a negative word but in this context it could be positive.

It’s unclear and ambiguous. Reinhardt was anti-art-as-life, after all, and pro-art-as-art. If there’s anything pure here, it’s pure contingency.

That is, Reinhardt was the artist who preached purity but practised something more complicated; who talked ‘art-as-art’ but was a lifelong leftist. When Bochner discussed the precedents for the kind of ‘artist/writer’ that he and Smithson became, it was Judd and Reinhardt whom he mentioned, in particular Reinhardt’s ‘caustic critiques’ in the form of cartoons.10 And he has told the story on several occasions of how he and Smithson once met Reinhardt on 57th street. After a long conversation about what was wrong with contemporary art, Reinhardt said to them that the problem was that everybody ultimately had to choose between Portrait of Ad Reinhardt, 1966 Ink on graph paper 26 × 9.5 cm | 10¼ × 3¾ in

26

BRIONY FER

27

in a large white loft and who only paints white paintings – a thinly veiled satirical portrait of Ad Reinhardt. A crazy zealot, Pure can’t bear anything that contaminates the essence of painting – even colour. In one of the best passages – part of which Bochner would cite in his text ‘A Compilation for Robert Mangold’ – Pure was pronouncing on colour: Pure explains that since ‘A painting must have no color’, his shelves are lined with tubes of colour that he never touches (permanent green light and alizarin crimson are the pigments he ‘most prefers to reject’).4 Reinhardt preferred to reject the kind of subjectivist gestural painting that he associated with Willem de Kooning, and even more he preferred to reject the elements of figuration that continued to contaminate it.

Bochner’s own relationship to Reinhardt is significant and not straightforward. He has said of Elaine de Kooning’s piece that Reinhardt really did remain Mr Pure and that: An idea existed after the war that abstraction had something like a sacred duty to fulfill. Anything less than ‘abstract’ was tainted, or impure, or corrupt (as in De Kooning’s desire to paint the figure).5

No one was more extreme in their articulation of that sacred duty than Reinhardt, earning himself the soubriquet ‘the black monk’.

As arch-puritan, he was also the most articulate spokesman of abstraction’s postwar impasse and of what he referred to as the ‘art-politics syndrome’.6 In major accounts of postwar art Reinhardt’s role has been underestimated – as has Bochner’s – so the relation between them is worth unpicking. Reinhardt ‘found’ black in 1956 and continued to paint black, as well as red and blue, monochromes until his death in 1967. Having expunged everything that was extraneous from the canvas he painted subtly – almost imperceptibly – differentiated surfaces that revealed faint crosses or other shapes that emerged only after looking at them for a period of time. His writings, lectures and notes endlessly elaborated this strategy of refusal. In one essay for example, living up to the name of Pure, he enumerated his ‘no’s’: ‘In painting, for me no fooling-the-eye, no window-hole-in-the-wall, no illusions, no representations, no associations, no distortions…’ The list – he often fired off lists as his weapon of choice – continued for over a page, ending with ‘no confusing painting with everything that is not painting’.7 In 1966, Bochner made a group of word-portraits on graph paper of people to whom he was close or whom he admired. The words are collated from the lists of synonyms found in Roget’s Thesaurus and find themselves placed in odd juxtapositions (‘rest’ next to ‘deafen’, ‘torpid’ next to ‘stifled’ and so on). Of all

these portraits, the one of Ad Reinhardt is perhaps the closest to his recent paintings in one or two respects: it isn’t so much that he stretched out the shorter words to make them fit the width of the column or that these therefore appear bigger – but rather, that we perceive some words as more assertive than others. Words like ‘shut up’ or ‘gag’ seem to come out at you and therefore contradicting the word ‘quiescent’ that is the trigger for the portrait in the first place. Of course, it is different when Bochner goes on to making paintings using colour later on, but the Reinhardt portrait seems to be a very early instance of this form of antagonistic address.

But if this is a portrait, then in what way is it – could it be – of Reinhardt? Given that Reinhardt was notoriously loquacious, we can deduce that it was his monochrome painting that provided the starting point of ‘silence’ – or can we?8 And what does it mean, anyhow, for a painting to be silent? The ricochet effect back and forth – there it is again – is far from quiescent but wordy and frenetic. Which in some respects brings us back to Reinhardt himself – who made pure abstracts that would seem to silence language and yet was full of words.

Reinhardt wrote constantly – and wrote in a beautiful and unmistakable hand in black indian ink on sheets of notepaper in which the letters take physical shape. It’s an unmistakable hand, and he set out his notes in the manner of the layout man that he was (he had trained as a graphic artist9) but also in ways quite as suggestive of a calligram by Apollinaire. Bochner’s portrait takes the form of two handwritten symmetrical columns, which also mimics Reinhardt’s preoccupation with symmetry in his paintings but also draws attention to the contradictory directions that were at play in the work, that cut against the grain of pure abstraction.

Words that hit you like ‘dummy-up’ or ‘shut-up’ suggests the ways silence is forced on you, that it can be a kind of violence even. It is hard to describe the effects of the words. For example, ‘lifeless’ could be a negative word but in this context it could be positive.

It’s unclear and ambiguous. Reinhardt was anti-art-as-life, after all, and pro-art-as-art. If there’s anything pure here, it’s pure contingency.

That is, Reinhardt was the artist who preached purity but practised something more complicated; who talked ‘art-as-art’ but was a lifelong leftist. When Bochner discussed the precedents for the kind of ‘artist/writer’ that he and Smithson became, it was Judd and Reinhardt whom he mentioned, in particular Reinhardt’s ‘caustic critiques’ in the form of cartoons.10 And he has told the story on several occasions of how he and Smithson once met Reinhardt on 57th street. After a long conversation about what was wrong with contemporary art, Reinhardt said to them that the problem was that everybody ultimately had to choose between Portrait of Ad Reinhardt, 1966 Ink on graph paper 26 × 9.5 cm | 10¼ × 3¾ in

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in a large white loft and who only paints white paintings – a thinly veiled satirical portrait of Ad Reinhardt. A crazy zealot, Pure can’t bear anything that contaminates the essence of painting – even colour. In one of the best passages – part of which Bochner would cite in his text ‘A Compilation for Robert Mangold’ – Pure was pronouncing on colour: Pure explains that since ‘A painting must have no color’, his shelves are lined with tubes of colour that he never touches (permanent green light and alizarin crimson are the pigments he ‘most prefers to reject’).4 Reinhardt preferred to reject the kind of subjectivist gestural painting that he associated with Willem de Kooning, and even more he preferred to reject the elements of figuration that continued to contaminate it.

Bochner’s own relationship to Reinhardt is significant and not straightforward. He has said of Elaine de Kooning’s piece that Reinhardt really did remain Mr Pure and that: An idea existed after the war that abstraction had something like a sacred duty to fulfill. Anything less than ‘abstract’ was tainted, or impure, or corrupt (as in De Kooning’s desire to paint the figure).5

No one was more extreme in their articulation of that sacred duty than Reinhardt, earning himself the soubriquet ‘the black monk’.

As arch-puritan, he was also the most articulate spokesman of abstraction’s postwar impasse and of what he referred to as the ‘art-politics syndrome’.6 In major accounts of postwar art Reinhardt’s role has been underestimated – as has Bochner’s – so the relation between them is worth unpicking. Reinhardt ‘found’ black in 1956 and continued to paint black, as well as red and blue, monochromes until his death in 1967. Having expunged everything that was extraneous from the canvas he painted subtly – almost imperceptibly – differentiated surfaces that revealed faint crosses or other shapes that emerged only after looking at them for a period of time. His writings, lectures and notes endlessly elaborated this strategy of refusal. In one essay for example, living up to the name of Pure, he enumerated his ‘no’s’: ‘In painting, for me no fooling-the-eye, no window-hole-in-the-wall, no illusions, no representations, no associations, no distortions…’ The list – he often fired off lists as his weapon of choice – continued for over a page, ending with ‘no confusing painting with everything that is not painting’.7 In 1966, Bochner made a group of word-portraits on graph paper of people to whom he was close or whom he admired. The words are collated from the lists of synonyms found in Roget’s Thesaurus and find themselves placed in odd juxtapositions (‘rest’ next to ‘deafen’, ‘torpid’ next to ‘stifled’ and so on). Of all

these portraits, the one of Ad Reinhardt is perhaps the closest to his recent paintings in one or two respects: it isn’t so much that he stretched out the shorter words to make them fit the width of the column or that these therefore appear bigger – but rather, that we perceive some words as more assertive than others. Words like ‘shut up’ or ‘gag’ seem to come out at you and therefore contradicting the word ‘quiescent’ that is the trigger for the portrait in the first place. Of course, it is different when Bochner goes on to making paintings using colour later on, but the Reinhardt portrait seems to be a very early instance of this form of antagonistic address.

But if this is a portrait, then in what way is it – could it be – of Reinhardt? Given that Reinhardt was notoriously loquacious, we can deduce that it was his monochrome painting that provided the starting point of ‘silence’ – or can we?8 And what does it mean, anyhow, for a painting to be silent? The ricochet effect back and forth – there it is again – is far from quiescent but wordy and frenetic. Which in some respects brings us back to Reinhardt himself – who made pure abstracts that would seem to silence language and yet was full of words.

Reinhardt wrote constantly – and wrote in a beautiful and unmistakable hand in black indian ink on sheets of notepaper in which the letters take physical shape. It’s an unmistakable hand, and he set out his notes in the manner of the layout man that he was (he had trained as a graphic artist9) but also in ways quite as suggestive of a calligram by Apollinaire. Bochner’s portrait takes the form of two handwritten symmetrical columns, which also mimics Reinhardt’s preoccupation with symmetry in his paintings but also draws attention to the contradictory directions that were at play in the work, that cut against the grain of pure abstraction.

Words that hit you like ‘dummy-up’ or ‘shut-up’ suggests the ways silence is forced on you, that it can be a kind of violence even. It is hard to describe the effects of the words. For example, ‘lifeless’ could be a negative word but in this context it could be positive.

It’s unclear and ambiguous. Reinhardt was anti-art-as-life, after all, and pro-art-as-art. If there’s anything pure here, it’s pure contingency.

That is, Reinhardt was the artist who preached purity but practised something more complicated; who talked ‘art-as-art’ but was a lifelong leftist. When Bochner discussed the precedents for the kind of ‘artist/writer’ that he and Smithson became, it was Judd and Reinhardt whom he mentioned, in particular Reinhardt’s ‘caustic critiques’ in the form of cartoons.10 And he has told the story on several occasions of how he and Smithson once met Reinhardt on 57th street. After a long conversation about what was wrong with contemporary art, Reinhardt said to them that the problem was that everybody ultimately had to choose between Portrait of Ad Reinhardt, 1966 Ink on graph paper 26 × 9.5 cm | 10¼ × 3¾ in

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BRIONY FER

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Theories and Encounters: On Mel Bochner’s Sculpture MARK GODFREY

1 Between 1970 and 1972, Mel Bochner installed a group of works on the floors of various art spaces in America and Italy using pebbles and chalk numbers and arrows, and called the group by the collective name ‘Theory of Sculpture’. These works emerged shortly after Theory of Painting (1969–70; pp.68–71) and were part of a larger series of ‘theory’ works. Making art under the heading ‘theory’ was a way for Bochner to ask questions and suggest hypotheses about the minimal conditions and basic conventions of a given medium. For Theory of Painting he suggested that the terms ‘cohere’ and ‘disperse’, in all their combinations, were those necessary to understand the conventions of abstract painting; for ‘Theory of Sculpture’, he determined that sculpture had to take a three-dimensional form (hence the pebbles), and that it had to have some method of organisation (which could be disorganisation), hence the chalk.

The advantage of making works titled ‘theory’ was also that they allowed Bochner to demonstrate his proposals about what a medium or practice could be, without having to concretise these proposals permanently. He saw the ‘theory’ series as a way of ‘doing’ art rather than ‘making’ art: of practising as an artist with the intention of arriving at knowledge (if only provisional knowledge) without having to burden the world with any more objects.

One of the works from the ‘Theory of Sculpture’ series was named Five Sculptures (1972; p.46) and comprised five rows of five pebbles, each group laid out in different directions, with chalk numbers written beside them on the floor. Glancing at the work without attending to the chalk, the viewer immediately recognised the five sets of five pebbles, but when looking at the writing, it soon became apparent that Bochner’s simple act of numbering and measuring these groups had created all sorts of confusion. In one instance, he had placed a number beside each

pebble supposedly to designate them as 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 – but why had he started at one end of the row, and not the other? In another, he had drawn a line from one end of the row of pebbles to the other, culminating on either side with an arrow point, with the number 5 in the middle. But did this number refer to the quantity of pebbles, or to the length from one arrow point to the next, which may just have happened to correspond in this instance to the length of the five pebbles (that is, the three middle pebbles, or indeed all the pebbles, could be removed and the arrow and number could remain true indicators of the length of the chalked line)? Elsewhere, Bochner chalked numbers in the spaces between the pebbles. Simple enough, but are there six spaces in a line of five pebbles, or just the four internal spaces? One row offered one answer, the other, the alternative. In the remaining sculpture, Bochner numbered the pebbles on one side of the row, but the spaces between them, with the numbers facing the opposite way, on the other. In this case, nine numbers jostled around the five pebbles, and it depended entirely on the viewer’s orientation whether they would see the five numerals for the pebbles or four numerals for the spaces first.

Bochner chose the number five because we instinctively count in fives, learning to do so from our earliest years when we use our fingers to count.1 So making a work with groups of five units was a way of starting with something very simple and familiar. But the ambition of the work was to allow the viewer to appreciate how from this simple starting point, the acts of numbering and measuring cause various kinds of confusions.2 Around this time, Bochner wrote that in his work he wanted to ‘confront the contradiction between idea and realisation’.3 It was one thing to offer ‘realisations’ of rows of five pebbles for a viewer to experience, and quite another to begin to state ‘ideas’ of quantity and measurement. Each chalk statement was contradicted by the next and the idea of five ‘crumbled’ (to use a word employed in this context by Rosalind Krauss) into so many possibilities that it was

Five Sculptures, 1972 Stones and chalk on floor Installation view

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Theories and Encounters: On Mel Bochner’s Sculpture MARK GODFREY

1 Between 1970 and 1972, Mel Bochner installed a group of works on the floors of various art spaces in America and Italy using pebbles and chalk numbers and arrows, and called the group by the collective name ‘Theory of Sculpture’. These works emerged shortly after Theory of Painting (1969–70; pp.68–71) and were part of a larger series of ‘theory’ works. Making art under the heading ‘theory’ was a way for Bochner to ask questions and suggest hypotheses about the minimal conditions and basic conventions of a given medium. For Theory of Painting he suggested that the terms ‘cohere’ and ‘disperse’, in all their combinations, were those necessary to understand the conventions of abstract painting; for ‘Theory of Sculpture’, he determined that sculpture had to take a three-dimensional form (hence the pebbles), and that it had to have some method of organisation (which could be disorganisation), hence the chalk.

The advantage of making works titled ‘theory’ was also that they allowed Bochner to demonstrate his proposals about what a medium or practice could be, without having to concretise these proposals permanently. He saw the ‘theory’ series as a way of ‘doing’ art rather than ‘making’ art: of practising as an artist with the intention of arriving at knowledge (if only provisional knowledge) without having to burden the world with any more objects.

One of the works from the ‘Theory of Sculpture’ series was named Five Sculptures (1972; p.46) and comprised five rows of five pebbles, each group laid out in different directions, with chalk numbers written beside them on the floor. Glancing at the work without attending to the chalk, the viewer immediately recognised the five sets of five pebbles, but when looking at the writing, it soon became apparent that Bochner’s simple act of numbering and measuring these groups had created all sorts of confusion. In one instance, he had placed a number beside each

pebble supposedly to designate them as 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 – but why had he started at one end of the row, and not the other? In another, he had drawn a line from one end of the row of pebbles to the other, culminating on either side with an arrow point, with the number 5 in the middle. But did this number refer to the quantity of pebbles, or to the length from one arrow point to the next, which may just have happened to correspond in this instance to the length of the five pebbles (that is, the three middle pebbles, or indeed all the pebbles, could be removed and the arrow and number could remain true indicators of the length of the chalked line)? Elsewhere, Bochner chalked numbers in the spaces between the pebbles. Simple enough, but are there six spaces in a line of five pebbles, or just the four internal spaces? One row offered one answer, the other, the alternative. In the remaining sculpture, Bochner numbered the pebbles on one side of the row, but the spaces between them, with the numbers facing the opposite way, on the other. In this case, nine numbers jostled around the five pebbles, and it depended entirely on the viewer’s orientation whether they would see the five numerals for the pebbles or four numerals for the spaces first.

Bochner chose the number five because we instinctively count in fives, learning to do so from our earliest years when we use our fingers to count.1 So making a work with groups of five units was a way of starting with something very simple and familiar. But the ambition of the work was to allow the viewer to appreciate how from this simple starting point, the acts of numbering and measuring cause various kinds of confusions.2 Around this time, Bochner wrote that in his work he wanted to ‘confront the contradiction between idea and realisation’.3 It was one thing to offer ‘realisations’ of rows of five pebbles for a viewer to experience, and quite another to begin to state ‘ideas’ of quantity and measurement. Each chalk statement was contradicted by the next and the idea of five ‘crumbled’ (to use a word employed in this context by Rosalind Krauss) into so many possibilities that it was

Five Sculptures, 1972 Stones and chalk on floor Installation view

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rendered meaningless.4 Much later on, Bochner wrote about the work that: by juxtaposing the numbers with the stones A Theory of Sculpture forces a confrontation between matter (‘raw’ materials) and mind (categories of thought)… The numbers and the stones exist on parallel but contradictory planes.

While they appear to demonstrate the same thing there is a rupture between them.5

Theory of Sculpture: #1 (Unleveling), 1970 Wood on floor, charcoal on wall 30.5 × 182.9 cm | 12 × 72 in

There were many polemical intentions for pointing to this rupture and for Bochner’s ambition to uncover what he called ‘the enormous abyss that separates the space of statements from the space of objects’.6 ‘Theory of Sculpture’ emerged at a moment when many Conceptual artists such as Joseph Kosuth and Robert Barry were promoting the notion that a work of art could exist as an idea cut free from any realisation, any physical support. Bochner saw this argument as a fallacy,7 as much a fallacy as the myth in Abstract Expressionism that a brushstroke could communicate an emotion, and he wanted to make vivid demonstrations of the axiom that ‘no thought exists without a sustaining support’. An artist might start with a thought, but has to use some support, whether that is language, paint, objects, or images, to express it. And once a support is introduced, the idea is prey to the contingencies of the support’s physical and cultural characteristics. What is more, the artwork must necessarily then be encountered by a viewer constrained by a body, meaning that we view the work from a particular position, looking forward, left or right, and from whatever height we happen to be.

Bochner believed that works of art were material things to be experienced physically, and in that respect he aligned himself with father-figures such as Barnett Newman and with contemporaries like Eva Hesse. But unlike these artists, he did not want to place any special emphasis on the materials with which a work was realised at any one instance. Of course, the work required these materials to come into being, and could not be apprehended except as a material entity, but the materials could be discarded after the work was exhibited. With this kind of thinking, Bochner was proposing an idea of sculpture as provisional rather than specific or permanent (this is also part of the reason they were called ‘theory’ works). To think of sculpture in this way was to counter the ideas proposed earlier in the 1960s by Donald Judd, whose essay ‘Specific Objects’ had made a strong impact on artists of Bochner’s generation.

Bochner’s sculptures were also temporary and even during the time of their installation, visibly vulnerable, composed with chalk that could be rubbed away, and pebbles or nuts or coins

Theory of Sculpture: #2 (Counting): Cardinal Versus Ordinal 5, 1970 Stones and chalk on floor Approximately 6.1 × 6.1 m | 20 × 20 ft

Robert Smithson A Nonsite (Franklin, New Jersey), 1968 Painted wooden bins, limestone, gelatin silver prints and typescript on paper with graphite and transfer letters, mounted on mat board Bins installed: 41.9 × 208.9 × 261.6 cm | 16½ × 82¼ × 103 in; framed: 103.5 × 78.1 × 2.5 cm | 40¾ × 30¾ × 1 in; sheet: 101.3 × 75.9 cm | 39⅞ × 29⅞ in

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rendered meaningless.4 Much later on, Bochner wrote about the work that: by juxtaposing the numbers with the stones A Theory of Sculpture forces a confrontation between matter (‘raw’ materials) and mind (categories of thought)… The numbers and the stones exist on parallel but contradictory planes.

While they appear to demonstrate the same thing there is a rupture between them.5

Theory of Sculpture: #1 (Unleveling), 1970 Wood on floor, charcoal on wall 30.5 × 182.9 cm | 12 × 72 in

There were many polemical intentions for pointing to this rupture and for Bochner’s ambition to uncover what he called ‘the enormous abyss that separates the space of statements from the space of objects’.6 ‘Theory of Sculpture’ emerged at a moment when many Conceptual artists such as Joseph Kosuth and Robert Barry were promoting the notion that a work of art could exist as an idea cut free from any realisation, any physical support. Bochner saw this argument as a fallacy,7 as much a fallacy as the myth in Abstract Expressionism that a brushstroke could communicate an emotion, and he wanted to make vivid demonstrations of the axiom that ‘no thought exists without a sustaining support’. An artist might start with a thought, but has to use some support, whether that is language, paint, objects, or images, to express it. And once a support is introduced, the idea is prey to the contingencies of the support’s physical and cultural characteristics. What is more, the artwork must necessarily then be encountered by a viewer constrained by a body, meaning that we view the work from a particular position, looking forward, left or right, and from whatever height we happen to be.

Bochner believed that works of art were material things to be experienced physically, and in that respect he aligned himself with father-figures such as Barnett Newman and with contemporaries like Eva Hesse. But unlike these artists, he did not want to place any special emphasis on the materials with which a work was realised at any one instance. Of course, the work required these materials to come into being, and could not be apprehended except as a material entity, but the materials could be discarded after the work was exhibited. With this kind of thinking, Bochner was proposing an idea of sculpture as provisional rather than specific or permanent (this is also part of the reason they were called ‘theory’ works). To think of sculpture in this way was to counter the ideas proposed earlier in the 1960s by Donald Judd, whose essay ‘Specific Objects’ had made a strong impact on artists of Bochner’s generation.

Bochner’s sculptures were also temporary and even during the time of their installation, visibly vulnerable, composed with chalk that could be rubbed away, and pebbles or nuts or coins

Theory of Sculpture: #2 (Counting): Cardinal Versus Ordinal 5, 1970 Stones and chalk on floor Approximately 6.1 × 6.1 m | 20 × 20 ft

Robert Smithson A Nonsite (Franklin, New Jersey), 1968 Painted wooden bins, limestone, gelatin silver prints and typescript on paper with graphite and transfer letters, mounted on mat board Bins installed: 41.9 × 208.9 × 261.6 cm | 16½ × 82¼ × 103 in; framed: 103.5 × 78.1 × 2.5 cm | 40¾ × 30¾ × 1 in; sheet: 101.3 × 75.9 cm | 39⅞ × 29⅞ in

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Theory of Painting, 1969–70 Spray paint on newspaper and vinyl on wall Size determined by installation

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Theory of Painting, 1969–70 Spray paint on newspaper and vinyl on wall Size determined by installation

68

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Color Crumple (#2), 1967/2011

Color Crumple (#3), 1967/2011

Silhouetted C-print mounted on aluminium 243.8 × 137.1 cm | 96 × 54 in

Silhouetted C-print mounted on aluminium 243.8 × 99 cm | 96 × 46 in

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Color Crumple (#2), 1967/2011

Color Crumple (#3), 1967/2011

Silhouetted C-print mounted on aluminium 243.8 × 137.1 cm | 96 × 54 in

Silhouetted C-print mounted on aluminium 243.8 × 99 cm | 96 × 46 in

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91

If The Color Changes (#6), 1998

If The Color Changes (#7), 1998

Oil and acrylic on canvas 91.4 × 116.8 cm | 36 × 48 in

Oil and acrylic on canvas 91.4 × 116.8 cm | 36 × 48 in

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If The Color Changes (#6), 1998

If The Color Changes (#7), 1998

Oil and acrylic on canvas 91.4 × 116.8 cm | 36 × 48 in

Oil and acrylic on canvas 91.4 × 116.8 cm | 36 × 48 in

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