Tefaf Showcase 2022

TEFAF SHOWCASE 2022 BARTHA CONTEMPORARY

Tefaf Showcase 2022 Jill Baroff Clay Ketter Susan Morris

Tefaf Showcase 2022 It is a great pleasure to present works by three contemporary artists at Tefaf Showcase. We choose to exhibit pieces by Jill Baroff, Clay Ketter, and Susan Morris at this unique platform, all long-term collaborators of our gallery.

The works exhibited are the product of extensive research and are made using various media. The sources for some of these works teether on the edge between science and art, evolving from large data sets. Indeed all works capture an element of time and are informed by natural phenomena.

Jill Baroff's hand-made drawings on Japanese gampi plot tidal data, which the artist sources on the internet. Like fingerprints of geographic locations and highly deceptive to atmospheric changes, these works showcase the movement of water across the planet.

Determined by periodic changes in gravitational forces, geology and the atmosphere, they are visual representations of continuous fluctuations that otherwise go largely unnoticed.

Susan Morris tapestries depict sound recordings modulated using algorithms or display data collected using an actiwatch, a tool employed by chronobiologists. The artist arranges the data following principles set out by scientific methodology or structures outlined by John Cage in his lecture on nothing.

The computerised data was then entered into the first binarily programmed industrial machine: a jacquard loom, which produced these sensual tapestries.

On closer examination, the abstract appearance of the photographic works by Clay Ketter reveal their source in the real world. Capturing a moment between nature reclaiming the ground and human redevelopment, these works depict the remains of holiday homes swept away by Hurricane Katrina along the Gulf Coast of the United States. Made using an analogue camera and void of any digital manipulation, these momentary photographic records can be viewed as a modern Pompeii.

CLAY KETTER Clay Ketter Miramar 3, 2007 Lightjet C-Print, Diasec mounted Unique 217 × 178 cm | 84 3/5 × 70 1/10 in

Clay Ketter Whispering Pines Drive, 2007 Lightjet C-Print, Diasec mounted Unique 178 × 240 cm | 70 1/10 × 94 1/2 in

Under the Volcano Dan Jönsson from Clay Ketter. Gulf Coast Slabs (exhib. cat.) 2008 It is said that everything human is eternal. So it’s told about the owner of Casa degli Amorini Dorati, “the House of the Golden Cupids”, in Pompeii, that he loved the theater. After the discoveries that archeologists have made we can be pretty sure he did; when the reception room of the mansion was excavated, it turned out to have the shape of a theatrical stage, and between the peristyle columns, actors’ masks were hung.

On the whole, Gnaeus Poppaeus, as the proprietor was named, must have been a first-rate art lover. Every corner of his garden was decorated with statues, and the walls of the house were exquisitely painted with subjects from Greek mythology. When the town was buried by the volcanic eruption on August 24, A.D. 79, he was not at home.

About the owner of 111 Hayden Avenue in Pass Christian, Mississippi, the remains of the building tell us much less.

Hurricane Katrina, which hit the coast in August 2005, left no more than an arcane grid of terra cotta and linoleum tiles, mimicking the neighboring house, No. 113, except for the color.

The roof, the walls, the furniture, the appliances—everything was brushed away by the tempest. What remains is an impersonal pattern, a simple, low-maintenance living surface for immaterial vacationers.

Of course, we do know something of these people’s lives. About the two houses on Hayden Avenue we’ve learned that they belonged to a father and his son, and that their family name is Oden; we can perhaps imagine them sitting on their patios in the evening, tossing a few words over the fence, slackening their gazes to the rhythms of the water sprinklers.

What we also know for sure is that the owners of these houses on Hayden Avenue, just like Gnaeus Poppaeus in Pompeii, lived in anticipation of the inevitable disaster. The beach settlements along the coast of Mississippi were, so to speak, built in the shadow of an active volcano, as the Italian villas were quite literally. Just as the inhabitants of Pompeii knew that their town in due time would be covered by the ashes of a great eruption of Mount Vesuvius, so did everybody in Pass Christian and the other towns along this artificial coastline know that the “storm of the century” sooner or later would be moving in from the Gulf of Mexico—and when it did, it would sweep their town off the map.

Against a hurricane of Katrina’s caliber, with its enormous flash floods and the thousands of small tornadoes that arise when it makes landfall, the houses of cards in a town like this have no greater chance of survival than Pompeii had against Vesuvius. If that.

Still these towns were built. Still people remained here, as if nothing ever would happen. Still real-estate companies and retail trade flourished—as they will do again, very soon. Are people in their right mind?

Clay Ketter’s Gulf Coast Slabs deal with this (and much more).

Much has been said and written of the art-historical references in Ketter’s work—its affinities to American “hard-edge” and color-field painting, to Abstract Expressionism, to Duchamp,

Ellsworth Kelly, Brice Marden. But very little, if anything, has been said of the Pompeian in them. To me, having followed Clay Ketter since his first gallery shows, in the early nineties, the photographs of Gulf Coast Slabs are something of a revelation.

Even in reference to these most recent artworks one may speak of abstract readymades, of paradoxical “action paintings” made possible by nature’s enormous invisible hand and uncovered by the subsequent extensive clean-up. But with their ominous sharpness, their unsentimental documentary brute force, they cast an unexpected light on the artist’s entire oeuvre. They disclose something that—indisputably—has been there all along.

Come to think of it, Ketter’s pictorial world has from the very start gained strength from this Pompeian ambiguity, the dual perspective of construction and ruin. The one is a prerequisite of the other. Hidden within the construction is ruin, and not until ruination is construction revealed.

Immediately, Gulf Coast Slabs connect with two clusters of work that have absorbed Ketter during the last few years. First, there is a planned series of “burned” interiors, of which but one is executed. “Kreugerküche”, as it’s called, is a combination of kitchen fixtures from IKEA covered with a blistered patina of varnish, a process that has made the melamine surfaces melt and assume a dark brown, mahogany color. The second series consists of works where Ketter has made use of doll houses, dismantled and folded open to form two-dimensional images.

Then the houses have either been burned in a similar manner, or “drowned” in a thick layer of transparent polyester, a method that gives the impression that you’re watching the house through a surface of water.

The creation of both these series of works has run parallel to the development of Gulf Coast Slabs, and the “drowned” houses have a particularly uncanny kinship to the pictures from the Mississippi shore. The doll houses used in the series are of the Swedish Lundby brand, anchoring them in Scandinavian modernism and in the fascination with Swedish building norms and standardized measurements—most of all IKEA’s kitchen systems—that have become a seemingly inexhaustible source of energy for Ketter’s art.

Keeping painting or sculpture in mind, it may be tempting to interpret this infatuation as a purely estethic passion. It is not.

Indeed, it is an important part of the context that Clay Ketter is a trained joiner, and that his interest in these materials, processes and regulations to a great extent is that of the professional.

Even when he first exhibited his spackled “wall paintings”, at an exposition in the now defunct Forum Gallery in Malmö, 1994, I was struck by his insisting on the image being a result of certain regulating restrictions on one hand, and of a craftsmanlike work process on the other. The paintings were simply the outcome of putting spackle on plasterboard, using the number of variations as to format and “expression” that were available according to Swedish building standards.

This realistic, basically anti-conceptual approach landed even then and there in a profitable conflict with the abstract, sheerly artistic tradition to which these images simultaneously seemed to aspire. Ketter kept on making use of this energy during the nineties, in his kitchen pieces as well as in his so-called “trace paintings”, where the images were what came into existence on

a wall when, for instance, a cupboard was pulled down. (Thus they were an unequivocal counterpart to the spackle paintings, although situated in the final phase of the building cycle). The same force was eminently present in Ketter’s Valencia pictures, a series of photographs of the median walls left bare on demolition sites in Valencia, Spain. And it is still in place as an explanation of the strong dynamics of Gulf Coast Slabs.

which in fact arose in an earlier, and very momentous, project: his scrutiny of an apartment for rent in 1994, in the housing area of Rosengård, in Malmö. In his practical-minded dispassion, in his realism if you will, Ketter seems intent on reminding us of certain self-explanatory matters that the art world, in its conceptual devotion to ideas, tends to disregard. Surely, a “readymade” is never “already made”.

How, exactly, is this dynamic constructed?

By sticking to this discrepant prospect of construction, attrition and collapse, Clay Ketter’s images take a significant step to the side of the quite narrow idea of time that contemporary conceptualist art, more often than not, propagates. This is the second important aspect of the esthetic “conflict” that these pieces are charged with. Ketter’s work in the Rosengård apartment was in a number of ways a downright progenitor of Gulf Coast Slabs: a prosaic, close to chilly “securing” and restoring of the traces of the recently deceased woman who had been living in this rather dilapidated flat, in one of the most disreputable examples of the so-called “million program” of Swedish social democracy, which in the sixties and seventies provided most Swedish cities with ring-walls of cheap functionalistic high-rise blocks.

Primarily, one may perceive the Gulf Coast images, although they can technically be regarded as documentary photos, behaving as if they were paintings. And what’s remarkable, even paradoxical, is that their documentary nature, their circumstantial survey of the material consequences of the disaster, actually makes us look upon them in this way—to zoom in, letting the eye wander over their large surfaces, in terrible fascination before the physical devastation, searching for something that will reveal “how it’s done”.

Returning to “111 Hayden Ave.”, our awareness of the reality behind the es-thetically well-balanced checked patterns and color fields leads naturally to a need to interpret the traces of a life lived here until quite recently. Instantly, we discern an approximate layout of rooms; tentatively we align our gaze to what seems to have been a hallway along the longitudinal axis of the house; perhaps we guess that the surface in the picture’s upper left-hand corner, covered with yellow tiles, may have been the kitchen, and that the darker square sections might have been the shower and the toilet.

If we compare this with the house next door, No. 113, we get more information. We can see that the patterns in the basically identical buildings diverge a little, probably as a result of differences in the placing of appliances and kitchen fixtures. In “Destiny Oaks Drive”, the pattern becomes even clearer. Here, in what seems to be an expanded and rather more exclusive version of the same bungalow, the space at the center of the picture—which was a raw, hard-to-define concrete surface in the houses previously considered—has become a parquet floor, miraculously steadfast in the face of the raging storm.

Our “reading” of these surfaces begins to bear fruit. The rooms become tangible to the imagination; we move around in the picture as if we were in an imaginary building.

Yet nothing of all this exists in the pictures “themselves”.

Transferred to an art-historical framework, they are hardly to be regarded as anything else but painting (or, possibly, sculpture— though here the ground seems a bit more insecure). Preoccupied with surfaces, materials, color and structure, they are plainly painterly as objects of art, even though it is, paradoxically, their photographically documentary, narrative qualities that by and large produce this effect. Many threads come together in these pictures; one of the most important has to do with the impure duality already touched upon—with Ketter’s way to insist that painting—despite a multitude of theories—is something more than just a picture, that it’s an imprint of work done, and of a lived experience.

In Gulf Coast Slabs, Ketter exposes, more clearly than he’s done for a long time, this documentary strain—his interest in the narrative that was also apparent in the Valencia pictures, but

Ketter’s painstaking way of proceeding—like a forensic technician, a claims investigator, a taxidermist—mirrors, in part, the instrumental, technocratic frame of mind usually associated with these building schemes. Ketter’s attention to detail—not least his move, in a couple of the rooms, to restore the medallion wallpaper the landlord had renovated away—was on the other hand trenchant enough to let the contrariness of life, or perhaps death, to incessantly leak into the scrutiny. The traces of wear and tear on the floor and the door edging, the damaged kitchen fixtures, the rust stains in the bathtub testified, for the viewer, to a certainly anonymous but still peculiar life story. As in the Mississippi pictures, time became literally visible in its erosion of the materials.

To understand time in this way, as something tangible and wordly, has consequences. Ketter’s art has, from the very beginning, been imbued with his fascination with modern, serial house-building norms: standard solutions, tract housing—house machines, if you will. But in contrast to many other contemporary artists interested in issues like these, Ketter’s way of handling them hardly manifests any social or political criticism. When he looks upon these phenomena, he employs the gaze of the archeologist, as if he were dealing with the residue of something that is already past and gone.

The contemporary world is basically chaotic and may only be fathomed as a piece of future history. A pattern in time.

In this manner, the images become open to existential, even speculative, readings, light-years from the innocuous frigidity they give off as objects of art. In spite of all their dispassion they hold a latent pathos, a poetry of loss that anchors them not only in a contemporary American painterly tradition, but also gives them more unexpected tie-ups with, for example, the vanitas motif of baroque art, as well as with current European “memorial art”, as practised by Christian Boltanski and others. Clearly, the issues brought up here are common to all mankind, and timeless. As an important reference to the Mississippi pictures, Ketter acknowledges the biblical tale of Job, the righteous man who without any apparent cause is put to the test by an

omnipotent and ruthless God. Subjected to one trial after the other, Job is suspected by his friends to be a sinner, since, according to religious tradition, the righteous don’t meet with misfortune. Through all the catastrophes, however, Job persists in affirming his innocence and demanding redress by God. Not until he humbles himself before the Almighty is he pardoned.

Redress, it turns out, is not gotten through righteousness, but through submission.

In a like manner, it is quite possible in the last years’ discussion concerning the climate to make out a moralistic undertone—as, for example, in the debate on and reporting of hurricane Katrina.

If global warming is something created by man—and most things point in that direction—it is not hard to conclude that the victims of natural disasters of this kind, where the greenhouse effect is considered instrumental, are themselves to blame. Our way of life, hard on nature’s resources, is supposed to have challenged the ecological balance, causing nature to “hit back”.

My purpose here is not to make us doubt this. Still it may, after all, be useful to call attention to the fact that very ancient notions of punishment and penance now return through the ecological back door, Nature playing the part of God. As Sodom and Gomorrah were stricken by the wrath of God and burned to the ground, and as the tales of the licentious life lived in Pompeii, with its countless taverns and brothels, always have been given a piquant flavoring by the dramatic destruction of the town, so the hedonistic consumer culture of the twenty-first century seems to call for similar quasi-religious doomsday scenarios. More modern than that, we are not.

Yet Clay Ketter’s pictures demonstrate something else. In Gulf Coast Slabs we can trace the pattern of a starker structure. We may sense the traces of a life that only within very confining bounds—choosing the color of the floor tiles, locating the kitchen appliances—allows free scope for individual options.

The houses in Pass Christian were, after all, not occupied by immorality, or even by error; they were occupied because they had been built, and of course they were built with economically rational incentives: because the market regarded them as potentially attractive objects. Their traces testify, in other words, to a historical context, a cultural and economic system of physical and symbolic relationships that we, as private consumers, have an exceedingly small chance to influence, simply because it’s so much larger than we are, its norms and values forming the very framework in which our individual ethics must act. Before powers such as these we lack practical alternatives.

Perhaps you might say that this historical approach to our age attests to dejection and disillusion. I don’t think so, though. For at the same time it opens up a world of new artistic possibilities.

Clay Ketter always has possessed the ability to make order unsure, to force the viewer to ask himself what is what, what is how, what is important, what is real. Regarding Gulf Coast Slabs we must pose yet another question, maybe the utmost.

What is human? To be sure, in these pictures as well, the entire fascinating self-reckoning of modern painting is present—the attempts to defend its territory against photography; the difficult questions of representation and abstraction; the heroic efforts to establish painting as a reality in its own right. Ketter’s new images succeed in keeping these complex questions up-to-date,

while at the same time moving on by divulging their historical nature. Issues like these are undeniably important, but in the final analysis they have to be subordinated to those commonly called eternal—those that are about what is human.

And Ketter’s answer is very factual: this, he says. This is human. In Gulf Coast Slabs the unsolved riddles of painting are presented as the fundamentally existential questions they, after all, are. As I see it, these pictures most of all deal with our attitude towards time, our ability to understand our brief moment, our numbered days, not only in relation to those who have gone before us, and those who will follow, but also in a considerably longer perspective—meteorologic, biologic, even geologic. Modern painting always has had one foot in the future; Ketter indicates that the only certainty about the future is that it will bring our annihilation. It’s important to understand that this doesn’t make it less interesting, or less necessary—but that it makes time more precious. In Pass Christian many house-owners return regularly to mow the lawns around their ruins. Maybe it’s not a very rational behavior. But it’s a way to offer some resistance to time. An unreasonable longing for the house on the shore, or a passionate love for the theater: the difference is not very large.

It’s all incantation. Is painting able to be more than that? In these pictures we sense that it’s necessary that painting’s claims on reality have a firm foundation in the very human wealth of precious time.

Clay Ketter Bayview 4.b, 2007 Lightjet C-Print, Diasec mounted Unique 120 × 252 cm | 47 1/5 × 99 1/5 in

SUSAN MORRIS Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 1 to 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) Each 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

Inlines Rye Holmboe § In July 2021, Susan Morris invited me to her home and studio in London to talk about her work and the text I am now writing. We drank tea and ate pastries while her cat, Teddy, hid under the sofa—the poor thing was unused to visitors because of the lockdown. After a brief catch up, Susan showed me a group of six tapestries woven on a Jacquard Loom in Belgium. The works were prototypes for a major commission from St John’s College, Oxford, called Silence (On Prepared Loom), a group of six much larger tapestries that will hang on the walls of its new library, designed by the architectural firm Wright & Wright. The tapestries in Susan’s studio were what she called ‘test pieces’1 for this work, but they are also parts of a work in its own right, named Silence (Project for a Library). § In the garden outside the library at St John’s College, Susan installed an audio recorder that registered whatever sounds were produced by the surrounding environment over a period of 50 minutes. Airplanes flying overhead, birdsong, a voice, the rustle of leaves, the distant sound of traffic. These are the sorts of sounds we often neglect to listen to but almost always hear, especially those of us who live in cities; noise pollution or signs of life, depending on your temperament.

Susan made a number of these recordings. The one she chose was made during term time; precisely, at 13.40 on Tuesday 12 November, 2019. The recording was passed through a computer where a specially written algorithm translated the sounds into visual form, organising them according to how loud they were, as well as their amplitude and duration. This pattern was colour coded and sent to a Jacquard Loom in Belgium, where it was woven into tapestries.

In previous weaves, Susan blended colours to allow for gradation. In Long Exposure_2010-2012, for example, a large Jacquard tapestry that evolved out of a project for the John Radcliff Hospital in Oxford, the artist used an Actiwatch to record her sleep patterns and exposure to ambient light over a period of three years. The data automatically collected by the Actiwatch was translated into colours that were blended for use on the same Jacquard Loom that wove the Silence tapestries. The light areas in the weave register her activity during the day, the dark areas her activity at night, when Susan worked late, slept or dreamt. For the St John’s library project, the palette was simplified so that the weave structure, the warp and the weft, was more visible. The sense of a gradient was achieved by weaving solid lines of colour at different distances from one another.

I had read Cage’s lecture once before, as a student, but had forgotten how interesting it was, how curiously affective, given its title. For me, it reads as a kind of concrete poem. Cage spaces out words on the page in a way that is determined by a system that corresponds to the rhythmic structures he employed in his musical compositions. He describes this structure, which served as a kind of score for the performance, at the start of the lecture: There are four measures in each line and twelve lines in each unit of the rhythmic structure. There are forty-eight such units, each having forty-eight measures. The whole is divided into five large parts, in the proportion 7, 6, 14, 14, 7. The fortyeight measures of each unit are likewise so divided.2 A line of poetry is composed of words and the spaces between them. Syntax is itself a form of time; reading a process both spatial and temporal. With Cage’s lecture, however, you feel the empty spaces on the page in a more pronounced way than you would a conventional text or poem, while the words accrue materiality. This is emphasised when you read the text out loud—it was of course meant to be heard, not read.

‘I am here and there is nothing to say’, starts Cage’s Lecture on Nothing; and then, soon after: This space of time / is organised We need not fear these silences, - / We may love them 3 That we might love silences and not fear them is an idea that pervades Cage’s work. Silence can free you from the burden of meaning. It can help you tolerate what must also form a part of existence, namely, the absence of meaning. The difficulty lies in letting silence be, that is to say, in not possessing silence, in resisting the urge to make silence mean when it does not, or at least doesn’t always. §

§

The structure of the tapestries that make up Silence (On Prepared Loom) and Silence (Project for a Library) were loosely based on Cage’s Lecture on Nothing. The 50 minutes are divided in the same proportion with the sixth tapestry looping back upon the first. Susan interpreted the structure of Cage’s lecture as a series of cells in a grid, horizontal and vertical divisions across the surface of each weave. The panels that have 14 units are more compressed than those with only 6 or 7 because the data is denser there.

Fifty minutes, Susan explained, was more or less the time that John Cage’s Lecture on Nothing took to give. Cage first gave the lecture in 1949 at the Artists’ Club on Eighth Street in New York City, and then again in 1960. Apparently there was a recording of Lecture on Nothing, but the tape may have been lost. Susan described how inspired she was by Cage’s text; as she spoke, I thought of her regular visits to the Buddhist Centre not far from where she lives and wondered what resonance that might have.

Looking at the smaller tapestries in the studio, my first feeling was that they were starkly beautiful—though beautiful is not a word I think Susan would use. You get a strong sense of the independent materiality of each object, of thread and colour, warp and weft. The tapestries were stretched onto wooden frames by hand. This has allowed for small irregularities and distortions to punctuate their surfaces, which enter into tension with the quantitive method that forms each tapestry’s content.

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 1 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 2 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

It was easy to imagine how impressive Silence (Project for a Library) would look when scaled up. Susan showed me a carefully constructed maquette of St John’s library and described how the space was flooded with natural light. This in fact proved to be an early complication because Susan wanted to work with yarns with which she was familiar, such as silk.

Coloured silk fades very quickly, as does wool, so the tapestries were made out of mercerised cotton instead, which would allow the colour to last much longer. Synthetic thread was used for the sound peaks because it was more durable. These considerations led Susan to the decision that the blue which makes up most of the tapestries should gradually become paler, as if to anticipate the effects of time and the work’s daily exposure to the sun.

In this way a different temporality, determined by the Earth’s rotation, was inscribed upon the surface of the tapestries.

Each of the six parts of Silence (For Prepared Loom) measure 210 by 280 cm. This size was determined by the dimensions of the alcoves in which they will hang. Susan used a 4:3 aspect ratio, much beloved by Cage, allowing the library’s architecture to function as a constraint. She showed me how the architects had converted a gate in the garden wall into a large window, which would allow visitors to see outside into the garden while sitting beneath or walking past the tapestries. I imagined dust motes spinning in the light.

Beautiful, perhaps, but the tapestries were also impassive. As your eyes move across their surfaces, from left to right, there is a sense of rhythm, repetition, accent, as if you were reading a musical score. The tapestries are filled with data, almost like ledgers. Yet their experience is one of silence, or quiescence, to use a word that Cage liked. § In their examinations of the relationship between automaticity, technology, labour and the body, Susan’s works make visible the often imperceptible processes—the body’s exposure to ambient light, say, or its sleep patterns—that fall beneath the threshold of consciousness. A long-standing concern of hers is the measurement of time: how the length of the working day, for instance, or artificial systems of clock and calendrical time, can control our activities in daily life.

Almost a decade before producing the Silence tapestries, for example, Susan made a series of works called Motion Capture Drawings (2012). To make them, the artist was recorded in a motion capture studio in Newcastle with anodes attached to her body while drawing. A vast amount of data was collected and converted by a specially created algorithm into a line, which was then printed by an Inkjet printer onto large sheets of paper. The Inkjet used only black ink, so what you read as a white line is in fact the paper showing through; a ‘no line,’4 as Susan put it.

The Motion Capture Drawings drew upon the chronophotographs of Étienne-Jules Marey (1830-1904), a French scientist who used multiple exposures on a single photographic plate to represent and measure the body in action. The chronophotographs were proto-cinematic, but they were also used to rationalise the movements of the human body. Charles Fremont, an engineer who assisted Marey in

his laboratory, used chronophotographs to investigate the expenditure of energy in human labour. Fremont’s forgers labour before a dark field with only the chronometer visible in the foreground. The workers themselves are indiscernible, pictured as the sequential positions of hammer and hand.5 Equally important was Frank Gilbreth (1868-1924) and his Motion Efficiency Study, which included a number of photographs of workers with anodes attached to parts of their bodies. Like Marey’s chronophotographs, the images were used to make the movements of workers more efficient. A line full of twists and turns was an indication of uneconomical labour; a straighter line the sign of efficiency. Trade unions at the time saw motion study as a tool for producing automatons, but Gilbreth, who worked with Fredrick W. Taylor, maintained that motion study was designed to make labour more comfortable, reducing fatigue and helping to provide adequate rest breaks.6 By 1915, Gilbreth had produced an alphabet of all labour motions, which he called Therbligs.

The Motion Capture Drawings read as unruly expressions of Susan’s body, the white lines almost scribbles in which you, the spectator, can easily get lost. The motion capture software registered the myriad ways in which her body moved, involuntarily, unconsciously, usually imperceptibly, recording its every movement while she drew and, it would seem, became tangled up by her own line. The drawings invite us to think about, among many other things, how automaticity and the becoming-indiscernible of the subject can be at once coercive—the actions of the labourer are reified into second nature, his movements the expression of what could be called a capitalist unconscious—and, in the body’s resistance to measure, potentially subversive.7 Rationality is turned inside out, so to speak, in the fulfilment of its own logic. § The Silence tapestries are woven out of similar histories. The French weaver and merchant Joseph Marie Jacquard (17521834) used cards with holes punched through them in order to control the intricate manipulations of thread on silk looms.

The Jacquard Loom operates within a simple binary, zeroes and ones, warp and weft. What you see in a final tapestry is an oscillation within that binary.

‘The horizontal steel rods with springs at the end “sense” the holes punched in a rectangular piece of cardboard. When a rod “feels” a hole it passes through and activates a mechanism for lifting the appropriate warp thread, which is then skipped in the weaving, while the other threads are regularly woven. The way the holes are punched programmes the pattern.’8 The invention of the Jacquard Loom was met with fierce protests by silk-weavers in Paris, who saw it as a threat to their skilled labour. As did the Luddites when the instrument arrived in Britain in the 1820s.

Indeed, the relationship between the textile industry and the exploitation of labour is as old as capitalism itself and was instrumental in shaping the working day as we now know it. In Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages (1977), the French historian Jacques le Goff showed that it was during the fourteenth century, at the dawn of the industrial era, that

merchants first replaced Church time with a more accurately measured time useful for profane and secular tasks. The unit of labour time in the medieval West was the day; its length was decided by agrarian rhythms and Church bells. The advent of the mercantile class changed this. Time became successive, quantitatively measurable. The ‘appropriation of time [by the merchants]’, wrote LeGoff, ‘was made manifest by clocks, by the division of the day into twenty-four hours, and, before long, in its individualized form, by the watch.’9 What Le Goff called the crisis of the fourteenth century was determined by two factors, labour and time, and the ways in which competing social groups fought over units of measure.

This conflict was most acutely felt in the textile sector. LeGoff recounts how, in 1355, the royal governor of Artois allowed the people of Airesur-Ia-Lys to construct a belfry whose bells chimed the hours of commercial transactions and the working hours of textile workers. At the end of the same year, the bailiff of Amiens allowed that “the sound of a new bell”10 should serve as the means of regulating the “three crafts of the cloth trade,”11 as then existed in various cities in France. Many other examples are provided.

Le Goff also described how there were strict punishments for those who tried to reclaim time or refused to obey the dictates of the clock. In Commines in 1361, for example, “every weaver who appears after the sounding of the morning bell will pay a fine of five Parisian solz.”12 And if textile workers seized the bell in order to use it as a signal of revolt, they incurred enormous fines: sixty Parisian pounds for anyone who rang the bell for a popular assembly, and the death penalty for anyone who rang the bell to call for rebellion against the king, the alderman, or the officer in charge of the bell.

In cloth manufacturing cities, then, the life of the town was determined by ‘the time of the cloth makers’13 and their ‘new masters.’14 The sixty-minute hour was firmly established. As LeGoff observed, this rationalisation of the working day long anticipated Taylorism. Already in the fourteenth century the ‘infernal rhythms’15 of capital could be felt. ‘A humanism based on a […] computation of time was born’.16 § Look now at the Silence tapestries. Each weave is a mathematically divisible expression of duration, a fifty minute space of time, and each is composed of so much data. Fifty minutes is a shortened hour, which takes into account the need for rest breaks between hours and is appropriate to the average attention span. As Susan explained, it is the length of most lectures or seminars.

Meanwhile, the use of technologies including an audio recording device, a computer, an algorithm and a Jacquard Loom speaks to the information age, to the computation of time and space through number. It is often said that the Jacquard Loom and the binary system it first employed anticipated digital technologies by two centuries. All machine languages are made up of binary coded instructions in which there are only two possible states, off and on, states that are usually symbolised by 0 and 1. The internet is made up of the same binary system. Hence the use of weaving metaphors such as web, net and network.17

In this context, it is also noteworthy that St John’s College was founded in 1555 by Sir Thomas White, a wealthy merchant tailor who made his fortune in the cloth trade. The college was the first to be founded by a member of the mercantile class and not by the clergy. St John the Baptist was the patron saint of the tailor’s fraternity, later the Merchant Taylor’s Company in London, of which Sir Thomas White was Master. It has occupied the same site on Threadneedle Street since at least 1347. § Important as these histories are, in their receptiveness to what is outside them, the Silence tapestries intimate a different register of experience. In Lecture on Nothing, Cage spoke of a form of poetry free from the drive to possess. ‘Our poetry now / is the realisation / that we possess nothing’18, he said. Poetry was only poetry if it was disinterested, if it unfolded in the absence of the self. ‘How different / this form sense is / from that / which is bound up with / memory’.19 What mattered to Cage was the generative potential of constraints, the creative tension between chance and structure, freedom and law.

Pure life expresses itself / within / and through structure . / Each moment / is absolute, / alive and sig/ nificant. / Blackbirds / rise / from a field making / a / sound / de-licious / be-yond / com-pare 20 Pure life was the name Cage gave to what he called elsewhere ‘poetry without a thought content.’21 For him, thought and cognition always stood in the way of the creative process.

‘Psychology – never again?’22, asked Kafka in one of his aphorisms. It was a question Cage was fond of citing.

During the studio visit, Susan explained that, like Cage, she wanted to make work that was ‘inhuman.’23 By this she meant work that was not an expression of the self. Hers is a poetics of self-occlusion. Just think of the various procedures that went into the making of Silence: first, the audio device, which recorded the world’s dictation in the garden outside the library at St John’s College, sounds Susan didn’t make, sounds that were open to chance; second, the computer and algorithm, which translated these sounds and organised them into visual form; finally, the Jacquard Loom, which wove them into textiles and turned them into something for us to see. These layers of technological mediation make the tapestries feel distant, impersonal, like the dream of a dream. They induce a small vertigo. It is as if the creative process always took place on another scene of articulation. § There has long been a connection for Susan between Cage’s prepared piano and the Jacquard Loom. Certainly the visual analogy between the two instruments is striking. The word ‘text’ stems from the Latin texere, to weave, which also invites a connection between weaving and writing and, by association, drawing. Like the music produced by Cage’s prepared piano, the Silence tapestries are the products of processes akin to involuntary writing or automatic drawing. They are the cousins of dreamwork; indeed, Sigmund Freud once described the dream

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 3 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 4 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

as a ‘weaver’s masterpiece’, the unconscious as a ‘factory of thoughts,’24 which connects dreamwork historically to nineteenth century industrial production and to the Freud family trade in textiles.

Dreams, though, are conventionally held to be expressions of the inner world. What you see in the Silence tapestries is a writing of the outside, an inscription of the world’s dream. As with a fold, the distinction between insides and outsides is always unstable in Susan’s work. But there is, I think, a greater sense of involution to the Silence tapestries. Each tapestry is a kind of indrawing of the world’s sounds, delineating a movement from the outside in. The outline of the work is the world’s inline, to borrow a term from the philosopher Alan Watts.

Involuntary, automatic, open to chance—perhaps this inhuman aspect helps to account for the starkness of the tapestries’ beauty. ‘One evening’, Cage told an interviewer, Morton Feldman said that when he composed he was dead. This recalls to me the statement of my father, an inventor, who says he does his best work when he is sound asleep. […] A fluency obtains which is characteristic of nature.25 Note how, in the name of fluency, or pure life, death, sleep and nature are conflated. The same might be said for Silence (On Prepared Loom) and Silence (Project for a Library). The tapestries intimate the silence within the text, the silence around which the rest of the text has been composed. The use of brackets in both titles is significant in this regard. They suggest that the tapestries are different inflections of silence, which holds them between parentheses. § Imagine yourself now in St John’s College library, sat at a desk, gathering your thoughts, allowing for that pleasurable mixture of attention and absent-mindedness that a good library facilitates.

It is a place where knowledge is ordered and submitted to classification. The world is quiet here, but not completely. People cough, whisper, walk around. Books are moved, pens dropped.

People who speak are shooshed. You settle down, breathe in the smell of books, glance up at the tapestries that hang nearby and, especially on a sunny day, daydream of being outside, in the garden, say.

Cage liked to recount the time he visited an anechoic chamber at Harvard University, a room free from echoes and as silent as humanly possible. In the silence he was surprised to hear two sounds, ‘one high and one low’.26 The engineer in charge informed him that the high sound was his nervous system in operation, the low one his blood in circulation. From this Cage concluded that objective silence did not exist, or rather that what we mean by silence is really related to intentionality: unintended noise is silence, and what is unintended is pure, ascetic, free from memory and desire.

The story of the anechoic chamber reminded me of a passage written by the cultural theorist Peter Sloterdijk about the acoustic life of infants before birth. ‘These were the two universal

factors of intra-uterine hearing’, he wrote, ‘the cardiac basso continuo and the mother’s soprano speaking voice’.27 Sloterdijk described these two sounds—one high, the other low—as ‘protomusic’28, in that they anticipated all other sounds. In the acoustic register, birth describes a loss of ‘sonic continuity’.29 In the beginning there was silence, the syncopation of two heartbeats, the chronometrics of the heart.

To me, the reestablishment of continuity between the insides and outsides of art, between interiority and exteriority, subject and object, is perhaps the most important work the Silence tapestries do. It is their ethic, if you like. Susan’s self is effaced, her body almost completely absented from the process of making. This allows for the world’s rhythms to be woven into the rhythms of the work. The tapestries are ciphers through which the world—or should I say the object?—finds its expression. One might fairly ask, as the art historian Briony Fer has done, how much of the world can the work of art contain?30 The question is a pressing one. But to ask it implies that art is separate from the world, which is what the Silence tapestries make ambiguous.

There is a tension to this continuity, which I think underpins much of Susan’s work. In a world in which art is so susceptible to what is outside it, perhaps even determined by what is outside it, there may be no position left for art to take, indeed no position left for us to take. In the absence of discrimination and prejudice, everything counts equally. Choice becomes meaningless. As does responsibility. This quietism may also be true of the state Cage called ‘Zen No-Mind-ness’. His friend the cultural theorist Norman O. Brown, whose books on Marxism and psychoanalysis Cage greatly admired, saw this tension in his compositions and was perhaps the first to put it into words. ‘Chance operations avoid real uncertainty’, wrote Brown, emulating the composer’s rhythmic structures, ‘the negative capability of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, and / darkness / The results of chance operations are always impeccable: the experiment / cannot fail / no choice no error no blame.’31 § Towards the end of the studio visit, Susan mentioned that 50 minutes was also the length of a psychoanalytic session. The artist has a long standing interest in psychoanalysis. She recently finished an analysis herself. It was a Lacanian one in which, I imagine, sessions were rarely, if ever, 50 minutes long.

The French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan is now notorious for how short his sessions became: many lasted only a few minutes. One of the reasons behind the indeterminate length of his sessions, the séances scandées, was to provoke a question in the analysand, a question that Lacan sometimes used the Italian for, Che vuoi? What do you, the Other, want from me? I am not sure about the therapeutic value of this indeterminacy and the paranoia it must provoke, the intense attention it gives to the moment the session ends and the words and feelings that preceded it. There seems to be a need for omniscience on the part of the analyst, absolute trust in his or her countertransference, which I for one have yet to experience.

But I can see that there might be a certain poetry to the process: analytic listening would be like a form of scansion, a cut in the session the equivalent of a line break, continuity between sessions a kind of enjambment.

For those who, like me, were schooled in the post-Kleinian tradition, the idea of ending a session prematurely is almost taboo, although it is noteworthy that Freud was much more flexible than we are. His clinical diaries show that he sometimes saw his patients for one hour, sometimes for an hour and a quarter, sometimes for an hour and a half, even for two hours, with only a pocket watch to give time its measure or, as one critic has observed, his chow Yo-Fie, who could be relied upon to leave the consulting room at roughly the right time.32 Clearly, though, a frame is needed—although what we mean by a frame has been called into question by the pandemic and lockdown beginning in March 2020. The frame, both spatial and temporal, functions in psychoanalysis as a generative constraint. The chronometrics of psychoanalysis, the need for measure in both time and space, serves as an instrument for the intensification of the transference and, paradoxically perhaps, for the experience of that which knows no measure, the unconscious. But clock time is not unconscious time, and when we tell our patients, ‘It is time’, we are also asking them to internalise a restriction that is historically specific.

The receptivity of the Silence tapestries took me elsewhere, however. There is a bird that used to sing in the garden outside the study where I work in London. My previous consulting room was in a part of town rarely frequented by birds. Since the lockdown I have worked on the telephone from home, where there are more trees. Each of my patients has heard this bird sing and felt differently about it. One asked if I owned a caged bird (which now makes me think of John Cage and St John’s, of saintliness and desire, of communion with the object and the world, of freedom and constraints), another wondered whether I was really in England, and not in a forest, another whether I had recorded the sound of birdsong and had it playing in the background. Perhaps the most memorable association was to Lovebirds kept in different cages so as to make them sing.

You could say that birdsong provided the sessions with silence, in the way Cage meant the word. Birdsong helped me to think about the insides and outsides of analysis, of inlines and outlines in the fold of the psychoanalytic process, which is continuous with both the world and the object. ‘The always-there is not perceived’, wrote José Bleger of the psychoanalytic frame, ‘until it is changed or broken’.33 Or, as Cage put it in Lecture on Nothing: ‘Structure without life is dead. But Life without structure is unseen’.34 Once the world is experienced as silence there appears to be no limit to what can be thought of as the world interior to psychoanalysis, or as the world interior to art.

Recently the bird has flown, together with its song, replaced by a flock of green paraquets, which steal nesting holes and squawk loudly in the morning, the portents of a very different world.

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 5 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

Susan Morris Silence (Project for a Library) No. 6 of 6, 2020 Jacquard tapestry, cotton and polyester yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 65 × 90 × 5.8 cm | 25 3/5 × 35 2/5 × 2 3/10 in

Endnotes 1 Conversation with author, 17 July 2021.

2 John Cage, ‘Lecture on Nothing’ in: John Cage, Silence: Lectures and Writings, Marion Boyars, 2009, 109.

3 Ibid, 109-110.

4 Conversation with author, 17 July 2021.

5 For an excellent discussion of Fremont’s chronophotographs see: Noam E. Elcott, Artificial Darkness: An Obscure History of Modern Art and Media, University of Chicago Press, 2016, 44.

6 See: Brian Price, ‘Frank and Lillian Gilbreth and the Manufacture and Marketing of Motion Study, 1908-1924. Business and Economic History’, Second Series, Volume 18, 1989.

7 I borrow the expression from Samo Tomšič’s The Capitalist Unconscious: Marx and Lacan, Verso, 2014.

8 Daniel A. Wren and Arthur G. Bedeian, The Evolution of Management Thought, Wiley, 2020, 53.

9 Jacques Le Goff, Time, Work and the Middle Age, University of Chicago Press, 1980, xiii.

10 Ibid, 46.

11 Ibid, 46.

12 Ibid, 47.

13 Ibid, 46.

14 Ibid, 46.

15 Ibid, 46.

16 Ibid, 36.

17 For a brilliant and complete history of the Jacquard Loom, see: James Essinger, Jacquard’s Web: How a hand loom led to the birth of the information age, Oxford University Press, 2004.

18 Cage, ‘Lecture on Nothing’, 110.

19 Ibid, 111.

20 Ibid, 113.

21 I have lost the source for this quotation.

22 Cage, ‘45’ For a Speaker’, in: Silence: Lectures and Writings, 164.

23 Conversation with author, 17 July 2021.

24 Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (1900) in: The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume 6, 282.

25 Cage, ‘Composition as Process’, in: Silence: Lectures and Writings, 37.

26 John Cage, ‘A Visit to the anechoic chamber’, YouTube, accessed 21/08/2021.

27 Peter Sloterdijk, The Aesthetic Imperative, Wiley, 2007, 6.

28 Ibid, 6.

29 Ibid, 6.

30 Conversation with the author.

31 Norman O. Brown, cited in: Christopher Shultis, ‘A Living Oxymoron: Norman O. Brown’s Criticism of John Cage’, Perspectives of New Music, Volume 44, Number 2, Summer 2006, 66-87, 70.

32 See: Herbert Will, ‘The Concept of the 50-minute hour: Time forming a frame for the unconscious’, in The International Forum of Psychoanalysis, Volume 27, 2018, 14-23.

33 José Bleger, cited in: Jean-Bertrand Pontalis, Windows, Bison Books, 2003, 51.

34 Cage, ‘Lecture on Nothing’, 113.

Susan Morris de Umbris Idæarum [on the Shadow Cast by our Thoughts], 2021 Printed paper and wood, 12 × Soft Back Books Edition 3 of 25 (+ 2 AP) 23.7 × 34.6 × 13.8 cm | 9 3/10 × 13 3/5 × 5 2/5 in

Susan Morris Sun Dial: NightWatch Sleep/Wake 2010-2014 (MLS Version), 2015 Jacquard tapestry, Silk and cotton yarn Edition 2 of 3 (+ 2 AP) 134 × 178.5 cm | 52 4/5 × 70 3/10 in

Susan Morris Plumbline Drawing No. 11, 2009 Vine ash on paper 157.8 × 218.6 cm | 62 1/10 × 86 1/10 in

JILL BAROFF Jill Baroff Hurricane isaias, 2021 Ink on Japanese gampi mounted on rag 81 × 81 cm | 31 3/4 × 31 3/4 in

Jill Baroff Hurricane Laura, 2021 Ink on Japanese gampi mounted on rag 81 × 81 cm | 31 3/4 × 31 3/4 in

For whatever lives in time is a present proceeding from the past to the future, and there is nothing set in time that can embrace the whole space of its life together. Tomorrow’s state it grasps not yet, while it has already lost yesterday’s; nay, even in the life of today ye live no longer than one brief transitory moment.

Boethius – The Consolation of Philosophy

Jill Baroff Dr. Tobias Burg from Jill Baroff. The Edge of the World (exhib. cat.) 2011 The relationship between now and eternity, the limits of our ability to comprehend this, as well as our attempts to overcome this human limitation are important aspects of Jill Baroff’s work.

This manifests itself in two of the artist’s key bodies of works: the Tide Drawing series, which the artist began in 2002, and the more recent body of work entitled Floating Line Drawings.

The subject of Jill Baroff’s ongoing Tide Drawing series is the constant movement of the sea; an occurrence that goes beyond temporal and spatial dimensions of human scale. The drawings begin with tide tables of different seas; datasets that map changing water levels according to date and time. This is the case in New York Harbor March 31 - April 30, 2005, a suite of 31 drawings derived from information of this same place and time.

The work is a series of grids made from hairline thin lines. The ebb and flow of each day is plotted along both axes, creating a grid pattern that portrays the movement of each day’s tides.

As the water reaches its zenith and nadir, the lines expand exponentially or gather closer together to reflect the height of the high and low tides. The peaks and valleys reoccur four times each day and shift approximately one hour from day to day, resulting in a shifting pattern of moving quadrants that changes for each day.

In addition to these orthogonally structured drawings, the artist has also plotted the movement of the sea with concentric circles of varying scale. Here, too, the constantly changing height of the water level determines the distance between each line.

Jill Baroff’s Tide Drawings depict a naturally occurring and constantly changing and fluctuating process turning it into an artistic form that manages to be both rigorous and poetic.

Rigorous, because of the steel-like determination with which the artist follows the charted information to determine the position of her lines. This results in works that have an obvious relationship to scientific diagrams that chart natural processes such as seismic activity in a system of lines. However, in contrast to scientific diagrams, these works do not allow the viewer to draw conclusions as to their origin, as the coordination system or reference is missing. It is here that these works draw their poetic quality. Only the title of the works, and in some cases the inclusion of a date reference, give the viewer a hint as to their source. As a result of the sources being scattered across the globe – London, Chesapeake Bay, Tokyo, Gulf Coast or

Jill Baroff Series of Six Drawings : Gustav Landing, (Gulf Coast East, Nome, Savannah, Chesapeake, Gulf Coast West, Honolulu), 2009 Ink on Japanese gampi mounted on rag Each 37 × 37 cm | 14 3/5 × 14 3/5 in

Jill Baroff Set of Five small Midnight Drawings, 2012 Ink on Japanese gampi mounted on rag Each 41 × 41 cm | 16 1/10 × 16 1/10 in

the Pacific, the entire Tide Drawings series can be viewed as a system that manifests itself as dynamically changing from day to day and, viewed from a broader perspective, reveals itself as being constant. The artistic possibilities within this system are far broader than one would expect from the outset. Both the decision to present the dataset as either a concentric or orthogonal drawing and the chosen timeframe to be depicted are equally important. However, once these parameters have been set, there are no more means to alter the appearance of the drawing during its creation. The path of the drawing is set at the outset by a strict system, which is predetermined by the artist.

The freedom to alter the artist’s process is far greater in the more recent Floating Line series. Jill Baroff begins each work by drawing a border, either with graphite or oil pastel, at the edge of a sheet of Japanese gampi. The border’s width varies from drawing to drawing, but there is always a trace of the original border left on the sheet’s interior and it often remains tethered to this interior in one place, leaving the rest floating free. The cut gampi is then introduced to water where the drawing begins to take form. For a brief moment, the drawing becomes a threedimensional object reminiscent of the artist’s early installation based works. The Floating Lines underlying technique is very much a metamorphosis: a purely constructive drawing determined by a principal is transformed by a process which allows for an element of chance as much as the artist’s intuition and experience. The variations that a drawing’s shape can take during metamorphosis offer the artist endless possibilities. The former frame is transformed by multiple folds and turns, which can produce knot-like, dense, formations. For example [Double Loop] , ... lines running across or side by side each other appears almost three-dimensional as the varying colours of the front and back of the folded border reveal the different layers of the folded shape. Other works in the series take on more geometric shapes, or crosses or intertwined loops. Here, too, the conscious decision to work with the front and back of the paper creates a striking three-dimensionality. The outcome of each drawing is a product of a process that is determined by the artist.

Jill Baroff describes this as a kind of conversation with herself.

Hence it is not only the process, but a particular state of mind, that produces these drawings and whose form was neither predetermined nor envisioned at the outset. The Floating Line drawings are an effective foil to the Tide Drawings as they complement each other. As each drawing within a series of Tide Drawings can be read as a period of time within a series of works that deal with universal, endlessly reoccurring phenomena, the Floating Line drawings can certainly be read as the product of a moment, or as Boethius describes it, a “brief transitory moment” between past and future.

Jill Baroff Species of Space, 2022 Paint and graphite on Japanese gampi mounted on rag Each 48 × 35 cm | 18 7/8 × 13 3/4 in

Jill Baroff Floating Line Drawings (Double Comet), 2011 Graphite and red wax on Japanese gampi mounted on rag 80 × 80 cm | 31 1/2 × 31 1/2 in

Jill Baroff Floating Line Drawings (Double Loop), 2011 Graphite and red wax on Japanese gampi mounted on rag 81.8 × 82.3 cm | 32 1/5 × 32 2/5 in

Published on the occasion of Tefaf Showcase, June 2022 Copyright the Artists, Authors and Bartha Contemporary Ltd.

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