Drawn from Photography

THE D R AWI N G CENTER

Drawn from Photography

96

The Drawing Center February 18 – March 31, 2011

Drawn from Photography

Curated by Claire Gilman

DR AW ING PA P ERS 96

Essays by Claire Gilman and Lynne Tillman

PL. 1

Karl Haendel, Untitled (Birthday Drawing), 2000

PL. 2

Ewan Gibbs, New York, 2005

PL. 3

Ewan Gibbs, New York, 2008

PL. 4

Ewan Gibbs, New York, 2008

PL. 5

Mary Temple, June, 2010, from the Currency series, 2007–present

PL. 6

Mary Temple, 7.21.10, from the Currency series, 2007–present

P L . 7 ( F o ll o wing S P reads )

Serkan Özkaya, Drawn from Photography (drawn rendering of Claire Gilman’s catalogue essay), 2010–11

PL. 8

Emily Prince, American Servicemen and Women Who Have Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing. Installation at the Saatchi Gallery, London, 2010.

PL. 9

Emily Prince, From American Servicemen and Women Who Have Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing

P L . 10

Emily Prince, From American Servicemen and Women Who Have Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing

P L . 11

Emily Prince, From American Servicemen and Women Who Have Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing

P L . 12

D-L Alvarez, 0 0, 2003

P L . 13

D-L Alvarez, \\\, 2003

P L . 14

D-L Alvarez, Resound, 2005

P L . 15

D-L Alvarez, On a 2nd Reading We Recognized Ourselves, 2005

P L . 16

D-L Alvarez, Ghost Wish, 2006

P L . 17

Andrea Bowers, Nonviolent Civil Disobedience Drawing–Transvestite Smoking, 2004

P L . 18

Andrea Bowers, Nonviolent Civil Disobedience Drawing–Go Perfectly Limp and Be Carried Away, 2004

P L . 19

Andrea Bowers, Memorial to One of the Largest Urban Farms in America (South Central Community Garden, at 41st and Alameda Streets, Los Angeles, 1994–2006), 2008

PL. 20

Andrea Bowers, Non Violent Protest Training, Abalone Alliance Camp, Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant, and San Louis Obispo County Telegraph-Tribune, September 14, 1981, 2004

P L . 21

Sam Durant, CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) Civil Rights Demonstration, New York, 1963 (index), 2009

Drawing from a Translation Artist Lynne Tillman

1 In recent years I have been characterized as a translation artist, grouped with others who have similar concerns, tendencies, or affinities. I’m slippery categorically, the way words are, since they are my medium, my art; but I can accept, after a fashion, my association with the group (some call it a movement; I don’t), because I believe every object or person is a translation from something or someone else. I consider how history ranges and settles, seamlessly or roughly, in the present; how writing can be accurate even with the inherent obliquities of words, and how naming is usually re-naming. Basically, all my written transmissions are, in these senses, translations. Nothing is denied by me as an effect or influence. (Uninvited memories spring up; forgetfulness occupies its own omniscient realm.)

Things get lost, turn up, go missing again, but in an intimate way an object isn’t lost if it was never known to exist: Imagine, as I might, a day in the third century for a man in the Far East who might have been a relation. I see him in a loose brown robe, in a field, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat against the sun. (Is my consciousness anything like his?) Yet about the day and the man, I feel no sense of loss. But I lose my favorite jacket—maybe it was stolen. I only know it’s gone because I once had it and now want to wear it. I need it, search for it, nervously tossing clothes out of the closet. Head bursting, I retrace my steps, mentally or actually. If I hadn’t noticed or needed it, it wouldn’t be lost to me. (Someone else has found it.)

A lost tree in a lost forest. (Entire histories get lost.) This is similar to the diminution of a friend’s or lover’s affections, which lack is not immediately noticeable; but when love is needed, it’s not available.

“I can’t see you, haven’t you noticed, you lost me, I’m gone.”

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Disappointments and private disasters can provoke self-persecutions or re-enactments of scenes meant to ascertain the exact moment when a mistake occurred or a bad turn was taken. I avoid such endeavors; yet, as a translation artist, I am not of the “what’s done is done” variety. I am, rather, of the “done, undone, redone, done over, done more differently” breed. (I may be a neo-classicist.)

The days and nights of the 1960s or 1980s are images now—words and pictures—and schoolchildren may skip over the assassinations of JFK and Malcolm, or the Iran-Contra scandal, like cracks in a sidewalk. A translation artist might want to reclaim the cracks or ruptures those sinister events caused and acquaint viewers with their stealthy after-effects and after-images—enigmatic historical figures or periods as regenerations, not memories. (Steven Spielberg’s Jaws is the work of a translation artist: the killer shark is a remake of Moby Dick, a presentiment of American disease and fear, which is why Spielberg’s translation can be viewed again and again and still evoke horror.)

World or national tragedies differ in scale from intimate or personal loss, though they translate into it too. Also, the need to retrieve history’s artifacts and narratives veers off from the need to remember them. For recovery or retrieval from the past, another want, curiosity, or engagement is required. A translation artist draws on and from previous conditions and renditions—a painting, news photo, snapshot, text; the actual event existed primarily in representation.

The often painful act of recuperation is performed typically to produce jolts to the system, neurological, aesthetic, cultural, political. (I may intend to activate my translated object like a bomb or, less hyperbolically, software.) There’s a kind of skeptical idealism involved. On the one hand, the past can’t be recaptured or relived; on the other, as a translation artist, one doesn’t expect to capture the past but to interfere with settled notions about it, which is in some sense idealistic.

In 1985 the lost Titanic was found, the result of a secret CIA mission to find two missing nuclear submarines. The Titanic and its sunken

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treasure lay at the bottom of the deep blue sea. Pieces eerily intact were brought to the surface, but they have not been translated into the present. They only haunt it as specters of a tragedy in history, because the remnants of the Titanic have not been recuperated (I doubt they ever will be). The tragic-historical aura of the porcelain and crystal glass is shatterproof.

2 I accept change in forward, backward, and neutral gears. Art offers me a meta-place where idiosyncratic gestures and odd alignments get tested. Ideas about form, scale, discipline, practice (studio; no studio) are shattered regularly, and the resultant mess on the floor, or foundation, can be swept away or utilized in a piece. Let’s say that I, a writer who translates from realities and unrealities onto the page or into cyberspace, find it insufficient to evoke objects for memorialization only—no monuments to mark disasters or fallen heroes or innocent victims. No. (Physics insists that matter returns, that it doesn’t die. I might claim matter as a zombie.

Others wouldn’t.)

As a translation artist, I resist sentimentality and nostalgia. Looking back, for me, must be a cool operation; so I remain detached, whatever my first attachment was. I hold some occasions close, some people, dates, like John Lennon’s death, and who told me he’d been shot. (Those few with “superior autobiographical memory” remember every single day of their lives.) One can be overwhelmed with the ennui of time passing, the “where did it all go-ness.” But people can’t know where things have gone or how the past will be stacked in memory or what will return later when thinking or in revery, awake or asleep.

When I turned thirty, I thought, not atypically, I’m an adult, there’s no going back (though in some ways I have and do), assume your responsibilities; at forty, I thought, I’m a middle-aged man, “in the middle of my life”—a difficult realization, especially since maturing forces involuntary translations (caring for sick parents; uninvited deaths; hair loss) and is often incomplete. Time keeps slanting my

49

perceptions and shaping my interpretations. I wonder, as I write a story and draw portraits in it, or claim recollections of a dead day, what is beyond recognition. (Are there ideas and times that can’t be brought forward?) Artists for re-creation monitor present-day comprehension through new iterations. Things don’t mean the same thing forever. Most things disappear.

3 Some things don’t disappear. Kafka writes in my fictional life, where his hunger artist invests in translation art-making and vice versa.

And, if I write the words, “In recent years,” as I did, I hear the echo of his first sentence from A Hunger Artist. “In recent years....” The words recur in translation, since I don’t read German.

There’s a play by Eugene Ionesco called The Lesson. I saw it when I was a teenager. The play rotated my thinking 180 degrees, and eventually turned me toward translation art. In his play, a teenaged student wants to learn Spanish. The teacher tells her to say, “The pen is on the table,” in Spanish. She protests that she can’t, she doesn’t know Spanish. He says she can, she knows it. Just say it, he says. He insists. Haltingly, she speaks, in English: “The... pen... is... on... the... table.” There, he says, that’s right, that’s Spanish. It’s the same thing.

There’s the story, “Pierre Menard, the Author of Don Quixote,” in which Jorge Luis Borges tells the tale of Pierre Menard. To understand Cervantes’s great novel, Menard immersed himself in it and rewrote it in seventeenth-century Spanish. Since he wrote it again, but in the present context, Menard contends it is a better work than the original. Crudely, one might believe Menard is copying Cervantes, but Borges’ assertion, through Menard, is a radical concept, at the heart of postmodernism, upsetting dearly held beliefs and truths about creativity, originality, and authorship. For one thing, making and remaking can’t be separated, like writing, rewriting, revising can’t be; and also, which came first is not the right question.

(The original may be an atavism.) In any case, Cervantes never left Borges for long, and vice versa.

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4 Gertrude Stein drew inspiration from Cubism, especially from Picasso’s and Braque’s paintings; a kind of borrowing occurred, because through them she found delight and an object to translate into writing. The object wasn’t simple: a broken picture plane. How could she break syntax as they did a flat, painted surface. So, Stein unmoored words and created uneasy repetitions to write prose like a Cubist work. Also a painting could be apprehended in the present, which fanned Stein’s desire for reading and writing in the present tense. Whether her language experiments succeed or fail, they are never futile. Stein can never fail a translation artist.

I (and you) start somewhere, lean on or draw from art and life, draw meaning from others’ lives and work. Where a story takes off is invariably in media res and enmeshed in other stories. Inspiration may be a reprobate, but I have to get myself going, that’s all. I might ask you: Tell me a story. I listen. I hear where and how it begins. But It was hard for you to begin it. You said, Let’s see, let’s see, where should I begin? I say, Begin anywhere. I read Virginia Woolf’s diaries and swoon and fall into her great mind. Bartleby the Scrivener goes to work with me. I look at a map drawn of America that marks the towns and cities where soldiers who died in war once lived, people I had no idea about.

I can draw something from all of this, I think. It takes time. Drawing, writing, eat up time; it can be slow work, often it’s meticulous work.

(All things can be done fast, too.) I imagine artists drawing with their heads down, bent in concentration (a hoary image). I see a hand moving on paper, erasing a line, doing it again. It’s so human. Maybe it’s intimacy, the sense of a presence, and willfulness or agency that confront and content me. In the second decade of the twenty-first century, I want to assert, slowness is fine, though I like my fast Lenovo, wirelessness, tiny, light things that make big sounds and carry masses of information. (Still, objects, like people, can crowd me.)

At the beginning of the twentieth century, speed and machines were everything.

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Walter Benjamin wrote in his seminal essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”: For the first time in the process of pictorial reproduction, photography freed the hand of the most important artistic functions which henceforth devolved only upon the eye looking into a lens. Since the eye perceives more swiftly than the hand can draw, the process of pictorial reproduction was accelerated so enormously that it could keep pace with speech.

Benjamin, before Borges, assaulted the primacy of the original and proclaimed photography—its reproducibility essential—the century’s most salient art form, one that would in its course eliminate or supersede others. It would also rid art-making of the hand.

I like the shapes of hands, watching hands pick up a fork and noting which hand is used, or scratching a head, an arm, or caressing a cheek. On a cloudy day not long ago, I pondered the many negative associations to the hand—like manual labor: being a grimy worker, with filthy nails. Hands instantly show your station in life. (Probably why there are so many nail salons in New York City.) In art, the hand became a fetish—the artist’s hand, even its griminess was artful. But the hand raised craft over idea. And it wasn’t a machine of the future, it wasn’t modern, or modernist, it didn’t break with the past. It couldn’t. It was attached to the human body, and necessarily to human development and history.

The camera, Benjamin hoped, could make art democratic, because anyone’s hand could press a button. Also, everyone has eyes which operate anatomically in the same way. Yet the eye isn’t neutral, my eye is not like yours, yours not like your sister’s. Seeing is a craft too, since it can be taught. And, subjectivity prejudices how and what we see, so vision isn’t divorced from undemocratic causes.

Less abstractly, the hand that ties people to their animal bodies doesn’t allow for the distance technology offers as a demonstration of progress, which, in the twentieth century, was a matter of belief in Europe and America—society was absolutely moving forward, getting better.

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Now the fast thumb is a marvel, the twenty-first-century digit, speed in the hand.

5 There’s no way around beginnings, middles, and ends, which ghoulishly stroll the streets like zombies.

I’m visiting a cathedral in Santiago de Campostela, in northern Spain, which was consecrated in 1211, and breathing its musty, incense-scented air. The capacious stone cathedral draws thousands to it every year, Christian pilgrims following the same trails as ancient pilgrims and feeling tethered to those first travelers. They are inspired to walk the true path with them. The pilgrims end their walk at this ancient site where St. James once preached the gospel.

Arriving, entering the church, they experience transformation perhaps, or bliss. (I can’t know this.) They all stand in line at a column, and when they reach the front of the line, they bend forward and place a hand on the column, where St. James’s hand once was, and by now so many centuries of hands have touched the column, a hand print is grooved into it. Outside bagpipers play and welcome more pilgrims.

The Celts invaded Galicia about 450 BC and stayed until the Roman Conquest. Incongruously, the bagpipe took hold and is the region’s national instrument.

Cervantes must have heard bagpipe music when he visited the ancient town, if he did, and looked with curiosity at the pilgrims.

Maybe the author, who centuries later led Borges, like a pilgrim, to make authorship mysterious, noticed a pilgrim there, a picaresque creature leaning on a gnarled cane, who, having once caught Cervantes’s eye, one day returned in his imagination. The pilgrim was transformed into a character he named Don Quixote.

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PL. 22

Frank Selby, Laughter, 2008

PL. 23

Frank Selby, Bra, 2010

P L . 24

Frank Selby, Light Blue Riot, 2010

PL . 25

Frank Selby, Ceist, 2009

PL. 26

Frank Selby, Tullssa, 2009

PL. 27

Fernando Bryce, Lenin/Kropotkin, 2009

PL. 28

Paul Sietsema, Untitled ink drawing, 2009

PL. 29

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants, 2007/2008

PL. 30

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Aldo Moro), 2007/2008

P L . 31

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Engelbert Dolfuss), 2007/2008

PL. 32

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Louis Barthou and Alexander I of Yugoslavia), 2007/2008

PL. 33

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Anna Politkovskaya), 2007/2008

PL. 34

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Benito Mussolini), 2007/2008

PL. 35

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Malcolm X), 2007/2008

PL. 36

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Yitzhak Rabin), 2007/2008

PL. 37

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (Meena Keshwar Kamal), 2007/2008

PL. 38

Christian Tomaszewski, Hunting for Pheasants (J.F. Kennedy and R.F. Kennedy), 2007/2008

PL. 39

Richard Forster, Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

PL. 40

Richard Forster, From Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

P L . 41

Richard Forster, From Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

P L . 42

Richard Forster, From Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

PL. 43

Richard Forster, From Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

PL. 44

Richard Forster, From Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place, 2009

PL. 45

Ewan Gibbs, From the Empire State Building, 2003

PL. 46

Ewan Gibbs, From the Empire State Building, 2004

P L . 47

Ewan Gibbs, From the Empire State Building, 2003

PL. 48

Ewan Gibbs, From the Empire State Building, 2003

LIST OF WORKS

PL . 14

D-L Alvarez PL . 12

Resound, 2005

D-L Alvarez

Graphite on paper

0 0, 2003

20 1/2 x 35 1/4 inches

Graphite on paper

Courtesy of Derek Eller Gallery, New York

Diptych, each: 20 5/8 x 16 3/4 inches Museum of Modern Art, Fund for the Twenty-

D-L Alvarez

First Century, 2004

Rise, 2005 Graphite on paper

PL . 13

20 5/8 x 28 1/8 inches

D-L Alvarez

Collection of Donald B. Marron / Lightyear

\\\, 2003

Capital, New York

Graphite on paper 38 3/4 x 27 1/2 inches

PL . 19

Museum of Modern Art, Fund for the Twenty-

Andrea Bowers

First Century, 2004

Memorial to One of the Largest Urban Farms in America (South Central Community Garden, at

PL . 16

41st and Alameda Streets, Los Angeles, 1994–

D-L Alvarez

2006), 2008

Ghost Wish, 2006

Paint stick and colored pencil on paper

Graphite on paper

94 1/2 x 60 inches

24 1/8 x 26 inches

Whitney Museum of American Art, New York

Private Collection, Courtesy of Derek Eller

Purchase, with the funds from the Drawing

Gallery, New York

Committee and Harvey S. Shipley Miller Photo by Sheldan C. Collins

PL . 15

D-L Alvarez

PL . 20

On a 2nd Reading We Recognized Ourselves,

Andrea Bowers

2005

Non Violent Protest Training, Abalone Alliance

Graphite on paper

Camp, Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant, and

Diptych, each: 21 7/8 x 21 1/4 inches

San Louis Obispo County Telegraph-Tribune,

Collection of Donald B. Marron / Lightyear

September 14, 1981, 2004

Capital, New York

Graphite on paper Diptych, 38 x 49 3/4 inches (graphite) and 23 x 14 inches (newspaper) Whitney Museum of American Art, New York Gift of Steven Golding Perelman Photo by Hermann Feldhaus

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PL . 18

PLS . 39 –44 / COVER

Andrea Bowers

Richard Forster

Nonviolent Civil Disobedience Drawing–Go

Rehearsed Inability to Know This (Un)Place,

Perfectly Limp and Be Carried Away, 2004

2009

Graphite on paper

12 pencil on card drawings framed in oak; steel

Triptych, each: 20 1/4 x 15 1/4 inches

table with oak top; model in wood, gesso, and

Collection of Charlotte and Bill Ford

graphite

Photo by Joshua White

Drawings each: 11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches Private Collection

PL . 17

Andrea Bowers

PL . 45

Nonviolent Civil Disobedience Drawing–

Ewan Gibbs

Transvestite Smoking, 2004

From the Empire State Building, 2003

Colored pencil on paper

Pen on graph paper

42 1/4 x 28 1/4 inches

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Collection of Charlotte and Bill Ford

Collection of Steven Golding Perelman

Photo by Joshua White PL . 47 PL . 27

Ewan Gibbs

Fernando Bryce

From the Empire State Building, 2003

Lenin/Kropotkin, 2009

Graphite on graph paper

Ink on paper

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

16 1/2 x 11 3/4 inches

Collection of Mireille Mosler &

Collection of Lawrence B. Benenson

Zwi Wasserstein

Photo by Bill Orcutt, Courtesy of Alexander and Bonin, New York

PL . 48

Ewan Gibbs PL . 21

From the Empire State Building, 2003

Sam Durant

Graphite on graph paper

CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) Civil Rights

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Demonstration, New York, 1963 (index),

Collection of Glenn and Amanda Fuhrman,

2009

New York, Courtesy the FLAG Art Foundation

Graphite on paper

Image courtesy of Richard Gray Gallery

36 3/4 x 53 inches Hammer Museum, Los Angeles. Purchase

85

Ewan Gibbs

PL . 1

From the Empire State Building, 2004

Karl Haendel

Graphite on graph paper

Untitled (Birthday Drawing), 2000

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Graphite on paper

Collection of Glenn and Amanda Fuhrman,

53 x 43 inches

New York, Courtesy the FLAG Art Foundation

Lafaille Collection, Los Angeles Image courtesy of the artist and Harris

PL . 46

Lieberman Gallery, New York

Ewan Gibbs From the Empire State Building, 2004

PL . 7

Pen on graph paper

Serkan Özkaya

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Drawn from Photography (drawn rendering of

Collection of Lora Reynolds and Quincey Lee

Claire Gilman’s catalogue essay), 2010–11 Ink on vellum

PL . 2

12 pages, each: 11 x 8 1/2 inches

Ewan Gibbs

Courtesy of the artist

New York, 2005 Pen and graphite on graph paper

PLS . 9 –11

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Emily Prince

Collection of Glenn and Amanda Fuhrman,

American Servicemen and Women Who Have

New York, Courtesy the FLAG Art Foundation

Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including

Image courtesy of Richard Gray Gallery

the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing

PL . 3

Project comprised of 5,720 drawings through

Ewan Gibbs

December 31, 2010

New York, 2008

On view: 555 drawings executed in 2010

Pen and graphite on graph paper

Additional drawings to be added for 2011

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

Pencil on color-coded vellum

Courtesy of Paul Morris and Samuel Grubman,

Drawings each: 4 x 3 1/4 inches

New York

Courtesy of the artist and Kent Fine Arts

PL . 4

Emily Prince

Ewan Gibbs

Red Leather Journal, 3-21-03–11-22-04

New York, 2008

Photocopies and handwritten notes on graph

Pen and graphite on graph paper

paper pages

11 3/4 x 8 3/8 inches

8 3/16 x 7 x 2 1/2 inches

Collection of Jennifer and John Eagle

Courtesy of the artist and Kent Fine Arts

Image courtesy of Richard Gray Gallery

86

Emily Prince

PL . 24

Blue Leather Journal, 11-22-04–12-12-05

Frank Selby

Photocopies and handwritten notes on graph

Light Blue Riot, 2010

paper pages

Watercolor on Mylar

8 3/16 x 7 x 2 1/2 inches

18 x 24 inches

Courtesy of the artist and Kent Fine Arts

Collection of Martin M. Hale Jr. Image courtesy of the artist and Museum 52,

Emily Prince

New York

Forest Green Leather Journal, 5-16-06–8-4-07 Photocopies and handwritten notes on graph

PL . 26

paper pages

Frank Selby

8 3/16 x 7 x 2 1/2 inches

Tullssa, 2009

Courtesy of the artist and Kent Fine Arts

Film marker on Mylar 10 x 15 inches

PL . 23

Courtesy of Sender Collection, New York

Frank Selby

Image courtesy of the artist and Museum 52,

Bra, 2010

New York

Graphite on Mylar 10 x 6 3/4 inches

PL . 28

Collection of Beth Rudin DeWoody

Paul Sietsema Untitled ink drawing, 2009

PL . 25

Ink on paper

Frank Selby

28 7/8 x 21 3/8 inches

Ceist, 2009

Private Collection, New York, Courtesy of

Colored pencil on Mylar

Matthew Marks Gallery

19 x 15 inches

© Paul Sietsema

Courtesy of the artist and Artist Pension Trust,

Photo by Ron Amstutz

New York Image courtesy of the artist and Museum 52,

Mary Temple

New York

January 1–March 31, 2011, from the Currenecy series, 2007–present

PL . 22

Archival digital ink-jet print of hand-drawn

Frank Selby

portrait on Hahnemühle paper

Laughter, 2008

31 pages representing the month of January

Graphite on Mylar

2011 and 7 pages that will change throughout

32 x 28 inches

the duration of the show

Collection of Ronit and Marc Arginteanu

Pages each: 16 1/2 x 13 inches

Image courtesy of the artist and Museum 52,

Courtesy of the artist

New York

87

PLS . 29 –38

PL . 6

Christian Tomaszewski

Mary Temple

Hunting for Pheasants, 2007/2008

7.21.10, from the Currency series, 2007–present

13 pencil/ink-jet prints, 1 ink-jet print, maze,

Archival digital ink-jet print of hand-drawn

color stripes

portrait on Hahnemühle paper

Prints each: 28 x 21 inches; overall dimensions

16 1/2 x 13 inches

variable

Courtesy of the artist

Courtesy of the artist, Michael Wiesehoefer Gallery, Cologne, and Le Guern Gallery, Warsaw ALSO PICTURED

PL . 8

Emily Prince American Servicemen and Women Who Have Died in Iraq and Afghanistan (but not Including the Wounded, nor the Iraqis nor the Afghans), 2004–present, ongoing Installation at the Saatchi Gallery, London, 2010, consisting of 5,213 drawings, the number completed at the time the work was exhibited in the Project Room Pencil on color-coded vellum Drawings each: 4 x 3 1/4 inches Courtesy of the artist and Kent Fine Arts Image courtesy of the Saatchi Gallery, London PL . 5

Mary Temple June, 2010, from the Currency series, 2007–present Archival digital ink-jet print of hand-drawn portrait on Hahnemühle paper 30 pages, each: 16 1/2 x 13 inches Courtesy of the artist

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CONTRIBUTORS

Claire Gilman is Curator at The Drawing Center.

Lynne Tillman is a novelist, story writer, and critic. Her latest novel, American Genius, A Comedy, was published by Soft Skull Press. Her other novels include Haunted Houes and No Lease on Life, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in fiction. Her story collection, This Is Not It, included stories related to twenty-two contemporary artists’ work. Her nonfiction work includes The Velvet Years: Warhol’s Factory 1965–67, based on photographs by Stephen Shore. In April, a new collection of stories, Someday This Will Be Funny, will appear from Richard Nash’s Red Lemonade Press. Tillman was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2006. She is the fiction editor of Fence magazine, and is on the boards of Housing Works, PEN America, Triple Canopy, and The International Advisory Committee for the Wexner Prize.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Co-Chairs

The exhibition Drawn from Photography and its

Frances Beatty Adler

accompanying publication are made possible in

Jane Dresner Sadaka

part by an anonymous donor, Ambassador and

Eric Rudin

Mrs. Felix Rohatyn, The Arginteanu Family, Donald B. Marron, and Beth Rudin DeWoody.

Dita Amory Melva Bucksbaum* Anita F. Contini Frances Dittmer* Bruce W. Ferguson Stacey Goergen Steven Holl David Lang Michael Lynne* Iris Z. Marden George Negroponte Gabriel PĂŠrez-Barreiro Elizabeth Rohatyn* Allen Lee Sessoms Kenneth E. Silver Pat Steir Jeanne C. Thayer* Barbara Toll Isabel Stainow Wilcox Candace Worth Executive Director Brett Littman *Emeriti

E D WA R D H A L L A M T U C K P U B L I C AT I O N P R O G R A M

This is number 96 of the Drawing Papers, a series of publications documenting The Drawing Center’s exhibitions and public programs and providing a forum for the study of drawing.

Jonathan T.D. Neil Executive Editor Joanna Ahlberg Managing Editor Designed by Peter J. Ahlberg / AHL&CO This book is set in Adobe Garamond Pro and Berthold Akzidenz Grotesk.

It was printed by BookMobile in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

L I B R A R Y O F C O N G R E S S C O N T R O L N U M B E R : 2 0119 2 0 9 21 I S B N 9 7 8 - 0 - 9 4 2 3 24 - 6 5 - 5 Š 2 011 T he D rawing C enter

T H E D R AW I N G PA P E R S S E R I E S A L S O I N C L U D E S

Drawing Papers 95 Day Job Drawing Papers 94 Paul Rudolph: Lower Manhattan Expressway Drawing Papers 93 Claudia Wieser: Poems of the Right Angle Drawing Papers 92 Gerhard Richter: “Lines which do not exist�

Drawing Papers 91 Dorothea Tanning: Early Designs for the Stage Drawing Papers 90 Leon Golub: Live & Die Like a Lion?

Drawing Papers 89 Selections Spring 2010: Sea Marks Drawing Papers 88 Iannis Xenakis: Composer, Architect, Visionary Drawing Papers 87 Ree Morton: At the Still Point of the Turning World Drawing Papers 86 Unica Zurn: Dark Spring Drawing Papers 85 Sun Xun: Shock of Time Drawing Papers 84 Selections Spring 2009: Apparently Invisible Drawing Papers 83 M/M: Just Like an Ant Walking on the Edge of the Visible Drawing Papers 82 Matt Mullican: A Drawing Translates the Way of Thinking Drawing Papers 81 Greta Magnusson Grossman: Furniture and Lighting Drawing Papers 80 Kathleen Henderson: What if I Could Draw a Bird that Could Change the World?

Drawing Papers 79 Rirkrit Tiravanija: Demonstration Drawings

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