Nothing Is Off the Table by Jesen Tanadi

Nothing Is Off the Table

Jesen Tanadi Cranbrook Academy of Art 2D Design

This Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Statement is respectfully submitted to Cranbrook Academy of Art as partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts Elliott Earls Department Head, 2D Design Designer-in-Residence

Jesen Tanadi May 8, 2015

I have been first & foremost a practitioner who advocates aesthetic quality... [My] pursuit has produced a body of rather diverse (yet homogenous) workâ&#x20AC;Ś marked by excursions into various disciplines and often motivated by design theories and cultural issues. Throughout this time, in whatever area of specialty, I have willfully maintained the perspective of an outsider. My goal in working in the â&#x20AC;&#x153;marginsâ&#x20AC;? has been to find a fresher view into the center of things. From this position, I have questioned the values we now use to distinguish between art and design, the public and private, the domestic and the institutional, in an effort to visualize a modernism based on a radical reconception and an optimistic new agenda. (Dan Friedman, Preface to Radical Modernism)

Preface 9

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Preface

Incipient Emancipation: Work, Action, Labor

Title by Thomas Gardner (CAA Architecture â&#x20AC;&#x2122;06)

Is it pretty interdisciplinary here? From what I’ve seen, work seems to move fluidly across departments. At the time, I impulsively replied, I think it depends on who you socialize with. Reflecting on my answer at a later date, I was surprised at what I had said—I don’t think I could’ve replied more accurately or more honestly. I believe that work here is made through our connections with others, and the ways in which we let ourselves be influenced by those around us. Call it zeitgeist, or simply a proclivity to move with the tides of change, but at a place like Cranbrook, growth and transformation are inevitable. In my own experience, I found myself learning new processes that I had never even dreamt of, which in turn dramatically changed the way I worked and the kinds of work that I produced. For instance, somewhere along my practice, and most likely through the influences of Heather McGill & Elliott, I became interested in automotive painting. I was enamored by its seductive shine, fetishized surface, vivid colors, and loved the challenge of its highly technical process. I attributed this awe to my new American Dream.

The culmination of my explorations at Cranbrook can be summed up with Untitled (Bricks & Ladders): an installation of graphic objects and the beginning of a new body of work (pp. 106–17). Throughout my time here, I’ve always found myself making work (or, at least attempting to) that is both highly aestheticized and visually seductive, often with a tinge of humor or playfulness. Regardless of the media I’ve engaged with, I’ve always relied on detail and craft as a way to forefront labor. Ever since I took a college seminar taught by a Cranbrook alumnus titled Incipient Emancipation: Work, Action, Labor, the idea of attending Cranbrook was intriguing, but I had always thought that coming here would be a risky move. While a part of me was excited about what a Cranbrook education could mean, the other part of me was looking for a strict(er) graphic design education. Prior to accepting his offer, I had asked Elliott if there was any space in 2D for traditional design, to which he replied, “nothing is off the table.” At Cranbrook, my expectations began to change. I was surprised to see the work that my peers were making—even pieces that could easily be categorized as poster design didn’t look like the kind of work I had been exposed to before. I guess when Elliott said that “nothing is off the table,” it literally [“figuratively”] meant that nothing is off the table. I felt weird wanting to only work on traditional graphic design as I watched my colleagues traverse into the experimental, or make work that more closely resembled contemporary art. Recently, a visitor asked,

Over my two years at Cranbrook, the concern of whether my work fits under the umbrella of graphic design ebbed and flowed. However, this apprehension has subsided lately, and perhaps I have this reminder to thank: It doesn’t matter what you do. If you flip burgers, you flip burgers like a motherfucker. (Elliott Earls)

Ultimately, I’ve learnt that—as Elliott once proposed—a flagrant display of my personality as a maker is important and valued. I’ve also discovered that spreading out, rather than focusing in, can contribute to a healthy practice—that one work can not only inform, but be generative of another. Even if it seems like I’ve been meandering forthe past couple of years, I leave here believing that my multipronged explorations was a great strategy. These realizations have helped advance the developmental trajectory of my practice, and I, much like the venerable Kanye West, share this sentiment:

It’s only led me to complete awesomeness at all times. It’s only led me to awesome truth and awesomeness. Beauty, truth, awesomeness. That’s all it is.

Critical writing completed between 2013â&#x20AC;&#x201C;2015

â&#x20AC;Ś by Jesen

Arranged in reverse chronological order

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Selected work completed between 2013â&#x20AC;&#x201C;2015

Jesen Ă&#x2014; Jesen

Arranged in reverse chronological order

Untitled (Bricks & Ladders) Installation Poplar–oak–walnut– automotive paint– silicone–urethane foam–urethane plastic–acrylic– clothesline 2015

Part of the Cranbrook Academy of Art Graduate Degree Exhibition 2015 Images by Paul-David Rearick

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Nothing Is Off the Table Installation Poplar–oak–walnut– automotive paint– silicone–urethane foam–urethane plastic–acrylic– clothesline–mirrors– bathroom 2015

Images by Ian Carolan

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Hejduk Is Its Caesar Installation (prints 20" × 26") Poplar–oak– automotive paint– chalk–clothesline– clothepins– screenprints on paper 2015

Images by Ian Carolan

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Kretek Installation (object 40.75" × 20.375" × 9.72") MDF–red oak– automotive paint– carnation petals– cloves–fabric– wall vinyl 2014

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D (for Ed) Variable dimensions Digital media 2014

Letters (in order) by Shiraz Gallab–Jesen Tanadi– Benjamin Santiago–Kimmie Parker– Ian Carolan–Jean Egger–Christina Cioffari Poster by Shiraz Gallab

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143 History, Commercial Art, Art, and the American Vernacular â&#x20AC;&#x201C; A Lecture by Ed Fella Sunday, November 9, 2014 at 4 pm in deSalle Auditorium Sponsored by the Cranbrook 2D Design Department. Free and open to the public with parking available in the Cranbrook Museum and Institute of Science parking lots. Letterforms designed by Shiraz Gallab, Jesen Tanadi, Benjamin Santiago, Kimmie Parker, Jean Egger, Ian Carolan and Christina Cioffari.

Meng(g)ubah Rumah 18" × 108" Digital print on paper–MDF– enamel paint 2014

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Come Here Installation (print 22" × 30") Screenprint on paper–spray paint– wall vinyl–digital print–acrylic– epoxy–string–rope– plumbob– grommet–spring 2014

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Vertigo Triptych, 24" × 34" Digital print on paper 2014

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Quite Strong Lecture Posters Quadriptych, 18" × 24" Screenprint on paper 2014

Designed & printed with Anton Jeludkov (2D ’14)

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Manifest Destiny Triptych, 24" × 34" Digital print on varnished paper 2013

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MacFadden Thorpe Lecture Poster 36" × 48" Screenprint on paper–thread 2013

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A Reminder Installation (print 27.5" × 36.5") Digital print on paper–screenprint on paper–wall vinyl– acrylic on paper– thread 2013

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Untitled (Charrette) 30" × 40" Screenprint– digital print 2013

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Reviews of work written between 2013â&#x20AC;&#x201C;2015

Jesen by â&#x20AC;Ś

Arranged in reverse chronological order

Kelsey Dusenka April 2, 2015

I’ve never felt so comfortable giggling inside of a bathroom. Nor have I ever felt so comfortable spending an extended period of time in one—especially one as crumbly as this. Jesen Tanadi’s final critique piece is an enGROSSing, tipsy-turvy, fantastical intervention into arguably the least attractive space within the 2D Department. This once functional utilitarian room has been reconfigured and plumped up with a jumble of objects, creating their own realm that I cannot but help but call absurd. There are a slew of dualities present within the space: functional and functionless, illusionary and apparent, authentic and questionable; which all ultimately boil down to an extra-sweet, sticky syrup of beige logicality and colorful absurdity. Though this duality-syrup is slathered all over the bathroom, it’s high-fructose base is devoid of any nutrition, forcing the viewer to come vitamin-in-hand so the room can be ingested with a balance of both the initial sugar-high-optics and the viewer’s own hunger-sustaining, nutrient-rich meaning. Without being able to shake ‘absurd’ out of my brain, I turn to MiriamWebster. Absurd is defined as utterly or obviously senseless, illogical, or untrue; contrary to all reason or common sense; laughably foolish or false.

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This definition contends with the most common reaction I witnessed to encounters with the bathroom, “What the fuck is going on in this room?” The curation of the installation allows for easy entrance, but just as easily allows for a sense of entrapment once inside. I feel as though I’m viewing the aftermath of the Mad Hatter’s bathroom renovation. The sink mirror now in the corner on the floor, a half-solid-half-droopy ladder lie slouched against the toilet paper dispenser, the plunger perkily erect in the toilet, a ring of 33 pillowy foam blue bricks in the middle of the floor, and so on. Though the space was not sterilized (dust or otherwise) before installation, every move reads highly intentional and trustworthy. The cues within the space that render key functions of the bathroom useless (especially the plunger and droopy ladder) call to mind Jacques Careleman’s Catalogue of Impossible Objects from 1969. Careleman’s Impossible Objects were created through merging the logical with the absurd. These objects served as a parody of a sale-by-mail catalogue, deforming reality through subtleness and humor (Jacques Carelman). Whereas Careleman’s objects were succinct oneliners, Tanadi’s installation also packs a one-hit-wonder-punch, but his continues onward and ventures into the experiential. Though he employs subtly (as arguably the most powerful component of the piece, to be discussed further on), Tanadi’s reference to Careleman’s notion is with high-flash, and replaces parody with bewilderment. The bathroom lacks the Impossible Objects’ tension of just-lost functionality (e.g. Coffeepot for Masochists’ simple

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spout repositioning renders both the handle and spout useless), and yet the room regains ground through the sustained impact of its experience. Up to this point, I have been using the term absurd in the context of logically impossible, but am now going to switch contexts and refer to the philosophical understanding of absurdism as humanly impossible. In philosophy, the Absurd refers to the conflict between the human tendency to seek inherent value and meaning in life, and the human inability to find any. The human mind and the universe do not each separately cause the Absurd, but rather, the Absurd arises by the contradictory nature of the two existing simultaneously (“Absurdity and the Meaning of Life,” MoQ)—both of which exist within Tanadi’s piece via his objects and the pre-existing bathroom, respectively. Absurdism further states that the efforts of humanity to find inherent meaning will ultimately fail (and hence are absurd) due to the sheer amount of information available as well as the vast realm of the unknown, making total certainty impossible. Albert Camus, french author and philosopher, considers absurdity to be a confrontation, opposition, conflict, or “divorce” between two ideals. Specifically, the two ideals he sees in confrontation in the human condition are: man’s desire for significance, meaning, and clarity; and the silent and cold universe. I see these oppositions arising in Tanadi’s objects (manifestations of his desire for significance) and the pre-existing bathroom (the unresponsive universe). Camus claims that there are specific human experiences that evoke notions of absurdity, and these encounters leave the individual with a choice—suicide, a leap of faith, or recognition. Camus concludes recognition is the only clear option fulfilled by embracing one’s own absurd condition (“Camus,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy), which is what I posit Tanadi to be doing in this work. I feel as though it would be easy to inject every object of the installation with loaded symbolism—again, due to their overwhelmingly high sense of intentionality—but this feels too heavy-handed when the installation is experienced wholly. Instead, I believe Tanadi to be following in Camus’ footsteps, by acknowledging the absurdity of seeking inherent meaning, but continuing his search regardless, and gradually developing meaning from the search alone. While I do not feel its relevant as to in which experience Tanadi encountered absurdity, what is relevant is his recognition of it through this work. This room represents his acknowledgement of absurdity in meaning-seeking, while the critique process serves as his vessel for the search to continue onward, leaving us as conduits for his meaning-making. Further, this blueprint for navigating the critique process can be extrapolated and viewed as critiquing the framework of Cranbrook’s specific critique structure as a whole. Tanadi appears to be using the platform of his final critique to express his exit-survey-worthy opinions on critique itself.

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Though, I wade cautiously into these waters as deep down in my gut I do not believe this to be his intent. There is no tinge of cynicism to the installation, despite being in this particular bathroom; none of these objects are analogous with a pile of shit placed in the corner of the crit room. This is where the blue pigment revealed under the crackling paint redirects my understanding of Tanadi’s intent to be akin to Batman’s The Riddler. Though not fore-fronted upon first glance, the mysterious appearance of the near-IKB hue behind most of the deteriorating paint spots reads as engrained into the pre-existing space. This forces me to question every other seemingly authentic part of the room—the green drywall anchors above the sink, the note, the sponge, the screws and dust inside the cabinets. The blue reveal reinforces every aspect of the installation, while now framing Tanadi as trickster as I willingly oblige and search for more Easter eggs. Admittedly, to this point, I have not placed the piece under the critical spotlight of crisis. Which, to be honest, is because I genuinely believe that Tanadi’s final critique piece is near impossible to find within this light. Once inside the installation, I lose any care to decipher or understand the objects or meaning, and blissfully engulf myself in the space. But therein lies my one issue—once I’m within the piece. It is just as easy to enter the work as it is to passively view it from the exterior, which is where the work has the potential to fall flat; exploration of the installation is necessary for a sustained interaction beyond quick formal appreciation. I am neither engaged nor intrigued by the doorway to further me into the space. This is somewhat salvaged by the space having a pre-existing function, reassuring me it’s okay to navigate through it, as opposed to if it were to exist within the white cube. But because the piece is set within the back half of the bathroom, I can just as easily cross the threshold and still remain separate from the actual installation. I can sense the space encroaching, hinting at a captivating claustrophobia, but am left with figurative and literal breathing room to easily escape to. But as I sit in and amongst these objects, I cannot help but reflect on the trajectory of Tanadi’s work, and am truly excited to see where his thesis and post-Cranbrook work propels him. I believe Jesen’s recent work can be best explained by Tom Cruise’s infamous “Crazy Couch Jump” on Oprah in 2005. Not because I believe Jesen to be delusional, or performing a publicity stunt, or halfway to declaring himself a Scientologist, but this comparison falls more in line with Cruise’s earnest explanation of his couch-jumping performance, “I just wanted to make the audience happy.” Boy-like giggles and squeals are distilled in jelly ladder rungs and squishy bricks, and proto-Tebow kneels of glee manifest in fetish finishes and quality craft, which are then capped off with a final full couchjump of assemblage and completion. So to end, I’ll leave you with

Oprah’s response to Cruise in an effort to process what was happening before her, in a sentiment of pure admiration, “you’re gone, you’re really gone.”

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— http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/absurd http://impossibleobjects.com/jacques-carelman http://www.moq.org/forum/Kundert/AbsurdityandtheMeaningofLife.html#_edn4 http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/camus/

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Jean Egger February 26, 2015

This is the Utopia for you if your dream is to tone your legs, to be guided excitedly by confused signifiers, to be concretely surreal, quirky yet grounded, and if you still want to eat a Big Mac every now and then. Jesen Tanadi’s new work is bright, people walk by and say, “Wow–love it!” as if formalist theorist Clive Bell himself had a chat with them about the transportative nature of aesthetic exaltation right before they rounded the corner and peered inside (Art, Clive Bell). Tanadi’s form and color induces onomatopoeias; a Pow of Day-Glo orange, stars appear with shimmering Blings, Schzoops of tubes, intersecting with beveled Chingy Cha-Chings! Alongside conical Wooshes, and the flapping of the Squiggle–Fart flag. The skilled screen prints hang stiff from a yellow corded line, with the air still abuzz with a slight fresh paint high. On the ground, a color blended baluster and a grey–but shiny mini ladder juts out from notquite-Yves-Klein-blue paint pigment, while the other suspended ladder protrudes or obtrudes holding the line and agglutinating the 2D work into the 3D “real” space. I emphasize real because the screen prints are shown from an isometric perspective, defined as:

(“Isometric Perspective,” Wikipedia)

In two dimensions they initially appear feasible, but when brought into three, become impossible objects. The Reutersvård triangle and Penrose staircase were the first discovered. This tactic is also utilized by M.C. Escher and more contemporarily seen in video games graphics like the stark Echochrome, where gameplay involves a mannequin figure traversing a rotatable world where physics and reality depend on the perspective (“Echochrome,” Wikipedia). As well as in the newer, dreamier Monument Valley, where the player leads princess Ida through mazes of optical illusions and impossible objects on her quest for forgiveness. The game was designed to be completed by most players, a style uncommon for games designed for popular audiences. It was intended to be a “premium experience” rather than a difficult challenge (http://www.monumentvalleygame.com). Off the screen, squeegeed through another screen yet similar to Monument Valley, I see Tanadi’s work as experiential but left to the individual. The installation is taken in from a first person perspective and with a non-linear or perhaps non-existent narrative. Eyes bounce around the space at different paces and directions traversing his fantastical and impossibly akimbo two and three dimensional work. This is more sustainable than expected, due to the Japanese term Ma,

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A method for visually representing three dimensional objects in two dimensions in technical and engineering drawings… An axonometric projection in which the three coordinate axes appear equally foreshortened and the angles between any two of them are 120 degrees.

roughly translated or thoughtful amount of whitespace, pausing, or punctuating. Ma is not created by compositional elements, but rather the thing that takes place in the imagination of the human who experiences these elements (“Ma,” Wikipedia). Within this work it’s easy to see Tanadi’s architectural past, in both the pacing of the 3D space and the renderings depicting platforms, stairs, and buildings. Ettore Sottsass integral to the Memphis movement, was disillusioned by the hyper-consumerism of the 1970s and drew 14 symbolic cities and buildings depicting his Utopian land: Where all of humanity would be free from work and social conditioning. In his futuristic vision goods are free, abundantly produced and distributed throughout the globe freed from banks, supermarkets, and subways, individuals can “come to know by means of their bodies, their psyche, and their sex, that they are living.” Once consciousness had been reawakened, technology would be used to heighten self-awareness, and life would be in harmony with nature.

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(Speculative Everything, Dunne and Raby)

Tanadi’s work is sharper, more structured and much more colorful than Sottsass’, but I believe he’s asking for the same engagement, so I decide to take Carl Jung’s advice for active imagining: You yourself must enter into the process with your personal reactions… as if the drama being enacted before your eyes were real. (“Carl Jung,” jung.org)

I jump in now focusing on content; starting with the accessible cheery house with the orange roof. The form of the roof is recognizable as some kind of Deconstructivist swooping swish, but upon further investigation also resembles a traditional Indonesian Toba Batak roof: The large steeply-pitched saddle back roof dominates the structure. The roofs are traditionally thatched, and with no internal roof trusses they provide a large internal space. Sharply projected triangular eaves and gables overlap all around the substructure. (“Toba Batak Architecture,” Wikipedia)

I only readily recognized the Deconstructivist or westernized version. Before further analysis into the nuances of the architectural forms, I get hung up on the McDonald, and Apple logos. These logos have penetrated far beyond globalization and have found their way into Tanadi’s fictitious neon scape. I’m left quizzical, wondering if Jesen’s inclusion of corporations is entirely an ironic choice, or if he along with 2 Chainz, can honestly

shut off from human interests; our anticipations and memories are arrested… lifted above the stream of life and despite my newfound Modernist slant will happily await the next version if only to be swept away for a second.

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say: “When I die, bury me inside the Gucci store” or something just as devoted about Apple or Micky D’s. If not, I find the product placement in his screenprinted Utopia a gimmick, contradicting a formalist theorization and comprising the fantasy of the thin layer of color. The peacocking and formally loaded neon that once garnered “ohhs” and “ahhs” continues to vibrate, now with dissonance. Is this aesthetic experience sponsored by corporations? I stop ignoring the broken butter board foam in the corner. It’s crumpled form with a noticeable shoe print was off-putting a day ago. Yet now, it’s one of the few places where I can rest my ringing color weary eyes. Jesen has used color in six different ways: at its essence with the pigment, its integration into the foam, its stain on the corded line, a thick sprayed adherence on the ladders and baluster, a thin application on the screen prints and its absence on the large sliced Newel post and clothespins. The most honest elements were the ones initially ignored for flash. As I look at Tanadi’s work and write this, I feel myself turning more and more into a Modernist and I’m not convinced that was his intention. The content is tepid, not completely absent and not fully committed. I leave thinking, “oh, well that’s nice,” but secretly wonder what I missed. The form is calculated, beautiful and well crafted, but my eyes are tired and I’m weary of the bright colors. However, I remember that when I was younger (a day and half ago) and with fresh eyes, this work was extremely appealing, and created a moment as Bell put it:

Kelsey Elder December 4, 2014

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Commanding my full attention, a CNC’d 3D object color-shifts through cool-toned chromas as clove tickles my nose. A futuristic, geometric typeface physically splits typography onto two walls, and the content implies to the viewer that not everything is as it seems. Jesen Tanadi’s latest piece presents itself as a shrine to the fetishized finished object, but the introduction of vinyl-cut language on the wall presents an opportunity for the work to step further than just a candy-coated visual delicacy. The piece warps time by combining ritual and symbolism, with technologically advanced and modern methods of production. Tanadi’s curated space creates the opportunity for a multiplicity of sensory experiences, but ultimately the type treatment creates a lack of formal cohesion within the work, and the language introduces a narratively driven one-to-one relationship between the vinyl language and 3D form. The lace-painting technique on the altarpiece immediately reminds me of a futuristic doily, while simultaneously triggering childhood memories of my grandmothers arthritic hands dancing as she knit. Carnation petals litter the base of the chameleon-painted object— hitting me over the head, like I might otherwise overlook the already shrine-like nature of the installation. These flowers are widely used cross-culturally, but are western-ly linked to Christianity crucifixion myths (“Dianthus Caryophyillus,” Wikipedia). It’s told they first appeared in May as Mary wept for Jesus when he carried the cross to his crucifixion. The deliberate use of white and red carnations in the piece symbolizes admiration, love, affection, and luck, and the lusciously ordained centerpiece is reminiscent of a cross. The painted object physically oozes its ostentatiousness, reminiscent of a giant candle that has been lit for centuries. On first take, this sculptural aspect of the piece feels obvious: shrine, Christianity, gloss, lace, automotive paint, flake. Is this about the fetish finish, or are there other forces at work here in Tanadi’s mystical clovecave? The use of these specific materials and techniques—in the context of strong religious symbolism—immediately leads me to car culture, and away from possible connotations of Belgian craftwork, mysticism, or the cultural leftovers of Christianity globally. I am specifically reminded of the formal characteristics pioneered and used by the Lowrider community in the early 1950’s. The Lowrider community originated in southern California. Following World War II, many hispanics returned home with newly acquired mechanical skills, and used the excess of materials following the war to transform their cars. The intent of this new movement in car modification was to get the vehicle as low to the ground as possible, and it began by simply piling sandbags in trunks. When the government created ordinances to stop this new “low car culture,” the movement spurred technological innovation by developing hydraulic air-ride suspensions for automotive use. This air-ride advancement is still commonly used today in all corners of car

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culture—even commercially in semi trucks. Lowriding began as a reaction to Anglo-culture by redesigning (American) cars to go against their intended purposes. Lace, flake, gloss, metallic, matte, gold leaf—the community used(s) various materials and application styles as a means to create cultural and political statements. The lace-painting technique originated as a way to achieve a costly-look with a small budget. Car builds from this moment forward were treated differently, painted differently, built differently. Low riding instrumentally sparked more than just its own genre. Tanadi’s piece benefits from appropriating the connotations of this cheap ornamentation technique to express an oppositional stance to an oppressive Anglo-culture. However, I feel that the lace-technique within the work fails to create a new argument or stance. Tanadi’s work overlooks the fact that this painting method was adopted by white-anglo-Hot-Rodders in the early 70’s, and is no longer viewed as culturally reactive or expressive. If this piece was in fact a shrine to the fetish finish then one would assume the level of craft would reflect this. The work in front of me— while technically skilled and machined—is throwing a middle finger up to the ideals of finish and craft. It’s trying to be “bad,” but I’m not convinced. The smooth, curved lines are obstructed by suspended paint drips that aren’t really paint drips. Nothing is as it seems. This leads me to investigate the language that is being simultaneously viewed peripherally throughout my interaction with the altar. Tanadi’s short poem is literally being split into two, repeatedly, as the sculptural object leads the viewers eye from it to the corner of two walls. This space-splitting action then continues through the placement and enjambment of the words between the two walls. Similarly to the object, the type is treated and applied in a mass-production, highly refined fashion. Tanadi’s typeface design is reminiscent of Pentagram’s rebranding for the MIT Media Lab (“New Work: MIT Media Lab,” Pentagram). Pentagram’s Michael Bierut used two distinctly different era’s in MIT’s graphic design history to create a multiplicity of time, place, and history throughout the new branding system. Beirut’s design benefits from a duality between modernity and nostalgia, but Tanadi’s typeface brawls with the formally ritualistic alter-piece sculpture. This leaves me feeling lost as to time and place in which to contextualize the work. Without further torque or hierarchy to cognitively leap forward from, the viewer of Tanadi’s piece is left in a strange limbo of neutral conversation: antiquation versus technology, digital versus analog, man-made versus mass-produced, artificial color versus natural color. This may sound negative; I find the typeface extremely appealing, and I like that it could be from 1960 or 2014. But it formally feels disjointed, and it fights for my attention when paired with such a commanding and colorful foreground structure.

Research was needed to decode of the poem, and it uncovered a narrative quality between the vinyl typography and the shrined object. The use of “Rhizo[so]matic” signifies the work and theories of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari. The French philosophers/theorists analyzed the relationships between desire, reality, and capitalism. Capitalism and Schizophrenia was a two-volume publication of the pair’s theoretical work: Anti-Oedipus and A Thousand Plateaus (“Rhizomatic,” Wikipedia). In Anti-Oedipus, Deleuze and Guattari use “Rhizomatic” as a term to describe theory and research that allows for multiple, nonhierarchical entry and exit points in data representation and interpretation. The book also introduces the duo’s theory of Desiring-Production. This theory apposes a traditionally Freudian view of the unconscious being representational of a “theater.” Instead it proposes the unconscious, and the mechanistic nature of desire, is not an imaginary force but rather a real, productive “factory.” They go on to describe this theory being linked to a “pleasurable force” of appropriation of what is outside oneself, into oneself. This incorporation of what is other than oneself into oneself is described by Deleuze and Guattari “as an essential process of all life.” The Frenchmen further contextual this anti-Freud model of desire with their idea of desire as a “Body Without Organ:”

(Capitalism and Schizophrenia: Anti-Oedipus, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari)

With a quick dive into retro French theory, Tanadi’s piece is given new life and I am able to step out of the mental black hole of the sculpture being solely a shrine to the shiney. The lace-painting technique now signifies colonialism, appropriation, while the fuckyou-finish implies the nauseating candy-coated reality of it. This is a rewarding turn in how I view the sculptural altar within the installation. However, these newly discovered theories become problematic in context of the work, as they create a direct narrative relationship between the object displayed, and my understanding of the language and theory used: what difference/whether green blue = object is green, blue here or a cave = dim lighting in the space creates a cavernous vibe Rhizo[so]matic condition = Body Without Organs = reason for CNC’d object’s odd shape

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Since desire can take on as many forms as there are persons to implement, it must seek new channels and different combinations to realize itself.

one cotillion dream = Desiring-Production in two dimensions = type on wall is 2D, object is 3D afloat or displaced/ in a different land = colonialism sound of cloves = carnations

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wangi (Google Translate)= Malaysian for fragrant (also used in Indonesia) = clove scent Tanadi’s work—individually viewed in light of these theories—sustains an incredibly strong experience of cultural exploitation and appropriation. However, it feels as though the type and object are saying the same thing (albeit in different formal voices), and I’m left wondering if both are needed. There is no BOOM-bap reciprocal nature in the work sustain more conversation than, y is being used to describe x. The combination of automotive paint, flake, and lace lead me away from what I believe the piece to be about—cultural appropriation and production—due to the materials and application technique’s historical context. Simultaneously, it is in this tension between language and material, theory and experience that Tanadi’s work feels most fruitful. I believe this exploitation of creating a near-sysnestetic opportunity within the viewer is an exciting turn, and seems like rich territory.

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Benjamin Santiago October 22, 2014

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Meng(g)ubah Rumah is an assault of the allied armies of formal excellence and interdisciplinary mastery. Custom typefaces to the left of them! Interesting sounding (non-English) language to the right of them! CNC-ed letterforms in front of them! Volley’d and Thunder’d! Boldly rode the “real-life-outer-glow” effect into my eyeballs. Although the initial impression of the piece and investigating the meaning of its language grabs me for a longer time than much art or design, the synthesis of these experiences gently lets me go while still maintaining awkward eye contact, as I assure it I am just putting on my coat because I am cold, and not because I am leaving the party. Upon settling into my first viewing of the piece, I quite enjoy the sonic qualities of the language that is not English, particularly the word juluk, but I cannot discern any of the meaning yet. I gaze deeper, past the frontal elements and notice the solemn red men that form the background patterns of both banners are going opposite directions and performing different tasks. The left bannermen carry nostalgic dog-home effigies, while the right bannermen hide their true identity behind simple white masks. The scarlet cyborg men are not the disgruntled workers of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, but a pattern, a repeated motif, that weaves together versions of a culturally and geographically displaced self. They are pulling outward not unlike the horse and buggy riders on the back of a Levi’s Jeans label. Much like the idiosyncratic denim strength of a pair of Levi’s, the imposition of imperialism and the resulting multicultural world produce a unique experience of otherness. The “irreducible concern for the other” is experienced simultaneously and paradoxically as the nostalgia for a home that is always out of reach in the left banner, and an imposed cultural alterity, or mask, in the right banner. This alterity is made more palpable in the blue text which describes having experienced different places with “frames of timber” and “stacks of bricks… pitched roofs” neither of which definitively marked as home, leading the viewer to believe it is neither, or both. The austere walking men contrasted with the more juvenile penis face drawing and the profane meaning of persetan anjing (which I will explicate soon, do not look it up on your phone), calls to mind an inability to fully conform in either of the locations as an adult, disguised automaton, or as a teenager daydreaming and passing naughty doodles. Experientially, the strongest moment of Meng(g)ubah Rumah is the lower area of the left banner. Making my way through the piece, I looked up both kepala and kelapa in Google Translate expecting one of them to be a misspelled version of the other. However, I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that in Indonesian, kepala means head and kelapa means coconut. The humor produced by this play on words in a language that is alien to me immediately activated the piece. Meng(g)ubah Rumah, now meant, not only as

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“a home that is changing” but also “moving; physically changing one’s home.” Susu basi means “stale milk” is in close proximity to the phrase “slate amidst gunungan.” These small victories in uncovering the exciting ambiguous meaning in Meng(g)ubah Rumah are undercut by words that seem to have no easily discernable definition. For example, even the quick survey of native speakers I was able to perform produced no definitive result for diseluduki. I am left perplexed; did I type the words incorrectly? Are the multiple meanings of the words just a semantic solitaire game? Here the ambiguity of the language leaves the viewer feeling punished for their inquisitiveness. The polysemic well from which I derived enjoyment before has dried up. The piece pushes me away, tells me to go to bed and that I’ll understand when I am older. As I am pushed out of the piece, I begin to notice some elements that feel more heavy handed. Behind the word gunungan, is an illustrated gunungan. The left banner features a shadow puppet masked character with a penis nose and on the right, a more feminine shadow puppet masked character with longer hair. The male character speaks the blue and endearing question “coconut?” across the banners, but the female answers in red, “go fuck the dog!” Instead of going West or East, the central portion comes forward. The blue and red elements combine in the rather obvious purple central area enveloping the three dimensional text. The frontality of this presentation also diminishes the topological quality in the wavy surface of the CNC-ed letterforms, an effect which is quite evocative in a work about identity by way of geography and language. These issues in expressing the concept of the piece, make it seem like Jesen is taking Daniel van der Velden’s call to action in Research and Destory too literally, he is trying “not to design something else, but to redesign himself.” Where the aforementioned effective moments of the piece “produce knowledge” in a way that is both satisfying and in line with an authorial version of work at the graphic design/art threshold both van der Velden and Cranbrook espouse, the more obvious elements are overly transparent in their systemization and needlessly complex in combination, in more succinct, poetic terms they tell rather than show. Friedrich Schiller’s On the Aesthetic Education of Man, an essay on the transformative power of aesthetics, ends with him describing “the superb countenance of a Juno Ludovici” and how seeing it leaves the viewer “in a condition of utter rest and extreme movement,” and feeling “that wonderful emotion for which reason has no conception and language no name.” With Jesen’s piece, conversely, I am lured in by the attention to detail and striking presence of the work, but the paralysis I experience is not what Schiller described, but the oasis seen from afar transforming into to a miasma of paradoxical clarity and ambiguity from which I cannot escape.

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade Emanuel Levinas. Alterity and Transcendance. The Proximity of the Other, trans. Michael B. Smith (London: Athlone Press, 1999), 97-98. http://education.asianart.org/explore-resources/artwork tree-life-puppet-kayon-or-gunungan-approx-1970 http://www.reddit.com/r/indonesia/comments/2jueog/need_help_translating_some_short_phrases_into/ Daniel van der Velden, “Research and Destroy,” Metropolis M, April /May 2006. Seymour Papert, “Hard Fun,” http://www.papert.org/articles/HardFun.html (2002).

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However, Meng(g)ubah Rumah is not the representational ideal of the marble headed goddess, nor is it trying to be. In attempting to find an experience closer to this piece I’ve concluded it is much more like reading Frank Herbert’s Dune than looking at a sculptural object. Dune is a novel that has many of the trappings of normal science-fiction: laser battles, strange alien creatures, cackling villains, and superluminal vehicles, but it also has a detailed glossary which helps shed light on both unique words within the novel and the fictional history that led to where Dune’s story begins. Although the physical volume and language of Frank Herbert’s tome are at first intimidating and unforgiving, when you give the world, or more accurately the galaxy, of its contents a chance to gestate in your mind, it creates not only a vivid and visceral fictional universe, but a set of salient revelations about the nature of power and the complications of free will and predestination. Much like Meng(g)ubah Rumah, Dune does have some heavy-handed metaphor, for example the sometimes hallucinatory drug melange or “the spice” which is only available on a desert planet is a more mystical stand in for oil. In spite of flaws like this and its subpar characterization of its female characters, Dune continues to reward the persistence of the reader in spite of its shortcomings, by carefully revealing the organization of its internal structure and the logic of its metaphors and symbols. While implicitly I am saying Jesen should write an installment in the Dune-iverse, what I actually mean is not so unhelpfully prescriptive. I hesitate to conclude with general encouragement to “keep going” since I know Jesen will, and because this piece is still, to put it bluntly, fucking dope despite my shots at its shiny, undulating bow. The cracks in its foundation are due to a lack of tho rough consideration for what the educator and computer scientist Seymour Papert calls hard fun. Papert used the term as a way of describing the experience of learning to program computers from the perspective of elementary school-aged students as simulta neously challenging and gratifying in its rewards. At its experiential nadir, Jesen’s piece is closer to Joseph Campbell’s conception of computers as “Old Testament gods” that have “lots of rules and no mercy.” Meng(g)ubah Rumah strides lines between convolution, ambiguity and meaning in a way that is at times is both incredibly frustrating and incredibly rewarding. To return to Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the distinction of which area that striding lands on is the difference in gait of, “a man dismay’d” and one that “flash’d all their sabres bare.”

Anton Jeludkov March 13, 2014

ARTIST’S SHIT CONTENTS 30 GR NET FRESHLY PRESERVED PRODUCED AND TINNED IN MAY 1961 Comparatively Jesen’s piece feels like a parody. There is nothing palpably disgusting about the work, its materiality points to falsehood— we know that cum doesn’t solidify white. The work merely imitates the sense of risk, while hiding beneath the veneer of parody. Similar to Manzoni or Vito Hannibal Acconci, whose Seedbed performance consisted of the artist masturbating underneath a ramp at the Sonnabend Gallery (“Vito Acconci”), Jesen positions himself in the same realm, but falls short in comparison to his predecessors— the aforementioned artists had much more at stake with their performances. Continuing to examine Jesen’s piece, it would be careless on my part to write it off as an imitation of Shock Art so hastily. Although the work does hold some roots in that category, the object feels far too treated and labored over to be dismissed as a ubiquitous shock prop. I am more interested in the attention to materiality and composition of the piece, rather than the cheap thrill it begs to produce,

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“The poor bastard never saw it coming,” was the first thought that ran through my mind, when I noticed the unfortunate bee plastered with man chowder—frowning in shame and disgust. A non-consensual act must have taken place prior to my arrival. Promptly, the second thought followed: “Goddammit, just what art needs more of: human discharge.” Upon initial examination, preconceived notions bordering on art clichés clouded my judgment of the piece. Shock Art as a category has been around since the early 1900s—pioneered by Marcel Duchamp (Fountain, 1917). The movement’s original strategy was to “disturb smug, complacent and hypocritical people” (R. Rawdon Wilson), which was an inevitable step in the evolution of the discourse that concerned itself with the ever-shifting position of art within various societal frameworks. Duchamp proclaimed: “Art is not about itself but the attention we bring to it.” The shock objects operated as triggers of strong emotional reaction from its audience. The “art” is in the reactions the objects induce, the objects themselves are mere conductors—the amount of electricity they generate is the determinant factor of their success. Duchamp’s urinal spawned a hell of a current, thus its induction into the Art Hall of Fame. (In 2004, Fountain was selected in a survey of 500 artists and critics as “the most influential work of modern art” (CNN).) Another notable example of Shock Art is Artist’s Shit, a 1961 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces, each 30 grams and measuring 4.8 × 6.5 cm., with a label in Italian, English, French, and German stating:

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simply by splattering imitation pole milk all over the place and calling out the “white man” (more on that later). The snap reaction the object seeks to pull out of me is the source of my aversion; I am far more interested and invested in the object itself. My experience with the piece is akin to meeting someone who is really bad with first impressions; so comically terrible, that I feel compelled to get to know the person better. The formal aspects of the work are captivating: the way the piece is presented, over-processed, layered, and the fact that I can hardly recognize the two curved surfaces as paper intrigues me. This monstrosity exudes a lot of charm, is it self-aware of it? I believe so. There appears to be a sense of unity between attention to detail and spontaneity. The bizarre pastiche of materials, clumsily assembled in a relatively small space, emanates intentionality. The artist’s controlled hand is present amidst the supposed chaos—the intricacy of the overall composition gives it away. On a formal level I sense a genuine drive towards progressive form making, the object does not feel familiar to me (especially, considering it in the context of Graphic Design). I am simultaneously drawn and repelled by it. The piece is puzzling to say the least—this means to be a compliment. As I dig deeper into the concept of the piece, various problems ensue. The work is doused in numerous analogies, one-liners, and symbolic signifiers. It’s trying rather hard, attempting to say a lot, and blurting it all out simultaneously. Self-restraint is clearly not at play here. The piece commands the space with confidence; it maintains my attention span by sheer force. The work takes advantage of its dimensionality, creating multiple access points. I initially approached the work from the front, peering through the glory hole (the blaring arrow and word bubbles shamelessly convinced me). It was an undoubtedly voyeuristic experience, a glory hole that doubles as a peephole, allowed a limited access to the peculiar spectacle behind the curtain. For a second I forgot that I could just take a step to the left or right and dispel the magic trick—the spectacle isn’t exactly concealed. Now to address the apparent crux of the work: the assaulted bee. Following much deliberation, and the somewhat extensive research on the mythology and etymology of the word, I was left just as clueless, if not more. As a symbol, the bee can be traced to numerous cultures, ranging from Mayans to Egyptians to Greeks. The generic cartoon bee in Jesen’s piece poses no specificity, thus leaving it far too open for interpretation. Approaching the work from the side, I was immediately confronted by the large painted statement: “I STEAL FROM the WHITE MAN.” Seeing as how this is the sole textual component of the piece, I raked my mind for clues and connections—something that would allow me to further understand this object and what it’s trying to

— R. Rawdon Wilson (2002) The Hydra’s Tale: Imagining Disgust p.27. “World’s best art piece? A urinal.” CNN. (December 2, 2004). Accessed March 12, 2014. “Vito Acconci - Kuwnstmuseum Luzern”. Kunstmuseum Luzern. May 1978. Shaw, Helen. “A ‘Major’ Achievement.” The New York Sun. January 17, 2006. Retrieved March 11, 2014.

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say. A fury of punches descended upon me, relentless, one after another: resin, jiz, a violated bee, geometric patterns, NEW, COME, HERE, glory hole, sex swing, metal phallus…a lot of content to process. I turn to the text to clue me in—ideas set in, slowly. The piece is anchored on the notion of cultural appropriation. Cultural appropriation alludes to “acculturation or assimilation, but can imply a negative view towards acculturation from a minority culture by a dominant culture” (Shaw). It includes introduction of forms of dress, music and art, religion, language, or social behavior. Once removed from original context these elements are stripped of their intended meaning, and repurposed for purely aesthetic reasons. Cultural commodification has been tenacious in North America, resulting in the bastardization of numerous historically rich cultural facets, food for example: Taco Bell as Mexican food, Thai Express as Thai food etc. The text in Jesen’s piece inverts that concept, by appropriating the dominant “white” culture, thus flipping it onto itself—satirically doing so in the form of a caricature. I understand the presented statement, and I am on board with the intended strategy, but that’s all the piece does: it simply states its strategy. What exactly is being appropriated here—Spooge? Is that all the “White Man” has to offer? If so, the work clearly positions itself as satirical jab at the shallow and lackluster makeup of the dominant White culture. The argument spreads itself thin by speaking in terms of generalities, homogenizing a large group of people. It’s clear that the statement foremost leans on shock value. The apparent transparency of this strategy alienates me, showcasing a lack of concern and sincerity on the part of the artist. Sensationalism is a cheap façade that is easily exposed and quickly forgotten (evident in the way popular media functions, “shocking” stories churned out incessantly—the façade’s survival is dependent on the constant state of reconstruction). Jesen’s piece seeks to instigate a conversation rather than attempting to pose answers, a valid strategy. The subject matter of cultural appropriation is a rather fertile one. I engaged with the piece on multiple levels and found myself contemplating the value of such a conversation in our present reality. In the end, I found that it was mainly I (the audience) that took reigns of the dialogue. Upon deeper personal reflections the piece receded into the background; the simplistic sentiment of the bold statement was quickly uncovered. The visually convoluted quality of the work struggles to compensate for its lack of focus on the topic it addresses.

Shiraz Gallab March 13, 2014

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In a conversation with British psychoanalyst Ernest Jones, Sigmund Freud once said, “America is a mistake; a gigantic mistake” (Jones, 60). While Jones left out the context of Freud’s statement, he cited brash wealth, uncultured society and straitlaced morals as sources of his frustration. Freud’s anti-American sentiments proved to be a paradox. He visited the country in 1909 and was received warmly by his colleagues at Clark University. His research findings were profoundly influential in the U.S. and his written work remains central to intellectual discourse throughout American institutions. Yet despite the positive response to his work, Freud could not help but focus on a fundamental flaw: America is an unconventional nation that was founded upon unconventional values through questionable means, resulting in a cultural terrain that proves to be abrasive and unattractive to newcomers. In his poster series, Jesen Tanadi addresses the alleged problem that is America with an intent focus on the country’s founding and expansion during its postcolonial age. His triptych poster series features the figure of Columbia and American settlers, pulled directly from John Gast’s Spirit of the Frontier. Emanuel Leutze’s banners swim throughout the central piece, reading: “Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way.” Both paintings celebrate Manifest Destiny, the belief that Americans were destined by God to expand and occupy westward. The central images sit atop a distorted rendering of a reflective object, likely a mirror. On the left and right of the central piece are similar objects that initially read as spatulas or metal scrapers due to their warped nature. They are eventually understood to be mirrors, but it takes time to make this association. The formalities of Jesen’s work are extremely compelling but, at times, difficult to make sense of, which leads to a distracting guessing game that takes place between the viewer and the work. In the background of the triptych, a unifying zig-zag pattern twists and turns across the posters. Like the other imagery, the pattern is stretched, pulled and distorted, resulting in a dizzying effect that begins to allude to a critical stance. Above the pattern are abstracted and deformed images that lend themselves to interesting, yet still distracting, interpretations. Is that a shrub? A head of lettuce? Mold? Like their potential meaning, their role in the composition is questionable due to the viewer’s inability to truly understand them. In the central poster, the mirror frames the American settlers and faces the figure of Columbia. While the angel is stepping out of the mirror’s reflection, the settlers and her silhouette are stuck in it. The mirror, which appears to be melting away, falls backward as the goddess moves forward. Despite their attempts, the settlers aren’t actually progressing.

The scene that Jesen composes complements the reasoning expressed by critics of Manifest Destiny, who argued that forced territorial expansion would give “aid and comfort to the enemies of republicanism” and commit treason to the United States Constitution (“Prospectus”). The triptych’s background helps push Jesen’s critical stance by setting the scene for what professes to be an instrumental poster series. The sharp angles, saturated yellow color and warped shrubs effectively call attention to a problem, but that problem remains up for debate. A clue presents itself at the bottom of each poster, reading:

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THE SUBDIVISION AND OBLITERATION OF LOST CORNERS IN THE NAME OF PROGRESS ESCHEW MY IMAGE OF REALITY The first portion of the sentence is curious. In land management and restoration, a lost corner is a point of survey that is devoid of traceable structures or monuments, and that cannot be located geographically (Public Land Surveying). How, then, can it be divided and conquered if it cannot be recognized? Since the text is placed on the left (i.e. West) of the central poster, Jesen is likely arguing that Manifest Destiny destroyed that which was already unseen—that Americans viewed the West as pure opportunity and thus neglected to recognize the natives, who would inevitably be, in Jesen’s words, obliterated. This remains speculative, since the remaining images—the mirrors, blobs, lettuce, zigs and zags—appear empty in comparison to the very specific references to Manifest Destiny. The central poster proves to be more successful than the others in conjunction with the written text. The word “progress” sits beneath the figure of Columbia, who brings forth light (and electric wiring) to the unoccupied West. Yet in Jesen’s poster, she floats above an abstract pattern. Her destination and purpose no longer exist because her very essence is placed out of context. As the settlers fall behind her, progress becomes a fallacy purported to be the end product of westward expansion. The last five words in the righthand poster reinforce that point, but the accompanying imagery does nothing else. The relationship between the abstract and specific is unclear, which make the left- and right-hand posters more decorative than substantive. The rendered mirrors reflect an intelligent artist’s attempt at drawing a correlation between politicized expansion and the notion of self. The mirrors represent America’s understanding of her place in society, and in Jesen’s piece, America (symbolized by Columbia) is turning her back on the mirror. John Gast’s scenery is the very image of reality that has been deliberately avoided, forgotten, eschewed. Jesen is thus posing a fundamental question: what does America’s past say about the American identity? This brings us to the fundamental problem: he leaves that question unanswered.

By utilizing dated imagery and a moment in history that we have surpassed, the work fails to develop a political stance that is relevant to today’s America. The most accessible content is also the most archaic, while the remainder of the piece serves as a formal framework. The text, while appropriately contradictory of Leutze’s banners, is passively written and typeset underneath the focal point; the viewer briefly glances at it after attempting to absorb everything else. The statement’s hierarchical position automatically makes it a subordinate component in the piece. The subject matter that Jesen presents has the potential to be instrumental. American exceptionalism and Manifest Destiny continue to rear their ugly heads in the form of “Operation Iraqi Freedom” and Invisible Children campaigns. But as of now, Jesen’s work lacks a contemporary edge, because it does not relate the past to the present. Regardless, his triptych is undoubtedly a step in the right direction. Jesen’s use of political subject matter and specificity should be celebrated and pushed further, and his position within Western society needs to be more closely examined and articulated. Moreover, Jesen shouldn’t shy away from actively discussing who he is and what he believes if he aims to be an instrument of his artwork.

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— The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud: Years of Maturity, 1901-1919 (1957) by Ernest Jones, p. 60 “Prospectus of the New Series,” The American Whig Review. Vol 7 Issue 1. (1848) Public Land Surveying: A Casebook. <http://www.blm.gov/cadastral/casebook/funda1.pdf>

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Tekikki Walker September 27, 2013

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A hybrid collection of this and that—history, identity, the captive vs. the free. Indonesian native, Jesen Tanadi’s work reminds us of one thing—remember your fucking history. For instance, the Japanese colonization of Indonesia. In the 17th century, Japanese settlers moved to the Dutch East Indies (Indonesia), in which Japan promised to give Indonesia their independence in place of military support and resources. Instead, many Indonesians suffered from heinous acts of slavery, torture, and even execution. By the mid-20th century, the Japanese population multiplied severely. The backdrop: a late 18th century Japanese government flag. It’s traditional elements are of nature: a deep blue diagonal angle (sea), a half-seen crimson disk (sun), a white empty space (land). He screenprints ombre-like gradients, and lines and patterns onto an original digital print. The loose-form dots of aqua, fuchsia, lilac and turquoise remind you of the sea’s cool and reflective abilities. In the midst of the deep blue there is a small text that states, “I kind of like fried things in this darkness.” The motion of the text appears to be drowning and falling to nothingness. What’s meant to be humorous, is not meant to be focused on for too long. Tanadi is only using this to grab the viewers attention to greater issues at hand. However, the red from the sun fades just along the line of the sea and the land. He blurs two large green, vertical bamboo-like objects; he does this successfully through his choice of pattern and texture. The chaos escapes onto the blue border that reconnects with the blue abyss on the other side. Tanadi’s style is very much a remnant of early Dadaists. Like many Dadaists who used their work to respond to the horrific times of World War I, Tanadi is showing us a very legit response to something horrible that happened in history: the Japanese colonization of Indonesia, where many Indonesians would unknowingly suffer terrible fates. His work has a post-colonialist stance; he is actively choosing to inform, analyze, explain, and respond to the cultural legacy of this experience. He makes it clear through his form that he is very much so asking the audience to get informed, to do the math and research, and become aware of a people who have been exploited for the benefit of gain and power. Through the layering, the bold choice of line separation, and distortion of objects, he is trying to warn us of a time that we have forgotten in the present. This piece is completely successful and its form responds to the context in which it relates to. It definitely has a place in the larger context of post-colonialism and the Dadaist movement. It is truly inspiring to see someone of the same generation call upon the need to address issues of a history that has become invisible now.

Thank You

Faculty & Staff Elliott Earls Heather McGill (Sculpture) Aaron Blendowski (Woodshop) Mark Dineen (Woodshop) Class of 2015 Ian Carolan Jean Egger Shiraz Gallab Charlotte Jackson Aya Kawabata Tekikki Walker David Wise Tong Xing Michelle Zhao Henrik Soerensen (Sculpture) Scott Stibich (Sculpture) Kat Burdine (Print Media) Class of 2014 Lindsey Camelio Amy (Dosen) Schwartz Hwan Jahng Anton Jeludkov TinTin Young Class of 2016 Christina Cioffari Kelsey Dusenka Nicole Dyar Kelsey Elder Ryan Gallagher Zartavia Howard Vasun Pachisia Kimmie Parker Benjamin Santiago Class of 2006 Thomas Gardner (Architecture)