PETER SACKS MIGRATIONS
PETER SACKS MIGRATIONS
PETER SACKS MIGRATIONS 18 APRIL â&#x20AC;&#x201D; 19 MAY 2018
Marlborough Fine Art 6 Albemarle Street London W1S 4BY +44 (0)20 7629 5161 email@example.com www.marlboroughlondon.com
INTRODUCTION BY PAUL KEEGAN In front of Outpost 2, the great orange statement in the first room of Peter Sacks’s Migrations, we might ask how do I look at this? Where to place myself? Is this multitude of incidents far or close? Are we looking down from above? Close up, the surface seems to hide as much as it shows. Is there a painting inside this painting? The picture solicits movement to and fro, as we would negotiate the varying perspectives of a fresco or a scroll. The canvas is large and its scale urgent, but its activity is frameless, its events continuing beyond as well as beneath our seeing. We are asked to walk the ground of these pictures, but to move is to see a different picture, and problems of seeing feel like problems of knowing. There is a touching distance as well as a seeing distance, as if the hand precedes the eye. Above all, we are in a place of passage, intently fashioned but also nomadic, improvised. Enigmatic outcrops, burnings, tearings, repairs, a composite surface patched and peeled. The airy glamour of the large gestural forms dissolves at close quarters into something impoverished but richly pondered. Since Cézanne the viewer has been an event in the life of a painting. The contractual element is strong in modern art, from Malevich to Kiefer, and especially so in the art of Peter Sacks, which makes us accountable to its incremental acts of attention, to what occurs at the flute end of consequences. Just as our wandering attention seems anticipated by its own sudden changes of tack, its waywardness. The passagework is compelling to watch, the process feels mutual, collaborative. But there is no commentary within these pictures, no space “between,” in this marriage of compression and scale. At first sight Sacks’ most recent paintings speak entirely through found fabrics, found figuration, found colours, found words, found expression. Instead of an originary moment, there appears to be a here constructed out of elsewheres.
Yet non-painterly means are being used for expressive and painterly ends. We might reach for Apollinaire’s wondering description of the Cubist discovery of collage in 1912: ‘you can paint with whatever you like, with pipes, postage stamps, postcards, playing-cards, candelabras, pieces of oilcloth, shirt-collars, wallpaper or newspapers’. The paradoxes of the hand are many. The fabrics are affixed and glued, rather than woven or stitched – yet they are also intricately reworked. The fragments of text are machinemade (by manual typewriter) – but copied out, typed by hand, painstakingly, onto linen. And somewhere along the spectrum of looking, the all-over premise of these compositions pulls together with a graphic conviction, which tells us that these events are depicted as well as borrowed. And from further back, the eventfulness resolves into something else: a now of utterance, the snap of form-into-figure. The canvases are felt as vertical presences before they are construed as images. And their vitality is allied to undecidability. The great diagonal fallings and foldings of material are tree-like, arms raised, in motion but stilled, blown back by something they have witnessed and which we cannot yet see. In canvas after canvas these beckonings have expressive sovereignty, yet seem deprived of agency. Gesture viewed from a distance is always mistakable. Do the dancing forms in Report from the Besieged City 1 express exultation or grief? In the left panel a monochrome drowned figure seems to step forward, the linen as if sucked and clinging to a submerged body, the corrugation a vertebrate structure. These threshold figurings have something of the dualism of Greek figure vases, where the heroes do not fight so much as look over their shoulders, a gesture both dynamic and awed, arrested by the will of the gods. Modern art has often combined an obsessive concern for materials with a distancing from their consequences. Restoring the work of the hand, Sacks nudges abstraction in surprising directions, reinvesting it with reference.
What makes these canvases paintings — not tapestries, or embroideries, or even collages — are the transformations involved: their facture, their haptic life, in which materiality resists destruction by changing its substance. Whatever seems visually “of a piece” is at close quarters adulterated, intercepted, commented upon by other accretions. Each work has survived the ordeal of its making. In an essay of 1924 on the embroideries of Marie Monnier, Paul Valéry suggested that whereas once men imitated the patient processes of nature “modern man no longer works at what cannot be abbreviated”. This is a central preoccupation for Sacks, and like Valéry, his historical gaze is fixed upon fabric. The laces in these rooms speak of many histories: of bourgeois pattern, but equally of anonymous labour and the communities which produced these artefacts: early blindness, home industry, patient effacement. Sacks lived for a time in Normandy, within the force field of the Bayeux Tapestry (and the D-Day Landings beaches – whose posthistorical flotsam surfaced in his earlier work). His laces are a social condition, a boast or a constraint; they speak of the body, of dowry and trousseau, and of lives passed in thrall to the clock-tick of small nuances, lost in far-flung places while keeping up appearances. Above all, the insistence upon clothes and their privacies acknowledges that one can only get at the human subject obliquely, through his or her historical existence, his or her “habit”, and through the masquerade that is the extension of the person at a given moment. “On an average half-hour walk to school I'd see: Zulu people then still wearing what I was told were ‘tribal’ blankets, or elaborate beadwork; men carrying shields and sticks; women quite often topless, mostly barefoot, many bearing loads on their heads; lines of black men in overalls or in striped prison-wear labouring on the road with pickaxes, chanting; men and women from India, both Muslims and Hindus, wearing dhotis, saris, or western dress…”
Sacks is an expatriate, born in South Africa in 1950. He grew up in Durban, on the Indian Ocean, where he spent the first half of his life. The processional surfaces of his canvases remember sounds – of mosque, Hindu temple, Zulu religious drumming – and spectacle: people walking the roads, in numbers, from place to place; groups of animals migrating through a land that was still wild (“coastal jungle, empty stretches of beach with heavy surf, a midlands rolling north-west to the Drakensberg Mountains and its caves”). Durban was a small spot of coastland, huge in scale. The prehistoric order collided with a human and political regime which even to a child felt atrociously full of injury — starting with school itself, segregated by gender as well as race, part Dutch Calvinist, part Anglican. Sacks’s family was Jewish, a minority within a minority; his grandparents spoke Yiddish and a heavily accented English. He left South Africa, to study in England and in the United States though he also spent years of travel, often on foot, through various parts of Africa, South and North America, Europe, Asia. He has carried his origins on the soles of his feet. The meeting of text and texture in his work stages a coming to awareness, since as children we first encounter words and images together, in a state of unknowing. His hybrid vision is shaped by cosmopolitan memories of Durban, one of South Africa’s most racially mixed city. His world is woven, full of enigmatic homecomings. Normandy resonated with the remembered Frenchness: Huguenot refugees had appeared in the Cape as early as 1671, fleeing religious persecution, and here were the cloths and laces they had brought with them. The Indian textiles in his recent art were first seen in the Africa of his childhood. These recurrences inform his pictorial sense of the wider world as in orbit, just as tiny details are the fulcrum for larger moments in his canvases. During Sacks’s childhood Durban was expanding to become one of Africa’s largest ports, because the closing of the Suez Canal in 1956 meant that massive volumes of trade were re-routed around the Cape, a global dance of materiality in slow-motion. 07
His canvases teem with presences but also with noises off: colonialism, courts and prisons, political chaos (their textual matter has often pertained to treaties, conventions, constitutions, political realities), erasures of identity, as well as the ineradicable sensory traces of landscape, ocean, jungle and mountain. His art brings together difficult contiguities: a microgeography expressive as pattern, implicated as history. Sacks has spoken of leaving South Africa as “a kind of tearing”. Today he paints the elsewheres of his art from America, perhaps from a place of misgiving, which sharpens the outsider’s alertness. But one cannot think or paint globally, and this brings into consideration what a viable relation to a disinherited land might be. The work of the hand begins here. Like the ropes and ladders in Fernand Léger’s murals, Sacks’s nets and folds render the suppressed links between imagination and the work of the hand, between labour and the human condition. He borrows his materiality from many visual traditions, not least the assemblages and arte povera of the twentieth century – at whose outset Apollinaire described the new materials of collage as “already steeped in humanity”. Like Kurt Schwitters, whose constructed surfaces treat all external reference as their inner life, Sacks foregrounds tactile effects, using fabric, burlap, sacking or wood, and his canvases declare their procedures with exemplary candour. Unlike Schwitters, his practices are not radically disjointed (to reflect the aftermath of a world war and its mockery of frontiers) but fluid. Their mode is narrative even if their means and materials are discontinuous. There are wrenching atonalities, or sometimes things touch each other with their fingertips, but what is separated is also fused, and Sacks’s own inventory of effects (in both senses) is itself a verbal collage: “shrouds, prison and work shirts, nightshirts, nineteenth-century trousseau laces, machine-made laces, crochet, metal rings, denim work clothes, buttons and thread, eyelets, rope, fishing nets, embroidery, as well as pieces of African fabric, burlap sacks and, more recently, cotton fabrics from India, in addition to wood and metal, cardboard and batting.”
As this suggests, the miscegenations are more than visual — they involve a breach of decorum, a scrambling of different orders of knowledge. Words of witness or anticipation from European high culture are lodged in vernacular contexts, visual and verbal. His pictures have the energy of the bazaar, or the tense indifference of the watering hole, where physical proximity is married to psychic (historical, cultural) remoteness, a place where home meets diaspora, handmade meets machined, gesture meets architecture, words meet images. Above all, his accumulations are a portrait of what is washed up at times of extreme transition, “when some drastic change strikes and, in so doing, disorganises the relations between high and low artefacts”. But Sacks is not a collagist. Rather he is a bricoleur. If collage has a modernist pedigree, redolent of aesthetic command and control, bricolage is a form of huntergathering. Collage is diaristic, metropolitan, nostalgist, and established by a flat picture plane; bricolage is extrovert, authorless, future-oriented. Its pictorial conventions are makeshift and additive, and its response to juxtaposition is metamorphosis. The collagist takes the elements to hand and rearranges them. The bricoleur hoards and recycles, going far afield to find what is at hand. It is a specifically African knowledge born of praxis. Levi-Strauss referred to this as “the science of the concrete”, going back thousands of years: the skill of employing signs already in existence for purposes they were not originally intended for, which he saw as characterising mythological thinking. The verb ‘bricoler’ originally applied to ball games, billiards, or riding – to describe an uncovenanted move, a swerve, a zigzag or ricochet, in which the handmade bears witness to the vicissitudes of the hand. One point of reference for Sacks has been the idiosyncratic intellectual labours of art historian Aby Warburg adrift in the 1890s in the American Southwest. (In his quotations, Sacks often gives a home to heterodoxy, to works excluded by the canon, to vernacular scriptures.) Observing the Hopi snake dance, Warburg imagined a beforetime when man could manipulate lightning and weather as an extension of the hand, and he saw the serpent ritual of the Pueblo Indians as symbolic of this ‘danced causality’ — which speaks eloquently to the shape-shiftings and forkings of Sacks’s art.
The materials are a historical as well as a painterly medium, and they keep in view other and more occult senses of medium, as “usher, quick go-between, hermetic conductor”. Sacks’s surfaces are the realm of the chance encounter, and equally of sudden insight, in which the near and the faraway are compacted: the quickness of grasp which sees two things as one. Quickness is only half the story, though it hints at the choices which guide these works, in which whatever leads to the appointed place also withdraws. In the walkabout of Sacks’s art the surfaces are painstaking because they retrace their steps to find their way. Rather than lead, they take instruction, they are given directions. All of his materials have a mediumistic transparency. Glue mediates the slow suspensions of his art, as the syntax of his winding visual sentences. Sacks has often referred to “slow action paintings”, modifying Harold Rosenberg’s famous phrase to describe the self-discoveries of the New York School — with the corrective that action was never a case of throwing paint around: rather it is performing an act, contemplating it, acting again. We are too quick to assimilate gesture to notions of spontaneity, though the performative is key to Sacks’s work: “I make them one step at a time, watching what happens when things begin to materially interfere on the canvas with various kinds of fabrics, textures, materials, wood, cardboard, clothing.” What happens is that they begin to speak. What is salvaged regains its form and body, its use value, and these fragments are stubbornly themselves, as stray bits of selfpresence (‘I too am untranslatable’ says the lacemaker in Bayeux, the handloom weaver in Calcutta, the indentured Indian in Durban). But they also speak of migrated meanings, a spectral exchange value: the piece of burlap which once contained sugar remembers the vast interlockings of commodity and slavery. So if they house a history of intimacy, Sacks’s paintings also probe all that is contrary: unhoused, scattered, ruined, untenanted. As shelter his canvases are precarious. The contents of his Townships imply that you could rebuild a township dwelling with these residua, but it would remain fugitive, spectral. Thus the instability of what we are seeing close up: a fabric held together by threads, which recapitulates the analogies in human lives for “thread” as fate and happenstance.
These conflations of distance and closeness are engaged by the contested scale of a Sacks painting. If the close-up is analogous to a street-level view of history, the canvases are also panoramas. Local features (tiny haptic flarings) are seen as if from eye-level, in elevation, but the ways through the landscape are seen in plan. From above, our eye can pursue many paths, but not all of them at once. It is one of the imperatives of this art that you can follow only one storyline at a time. But no sooner do we trace an individual motif or pattern than we must let it go in favour of another. There is a constant traffic between his surfaces and what they might conceal, with the suggestion of a murmurous or mutinous underworld. (One of Sacks’s formative experiences as a painter is the childhood memory of caves and cave art, in which the conventions of figure and ground were at once invented and inverted.) To many viewers his paintings have seemed inhabited, as if their purpose were the provision of a dwelling place rather than any act of representation. His drapery enfolds as if for safekeeping, and the pressure from above is a memorialising gesture (as one thinks of pressed flowers). It is an art whose veils exist not to be torn aside, rather they are the medium itself. Glue is among other things that paradoxical thing, a paint without colour. And everywhere the subtly constant recourse to paint – often using tiny brushes – employs colours to modify what is laid over them as well as to cover what is underneath. Sometimes hiding their colours, these works intuit an archaic and mineral understanding of colour as itself something concealed, to be dug out of the earth. Which is to say that colour is not innocent in these works, but complicit with history, so it often has a subtropical glare or garishness. Durban was a centre of the sugar trade, and, as Sacks has remarked, the places in which sugar originates are dangerously bright. So we are somewhere beyond the pale of European memory with its sepia conventions (the approved colours of memory), which is perhaps why the work of retrieval seems so pristine, even transgressively bright, its decorative fearlessness obeying other impulses.
What presses down is met by answering forces: the surfaces are tectonic, active and emergent (Rosalind Krauss has described this aspect of Sacks’s art as “collage from within”). In many works, muffled forms press upwards from below: regular but fractured shapes, edges of frames, shingles, rooftiles, they provide one of the many sources of shadow in his surfaces, or like bars of pure colour, unfixed and projected, part of the variable relief of these landscapes. The songlines of fabric follow invisible as well as visible pathways. Just as the storyteller always holds something back, dispossessed things settle and accumulate, a process Sacks has referred to as excavating in reverse. The sedimentary overlaying implies both losing and finding. What is inaccessible is preserved. The act of layering is a restitution. The residua of recent history, its exclusions, its collateral damage, its massive condescensions, its evictions—the debris field of Sacks’s art is a battlefield, and his copied-out texts often concern historical and present battlefields. Many artists, from Picabia to Cy Twombly or Ian Hamilton Finlay, have used texts as figural elements, but Sacks deploys them in unsuspected ways. His words are not his own, but copied from many sources. Not scripted but typed, not on paper but on linen, which is then ripped, folded, scorched, glued, compressed, provoking new meanings across the folds, leaving us to speculate on what is there, on what it takes to see what is there. The printed voice, like other materials, is subject to transformation: lines become pattern, are stretched and slurred; they drift or drizzle, pulled downwards by the linen. Words fail us when we start to think of language as vertical, graphic rather than lexical. His use of corrugated cardboard, often overpainted with a thin wash, is a parody of print, whose lines of text on closer inspection are blank. Language in his work figures as a grid or mesh — both passage and blockage — which allows only some meanings to get through. Sacks works in series. Their titles — Outposts, Quickenings, Townships, Aftermaths — are markers, not explanations. Fabrics recur within works, between works in the same series, between series: zebra stripes, arrows, fingerprints, licking flames against an apocalyptic backdrop 10
of red stars. The recurrence of imagery — pattern, motif — in different areas of the same canvas, is also a seeing of likenesses. Each canvas is a score which obliges us to play all the repeats. Many different stories are being acted out simultaneously, whose ‘scenes’ are laid before us, equally meaningful. As in the paintings of Bruegel, strewn with what Joseph Koerner has recently called “the proximity of half-related things”. What is privileged here is playing rather than knowing—play as the art of finding resemblances. Unique particulars are nevertheless analogous, and these are the building blocks of Sacks’s narratives: is the minute striding man in the right panel of Report From the Besieged City 1 related to the charred figure at the bottom of the central panel, and is he then redeemed in an analogous detail on the far side of the left panel? Put differently, “watching what happens” resembles uncannily the attempt to remember something. Which is why the all-over premise of Sacks’s canvases is countered by its intent focus upon exact positioning, whether a piece of language or an inch of coloured thread. And the singularity of his marks sets down the mind’s grasp of relationship — solicitude rather than free-association. His hands allude to other hands, to a collective labour produced without authorship. Nor is the hospitality of this art – its copiousness of glance – especially interested in modernist self-examination as to when a work is finished. He will use a piece of material, itself a ‘found’ border or device, a quoted edge, and then altercate with it, as if bargaining for time. One reason why edges have so little finality is that the paintings are already full of them. If temporal form privileges endings, spatial form privileges middles, hence perhaps why this art gravitates towards the triptych, where traditionally the central panel is also the conclusion of the work. Borders, internal and external, are as arbitrary as political borders. They are debatable land. And his paintings end as a fiction or piece of music might choose to end – without finishing. The idea of closure is acoustic as much as visual: “I stop rowing, I ship the oars, the boat continues moving, I wait and listen to see if I can hear anything else”. The recent works in this exhibition have a fluent confidence, in an idiom which Peter Sacks has been piecing together over the course of two decades.
The new work is mercurial — a sky as much as a ground, and there are many sorts of sky in his Quickenings. Their space is a templum, a square or rectangle marked out for observation, across which the flight of the smallest motif signifies, where actions in one place entail reactions in another, and where the same moment can recur elsewhere. And there is a thickening of story, which is no longer shy of imagery appearing within the found materials themselves (frames, doorways, birds, butterflies, shells, human and plant forms). In the mythic history of creation, invention is often provoked by a catastrophe, and is the act of a guest or bystander, a survivor rather than a protagonist. In Zbigniew Herbert’s poem “Report from the Besieged City”, about the disasters of recent history, imagined as an interminable present, the speaker is at pains to make clear that ‘they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler’. In Sacks’s art, too, the storyteller is a figure as dispossessed as his subjects. But that witnessing is never innocent. Hence the expiatory stress of his process, as well as his words and images, which attempt to show ‘where things stood’, and the effort of placement. Which is perhaps where autobiography re-enters. In 1994 the South African journalist Antje Krog summarised the dilemmas facing the Commission for Truth and Reconciliation in these terms: “If its interest in truth is linked only to amnesty and compensation, then it will have chosen not truth, but justice. If it sees truth as the widest possible compilation of people’s perceptions, stories, myths and experiences, it will have chosen to restore memory, and perhaps that is justice in its deepest sense.” These are among the truth conditions of Sacks as chronicler, who makes inclusive images of extraordinary power which, transformed by painterly rigour, are so movingly ‘steeped in humanity’.
Paul Keegan was formerly poetry editor of Faber & Faber and has edited the Collected Poems of Ted Hughes and the Penguin Book of English Verse. He writes on art and literature for the TLS, the LRB, and other journals.
Photo: Gary Mirando
LIST OF WORKS Report from the Besieged City 1, 2014-16 Triptych 196 x 394 cm (76 ¾ x 155 in.) Township 12, 2016-2017 213 x 213 cm (84 x 84 in.) Township 13, 2016-17 213 x 213 cm (84 x 84 in.) Outpost 1, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Quickening 4, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) Quickening 5, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) Quickening 20, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) Quickening 21, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.)
Outpost 2, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Report from the Besieged City 2, 2016-17 Triptych 196 x 394 cm (76 ¾ x 155 in.)
Outpost 3, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
False Bay 1, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
Outpost 4, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
False Bay 2, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
Quickening 2, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.)
False Bay 3, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
Quickening 3, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.)
False Bay 4, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
Quickening 15, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.)
False Bay 5, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
Quickening 7, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.)
False Bay 6, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
All works are mixed media on canvas, except for the False Bay series which are on paper.
Report from the Besieged City 1, 2014-16 Triptych 196 x 394 cm (76 Âž x 155 in.)
Township 12, 2016-2017 213 x 213 cm (84 x 84 in.)
Township 13, 2016-17 213 x 213 cm (84 x 84 in.)
Outpost 1, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Outpost 2, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Outpost 3, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Outpost 4, 2017 183 x 183 cm (72 x 72 in.)
Quickening 2, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 28
Quickening 3, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 29
Quickening 15, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 30
Quickening 7, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 31
Quickening 4, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 32
Quickening 5, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 33
Quickening 20, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 34
Quickening 21, 2017 91 x 91 cm (36 x 36 in.) 35
Report from the Besieged City 2, 2016-17 Triptych 196 x 394 cm (76 Âž x 155 in.)
False Bay 1, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.) 38
False Bay 2, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
False Bay 3, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.) 39
False Bay 4, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.) 40
False Bay 5, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.)
False Bay 6, 2015 56 x 76 cm (22 x 30 in.) 41
Photo: Gary Mirando
PETER SACKS BIOGRAPHY
Born 1950 in Port Elizabeth, South Africa Studied at Oxford, Princeton and Yale Author of five books of poetry and The English Elegy: Studies in the Genre from Spenser to Yeats, a work of criticism. The artist currently lives and works in Massachusetts and New York City.
2016 2015 2014 2013 2007 – 2008 2006 2005 2004
SOLO EXHIBITIONS 2017 2014 2012 – 2013 2012 – 2013 2010 2009 – 2010 2007 – 2008 2004
Peter Sacks: New Works, Marlborough Gallery, New York Aftermath: New Paintings, Robert Miller Gallery, New York, New York, USA Peter Sacks: New Paintings, Paul Rodgers 9W, New York, New York, USA Peter Sacks: Recent Paintings, Wade Wilson Art, Houston, Texas, USA Peter Sacks: Paintings, Paul Rodgers 9W, New York, New York, USA Sizwe Banzi est Mort (Sizwe Banzi is Dead), set design for Peter Brook, Theatre des Bouffes du Nord, Paris, France Peter Sacks: Emergency, Galerie Piece Unique, Paris, France Peter Sacks: Checkpoint, Galerie Piece Unique, Paris, France
The Woven Arc, The Cooper Gallery of African & African American Art, Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA Expo, Illinois, USA Art International, Istanbul, Turkey Books Beyond Artists: Words and Images, Ivorypress, Madrid, Spain. Peter Sacks and Zachariah Rieke, Wade Wilson, Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA Large Scale: The Painting Show, Wade Wilson Art, Houston, Texas, USA The Writer's Brush, Anita Shapolsky Gallery, New York, New York; Pierre Menard Gallery, Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA Bologna Art Fair, Bologna, Italy FIAC Art Fair, Paris, France FIAC Art Fair, Paris, France
PUBLIC COLLECTIONS The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Boston, Massachusetts, USA The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, New York, USA The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Houston, Texas, USA The Rose Art Museum, Waltham, Massachusetts, USA The Collection of the Constitutional Court of South Africa, Johannesburg, South Africa The Cooper Museum of African and African American Art, Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA The Beyond Borders Foundation, Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom
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Photography: Gary Mirando Design: Stocks Taylor Benson Print: Impress Print Services ISBN 978-1-909707-48-1 Catalogue No. 776 ÂŠ 2018 Marlborough