In my previous post about James Turrell at the Guggenheim and Robert Irwin’s re-installation of Scrim Veil-Black
Rectangle-Natural Light, 1977 at the Whitney (June 27-Sept 1, 2013), I suggested
that Irwin might have taken Marcel
Breuer’s trapezoidal window as his starting point, given that the window’s
narrow black frame appeared to share both color and dimension with his long horizontal bar and the painted black stripe that runs, also horizontally, around the walls. When I wrote to the museum for exact measurements, however, I was told “the curators are unaware of any correlation between the dim [frame] on
the window and the width of the black stripe.” Knowing the precise observation inherent in Irwin's work, I decided to put the question to the artist himself. In doing so I gained insight
into what Irwin was thinking when he first entered the Whitney gallery 35 years
ago, and how the philosophy that drove that piece is still at play in his work
today. The following is from a phone conversation on September 3, 2013.
CD: I wrote in my post that the window, whose black frame roughly matches the elements you added, appeared to be your starting point. Is that so?
RI: No. The first
thing that struck me when I entered the room at the Whitney, was the black
floor. Then there’s the ceiling, not handsome, but a factor, and the quality of
the light from the window, the way it disintegrates over the length of the space.
And, of course, the sheer size of the room – an empty room of that scale is
something you don’t generally encounter in New York. The window is the
architect’s revenge; the angles are a perfect perspective to the buildings
across the street, and it has a pictorial element, which make’s it almost impossible
to show a painting there. Most of the time they have to hide the window. The
window is a detail, but not a principal one.
Normally when you walk into the room you take a check—the
first responsibility of perception is to keep from being killed—so you check
coordinates, rapidly. But I did something at the Whitney that doesn’t stand
out, which was paint the wall opposite the window a shade that’s considerably
brighter than the other walls—if you were to turn a light on in the room at night, you’d see that it was about 65% gray. So when you come in, you know that
something’s not quite right, but only subliminally.
The situation was an opportunity to make a statement about
the idea of “conditional” —as well as how, and in what way, the conditional
acts in world.
What do you mean by
“conditional”?
Instead of being in the studio and conceiving things, the
artist isolated in the frame, the idea is that the perceiver can deal with the
world itself and make all kinds of value judgments, engage the cognitive self to
make decisions in the world. I was intrigued by the idea that rather than
creating a metaphor, an artist can function directly in the world….
…and eliminate the
“frame,” which includes wall text, labels—all the paraphernalia that designates
a thing as “art” and separates it from life.
Yes, in my very first show at MoMA, with Jenny Licht back in
1970, they put a label on the wall and I hired someone to come in and take it
off. So when you walked into the room you had to go through the process
of asking yourself “Is this thing
finished? Is it intended?”
It’s about using the same elements in the museum and the
outside world, making something, but not really making anything, just pointing
it out. If we take the history of modern art as a question, does “making” equal
“art”? Is it necessary to make something or can it be about operating in the world
as it is? I just took it one step farther.
The one thing that distinguishes each of my students from
the other is an individual sensibility; my job as a teacher is to help them
find that key element, and develop it. So I come to a situation and add to that
existing dialogue from what’s at the core of my being an artist.
I’m not a landscape designer, but made a garden at the Getty.
The same with the design of the Dia:Beacon. I am not an
architect.
Getty Garden. iPhone photograph. f/2.8. Copyright (c) Joanne Mason 2011.
I recently had a
conversation with an artist, and when I told him you designed the Dia:Beacon,
he said, “But there’s nothing there. He didn’t really do anything to it.” He
meant that your signature wasn’t on it. I thought you’d like that.
When I consider a space, I don’t have to bring to it other
kinds of abstract rationale.
The Dia doesn’t act as a piece of art. When architects
design museums, they are creating major pieces of sculpture. In the beginning,
they have pure intentions, but when it becomes big business, they start to act
as if they’re artists. It’s unethical to build a building that doesn’t function.
So getting back to
the Whitney, it can’t be coincidence that the frame around the window matches
the bar and painted stripe.
No, of course not. The window is definitely an element in the vocabulary. And there are only a few others in that
space: the floor, the disintegration of light over the space, the ceiling. Of those the
disintegration of the light was probably the most appealing aspect for me. The light is a subject that goes through this amazing exercise before your eyes, which the scrim then multiplies...sometimes opaque, sometimes transparent.
It’s interesting that
your show coincided with Turrell’s
at the Guggenheim – both involving space, light, iconic architecture….
But it’s not fair to compare Turrell’s current work with
something I did 35 years ago—35 years is a long time in a life. And when I did
it, it was like I threw a rock in a pond and there were no ripples. Now it’s a cause
célèbre; it just took that amount of time to get back to
me. The same with a column I made in 1971, that's just now found a home in the San Diego Federal Courthouse.
I can understand why, though. At the exhibition I saw at
Chicago’s MCA in 1975, you did two pieces: the scrim wedge and one that was
simply—to my mind at the time—a black bar running around the floor. I was
hugely affected by the scrim piece, but it was too early in my life as an
artist for me to understand the other. Now I would get it in a flash. Maybe
people are just catching up.
Robert Irwin, Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago, 1975.
Further reading: Carol Diehl, "Robert Irwin: Doors of Perception," Art in America, December, 1999.
Further reading: Carol Diehl, "Robert Irwin: Doors of Perception," Art in America, December, 1999.
