Fischli and Weiss, Der Lauf Der Dinge (The Way Things Go), video, 30′, 1987

Honda Ad, 2003

OK Go – This Too Shall Pass, 2009

I remember the choreographer João Fiadeiro once showing Fischli & Weiss’s work during some seminar or workshop and talking about what in his mind made it so impressive: necessity. Although it might seem like anything can happen, what happens is exactly what needs to happen. A tautology that evolves in time? But isn’t any proof precisely that – a dynamic tautology?
So is it because it’s a proof that it’s so appealing?
A proof of what?
Of how things go, we are tempted to say.
Which, of course, is just silly talk. It’s precisely because things don’t go this way that we enjoy it so much. It’s because the unexpected becomes necessary.

What about this “evolution”? The work of art turned into a commercial turned into a music video. Don’t expect any moral judgement on that. Actually, I enjoyed all three videos.
We could discuss the question of authorship. But we won’t. (Fischli & Weiss threatened to sue Honda).
Here’s what I’ve been pondering on: what exactly are the differences?
Because, once you’ve accepted that they’re all in the same category (actually, this type of inventions is called either Heath Robinson contraptions (UK), or (more commonly) Rube Goldberg Machines (US) and have been in popular culture at least since the beginning of the 20th century), you can see into how very different they are.
So what makes it an art project, a commercial, a music video?
If we turn the volume off, what changes?
If we put music, or switch it from one video to another?
The timing, the materials, the way things go and pass.
What sort of universe appears in each of them?
Yes, that’s precious: they each have their own universe. They are entities. You can easily find yourself around them, with their texture, their dynamics, their smell…
One more thing: aren’t they each hiding in their specific ways this very basic urge for things to make sense?
If that is so, it’s beyond necessity or discovery. It’s the comfort of order. The sense that somewhere beyond the frame, things are just waiting to come into action, to move into view. And their potential is already in perfect harmony with the moment when they will become what they are meant to be. The best of possible worlds.
It shouldn’t come as a surprize that these delicately balancing certainties remind us of childhood.

Do you know Tino Sehgal? You know, the artist that doesn’t allow any pictures taken of his works? And doesn’t write any introduction, or artist statement? Or make written agreements with museums? That wants no material artifacts in his works?
Does it matter what the works are?
They are performative. More: they are performances. They are people doing things in exhibition spaces. They are things happening with people within an exhibition framework.
They could be happening to others (say, someone kissing). Or to you (say, someone talking with you).
You might never discover which part was the work. Yet somehow, you often do.

Once again: Does it matter what the works are? Once you experience something, what good is the analysis?
But we are pretty smart animals. We may experience, and still want to think about it. We may want to decide what we think, and if we will go to see this thing again or not. We may rework this experience in our mind until we decide, say, that this is just not enough. That a good ice-cream would have done the job. Or a meeting with a friend. Or both combined. Maybe in a museum. Maybe accompanied by a stranger, having a conversation about progress. The luxury of conversational art. Now isn’t that progressive.

Then again, what is wrong with living a series of perfectly good conversations put into a gentle, clean formal frame? Can’t we just accept this? What is it that makes one (me) so voracious?
Is it the fact I’ve never actually seen a Sehgal, done a Sehgal?
Isn’t the picture enough?
Or the reviews that seem to make a huge effort in taking the mimetic weight off the image and putting some of it on words?
Paradoxically, all the effort put into keeping it live seem to make us focus not on the thing, but on this very effort. Would Tino Sehgal be at the Guggenheim had he allowed taking pictures? So what exactly is the work, here? How come I feel it so clearly, if it’s all about presence? Or am I just feeling its double, its fake, the afterthought? But isn’t that crucial in experience? Doesn’t that re-constitute the experience once it is over? Can one re-construct something one did not experienced in the first place?
You would have to have been there. The most dreaded sentence in the world. What are we supposed to do with it? Take a hidden snapshot?

Tino Sehgal is on at the New York Guggenheim until March 10.

Bloodshedding pieces of black-and-white happiness.
The unfair balance of the picture.

The wider picture. The bloody wider picture always giving it the color that wasn’t there in the first place.
Notice: the wider picture is never the first place. It comes as we back up, until we are nowhere to be found, impressed by the relation of the Thing with that wide horizon, that swift encompassing of the Other into the Thing.

The unfair balance of the picture. Nothing should ever be framed. Frames should be prohibited, forcing us into oblivion, into focusing on the End nearest us. Who knows how many Santa Clauses are necessary?

The unfair balance of the picture.

The pictures are by, in order of appearance, Diane Arbus, Miko?aj Chylak, Diane Arbus, Fischli & Weiss.

Bloodshedding pieces of black-and-white happiness.
The unfair balance of the picture.

The wider picture. The bloody wider picture always giving it the color that wasn’t there in the first place.
Notice: the wider picture is never the first place. It comes as we back up, until we are nowhere to be found, impressed by the relation of the Thing with that wide horizon, that swift encompassing of the Other into the Thing.

The unfair balance of the picture. Nothing should ever be framed. Frames should be prohibited, forcing us into oblivion, into focusing on the End nearest us. Who knows how many Santa Clauses are necessary?

The unfair balance of the picture.

The pictures are by, in order of appearance, Diane Arbus, Miko?aj Chylak, Diane Arbus, Fischli & Weiss.

What is it that we like about simplicity? Is it not that it’s close to us? It is attainable, like something that is nearly us. Or, to put it differently – an it that almost makes it into me. Thus, an imaginary community. Yes, if I dared, I would say simplicity gives us an imaginary community. A universe we don’t need to adhere to, as it has already adhered to us.

The video, directed by Johannes Nyholm, is both a music video for Little Dragon, and a pilot of Nyholm’s short film Dreams from The Woods.

Two pictures from the Visit series (2007/8) by Filip Berendt.
The idea is so simple and to the point that it is irritating. Berendt put an ad in a newspaper saying he wants to make installations in people’s homes out of the things he finds there and take pictures of them. Some people answered. He went to their homes, and, well, did what he said he would do.
The series won him the Sittcomm award last year.

Le Monde des Montagnes (The World of Mountains), an ECAL graduate project by Camille Scherrer

Nothing to stop us from getting lost. From deciding we no longer belong here, and using all our knowledge and craft to make this place just confusing enough to dream.
Be it an augmented reality, be it a book, a picture that can actually be moving. Be it our imposing of what’s in our head, or rather, what dropped by for just a second, only to fool us into believing we own it, we are it.
Nothing to stop us from finding our way. With every single hesitating step we so confidently make into this our augmented reality, with more of you than I could ever have hoped for, with less of me than you would expect, with just enough of us to get the picture.
And move on. As if nothing really happened. As if.

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I love the CRA$H jewellery collection by Super Fertile because it’s impossible to wear. Poor people can’t afford it. Rich people would never dare.
So who is it for?
For us, of course.

Remember Al Magnus?

Nadja Bournonville, A Form of Protection (2008)

What I like most are the hands.
And the neck.
It’s tense. See the two lines suavely drawing their way into the chest. And the hands, a pianist’s hands, playing out their protagonism, exploring the absent look to shine, and yet tense, they remain, maybe, it’s what they hold, and not who?

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