SEWING FRIENDSHIP AND ART

with Sylvia Salazar Simpson, Allan Kaprow, Judy Fiskin, Peter Kirby

 

and Richard Tuttle getting rid of frames and capital letters:

“ art is not a copy of nature but an extension

how to make this extension concrete

it will be absolutely not be prethought
(absolutely not be absolutely)

the one an extension of the other without reference to priority ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SYLVIA SALAZAR SIMPSON, Eggs Verbal A / Z , 1973, Courtesy of the artist

 

THE TABLE FIRST OR THE EGGS? THE WORDS OR THE PAGE?

by Rosanna Albertini

Sylvia made me aware of the sensuality of language. Of shameless decay as a mystery, a smelling, progressive alteration of fruits and flowers and things with flesh, or leaves.
She taught me to honor a molding lemon as well as the ashes of her burned out house. She made small altars with the remains, friendly places where other abandoned objects could be added over the years, tricky homes hiding the prick of cactus spines. They dislike to be touched.

Sylvia became the best companion for playing at life, pointing out to me how life becomes “life,” “something that floats, outside of time, in our thoughts.” Allan Kaprow. Kaprow had been one of her teachers at Cal Arts, CA, she was already mother of two. They remained friends to the end of his life. I also became his friend, having married Peter Kirby who worked with him for years, and cherished him like very few. Allan Kaprow allowed Sylvia to see herself as an artist, a mother and wife embracing “life,” the an-artist life. But she was not confused about the ungraspable separation between art and life, and built her own experience. Never gave up with physicality. Sewed uncooked eggs to the table, wore shoes made with celery, strawberries or ice cream, pinned into her ankles and feet. She made books with sugar, or paprika, or oregano attached to their pages. Imposed to them the destiny of decay.

SYLVIA SALAZAR SIMPSON, Imitations, 1977  Courtesy of the artist

About twenty years ago, one of the many days of playing at life with Sylvia, she introduced me to Judy Fiskin’s photographs, I vaguely remember they were at LACMA. It was such a surprise to discover photographic miniatures, of a kind I had never seen. Such a pleasure for the beginning of my new American life. As pleasurable as cooking and eating with Sylvia, mixing Mexican and Italian traditions, sharing pain and joy, as life brought them to us.

There is something amusing and embarrassing about the work” — wrote Sylvia Salazar Simpson years ago. These books’ pages don’t carry words, nor images. Each book is a physical story going bad and smelly over time. “Can you fold the page please? That’s the ritual.” “Disgusting? Why?” Any repulsion disappears when the most terrible things are written words. A jelly beans-bacon-pearl page should be sucked, read by the lips, by the same voracious tongue of a newborn exploring surfaces around her before names appear.

Art only needs an alien space to physically exist. The Sugar Book, the Spit Book? What do they mean if the book is a tongue as rough as a cat’s, black sandpaper growing Tylenol at the heart of chewed bubble gum. “Can you fold the page please?” Can you touch what your brain has produced, who knows if it is human or not it must be but it does not perfectly fit. Art is not an experiment. Sylvia Salazar Simpson’s books are flowers lying on old stems torn from the ground of history, on pieces of wood soaked with tar, cut for the railroad. They can’t hurt.

SYLVIA SALAZAR SIMPSON, Blue Sugar Book, 1997   Photo: Hannah Kirby

We have in common a passion for natural growing: trees, bushes, and flowers. The first art piece made by Sylvia that she shared with me by giving me a picture of it, was of a group of trees she had to abandon, when moving from their Los Olivos ranch. And the art was a gesture, of wrapping them with clothes and fabrics as if covering them for the winter, adding decorations to their trunk, or letting them know how much she cared for them, which is the same thing. I’m sure they understood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bibliography

Allan Kaprow, Essays on The Blurring of Art and Life, University of California press, 1993

Richard Tuttle, In Parts, 1998-2001  Institute of Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, © 2001 Richard Tuttle;  2001 the authors.

 

 

CHRIS BURDEN: YOU CANNOT SEE ME

BUT I AM HERE

From Dallas to Los Angeles, flying with Chris Burden twenty years ago and now — by Rosanna Albertini

He had prepared us knowing that we would have hardly taken him seriously. People rushing toward everything that looks new, like the rats following the magic flute, aren’t likely to easily accept Chris Burden and his art. At the opening of Metropolis II, at LACMA, was a Chris lingering about the entrance seriously tempted to disappear: “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled.

He had never given the public permission to devour his image. Art for him is not about the artist, not a matter of science or opinion, it is a gesture, an act that liberates from exterior superfluous things. And of course it’s human making, playing and replaying everything that has already been done, including death.

Chris Burden’s last piece is lighter than air, an airship prisoner of the room, turning around like an idea filled with helium, driven by a motor, “It keeps going, that’s okay,” Chris would say. Then, “It is good, maybe it is not art.”

Chris Burden, ODE TO SANTOS-DUMONT at Lacma, May 15, 2015  Video by Peter Kirby

TEXT by CHRIS BURDEN     Alberto Santos-Dumont is considered the father of aviation in France. He flew am airship held aloft with a hydrogen-filled balloon to cruise the boulevards of Paris at the turn of the century. In 1901 he won the coveted Deutsch de la Meurthe Prize when he flew his airship around the Eiffel Tower. I have been inspired by the imagination and experimentation of Santos-Dumont. 

Through the inspiration os santos-Dumont airship, I enlisted master machinist John Biggs to handcraft a quarter-scale replica of a 1903 De Dion gasoline motor. After working on and testing the motor for seven years, the motor was completed and functional in 2010. In 2014, after much experimentation with propellers, building the gondola out of aluminum Erector parts, installing the engine and mounting mechanisms, and after working with a balloon manufacturer to produce the cigar-shaped balloon, we employed our knowledge of engineering and physics to realize the sculpture Ode to Santos Dumont.

The airship sculpture, Ode to Santos-Dumont, is a highly balanced and refined mechanism. The airship travels indoors in a sixty-foot circle. It is tethered from the inboard side with very thin, almost invisible threads to central hard points in the ceiling and the ground. The balloon is filled with helium to neutral buoyancy and the motor is just powerful enough to push the balloon in a sixty-foot circle. If the airship were to deviate from its sixty-foot circle, the geometry of the tethers would force the balloon to turn in a smaller, tighter circle, which would cause the motor to work harder. As a result, the airship and its motor always seek the sixty-foot circle, which is the path of least resistance, or the sweet spot. The sculpture Ode to Santos-Dumont was made possible through the ability, incisiveness and good nature, determination, and patience of master craftsman and inventor John Biggs.

CHRIS BURDEN, B-Car, 1975

CHRIS BURDEN, B-Car, 1975

He has rebuilt the physical model of the wheel, recreated the original television, and in the B-car the essential automobile; a flying kayak preceded this fluttering airship; broken glasses became huge ships hung from the ceiling, maybe the waves’ memory congealed and preserved. All the submarines of the United States of America pretending to be a flock of birds in flight. Not objects, ideas one by one, at slow pace, took shape in one man’s mind, in a body anxious to know more than the mind, to physically think and touch realities we normally avoid: pain, fear and their sources.

“You can make your tombstone out of cardboard, but then the graveyard won’t look real, will it?”

“What’s real?“

“What does it cost to do that?”

“Art is not easy.”

“I do not eat, you are not eating me, but if you don’t have any relationship with me, I can die.”

Question and answer, all from Chris Burden’s mouth. Hung from his voice, I wrote them down while preparing the longest lecture I ever gave, — two days long — for The Museum of Modern Art in Bolzano, in Italy. Bill Viola was the artist representing the U.S. at the Venice Biennale in 1995. “Who lost?” Pierluigi Siena asked me, the museum’s director. “Chris Burden,” I replied. Both artists being mostly unknown in Italy, Siena asked me to present everything I could about their art and show all the images (slides at the time and videos) in two uninterrupted days. Siena immediately printed the lectures in a small book and personally brought a pile of books to the American Pavilion in Venice.

CHRIS BURDEN, The Big Wheel, 1979

CHRIS BURDEN, The Big Wheel, 1979

CHRIS BURDEN, The Ship- O-Cork, 1983

CHRIS BURDEN, The Ship- O-Cork, 1983

CHRIS BURDEN, All the Submarines of the United States of America, 1987

CHRIS BURDEN, All the Submarines of the United States of America, 1987

 (Still images from Chris Burden, A Video Portrait, by Peter Kirby and Dan Zimbaldi, 1989)

Early nineties, Dallas Airport. Coming from Italy, heading to Los Angeles. The few travelers sitting at the gate looked tired. We did not want to be there. The round head of a man turned, his eyes trapped in the airport’s anonymous waiting boredom. “Are you Chris Burden?” I asked. Surprised, “Yes, but…how do you know?” he answered. “I saw your face in a documentary made by Peter Kirby. Peter is my companion.”

Friendly meetings followed, with Peter and Nancy Rubins, Chris’ wife. And a lot of work, to prepare the Bolzano marathon. Chris offered to go through all his work with me, at my house. Beyond expectations! I accepted. The first day we were supposed to meet and work, I was very nervous. Instead of waiting at my desk, I started gardening. An odd feeling took me at a certain moment, but the bell hadn’t rung. I rushed to the door, Chris was mysteriously walking away. “Chris,” I called, quite upset. He turned back and walked to the door with no words, the work started. I always thought it was magic magnetism … do you know what I mean? Surprise like a lamp in his eyes, kindness, feline freedom, clear honesty. That’s why his art is hung on infinity, I can’t feel him dead.

“I thought: a few minutes of performance, that I will never redo… it becomes a myth.”

CHRIS BURDEN, Ode to Santos Dumont, 2015

CHRIS BURDEN, Ode to Santos Dumont, 2015          Photo: Peter Kirby