Pay Attention Mother Fuckers

by Heidi Zuckerman Jacobson, Director and Chief Curator

 

“I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.”¹

At their best, people and works of art allow a reprieve from the blindness with which we traditionally see our world. When the white blindness that has afflicted all of the characters except the doctor’s wife in José Saramago’s novel Blindness finally abates, she reasons, “Why did we become blind, I don’t know, perhaps one day we’ll find out, Do you want me to tell you what I think, Yes, do, I don’t think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.”² What is the root cause of the blindness in Saramago’s book? For his characters it is endemic. It affects all but one of them. The one who can see is left to witness the acts of the others. Unbeknownst to them, she becomes not only their sight, but also the recorder of their actions, the consciousness of the collective. Literary scholars have suggested that the blindness is in fact of a pathology or failure of consciousness. Saramago illustrates how quickly society breaks down when the ability to see beyond the tangible vanishes and hope abates. The metaphor resonates today, asking why—and what—can we not see?

Ad Reinhardt said, “The boundaries of seeing, like the perceptible aspects of nature or outer space, seem to extend as indefinitely as man’s experience and experiments can take them. Art teaches people how to see.”³ Reinhardt’s Black Paintings seem at first to be vast fields of pure blackness. Their apparent absence of pictorial interest challenges the dismissive assumptions of the traditional art viewer. If, however, the viewer looks harder and longer than they might initially feel compelled, sometimes subtle grids or other shades of color appear.⁴ Standing and peering deep into the frame, allowing oneself to be comfortable with the blackness, facilitates a glimpse into the dark depths of one’s soul and access to the space of fear, unknowing, and death. The Black Paintings offer perspective on the longevity of vision, commitment to seeing, and opportunity to transcend the immediate. They reward the persistent. Their magnificence is, however, often overlooked by viewers too quick, skeptical, or blind to see.

 

That Reinhardt’s paintings—absent of imagery—are elevated to the status of art can also arouse suspicion. From the adoption of the readymade by Marcel Duchamp to contemporary performances by Tino Seghal, it is understandable that many people feel as if they are being duped as claims of transcendence are made for these relatively unassuming aesthetic acts. Walter Benjamin wrote about the “aura” of works of art, how they can be imbued with an animate energy. When General Colin Powell endorsed Senator Barack Obama for the presidency, he cited the latter’s “transformational quality,” an ability to excite change heretofore unimagined. That magic is attracting. It dissipates skepticism and breeds hope.

The embodied magic of the artworks included in Now You See It counters the condition of blindness. When something stops being what it was before—dust, string, felt, even looking—and becomes something else, becomes art. A fissure forms.

Now You See It draws upon unconventional notions of transformation—like alchemy and magic—as a way of understanding this process as more than simply an elevation of base materials. As viewers, we hope for magic, against its impossibility. Yet, of course, it occurs. We know that human perception is a jerry-rigged apparatus, full of gaps, easily manipulated. People have a pronounced tendency to miss things that are happening right in front of them. We do not take in our surroundings so much as actively and constantly construct them. At a major conference in Las Vegas last year, psychologists argued that magicians have been engaging in cutting-edge, if informal, research into how we see and comprehend the world around us,⁵ and that a better understanding of magicians and their techniques could offer insight into the behavioral and neural basis of consciousness itself.⁶

There is a particular kind of experience that is provoked by aesthetic indeterminacy around material appearance. Now You See It is about the magical moment of transformation and what happens to the viewer in the presence of such uncertainty. The viewer may experience something and nothing, dismissal and hope, epiphany and failure.

Some people believe only in the tactile, the here and now, and that any sort of “now you don’t” is pure illusion. Others believe in the ability to know the unseen. The search for something outside our immediate reality extends across time and belief. In an essay on shamanist magic, writer Michael Taussig acknowledges that “the real skill of the practitioner lies not in skilled concealment but in the skilled revelation of skilled concealment. . . . Hence, power flows not from masking but from an unmasking which masks more than masking does.”⁷ By letting the viewer in on the secret, the magic of the secret is further reinforced. This magical transformation occurs simultaneously across visuality and consciousness. What you see morphs, by an alchemical process of visuality, into something more than it was initially.

Visibility and visual recognition are intimately connected to our understanding of an object’s materiality. But how do we know what an object “is,” of what it is really made? Although this question is often posed as a struggle between content and form, Now You See It features work that forces us to reexamine our basic assumptions about how we interpret the essence of an artwork’s materials. Ralph Rugoff wrote that “art . . . ultimately exists through our thought and reflection, and in the unseen spaces that we carry within us. [A]rt . . . lives on in the uses we make of it—a potentially endless process by which, conceivably, we can alter the ways we see the world and shape the world we see.”⁸ Addressing temporality, immediacy, and perception, Now You See It is an exhibition about absence and presence, being and nothingness, simultaneous duality, literalism, the thing as itself and something else altogether.

Wade Guyton’s untitled Epson UltraChrome inkjet on linen works are the contemporary equivalent of Reinhardt’s Black Paintings. Their large, human scale creates a dark plane of space into which the viewer can visually meld. The works seem to be created almost as if by mistake. The mechanically produced “paintings” are made with a computer printer that allows the ink to build, leak, and get dragged and tracked across the linen.⁹ Presented with more of this overwhelming blackness, accidentally created, the viewer has an opportunity to see the choice of blindness itself as the mistake.

In Saramago’s text, the blindness was white, rather then black. Known for making white paintings, Robert Ryman’s works can be seem as a rejoinder to the blackness of Reinhardt and Guyton. A substantial portion of Now You See It examines the use of particular mediums scaled back to their basic qualities. Ryman presents paint as paint, exploring the materials and properties of what makes a painting a painting.¹⁰ The artist asks: how are paintings made, what are they made of, how are they installed in gallery and museum spaces, and how are these works experienced by those who encounter them? He exploits and explores a selective range of paintings’ inherent and contextual qualities, including surface, support, medium, placement before the viewer, and, importantly, color, to gain the answers.¹¹ Ryman’s paintings reveal their making. He often makes the hanging systems of his works visible and significant, extending his creative exploration beyond the edges of the picture plane. The metal fasteners and Scotch tape he uses serve both a practical and an aesthetic purpose, linking the paintings to the rest of the world and challenging traditional notions of the frame and pictorial space.¹² By extending the paintings into the realm of the viewer, they impact and affect that space. If the pictorial space expands infinitely, does art thereby consequently, and hopefully positively, impact the social space of life?

Light can also be blinding. The entire photographic process depends on light, and Walead Beshty captures its essence magnificently. His photographs depict their own making, revealing the magic of their creation. Beshty folds up photographic paper and exposes it to light. The paper is then unfolded and processed, creating abstract planes of color (or darkness) intersecting with blankness. The white spaces literally illustrate the void into which the light failed to travel.

Gedi Sibony has been termed “an alchemist of the everyday.”¹³ He takes seemingly valueless domestic construction materials and transforms them into something else, something sometimes aesthetic, sometimes surprising, sometimes magical. Sibony works with carpet, garbage bags, foam insulation, MDF, hollow-core doors, sticks, and levelor blinds. Many are castoffs, chosen for their familiarity and ubiquity, and patched together into haphazard forms.¹⁴ Despite the beauty and seduction of the resulting objects, inherent in the work is the impossibility of actual transformation. You hope what you see is more than what it actually is. You believe that objects assembled by someone with a specific intention can cause a transformation, an imbuing of aura into something culled from the mundane. You hope all of this while acknowledging that it probably will not, probably can not. But, still, there is an open ended question, a maybe. How great it would be, that possibility to be conjured? As such, Sibony’s work tests the limits of your faith in art, while simultaneously renewing it.¹⁵

As part of an ongoing interaction between artists Robert Morris and John Cage, the latter attempted to impress upon Morris the observation that “most of what happens never was in anybody’s mind.”¹⁶ While Cage was comfortable with a reductive simplicity regarding the interaction between viewer and object, Morris needed to maintain a consciousness-based element to his work.¹⁷ But the question of just where the consciousness is located is perhaps more compelling. Can it be located within the object, or just within the viewer? Is its presence important, or is it the idea of its presence that is important? Is the existence identified through its absence?

Morris’s felt work Vetti V (1993) [page 33] cascades down the wall and pools on the floor, challenging the thick, structured fabric to flow elegantly with the quality of a wholly different substance. Peeled away at the center, the work reveals first gray, then pink, and suggests the interior of a feminine form, despite Morris’s commitment to Minimalism’s non-referential stance.

 

Lawrence Weiner has stated that art is about material objects. Many of the artists included in the exhibition are concerned with the role that art objects play in the world. Weiner has said, “Art, when it’s placed into the context of the world, is not just used in the context of what we know as art history; it is an attempt to place material which could be used to enrich the daily lives of other human beings.”¹⁸ Weiner’s A 36” X 36” REMOVAL TO THE LATHING OR SUPPORT WALL OF PLASTER OR WALL BOARD FROM A WALL (1968) [page 35] directly acknowledges the basis of visuality and art. The work is simply the removal of a square piece of a gallery wall, intended to reveal what is underneath. It is dumb geometry. The work is both humorous and insightful, addressing how and what we see, as well as what lies waiting to be seen just under the surface.

 

Fred Sandback has explained that when he began to use string, “I want[ed] to be able to make sculpture that didn’t have an inside.” He explored phenomenological geometry, adding, “I don’t see various sculptures so much as being discrete objects. . . . The idea was to have the work right there along with everything else in the world. . . . It had utopian glimmerings of art and life happily cohabiting.”¹⁹ Because Sandback’s sculptures are so visually subtle, the moment they appear to the viewer creates a fissure. The art has existed in the space of the viewer, unnoticed, until a precise moment. The accompanying recognition produces the moment of consciousness.

 

Ceal Floyer’s witty conceptualism is manifested in exceedingly simple optical plays. In Door (1995) [page 39], Floyer points a slide projector at the base of an interior door, throwing a horizontal band of light along the bottom edge. The subtlety of the effect is that it appears as if the light is emanating from the other side rather then from superficial projection. In the video Ink on Paper (video) (1999) [page 41], the artist puts a marker to paper and lets all of the ink bleed out. The circle of ink radiates outward. The duration of the work is the amount of ink in the pen.

 

In a 1997 interview, Tom Friedman remarked, “I was thinking about how one’s knowledge of the history behind something affects one’s thinking about that thing.“ That year he completed 1,000 Hours of Staring (1992–97) [page 43], in which he spent more than one thousand hours staring at a thirty-two-inch-square piece of white paper. Not only does he explore how the meaning of an ordinary object is transformed by contextual information,²⁰ but he creates a work of magical minimalism in which the viewer must ascertain the veracity of the object solely through his or her own system of belief. Perception—including the limits of our senses and how our brain is hardwired to make sense of our daily environment—is central to Friedman’s practice.²¹ Only once an object is placed in a gallery does it obtain significance. When that object is something not usually elevated as such, the viewer can come away puzzled. Two by Four (1990) [page 45] is a two-by-four, leaned against the wall, and painted to look exactly like itself. Its placement in the gallery, coupled with the trompe l’oeil finish, causes the viewer to pause. Floyer and Friedman both pursue a phenomenological dumbness.

 

Jennifer West exposes film to a variety of physical and chemical circumstances and encounters. The titles of her works hint at these processes, and they reveal the application of unusual materials to the emulsion. Green M&M’s & Mezcal Worm Film (70MM film leader with a mescal worm dragged over the surface—imprinted with hundreds of green M&M’s) (2008) [page 49] projects an abstract field of green worms and dots. West’s works record the performative nature of her process. The actions she takes are implicit in creating the works and imbuing them with a physical, as well as organic, residue. West has stated, “Film is inherently alchemical, as it’s made of layers of emulsion that are exposed to light or in my case, anything I want, that then produces ‘gold’ in the form of mesmerizing, colorful images.”²²

 

Erwin Wurm uses materials that embody characteristics of prior use, thereby becoming visual tools by which resemblance can be organized and identified.²³ The artist explains the origin of his use of everyday materials as a response to financial constraints when he was a student. He was forced to work with inexpensive materials, things discarded by other people, including clothing and even dust.²⁴ Wurm uses dust to record absence. It is a way of referencing both time and memory. As Walter Benjamin has observed, we see the new within the always-the-same and the always-the-same within the new. Wurm accomplishes this by suggesting a new reality when material is re-formed.²⁵

 

Rudolf Stingel’s Untitled (2002) [page 55], a shimmering, silver monochrome, is actually a large piece of Celotex insulation board. The imperfections scratched into the surface are the result of viewer interaction. Using coins, keys, pencils, or anything else that can be found, people leave the residue of their presence in the form of graffiti-like markings. Stingel complicates the Modernist form of large-scale monochromatic painting, trading paint on canvas for material that is significantly mundane and potentially even toxic. Stingel’s material reveals its own history while simultaneously conveying the active role that we as viewers can play in transformation, physical as well as conscious.

 

The idea of transformation is at the heart of Wolfgang Laib’s practice. Laib utilizes natural materials such as pollen, milk, and beeswax, removed from their natural environment, in order to illuminate their essence. He has said, “I think the better the art is . . . the more it really makes a change to something else.”²⁶ In thinking about human progress, Laib eloquently stated, “From day to day or year to year it may have been the politicians who marched into another country or did this and that, but eventually it was culture which somehow brought mankind to somewhere else.”²⁷

 

Laib’s Milkstones appear to be solid pieces of pure white marble. With quite careful viewing it is possible to notice that the surface is not static, but rather a finely balanced concavity created from milk poured to the exact point of suspension. When we realize that something is not as we previously thought it to be, the opportunity for transcendence occurs. This possibility—and its always-present counter, impossibility—sanctions the notion that art can, as Laib posits, positively change the world.

 

Felix Gonzalez-Torres works with objects just as they are: lightbulbs and plastic beads. He leaves the installation and even the sourcing of the materials to the exhibitor. The light strands evoke varied references—from safety to spirituality to impermanence—depending on how they are installed, either suspended from the ceiling or lying on the floor, indoors or outside, stretched out in a clean line or messily gathered. Gonzalez-Torres’s works are inspired by everyday events, personal biography, and the challenges of late-twentieth-century life.²⁸ In an interview with Robert Nickas, the artist stated, “Meaning is created once something can be related to personal experience.”²⁹ Gonzalez-Torres creates works that necessitate viewer participation. By generously offering the viewer a role in the work, both in its perception and in the construction of its meaning, the experience becomes deeply personal.

 

Dieter Roth is also known for utilizing pedestrian materials, although often he employs elements prone to decomposition, questioning their nature and sustainability: cheese, chocolate, rabbit droppings, tar, glue, cocoa powder, sour milk, moldy foods, and licorice sticks, among them. By employing found objects, Roth facilitates the viewer’s remembrance of their past use and function. The resulting insight into the choices of materials allows the viewer to align his or her perception with that of the artist.³⁰ Because the viewer recognizes what he or she is looking at materially, the perceptual acknowledgment of visual alchemy is resounding. Roth’s is a mythic materiality.

 

Alexandra Bircken assembles natural elements, such as sticks and twigs, and wraps them with brightly colored yarn. Often suspended from the ceiling or attached to the wall, these orblike objects resemble tumors, growths, or other biomorphic disfigurations, camouflaged by aestheticized decoration.

 

Similar to Alexandra Bircken, Anna Sew Hoy employs and combines diverse materials in an idiosyncratic way. The focuses of her works are odd circular ceramic elements through and upon which other elements are added, threaded, or suspended. She utilizes chains and denim to create works that are simultaneously anthropomorphic—visually as well as with titles such as Heart (2007) [page 73] and Two Eyes (2007) [page 75]—and abstract. Each hangs on the wall supported by a single screw, evoking a Native American dream catcher, your car and house keys, or a character from an L. Frank Baum novel. As Hoy herself has commented, “I zoom in on the object and try to give it a new life, realize its potential to be transformed and to achieve new meaning or significance.”³¹

 

Mitzi Pederson utilizes simple, raw materials and combines them in unexpected, enchanting ways. Untitled (2008) [page 77] bears an intriguing relationship to Friedman’s Two by Four, as here Pederson also uses a piece of wood that is leaned against a wall. Pederson’s wood is just that, though, with the subtle addition of silver leaf. Another untitled work, made of a cinder block, wood, sand, glue, and string, is intentionally modest in its materials, while mimicking classical modernist sculptural forms. Its charm lies in the small length of blue string that stretches across the vertical lengths. Its extension and connection are more like an elegant spider’s web than a piece of structural support. Pederson transforms these utilitarian materials through the additive nature of collage. The items she uses are the things themselves but, together, become something altogether more.

 

The work that William O’Brien created specifically for Now You See It suggests a complex, insular world engulfed by a dark cover. A grouping of mildly figurative objects cowers together on a low, black table set against a cosmically oriented drawing. While

the image could suggest a poetic nightscape, it also recalls the blindness, here black rather than white, of Saramago. Again the notion of rewarding a lingering view is evoked. One’s engagement deepens beyond the initial seduction. Sometimes, when you stare at a work of art, you leave the place in which you have been and end up somewhere previously unimaginable.

 

There are many other artists who could have been included in this exhibition. Michael Asher used compressors in 1966–67 to create a series of works that consisted of columns or planes of accelerated air and which could be sited in a gallery or museum in reference to existing architectural elements. Developed out of the artist’s questioning of standard viewer-object relationships, these works—which visitors would perceive only when walking through them—subtly altered and annotated existing pathways through an exhibition space.³² Robert Barry’s gas works utilized “invisibility as a means of evoking something immeasurable and without limit—the sublime realm of the unseen.”³³ Seeing is often believing. We want to be shown evidence to verify truth. Barry plays into the possibilities inherent in knowledge that exclude seeing. As viewers, we must believe that Barry has done what he said he did. He introduces trust. Once inside the asylum, Saramago’s characters, now blind, must trust in things that they also cannot see. The blindness necessitates turning to other means to navigate their existences. Vik Muniz defines art as a subtle connection between mind and matter. He re-creates iconic images while simultaneously revealing and debasing the process of their making.³⁴ Speaking during his abstract period, Philip Guston said, “The trouble with recognizable art is that it excludes too much.” Guston is saying that what you see is what you see, and art provides the opportunity to communicate something more. If we are blind to our everyday life—due to its banality or repetition—art can facilitate a fissure, revealing something more, revealing vision itself. Asher, Barry, Muniz, and Guston are all engaging the process of celebrating the intangible, embracing the unknown, unseen, and unrecognizable as magical spaces equipped to celebrate the transformative qualities of art.

 

Conversely, Kurt Schwitters’s assemblages made from scraps of refuse—what he termed “Merz”—have been called “Psychological Collage.” These works were usually collages incorporating found objects and making humorous allusion to current events.³⁵ Without the influence of Schwitters, the work of O’Brien, Sibony, Pederson, and Hoy, among others, does not seem possible.

Seeing is intimately connected to our notions of truth, and in fact it underpins our belief in the world around us. As Rugoff noted, the bias toward the visual reached an apotheosis of sorts in the mid-1960s when Frank Stella formulated his famous “What you see is what you see” credo. One of the pioneers of Minimalism, Stella declared that in his paintings there was nothing “besides the paint on the canvas” and insisted that “only what can be seen there is there.”³⁶ His perspective seems to come right out of Ryman’s own insistences.

 

Describing the rationale of her work, Louise Bourgeois said in an interview with Paulo Herkenhoff, “It is all there because of the energy. Passing from one state to another, or the transformations.”³⁷ She also recognizes, at the core of her work, “The resistance of the material corresponds to the insistence on coming to the core of the matter, it is an exact replica of the compulsion to understand.”³⁸ Those efforts to see, know, be seen, and be known are a driving force for effort, interaction, and creation in art and in life.

 

Jasper Johns stated, “Do something, do something to that, and then do something to that.” His efforts were directed at transformation of both need and notion. Within and among art we can find parameters for a better life. Bruce Nauman, in one of his first neon works from 1967, proclaims a private thought to the general public and utilizes a medium identified with commercial visual culture to make art that did not look like art: “The true artists helps the world by revealing mystic truths.” Five years later, he created a limited-edition print that can be understood as a mantra for art that demands your awareness: “Pay Attention Mother Fuckers.” But, if you, as the viewer, do not pay attention, what do you miss? Not only might you miss the subtle blues in a Reinhardt, the seemingly impossible balance in a Sibony, or the aura of a Friedman, you might in fact be blind to something greater, the ability to perceive beyond the here and now. Magic—whether in the sleight of hand of skilled magicians or the phenomenological play of visual artists—allows us to see it now. Once something is revealed (again) after it disappeared or was rendered invisible, the inherent value ascends. After the viewer stands in the space of unknowing, witnessing the aesthetic indeterminacy and seeking the embodied magic, what they may walk away knowing is that blindness is now an impossibility.

 

NOTES

1 John Newton, “Amazing Grace” (1779).
2 José Saramago, Blindness (CITY: PUBLISHER, YEAR), PAGE. [Complete citation TK.]
3 Ad Reinhardt quoted in Lucy Lippard, “Introduction to 557,087” in Conceptual Art: A Critical Anthology, ed. Alexander Alberro and Blake Stimson (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1999), 184.
4 New York Times art critic Holland Cotter wrote, “The primary reward [these paintings] offered was the experience of being with them, which, to be an experience . . . required patience and concentration in Holland Cotter, “Tall, Dark and Fragile,” www.nytimes.com/2008/08/01/arts/design/01blac.html (accessed August 1, 2008).
5 Drake Bennett, “How magicians control your mind: Magic isn’t just a bag of tricks—it’s a finelytuned technology for shaping what we see. How researchers are extracting its lessons,” boston.com (accessed August 3, 2008).
6 Stephen L. Macknik, Mac King, James Randi, Apollo Robbins, Teller, John Thompson, and Susana Martinez-Conde, “Attention and awareness in stage magic: Turning tricks into research,” Nature Review Neuroscience
(published online July 30, 2008), 1.
7 Anthony Huberman, “I heart X Information,” Afterall, 23.
8 Ralph Rugoff, A Brief History of Invisible Art (San Francisco: CCA Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts, 2005), 17.
9 Eva Respini, “Wade Guyton,” Greater New York 2005 (Long Island City: P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center, 2005), 172.
10 Charles Wylie, Robert Ryman (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2006), 6.
11 Ibid., 10.
12 Ibid., 57.
13 “Gedi Sibony,” New Yorker, May 26, 2008.
14 Sarah Hermanson Meister, “Gedi Sibony,” Greater New York 2005 (Long Island City: P.S.1
Contemporary Art Center, 2005), 314.
15 Gedi Sibony,” New Yorker, May 26, 2008.
16 Claes Oldenburg, Andy Warhol, Robert Morris, and Benjamin H. D. Buchloh, “Three Conversations in 1985: Claes Oldenburg, Andy Warhol, Robert Morris,” Duchamp Effect, October 70 (Autumn 1994): 64.
17 Ibid.
18 Lynne Cooke, “Lawrence Weiner Displacement,” Dia Art Foundation, http://www.diaart.org.
19 Fred Sandback, “Remarks on My Sculpture,” Dia Art Foundation, http://www.diachelsea.org.
20 Ibid., 37.
21 Ron Platt, Tom Friedman (Winston-Salem: Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art), 5.
22 Greg Kurcewicz, “Jennifer West Interview,” www.kurcewicz.co.uk/ (accessed May 23, 2008).
23 Gary Dufour, “Replenishing a Void,” in Erwin Wurm (Vienna: Wiener Secession, 1990), 33.
24 “Interview: Erwin Wurm,” www.kopenhaden.dk (accessed June 26, 2008).
25 Gary Dufour, “Replenishing a Void,” in Erwin Wurm (Vienna: Wiener Secession, 1990), 33.
26 Wolfgang Laib, Journal of Contemporary Art.
27 Darren James Jorgensen, “Wolfgang Laib: Retuning to What Is, an Interview with Wolfgang Laib,” e-maj
(July1–December 2005), 5.4.
28 Amanda Cruz, “The Means of Pleasure,” in Felix Gonzalez-Torres (Los Angeles: The Museum of
Contemporary Art, 1994), 22.
29 Ann Goldstein, “Untitled (Ravenswood),” in Felix Gonzalez-Torres (Los Angeles: The Museum of
Contemporary Art, 1994), 41.
30 Craig Saper, “Review: Dieter Roth,” Art Journal 59, no. 1 (Spring 2000): 108.
31 Asia Society, “one way or another: Asian American Art Show.”
32 Ralph Rugoff, A Brief History of Invisible Art (San Francisco: CCA Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts, 2005), 9.
33 Ibid., 11.
34 Vik Muniz: verso,” Sikkema Jenkins & Co.
35 “Kurt Schwitters,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurt_Schwitters.
36 Ralph Rugoff, A Brief History of Invisible Art (San Francisco: CCA Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts, 2005), 8.
37 Francis Morris, ed., Louise Bourgeois (Tate Modern, London, and the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles), 174.
38 Ibid.