Site-Specificity of Everyday Life - (download here)
Art Journal, Fall, 2005 by Jill Dawsey
One of the most innovative books to enter recent discussions surrounding
site-specific art, Surface Tension: Problematics of Site brings together
a diverse collection of critical and creative essays, historical accounts,
project documentations, and sound pieces (by way of an accompanying CD)
that address what might be called the site-specificity of everyday life.
Surface Tension is concerned with the permeable surfaces that delimit
internal life from the external world of public encounter, exploring the
imbricated realms of the public and the private, the physical and the
phantasmic, the extraordinary and the everyday.
The anthology is edited by Ken Ehrlich and Brandon LaBelle, both artists
and writers, who have each contributed essays, as well as a collaborative
offering entitled "Public Space," which takes the form of several
blank pages positioned midway through the book. The designation "public"
suggests that the use of such a space is presumably to be determined by
the reader, so I decided to make those pages the "site" of my
review, scribbling notes as I flipped back and forth between the chapters.
Of obviously greater significance than my own handwritten intervention
was the blankness that preceded it, which implied that it was precisely
the definition of "public" that was in question here. Indeed,
the empty place at the center of the book holds in abeyance any fixed
or fore-closed notion of what might constitute publicness, a position
that remains consistent throughout the anthology, with its heterogeneous
contributions and sometimes conflicting ideas. What emerges is a conception
of the public, and of place, that is provisional, contingent, and open
Acknowledging the varying iterations of "site" in art over the
past three decades, the editors want to insist upon its continuing use
value as a term and a category of artistic production. They describe site-specificity
historically, as an oppositional practice, paying homage to its roots
as a mode of production that, by anchoring itself to a particular place,
aimed to defy the modernist idealism of the autonomous object as well
as the logic of the market. Yet in Surface Tension, "the strictly
oppositional gives way to modes of diversity, transforming dialectical
formulations into dispersed, contested temporal positions" (19).
Many of the projects featured in the book may thus be described as "discursively
determined," to borrow Miwon Kwon's terminology for site-based practices
that have evolved away from a grounding in physical permanence or institutional
critique toward an engagement "with the outside world and everyday
life ..." (1) This is not to suggest that in Surface Tension the
physical location is always subordinate to its discursive framework. Site
is emphasized as the place of artistic production as well as of its reception--the
moment in which a work becomes public. But Ehrlich and LaBelle posit an
"inherent plurality of site itself" (22) and admit that in selecting
projects they favored diversity and disjunction, an approach they describe
as "all over the place" (21). Indeed, "site" appears
variously as: the city, the body, the built environment, automobiles,
autobiography, a vacant lot, bathroom plumbing, "sociopolitical interventions,"
the history of site-specificity, and the book itself (with its aforementioned
blank pages, shifting font sizes, and differently textured pages)--to
name just a few. In the service of providing an orientation for this sometimes
disorienting collection, the book is organized into three categories:
essays, project descriptions, and projects created specifically for the
book, including the CD of sound works curated by Stephen Vitiello.
If the editors present site-specificity as a historical form, they see
its legacy currently evidenced across disciplines, in contemporary art,
architecture, performance, and design, among other spheres of production,
noting the extent to which it has been broadly assimilated by contemporary
culture, "beyond the overtly artistic framework" (20). Accordingly,
many of the book's contributions are informed less by art-historical paradigms
or contexts than by theories of radical geography and everyday life. Particularly
influential is the work of theorists such as Michel de Certeau and Henri
Lefebvre, whose poetic sociology and eccentric Marxism (respectively)
were concerned to articulate the practices of daily life, including its
proscriptions for behavior, its possibilities for mobility and resistance,
its architecture and topography. This methodology is stated explicitly
in LaBelle's essay, which references a legacy of practices of everyday
life from the wanderings of the nineteenth-century flaneur to the aleatory
driftings of the Surrealists and Situationists and to de Certeau's and
Lefebvre's philosophical analyses--all of this as a backdrop to LaBelle's
meditations on the individual uses of space within an ever-expanding,
global, institutional framework.
One of the most compelling of the featured interventions into everyday
life is Michael Rakowitz's paraSITE, a work that provides new ways for
rethinking site, in terms both practical and poetic. In fact, paraSITE
might be seen to play upon, even to critique, recent notions of site as
"functional," multiply located, or nomadic in nature, by contrasting
these conditions with a very literal reading of "sitelessness"
as the state of being homeless. (2) Rakowitz's paraSITES are temporary
shelters made of temporary materials like plastic bags and packing tape
that attach to the exterior ventilation ducts of urban buildings, and
that the artist builds to the specifications of the homeless people with
whom he consults and collaborates. Here Rakowitz can be seen as engaging
in the de Certeauian action of poaching upon territory that belongs to
others--those who de Certeau describes as occupying the place of the "proper"
(read property). These paraSITES appear as bodily organs, wormy creatures,
podlike growths that might proliferate. Rakowitz's paraSITES recall de
Certeau's description of "an operational logic whose models may go
as far back as the age-old ruses of fishes and insects that disguise or
transform themselves in order to survive ..." (3) Though these structures
do not camouflage themselves (in fact their visual presence calls attention
to homelessness), they nevertheless capture the logic of an organism that
insinuates itself into a system, appropriating dominated spaces.
Quite a few other projects documented in Surface Tension employ a less
overtly politicized model drawn (intentionally or not) from de Certeau,
who emphasized everyday practices that appropriate spaces to ends other
than those for which they were intended. The artist collective Dispute
Resolution Services stages incongruous and frequently inexplicable interventions
in public, aiming to "make a space for an unexpected response and
the imagination of the passerby to emerge" (309). While it occurs
to me that this sort of thing might instead elicit confusion or indifference,
I was amused by DRS's creation of thirty-seven "black holes"
on the sidewalk in front of Mann's Chinese Theater in Los Angeles, involving
"William Shatner and 36 unidentified stars, covered over with just
enough pork lard to comfortably clench felt circles," a work that
may remind us, as de Certeau did, that while the culture industry seems
increasingly to dominate our lives, we are not merely passive consumers.
Jennifer Gabrys makes rather perverse use of de Certeau's celebrated essay
"Walking in the City" in her essay "Motor Chorus: Spatializing
an Automotive City," to argue for a vision of boundless "automotive
mobility," in which Angelenos might unleash the performative possibilities
of their boxy metal prostheses. De Certeau positions the idiosyncratic
meanderings of the walker against the instrumentalized urban plan, and
it might have been more in keeping with the spirit of his essay to explore
how those without a car navigate a city utterly dependent on the freeway
system. As if in response, Kim Abeles sets out on foot from her studio
in L.A. to try to get a clear view of a wedge of the San Gabriel Mountains,
walking in their direction as the crow flies, cutting through yards and
houses, climbing barbwire fences, passing under freeways. And Lize Mogel's
project Public Green distributes information about city parks inside bus
shelters around L.A., directing those who rely on public transportation
to green spaces within the city--spaces that encourage public congregation,
in contrast to the automobiles that transform their passengers into insulated
spectators of the city.
The presence in the book of so many projects devoted to the disruption
of daily life is complicated and problematized by the historical materials
and critical essays that serve as crucial reminders of the historical
inheritance these contemporary works carry. The inclusion of an important,
early interview with Gordon Matta-Clark from 1976, for example, establishes
that artist's work as a model for many of the later practices. Many follow
his "choice of dealing with ... the urban environment in general,
and building structures specifically" (44), though few embrace his
concern for medium, expressed in a memorable line that speaks wryly to
his distaste for functionalist architecture: "One of my favorite
definitions of the difference between architecture and sculpture is whether
there is plumbing or not" (43). The audio component of the book includes
rare historical recordings such as Yoko Ono's Cough Piece (1961), Bruce
Nauman's Rhythmic Stamping/Four Rhythms in Preparation for Video Tape
Problems (1969), and Terry Fox's Lunar Rambles (1976), which remind us
how much sounds can tell us about a site when those sounds emanate from
the always spatially situated body.
Kathy Battista's "Domestic Crisis: Women Artists and Derelict Houses
in South London, 1974-1998" provides a valuable historical account
of the sites in which British women artists of the 1970s exhibited their
work--abandoned buildings, makeshift women's centers, even the banks of
the Thames River--as a means to circumvent the mainstream gallery system.
Battista's narrative takes shape around the 1974 exhibition A Woman's
Place, held in what was formerly a run-down house in southwest London--British
feminism's answer to L.A.'s Womanhouse. That the participating artists
opted for underground sites and the creation of ephemeral work means that
they (perhaps inevitably) occupied a ghettoized space beyond the official
modes of reception and distribution and were by and large lost to art
history. By point of contrast, Battista invokes the 1990s practice of
YBA Tracey Emin, whose work is deeply, if blindly, indebted to the 1970s
revaluation of women's art and work. For Battista, contemporary work like
Emin's represents a shift whereby past practices that employed site-specific
tactics precisely in order to avoid the market are euphorically reappropriated,
their marginality commodified and divorced from their original historical
and political contexts.
Just when you thought that you had read everything you'd ever wanted to
read (perhaps more) on the infamous controversy surrounding the "destruction"
of Richard Serra's Tilted Arc, Juli Carson's "Two Walls: 1989"
provides an astute rereading of this chapter in history, from the extensive
public hearings to subsequent publications such as The Destruction of
Tilted Arc: Documents, published by October Books/MIT Press in 1991. Carson
argues that even as Tilted Arc aimed to negate the autonomy of the modernist
object through an embrace of the materialist conditions of its site, it
remained within a logic of transcendence, bound to the experience of the
work's presence. And as Serra attempted to defend "presence"
through his spoken testimony and written word, he unwittingly spawned
Tilted Arc as a site of discourse. (Carson fittingly reminds us that Tilted
Arc is an object that many of us know only through what we have read.)
Ultimately, Carson wants to insist on the way in which Tilted Arc's site
was already discursive, a point that is often lost in discussions of site-specificity
that narrate too clean a break between an early model of the phenomenologically
based site and latter-day discursive practices.
Many of Carson's themes--particularly the way in which the conditions
surrounding a work's reception retroactively constitute its site--find
resonance in Simon Leung's "Site-Specificity en abyme, or Notes on
Warren Piece (in the 70s)," in which the artist revisits a project
and a related essay from the early 1990s, a moment when many were questioning
the claims to authenticity and criticality that site-based practices supposedly
guaranteed. Leung productively engages the lag time between now and then
to reflect upon the key question of whether a site-specific work is based
in "an experiential encounter or in its restitution," which
is to consider the discursivity of all site-based practices and the existence
of the work in its "afterlives." Exhibited at P.S.1 in 1992-93,
Warren Piece introduces a chain of shifting players, places, and temporalities:
we move from Warren N., a P.S.1 employee, to P.S.1's first "site-specific"
exhibition Rooms in 1976, to Vito Acconci's participation in that show,
to the crisis of legitimation surrounding the Vietnam War--and back to
Warren, who had deserted the American army during Vietnam. The components
comprise a metonymic chain of sites and "simultaneous moments"
that index a past for which Leung (and many of his viewers) were not present.
What does it mean, Leung asks, to work site-specifically in a space such
as P.S.1, a space already site-specifically framed by Rooms? Leung invokes
the notion of the ruin, describing P.S.1 as a site that had long been
ruined when he arrived. Here he echoes the sentiments of Craig Owens,
who once characterized Robert Smithson's practice, and site-specificity
more generally, as melancholic in nature. (4) For Owens, site is ruinous,
impermanent, a memento mori, always already a lost object. Leung's logic
moves beyond the "having-been-there-ness" of the artist's site
to the ghostly traces of a work received belatedly.
Though works such as Carson's and Leung's remain inscribed within the
field of art and its institutions, a good many of the book's contributions
do not. As Ehrlich and LaBelle describe erosions between disciplines and
site-specificity's absorption into the broader culture, I find myself
questioning the meaningfulness of site-based work when the artistic framework
is dispensed with entirely. For those artists working as activists within
collective movements, the question of whether their work counts as art,
is recognizable as art, is beside the point. When operating at the level
of "tactics" and "ruses," it may be preferable to
fly under the radar, both of the art world and of the "real world."
But others, whose interventions into space are more ambiguously defined,
whether in terms of artistic or political goals, might benefit from a
reclamation of site that would signify more meaningfully and critically.
I am thinking of Octavio Camargo's project Pe com cabeca, in which twenty-five
people lay head to toe in a pedestrian street in Curitiba, Brazil, for
two hours, not as an act of protest, but as a "free action,"
an act of "poetry," "resignifying space." (A photograph
of the work appears on the book's cover.) Like the passersby who viewed
this action, deprived of any context that would add significance to it,
it's difficult for me to distinguish this poetic spectacle from the spectacle
of consumer traffic within that commercial thoroughfare. In contemporary
culture, which seems too often characterized by an oppressive sameness,
we may need to ask how the differences and distinctions that produce legibility
might be discovered again. As Matta-Clark remarked, "The determining
factor is the degree to which my intervention can transform the structure
into an act of communication."
It is Surface Tension's strength as an anthology that Matta-Clark's voice
shares space with that of Camargo, putting them in a productively tension-filled
dialogue. Ultimately, this heterogeneous collage of a book resembles something
more like a magazine or journal than an academic anthology, and according
to the publisher's Web site, the former is precisely what Surface Tension
is destined to become. We can look forward to multiple afterlives of Surface
Tension in the form of future installments of a journal.
(1.) Miwon Kwon, One Place after Another: Site-Specific Art and Locational
Identity (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002), 24.
(2.) See James Meyer, "The Functional Site; or, The Transformation
of Site-Specificity," in Space, Site, Intervention: Situating Installation
Art, ed. Erika Suderberg (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
2000), 23-37; and Kwon, 157-60.
(3.) Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley, University
of California Press, 1984), xi.
(4.) Craig Owens, "Earthwords" and "The Allegorical Impulse:
Toward a Theory of Postmodernism" in Beyond Recognition: Representation,
Power, and Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992).
Jill Dawsey is a doctoral candidate in art history at Stanford University,
where she is writing a dissertation on street works by women artists of
the 1960s and 1970s.
COPYRIGHT 2005 College Art Association_COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group