Report /

artgenève 2019

Upon ascending the escalator of the Palexpo complex, visitors to this edition of artgenève were greeted by a bright sea of suspended silk sheets, as if entering an exotic travel or esoterica fair. (The installation, A Laundry Woman (2000) by Kimsooja, came courtesy of the Musée d’art contemporain de Lyon). As an experience this wasn’t too far removed from any art fair as such, albeit in the case of artgenève it was still a fairly Eurocentric congregation, heavy on Swiss and French galleries big and small but with increasing presence of global players such as Perrotin, Hauser&Wirth, Pace, Marlborough and Gagosian, which has an outpost in the city.

For the Geneva crowd and clientele the gallery picked the late Chris Burden’s 40 Foot Stepped Skyscraper (2011) representing the so-called “Estate Show” section. Cold and glaring, the structure resembles a straightened-up—literally—Manhattan take on the Tatlin Tower, the erstwhile so-called “Monument to the Third International”, which similarly was only ever exhibited within a fair environment back in 1920, at the Soviet trade exhibition held inside the House of the Unions in Moscow. With pretty much everyone seated at the press lunch expressing a mix of exasperation and distaste for the weekly gilets jaunes demonstrations in nearby Paris, any correspondence between such monumental art-historical models however pretty quickly evaporated.

If there was a trend or theme to be discerned at the fair, it would have to be that of the animal and of organic mortality generally. At Exile, which only recently relocated to Vienna after many years in Berlin, Nschotschi Haslinger showed a floor piece, Unkentreff (2019), consisting of a campfire conference of multicolored ceramic toads. The relatively small booth proved to be one of the more intriguing presentations, juxtaposing this rather fantastic amphibian formation with low-pitched photographic archival works from the 1970s to early 1980s, such as the minimalist and performance artist Kazuko Miyamoto and documentation images by Gwenn Thomas capturing the dancer Steve Paxton choreographing an equally circular routine at The Kitchen back in 1975. Waldburger Wouters (from Brussels/Basel), which here teamed up with ShanghART, brought Mark Dion’s displaced looking Penguin sitting atop a crate, that ultimate token of the art business’s carbon foot print, while a solo presentation of Alex Hanimann by Geneva-based Skopia gallery comprised night-vision tinted shots of various wildlife, apparently all caught being Trapped (2017), as the series’ title suggests. Over at Galleria Continua, Carsten Höller showed a couple of his necro-aesthetic Birds photographs of finches while elsewhere I could spot Dion again, this time by way of a suite of stuffed Polar Bear prints. An art brutesque swan made from sea shell-like parts fully returned the fauna theme to artifice and kitsch proper.

Either way, any such theme might merely speak to galleries’ considerations about what kinds of work to bring to a respective fair, which in Geneva seemed by and large to belong to the “safe” category. This also included, admittedly subjective, stand-outs like the stylishly aged, just so “feminine” textile and assemblage wall-works from the 1970s by the late Cuba-born artist Hessie (Carmen Lydia Đurić), at Arnaud Lefebvre (Paris), or the space-age-hued morph-scape canvases by the young American painter Sarah Slappey brought by Maria Bernheim. Jimmie Durham’s matter-of-fact “Core Sample from the European Parliamanent”, a broken-off cylindrical bit of Terrazzo concrete and scrap metal, originally and actually one of three components of the work Three Stones (1996, shown at Christiane König’s stand), served as a closing reminder of crumbling structures as well as the on-trend reinvestment in all things faded and distressed Nineties.

Daniel Horn

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Parallels /

Similarities and differences between legal issues in fashion and art

This week the buzz around the art world is all about Los Angeles. Frieze, the international art fair organization that manages prestigious fairs in London and New York, has come to Los Angeles for the first time with a number of top list galleries showing at the Paramount Studios lot.

But why did Frieze make the decision to enter the Los Angeles market? Frieze’s debut in Los Angeles is part of a larger trend of art fairs moving into new jurisdictions that have seen growth in their art markets. This trend has galleries reaching out to collectors in a number of locations as opposed to making collectors travel to just a few major art hubs. In recent years, major art fair organizations have looked beyond Europe and the Eastern seaboard of the US to tap hidden art markets. Hong Kong is bustling with a number of art fairs, including Art Basel Hong Kong. The art market has made its mark in the Middle East with Louvre Abu Dhabi and Abu Dhabi Art. Now the next big art fair scene, aside from Los Angeles, appears to be Taipei, after the major UBS-sponsored Taipei Dangdai occurred in January.

A similar trend is happening in the fashion world, where it is common for major brands to organize fashion shows around the globe. Other than the four seasonal couture collections presented within traditional fashion weeks, brands are using cruise shows and resort collections to present more things over the year. For example recently, Tom Ford was one of the first designers to debute his cruise show in Los Angeles in February 2015, rather than at London Fashion Week, in order to “capitalize on the news spotlight in Hollywood” ahead of the Oscars.1

Following this trend, Louis Vuitton showed at Bob Hope’s home in Palm Springs for cruise 2016, the Niteroi Contemporary Art Museum in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, for cruise 2017, and Kyoto for cruise 2018. Christian Dior went to Blenheim Palace for cruise 2017, and then Calabasas in America for 2018. At the same time, Gucci showed its cruise 2017 collection in Westminster Abbey and in Florence for 2018. Chanel moved to Seoul, South Korea, for resort 2016, and to Cuba for cruise 2017.

Nevertheless, fashion – like art – is a global industry and always aims at keep the consumers engaged in a fast-paced and global environment. The concepts of cruise and resort collections originally referred to mid-season collections designed for clients needing a different wardrobe for travel to climates different from their own, since in 1919 “Gabrielle Chanel realized that her wealthy clients were taking mid-winter holidays in the Mediterranean and required a new wardrobe for their travels”.2

Due to the need for companies to engage with clients all around the globe, companies in both the art and the fashion industries are exposing themselves to new legal issues with regards to the applicable tax regime, import and export of goods, as well as the applicable laws in international transactions. As art and fashion companies venture into new territories, these companies will need to quickly learn how to navigate new legal terrains – exposure to different governing laws, income tax regimes, insurance coverage, and sales tax and VAT implications can be a bit of a minefield for the unwary. Each jurisdiction a company enters into has its own legal rules that a company should inquire about.

Giulia Cipollini, Diana Wierbicki and Roberto Bonomi with assistance from Hanna Feldman.

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Review /

Biennale de l’Image en Mouvement 2018 Centre d’Art Contemporain / Geneva

A few days before the opening of the Biennale de l’Image en Mouvement in Geneva in November 2018, I came across Allan deSouza’s newly published book How Art Can Be Thought. At the exhibition, the dissonant sounds of scratchy broadcasts and old-school hip-hop tracks (“Vocab” by the Fugees comes to mind) provide the soundtrack to a succession of news composites, advertising spots for iconic products, and famous faces of black America; this is the two-channel video installation BLKNWS (all works 2018 unless otherwise noted) by Kahlil Joseph. Located next to the welcome desk of the biennale, the video provides a generative point of reference: not only for the viewer, but also for the image and its precarious viability.

“The Sound of Screens Imploding,” the title of the biennial, reflects upon the transience of the image in movement and as well as the transience of its medium, the screen. The latter is called into question here: When the image implodes on the screen/space of production/existence, where does it go exactly? It expands, contradictorily, beyond the space of the screen into the space of the exhibition, “lingering on in a fascinating kaleidoscope where vision can be shaped by sound as much as by the image itself, or even more so” (according to the statement written by the curators).

The image is, in fact, constructed on a screen that has never belonged to it; any fixed attachment to the screen itself would negate its reproducibility, its nomadic essence. The nomenclature of art today is similarly no longer sufficient to categorize or contain meanings. In this respect, deSouza’s text is particularly illuminating in its reconsideration of an entire glossary — modeled after Raymond Williams’s Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (1976) — an approach that reformulates the intrinsic definitions of art, activating a sort of pedagogical decolonization of art histories. Browsing through the glossary, I pause at “Medium (#Message)” and “Moved (#Emotion; #Gut Feeling). In the first instance, deSouza is elaborating on Marshall McLuhan’s slogan “the medium is the message,” arguing that “meaning is embedded within and conveyed through the materiality and technology of a medium. Art itself … extend[s] from an individual work’s materiality to become the broader medium through which the work functions.” In the second instance, deSouza affirms that “emotion can be thought of in terms of bodily mobility,” and posits that those who look at art are “moved out of their present intellectual and/or emotional stability in which they might feel safety located, to a state that is more unstable and even threatening. In this case, being moved is to be cast into a state of precariousness, which, like the sublime, is inherently destabilizing and potentially threatening.” The glossary deliberately leaves out terms like “image” or “movement,” though they are implicated and incorporated in other ways. “Medium” and “Moved” are complementary to a certain way of understanding and empathizing with images, and function as attempts to shift attention onto the viewer anew, as the biennial also does.

Conceived as a wide-open space for the overproduction of moving images — composed of immersive micro-environments, as if they were vessels communicating with one another — the biennial also produces a soundscape that becomes an image of the image itself in almost every corner.

Andreas Angelidakis’s Demos Bar, an array of modular parallelepipeds in gold faux leather echoing minimalist kitsch, guides us toward the soundtrack Orcorara (tres estrellas todas yguales) by Elysia Crampton. In the piece, music and stories taken from the texts of eighteenth-century writer Joan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua are played over speakers, layered with neon lights that alternate between colors and a play of shadows, projected in a loop of approximately seventy minutes. The abuse of digital post-production and amateur videos is interrupted by a staged celebration with Moroccan customs and traditions in Party on the CAPS by Meriem Bennani. Bennani takes an ironic, lucid approach to immigration in the United States: she imagines an island, CAPS, as an incubator of undocumented migrants intercepted by the US. Also touching upon the impermeability of walls is the exemplary Walled Unwalled by Lawrence Abu Hamdan. Compelling in its visual representation of sound, it speaks to the experience of an increasingly claustrophobic and monitored existence. The film Parsi by Eduardo Williams repeats Mariano Blatt’s poem “No es” while capturing the everyday life of a group of queer black boys with a camera in constant motion. “What seems to be but isn’t,” recites Blatt — a conundrum that also hovers in the video No history in a room filled with people with funny names 5 by Korakrit Arunanondchai and Alex Gvojic (with Boychild). In the installation, the room is refracted by a green laser harp and is permeated by a nauseating odor produced by a layered mound of clay, latex paint, and seashells; meanwhile, the screens transmit the irrepresentability of the boundaries of human existence.

Feelings of melancholy and primordial instinct pervade Tissues I, a choral performance by Pan Daijing at the Sicli Pavillon. A stage is constructed but its borders are not marked, and so the performance spills over, inviting us to follow it, where it finishes in nothingness — or perhaps it has yet to continue. In contrast is Water Will (in Melody)/Preview by Ligia Lewis, a schizophrenic melodrama in a black-box theater, in which paranoia, instability, and the current obsession with streetwear reverberate (one of the performers, Dani Brown, seems attired to walk down an Eckhaus Latta runway). Reflecting upon the “body-machine,” Womb Life is a navigation of dreams and premonitions by Tamara Henderson, who has recently been preparing for the birth of both the installation and her son. The mechanical sculptures that compose Womb Life recall Jean Tinguely’s Méta-mécaniques (1953–55) and, reclaiming the surrealist object, recall the Lacanian vision of the body as “a sentence which invites interruption.” James K. Kienitz Wilkins begins his stream-of-consciousness narration to the film This Action Lies with the words “I’m making an apology.” As the film’s only image is a polystyrene coffee cup, the voice becomes the image.

The biennial’s voices overlap with its sounds. In No history in a room filled with people with funny names 5, Boychild whispers: “Such a place the space without a screen.”

Eleonora Milani

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Flash Art 324 February – March 2019

Deep currents of inheritance, nostalgia, presence, and nonlinear time buoy this issue of Flash Art, the first of 2019. Readers can find personal remembrances of Etel Adnan among the three texts that compose a special dossier devoted to the work of the ninety-three-year-old Beirut-born artist and poet. Noura Wedell recalls dinners spent with Adnan, a friend of her mother’s, and Hans-Ulrich Obrist describes his first encounter with Adnan’s work, which would spawn a many-years-long generative collaboration. The dossier also includes a new and unpublished text by Adnan herself, in which she reflects on her immigration to the US and her consequent political education in the struggle for black liberation.

Also in this issue, Adrienne Edwards’s study of blackness in performance focuses on artists who counter the “historical and social weightedness” of the body with an acknowledgement of the particular histories and social conditions that have produced it, “while simultaneously expressing a desire to maneuver, circumnavigate, and reimagine” those conditions. In her analysis, we see artists turning away from representation and instead to opacity, illegibility, and concealment: “a productive withholding.”

Also in this issue:

Quinn Latimer considers the recent work of Rosalind Nashashibi, and the artist’s lateral and nonlinear movements through space and time and form, “as if the strange politics of the parable and the documentary are meeting on some soft, cinematic shore.”

Other cinematic shores are the subject of a conversation between a panel of scholars, writers, and curators on the subject of black film, which, Michael Boyce Gillespie writes, “is always a question, never an answer.”

An essay by Eli Diner considers the sentimental currency of Vile Days, the collected writings of Gary Indiana for New York’s Village Voice, where Indiana served as art critic from 1985–89. “Memorialization,” he writes, “says a lot about the living.”

Kristian Vistrup Madsen writes that the Swedish pop group ABBA not only signals the end of the utopian social ambitions of midcentury urban planning and design, but also is defined by a weird temporal mode: “not in the moment, but with one foot in the door of what will have been. This is the restraint that reveals what is really at stake: everything.”

Kyoo Lee explores the “democalligraphic utopia” of Huang Jing Yuan’s Right to Write (2018), recently presented at the Shanghai Biennale, an installation that holds an “unmanicured display of the messy, messily precise assemblage of wor(l)ds.”

Aaron Weldon speaks to Tamara Henderson on the occasion of the exhibition of her “Womb Life” (2018) at the Biennale de l’Image en Mouvement in Geneva. The work, Henderson explains, “is under the influence of having two bodies: two brains, two noses, two hearts, four legs.”

A piece from the Flash Art archives is also reproduced in this issue: Thomas Lawson addresses “the return of narrative art” in 1979: “art pretending to know nothing about art, but continuing to use exhausted conventions as though in some part of the natural order.”

In “Reviews”:

Peter Halley: New York, New York.” at Lever House and Sperone Westwater, New York; Cole Lu at 77 Mulberry, New York; Kayode Ojo at Martos Gallery, New York; “57th Carnegie International” at Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh; Kate Spencer Stewart at the Gallery at Michael’s, Los Angeles; B. Wurtz at ICA, Los Angeles; Alexis Hunter at Goldsmiths CCA, London; Felipe Baeza at Maureen Paley, London; Raphaela Vogel at Berlinische Galerie, Berlin; Sam Pulitzer at Hamburger Banhof, Berlin; Carte Blanche to Tomás Saraceno at Palais de Tokyo, Paris; Biennale de l’Image en MouvementRaoul De Keyser at S.M.A.K., Gent; Alice Neel at Xavier Hufkens, Brussels; Rosemarie Trockel at Moderna Museet, Malmö; “The Main Complaint” at Zeitz MOCAA, Cape Town; XI Taipei Biennial; “The Artist is Present” at Yuz Museum, Shanghai.

 

We are pleased to announce Flash Art’s participation in the 2019 editions of ARCO Madrid; Frieze L.A.: The Armory Show; Art Basel Hong Kong; Art Dubai and SP-Arte.

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Movie Night /

A Certain Inevitability

Oigo el llorido del mar, el respire del aire,
my heart surges to the beat of the sea.
in the gray haze of the sun
the gulls’ shrill cry of hunger,
the tangy smell of the sea seeping into me.

– Gloria Anzaldúa [¹]

Analyzing art and visual culture often means being caught between historians, critics, fans, and producers. In attempting to resolve those competing interests, those of us who engage with the tentative process of “interpretation” are often told to find some tidbit of historical evidence that will allow everything to slide into place. Did, in fact, some seventeenth-century viewer notice that the mirror in Velázquez’s Rokeby Venus (1647–51) should be reflecting the nude’s pubic area and not her face, for instance? So, we approach the archive, begging it to supply some key that grounds our projection and speculation in something that could be verified as “fact.” This fetishization of historicism often results in easy equivalences and a search for origins when a baseless leap of imagination might be more useful. Film most often falls prey to these easy interpretations, wherein the artwork dissolves into sociohistorical circumstance with no distance between itself as an object and its perceived theoretical/intellectual life.

Diego Velázquez, Rokeby Venus, c. 1647–51
Diego Velázquez, Rokeby Venus, c. 1647–51. Courtesy of National Gallery, London.

I wondered if I would slide into such simplistic analyses while watching Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma, and, in some ways, I did. The film follows a maid named Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio), who works for a wealthy and rapidly disintegrating family during a time of violent student protests in Mexico City. I should get broad pronouncements of quality out of the way first — it is an extraordinary film in its simultaneously claustrophobic and sweeping narrative and its centering of nonwhite voices as deserving of complex and, at times, paradoxical or problematic roles. Roma is important if only for its sensitive amplification of indigenous voices. Even so, some have said that Cleo’s relationship to her employers defeats the film’s progressive potential and rehearses a “happy slave” narrative. What is more interesting, I think, is the possibility for a nonwhite, nonnormative character to have problematic attachments and not be forced to speak unilaterally and unproblematically for a marginalized group. Roma is therefore a win not only for representation, but also for representation that is truer to life in its embrace of difficulty, failure, embarrassment, indecision, and multiplicity.  

It is possible and necessary to supplement identity politics with discussions of form, composition, history, and citation. In this vein, I wondered, might there be any connection to Agnès Varda’s Cléo from 5 to 7? There are many formal similarities: the use of black-and-white, the slow, lengthy panning, the quasi-documentary style, and unexpected filmic angles. Roma and Cléo from 5 to 7 are both as much about film and film history they are about the protagonists themselves. Maybe it is relevant, I thought, that Cléo is a sappy Top 40 singer, while Roma has no music at all. Still, I chastised myself for such simplistic thinking, and I expected Google to turn up thousands of think pieces about the two. To my surprise, there was only one mention in a brief IMDb summary: “Cleo (named after the Cléo character in Agnès Varda’s Cléo from 5 to 7) is a maid in the household of Sofia, whose household consists of her husband Antonio, their four young children, Sofia’s mother, Teresa, and another maid, Adela.” Anyone can edit IMDb entries, so we might have the words of an industry professional or someone who simply loved the film. Irrespective of the author’s identity, this “archival” verification I hoped to unearth did little to ease the concern that my assumption of an homage to Varda’s film is an overreaching attempt to find meaning where there is none.

It is a feeling akin to the superstition, self-obsession, and hypochondria of Varda’s Cléo, who we follow in intriguingly boring and compellingly melodramatic detail as she awaits the results of a biopsy for cancer. Cléo wanders aimlessly seeking affirmation or confirmation, as the historian or critic does. For her, that self-making force takes the form of a charming man, and all the hand-wringing and ennui dissolves at the prospect of romantic love. As with another avant-garde mainstay, Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, female (but not necessarily feminist) interiority is given the intellectual examination it deserves.

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However, Cuarón’s Cleo, who may exist in a world with similar filmmaking conventions to Varda’s Cléo, has a different relationship to this grandiose emotionality. Cléo from 5 to 7 also features a personal assistant named Angèle who offers a tempered appraisal of Cléo’s vanity in the film’s early moments, almost in a Shakespearean fashion. One could argue that Roma foregrounds undercompensated labor in a way that is only hinted at in Cléo, which is not to imply a hierarchy between the two films, but rather to say that the two films seek different representational ends.  

Roma thus goes one step farther and considers not only the subjugation of women in society and visual culture, but also the unique resonances of that marginalization for an indigenous domestic servant. The placid conclusion of Roma could therefore gesture toward a certain inevitability; though Cleo has had an intense and compelling epiphany after saving her employer’s children from drowning, the demands placed on her remain, and her emotional dénouement does not release her from worry or loneliness or racism or financial precarity.

And yet, like Cléo who is convinced she has cancer, we may seek a meaning or diagnosis in Roma where there is none. Diagnosis brings a fear of blindness with it — that there is something else, something we missed, something more deeply embedded than a Google search. It follows that what is most perhaps radical in Roma is its sincerity and capaciousness. The film becomes a discursive tool in allowing us to identify emotionally, politically, and artistically depending on what we ask of it or what it asks of us. Roma aspires to approach universality through a wonderfully and necessarily specific point of view, creating a cipher with which we might decode the emotional and filmic politics of empathy.

I would like to thank Toyin Ojih Odutola for our conversation during the drafting of this essay.

William J Simmons is a writer and historian based in Los Angeles.

Movie Night is a column exploring film semiotics and thoughts about moviegoing in general.

[1] Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiz (Aunt Lute Books, 1987).

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Review /

Grace Wales Bonner: A Time for New Dreams Serpentine Galleries / London

The incursion of fashion designers into other creative realms frequently invokes dismissiveness or derision, especially when the designer is young. This bias is founded on the assumption that style is inimical to substance, and that accordingly fashion is a far more superficial discipline than others. However, it is difficult to imagine such a judgment being made of “A Time for New Dreams,” an exhibition curated by Grace Wales Bonner, who is a fashion designer in her mid-twenties.

The show takes its title from a 2011 collection of essays by Ben Okri, many of whose poems are written on the walls of the gallery. In the show, Wales Bonner brings together work by African diaspora artists, including Chino Amobi, Black Audio Film Collective, Liz Johnson Artur, David Hammons, Rotimi Fani Kayode, Kapwani Kiwanga, Eric N. Mack, Paul Mpagi Sepuya, Sahel Sounds, Laraaji, and Rashid Johnson.

Paul Mpagi Sepuya, Darkroom Mirror (_2150782), 2018
Paul Mpagi Sepuya, Darkroom Mirror (_2150782), 2018. Copyright Paul Mpagi Sepuya. Courtesy of the artist.

These works are ostensibly unified by themes of mysticism, ritual, and magic in black cultural and aesthetic practices. In the introduction to the exhibition guide, Serpentine curators Claude Adjil and Joseph Constable write that in exploring such elements Wales Bonner “envisions a space where new dreams and potentially new worlds can emerge.” Certainly I found that this very powerful show is pervaded by a sense of potentiality; yet this potentiality’s presence is intimated by absence.

In some works, this dynamic is almost explicitly thematized. One instance is Eric N. Mack’s installation A Lesson in Perspective (2017), which consists of a wool net curtain, a tent cover, and sheets of linen, silk, polyester, and velour hanging from the ceiling. The hole in the tent cover entices viewers to see what lies on the installation’s other side, and yet when one ventures round, one finds oneself looking through the same hole — once again tempted to see what lies behind it. Or Paul Mpagi Sepuya’s archival pigment prints, A Ground (_IMG6936) (2015) and Darkroom Mirror Study (0X5A1519) (2017), both of which depict rooms (seemingly artists’ studios) almost totally hidden by sheets. Or the photographs by the late Fani-Kayode, especially Maternal Milk (c. 1986), in which muscular black bodies are partially obscured by shadows.

Laraaji, Transformation, 2019
Laraaji, Transformation, 2019, Grace Wales Bonner: A Time for New Dreams, 18 January – 16 February 2019, Serpentine Galleries, © 2019 readsreads.info

However, the sense of restrained possibility is also evident in works whose artists perhaps did not set out to give such an impression. David Hammons’s The Holy Bible: Old Testament (2002) was produced as an artist’s book in an edition of 165, and consists of a 1997 softcover edition of The Complete Works of Marcel Duchamp, by Arturo Schwartz, here rebound to resemble a Bible with a slipcase. In “A Time for New Dreams,” though, we are not provided with the context of the piece’s conceptual jollity, and the edition on view is in a glass cabinet, inside its slipcase.

Even the most plenitudinous and luxurious works in the show gesture to more than they present: During the exhibition’s opening days, the musician Laraaji led a series of meditation workshops; a large amount of paraphernalia and ephemera from the event now lies on a huge rug surrounding a conspicuously empty area where Laraaji sat. And when visitors walk into the Sackler Gallery they are immediately faced with two works by Rashid Johnson, Untitled (daybed 1) (2012) and Untitled (daybed 6) (2012) — daybeds that have been clad in zebra skin to resemble couches, placed on patterned rugs. These works originate from a 2012 exhibition at South London Gallery, in which Johnson imagined a society in which psychotherapy is a freely available drop-in service. However, this context is once again lacking, and consequently these vacant couches seem like errant parts of missing wholes.

Daniel Neofetou

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