Collecteurs on Evan Robarts

Interview: Lara Konrad - Photography © Albrecht Fuchs for Collecteurs

Evan Robarts began practicing art while entertaining side jobs as superintendent, carpenter and waiter. Little did he know that the mundane movements his body was recording while doing such work would later surface in his artistic practice. Now with works in international collections, Robarts is humbly forging his place in art history. Collecteurs sits down with Evan Robarts in his New York studio.

Collecteurs: Your art practice inhabits working-class actions from former jobs as a janitor, carpenter, waiter. How do these dynamics relate to your relationship with society? 

Evan Robarts: These experiences were discrete chapters in my life. Working with my body and hands in each of these jobs transformed into a dance of sorts, bleeding out in my studio practice. Unpacking these movements and materials is a means of research and a platform for discussion.

C: What caused the definite switch from working as a Superintendent to an artist?

ER: There wasn’t an abrupt transition between the two. I worked as a superintendent in the same building I lived in but was always driven to pursue art even though there were long stretches where I wasn’t able to make work. Finances were a pressing issue then and I was juggling a few jobs to stay afloat. Superintendent work being one of them, happened to be more flexible than the others, so I could pick up the mop whenever I made it home. Eventually, I had to give it up when I moved out of the building in 2013, which is when my studio practice re-entered my life. The transition was organic in that I was able to lean on the work I made in my studio to fill the financial void janitorial work left in my pocketbook.

C: Mop strokes often make it into your practice; for example, in forms of paintings. It’s interesting how this type of gesture will inherently change in meaning and value depending on where and how it takes place. Do you wish to interrelate somehow and compare the role of the artist and a blue-collar worker?

ER: Mops are basically giant brushes. Depending on the gesture, color of the tile, and the plaster mixture, the brushstroke has the potential to carry significant range. It can resemble something more recognizable like a mop stroke or something more abstract. There are a lot of uncontrolled elements since my movements aren’t rehearsed and I don’t follow a recipe.

There are a few bodies of work I engage in that speak to a connection between the artist and blue-collar worker. I’ve always been enamored by the activity of hard labor and the artifacts left behind; an unfinished painted wall, dirty foot prints on a clean floor, a hose strewn over a walkway. I highlight these moments as a means to discuss topics around exploitation, class critique and capitalism at large. The drive for social mobility seems to be hardwired into Americans. We’re a country that has enticed people to migrate over on dreams of prosperity and manual labor is often a point of entry as it offers an opportunity for employment regardless of language or origin.

I worked as a superintendent in the same building I lived in, but was always driven to pursue art even though there were long stretches where I wasn’t able to make work.

C: Considering your previous jobs somehow make it into your practice, what has changed ever since you became financially-independent as an artist?

ER: The change has been positive for me even though there is a disconnection from the type of labor I once engaged in. The distance has allowed the work to mature. I’m happy to see my ideas grow to stand on their own. I will continue to explore the path I have carved out because I feel I have barely scratched the surface. The space I’ve come to feels healthy as long as I don’t try to reinvent the wheel.

C: Now that you work full-time as an artist, what is the economical situation like? Is it possible to make a living as a young artist in New York?

ER: My finances are delicate, but that’s generally the case with all artists if they’re not in the top tier of the gallery hierarchy. At the moment I can make a living off my work if I’m mindful of my expenditures. Most of my earnings go toward material costs, food, and barebone needs. I’m sober so don’t drink or party but that’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make. That being said I’ll still take on freelance work when it pops up. It feels good to work for others, especially for artists, and it makes sense to keep all my options open in case I need to fall back on something later on. I’m also strategic about the work I show, embracing sale opportunities when they come my way.

The second question is complicated. I have noticed a stigma around artists when they turn a profit. I encourage artists to consider the financial realities, opportunities and practical strategies of a studio practice early on. This isn’t something to be taken for granted if you’re coming out of school and thinking about how to keep the creative flame burning. The expectation society puts on artists is difficult and exacerbated in NYC due to the high cost of living.

If I had to choose a chapter of my life to be “making a living off my art,” I’d lean towards old age because the reverse scenario would haunt me. Being successful when you’re young can be a curse if you can’t sustain the momentum. Traditionally, the end goal was to die a master, but something happened in the 20th century, for better or worse, when artists were becoming very successful early on.

Evan Robarts solo exhibition Within cells interlinked at Bryce Wolkowitz – February 28 – April 13, 2019

C: Tell us about the insecurity behind the sentiment of artists turning a profit. Why is there a stigma around artists making it, as well as artists not making it? Is there ways to break this stigma? How do you experience all of this within your enclosed artist community?

ER: I’ve only seen this manifest with younger emerging artists, particularly when they transition into a full-time studio practice. I suspect this happens for two reasons. The first being predicated on fears of failure and envy if one is positioned on a lower rung of the art world. The second reason is more of a cultural response. Turning a profit implies a sense of success, at least from a capitalist perspective. A lot of contemporary art here in the US is critical of capitalism (for good reasons). This results in a conundrum of sorts and can cast a hypocritical light on the artist if they’re not careful. I don’t think the stigma is there to be broken, but a necessary obstacle. In my own experience, it has helped me blast through psychological impediments dealing with the fact that art is a form of commerce. It has forced me to own certain bodies of work that have commercial success while pushing me to experiment with new ideas that are more conceptual and aggressive.

C: In terms of working together with galleries, do you genuinely experience a strong sense of support? In what ways could galleries improve the relationship with their artists?

ER: At the moment yes, but if they start rolling out a red carpet I’d become suspicious. Too much attention raises red flags for me. The reality of being a gallerist is just as difficult as being an artist if not more so. I have experienced positive relationship building practices from galleries and the most helpful has been being in regular communication. Even if the artist has nothing going on then, it’s a supportive gesture to receive an update or check in and shows appreciation from the gallery. Sales are never guaranteed, but a gallery can do a lot by getting behind artists on social media and inviting them out to openings and other important events. Sending out group emails to their artists is a great way to cultivate a sense of camaraderie and builds a stronger community around the gallery. Being prompt with payment is obviously important, but it’s also great when galleries provide critical feedback as well. The most successful gallerist model are those that recognize this business as a team effort.

Making art is like making a sacrifice: only the universe knows if I’m full of shit or not.

C: Having experienced different kinds of  jobs aside from being an artist — the formation and meaning of identity becomes an interesting aspect. In life, what do you identify with?

ER: The past few years I’ve been focusing on local social and political events in New York where I live and Miami where I grew up. Transformations within a community and environmental changes like gentrification, climate change, and urban development fascinate me. Big cities are of particular interest due to an often diverse demographic and the social rub created by their interactions. I think about how people self-organize into communities, how these communities coexist, change over time, and how these conversations then translate in a global context. Regarding my sculptures, I lean towards readymades, found objects, and construction material to speak about the meaning of place and history. There’s a lot of demographic research and face-to-face dialogue that form the backbone of my practice. At the moment I’ve been thinking about Joseph Beuys’ theory of “Social Sculpture.” How art engages with and fosters change has moved me to embrace the power of reconciliation art can imbue.

C: Your works are politically charged, addressing topics like labor exploitation or the suppression of free speech — for instance, in Newspeak(2017). Do you consider your work as personal as much as it is political?

ER: I do my best to find a middle path. Work that leans too far in one direction has a way of policing conversation. I believe there should always be room for reinterpretation and disagreement.

C: As a conscious artist, do you feel obligated to make political work?

ER: No, not always but recently yes. I noticed that my political ideology has a way of entering the work in unexpected ways so I don’t feel a pressing obligation. My position in the political spectrum leans left as most artists tend to but I don’t fit a specific cast. I’m somewhere in between center-left and social democrat as I agree and disagree with specific elements within both parties. Ultimately, I find a work to be successful when it can balance multiple interpretations and there is a graceful logic by which one can move with.

C: Considering these former labor jobs influence your work, do artists influence you similarly?

ER: Of course, going out to openings, engaging in conversations w my peers, attending lectures and reading about other artists work, particularly by them, all play a significant role in my practice. A few of the artists I currently find inspiring are Allan Kaprow, Mierle Laderman Ukeles, Cady Noland and Mark Bradford.

C: Moving along with Bruce Nauman, would you qualify everything as art that is created inside your studio?

ER: My personal truth is no. There is a lot of failure built into my process, and I like to maintain the “Art” validation for particular works. Otherwise, it’s just artistic, but not art. There’s a big difference to me.

C: So what’s the difference between art and being artistic?

ER: Defining art and the state of being artistic as the same is too ambiguous for me. The economy of information is moving too fast for me to get behind this interpretation. I have a strong desire to pull back and slow things down in. Despite my admiration for Allan Kaprow and the takeaway’s in his Essays on the Blurring of Art and Life, I’m a strong believer in the artifact that’s left over. As I said before, it’s a personal truth that I see in a pseudo-biblical light. Making Art is like making a sacrifice: only the universe knows if I’m full of shit or not. I’ve come to a place where I don’t feel good about myself when I qualify all my creative energy in this way.

Photography © Albrecht Fuchs for Collecteurs Magazine

Courtesy of Collecteurs

Primary. | New Home! Little River!

Primary is excited to announce our new home. This private residence, designed by the architectural group K/R (John Kennen & Terence Riley), is located in the burgeoning neighborhood of Little River, Miami.

In this digital age, as society speeds toward singularity, we constantly romanticize communal moments. Our personal search for touches of humanity remains difficult but not entirely out of reach. Primary strives to build an intimate alternative to the systematic commercial aspects of the contemporary art space, a sanctuary for ourselves, our families, our patrons, and our artists.

We watch as mega galleries power through with massive growth and we understand the increasingly challenging commitment emerging galleries make as they dig in on discovering new talent. As arguments carry on surrounding the need for traditional brick and mortar, we are here, exploring new ideas on the subject of live/work, affirming our long term dedication to contemporary art in the city that cultivated us. 

Looking forward to your visit.

A Note from the Architects:

Primary Home is a hybrid design with ground level spaces for exhibiting art accompanied by a small area for work. The upper level is a loft-like live space for the partners of Primary, a cultural collaborative.

From the street, Primary Home is seen principally as a white modernist structure - stucco over concrete block and pour-in-place concrete. On the interior, a broader palate of material, often contrasting, is evident: unfinished concrete and concrete block alongside finished plasterboard; laminated wood beams alongside raw plywood.

The geometry of the project recognizes the dual function. At ground level, the façade mirrors the street grid. The living area is separated from the street level for more privacy and the geometry pivots to true north, giving a spatial distinction between the two levels and two modes of living.

Primary Home is a "zero lot line" structure, that is, it sits across the width of the site without setbacks. This condition predicts the denser, more urban condition that is transforming the neighborhood of Little River.

The exterior spaces are created by the building's form, which is equally important as the interior spaces. A wide pathway connects the city sidewalk to a triangular sculpture court - both open to the sky. 

The sculpture court links to a covered terrace below the living loft. The rear yard is thus transformed into a stage before the covered terrace, intertwining the live and work programs that are mirrored in the interior and exterior space.

New Musical Production by A.G.

If you call I'll be right with you, a new musical production by Miami-based artist A.G. will be held in the abandoned rotunda in Collins Park, Miami Beach, FL on the west-side corner of Collins Avenue & 22nd Street. The show will run twice each night on March 22nd and 23rd. 

Inhabiting the raw cylindrical structure, A.G.'s new production will debut music, movement, video, and lighting as it takes cues from philosophical ideas of the "Other" and the cinematic trope of the telephone. A.G.'s transdisciplinary practice aims to utilize production, theatrical modalities, and entertainment as a realm of thought to elicit the notion that reality is a malleable material and that we are all uniquely capable agents of self-direction. If you call I'll be right with you will be his first live show, considered a unique artwork in itself.

The abandoned and completely raw cylindrical rotunda will be produced into a theatrical space which will house the live musical experience. Described as "cosmic American music," Zeitgeist Machine, the new EP written and performed by A.G., will provide the soundtrack for the show- illuminating a nuanced shell of the Other; a philosophical set of ideas in regards to that which is opposite of one's Self. The pop-structured song list is inspired lyrically by the trope of the telephone, telecommunications, and implied communication- much like a medium conjures the spirits. The Other, which emerges as an invisible character through the actual production, illustrates a powerfully universal force which is in constant communication and operation- to be reached, impressed, rejected, feared and loved. The realization is that the Other has ultimately become a collective projection of the audience- participating in an active role.

As of now, a hotline is accessible from any telephone at 1(833) CALL-1-AG, which will premiere the title track as well as prompt a forum to leave a message. 

If you call I'll be right with you is produced by Bas Fisher Invitational and is made possible with support from a Knight Arts Challenge grant from the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation, the Miami-Dade County Tourist Development Council, the Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs, the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners, and the City of Miami Beach, Cultural Affairs Program, Cultural Arts Council.

The Collins Park Rotunda
2100 Collins Ave, Miami Beach, FL 33140

Tickets are $10 and can be purchased here

Derrick Adams curated by Arnold Lehman for Phillips

Excited to loan Derrick Adam’s “Fabrication Station | No. 14” to Phillips for the “American African American“ exhibition opening January 10, 2019, showcasing a variety of works which includes select artists such as Jean-Michel Basquiat, Charles Alston, John Outterbridge, Romare Bearden, Betye Saar, Fred Wilson, Cameron Welch, and Kehinde Wiley.

Phillips is pleased to announce the major exhibition AMERICAN AFRICAN AMERICAN. Open to the public from 10 January to 8 February, the exhibition will kick off 2019 at Phillips New York galleries. Curated by Arnold Lehman, Phillips’ Senior Advisor and Director Emeritus of the Brooklyn Museum, the 2019 exhibition in New York continues the important mission of a similar exhibition organized in 2017 by Lehman in London, which took a closer look at the art historical and social impact of the 26 African American artists featured. In conjunction with the exhibition, Phillips will host a panel discussion on 14 January with Arnold Lehman in conversation with Brooklyn curator Ashley James, writer, critic and artist Deborah Willis, and Sandra Jackson-Dumont, chair of education at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and formerly of the Studio Museum. The discussion will focus on the artistic changes and social implications from the 1960s to today as seen through the lens of both the Tate’s exhibition Soul of a Nation, currently on view at the Brooklyn Museum, and AMERICAN AFRICAN AMERICAN.

Covering the period of 1950 to today with over 60 artists, “AMERICAN AFRICAN AMERICAN — likely the largest selling exhibition of African American artists to date — clearly articulates the increasing and exceptional importance of African American art and artists within the art historical canon. It gives proper recognition to these extraordinary artists of the mid-20th and early 21st centuries alongside their contemporaries,” said Arnold Lehman. “The considerably smaller 2017 exhibition in London was met with a great deal of enthusiasm from collectors and the general public alike, and we are delighted to have the opportunity to bring a much broader cross-section of these amazingly talented artists to collectors and exhibition visitors from New York and beyond.”

Interview Magazine on Terence Riley

THIS SURREALIST-INSPIRED GARAGE IS THE NEW FOCAL POINT OF MIAMI’S DESIGN DISTRICT

By Austen Tosone

When you think of art and culture in Miami, your mind might conjure the dancefloor sweepers of Pitbull (a.k.a. Mr. 305) or the rag tag of collectors and curators who flock to the city for Art Basel each December. But the latest creative project making Miami a destination is the last thing anyone could have predicted—a parking garage.

On Tuesday night, Museum Garage was unveiled to the public following a panel with the architects at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Miami, which is now a major focal point of the Miami Design District neighborhood. Museum Garage is a seven-story structure that can house up to 800 cars. Craig Robins, the CEO of Miami-based Dacra Development, commissioned Terence Riley, the former chief curator of architecture and design at MoMA to choose architects to design five very different façades and come up with an idea for the garage.

 “Usually, the least attractive structure in a place is the parking garage but we’ve treated the parking structures in the neighborhood as real art and design opportunities,” Robins says. Along with four other international architects, including WORKac, J.MAYER.H., Clavel Arquitectos, and Nicolas Buffe, Riley also designed one of the façades with his firm Keenen/Riley. Riley spoke to a group of reporters at the ICA before the panel began and revealed that parking garages are some of the most heavily regulated structures; each designer had four feet of depth to work with to create their designs.

The architects faced not only a few regulations, but also a great deal of uncertainty. None of the artists and architects knew where they fit, or who they’d be placed next to, in the overall design of the building. Riley said he was inspired by Exquisite Corpse, a game that French surrealists used to play where one artist would add on to a drawing without knowing what the first artist had drawn. This concept was translated onto a 3D structure with Museum Garage, and it allowed each designer to work autonomously on their own projects.

Starting from the corner of NE 1st Avenue and NE 41st street is New York-based firm WORKac’s Ant Farm façade that also features a street art panel titled Dippin by New York artist Jamian Juliano-Villani. J.MAYER.H.’s façade XOX meets the edge of Ant Farm almost as though they are interlocking puzzle pieces. French artist Nicolas Buffe’s Serious Play comes next, which combines his passion for Japanese animation and video games with Rococo and Baroque architecture. Urban Jam, from the Spanish firm Clavel Arquitectos shows cars caught in a vertical traffic jam (the architect showed a clip from Inception as evidence of his inspiration). Finally, from Miami-based K/R is Barricades, which uses orange and white striped parts to allude to the construction and revitalization of Miami in the last decade.

Robins is the entrepreneur behind the revitalization of the Design District over the last several years and he uses art, architecture and design to mix the cultural and the commercial components of a neighborhood to add to the vibrancy of it. The District was originally the location of many furniture design showrooms and has evolved over the last decade into a more bustling neighborhood. It began with installations like Zaha Hadid’s Elastika (2005) or Mark Newson’s fence installed in 2006, and more recently installed works include pieces by the Bouroullec Brothers and Urs Fischer.

A walk around the District will reveal a string of luxury brand stores (Gucci, Hermès, and Tom Ford to name a few) one after another, spread across several square blocks. So who hangs out in the District? Is it just the valet parking, Fendi bag-buying crowd? In an interview with Robins at the gorgeous Dacra offices (also designed by Riley) he was quick to clarify the accessibility of the neighborhood: “The museums are free to the public. There’s great places that aren’t that expensive, like Blue Bottle Coffee to get a coffee. OTL is a great casual restaurant. Every Friday night Emilio Estefan produces a concert here that’s free to the public,” Robins says. “I think if you just corral people into something like a luxury ghetto, it’s boring for them. Even if younger people don’t have the same resources that hopefully they’ll have some day, they can still appreciate a cultural neighborhood as a place that’s like a laboratory for creativity.”

By the end of 2018, the District will open ten more restaurants and 20 to 30 more retail stores. There is talk of building a hotel in the area, giving an option to those who are more partial to the city than the beach. He also mentions that both the sales in the neighborhood as well as the cars parked have increased by 70 percent in the first quarter of 2018. So rest assured Museum Garage will be put to good use.

Robert Nava at Soho

Architectural Record on Terence Riley

If you are an architect with a minimalist approach, it may be hard to find clients equally obsessed with abstraction and austerity in materials and details. Yet Terence Riley, principal of the New York– and Miami–based firm K/R, recently designed a small one-story, one-bedroom cottage in Coconut Grove for someone who might be more minimally minded than he is. “I could live in a house and be completely satisfied if it were empty,” says the owner, Sonya DeLong, an American who spends part of the year in Switzerland, her husband’s native country. “I deliberately own very little.” Which is a good thing. Her new rectangular dwelling is 80 feet long and 20 feet wide. The attenuated 1,500-square-foot bar-like building sits within a 6,800-square-foot property roughly the shape of a triangle: at the narrow, western end is the entrance from the street, which leads into the living and dining area. At the opposite end is the bedroom, opening onto a verdant garden.

The elegantly proportioned plan allows the elongated south-facing wall of glass to open out to a perimeter walkway sheltered by the roof’s 6-foot cantilever. On the other side of the covered walk, a linear pool echoes the house’s proportions at a smaller scale. Demarcating the edge of the narrow path is a pebble-filled channel that captures rainwater from the canopy overhead.

To give a sleek, pristine finish to the planar surface of the concrete block structure, Riley coated it with a smooth, high-grade stucco. Inside, the floor of Douglas fir planks, 17 1/2 inches wide, adds warmth to the almost monastic ambience. Contrasting with these precise architectural moves is the luxuriant planting outside, created by landscape consultants Naturalficial with a voluptuousness that softens the residence’s spartan tone.

“The integration of outdoor and indoor spaces and the lack of clutter keep the spaces from feeling cramped,” says Riley. “And not having stuff makes Sonya and her husband feel comfortable.” While Riley and his partner, John Keenen, are engaged in nonresidential projects such as the new Sarasota Art Museum and a mixed-use building in the Design District in Miami, their completed houses already demonstrate an impressive investigation of plan, line, and surface. Serenity is in the details.

Link | Architectural Record

Terence Riley on Philip Johnson

Words by: Jane Szita

As an architect and curator, Miami-based Terence Riley played a pivotal role in the renovation and expansion of MoMA (New York), the Miami Art Museum, and the Museum of Art, Design and the Environment (Murcia, Spain), as well as playing a key role in reinvigorating the Modern movement during his time at MoMA. He is a founding partner of K/R (Keenen/Riley), an architectural studio known for its work for art museums, galleries, artists, and collectors. Terence will be a keynote speaker at our upcoming Fifth International Iconic Houses Conference in New Canaan 15-18 May.

You once said that when you left college in the 1980s, to say that you were interested in the Modern movement was almost like admitting to being a sex offender. You then went on to play a prominent role in its critical re-evaluation at MoMA.
I did my bit, but by the time I got to MoMA, around 1989, there had already been an interesting series of developments. Architects like Rem Koolhaas, Bernard Tschumi, and Jean Nouvel were producing works that featured an intense reconsideration of Modern architecture. It was an exciting time. The Light Construction show was my manifesto. There was a definite feeling that Postmodernism was over and I was trying to memorialize that. Kazuyo Sejima, Herzog & Meuron and Ben van Berkel all got an early museum mention. It was prescient moment. I still see the book Light Construction on students’ desks.

How did the Modern movement begin for you personally?
It all started with my great uncle who was Paul Nelson, a WWI pilot who was at Princeton with Scott Fitzgerald – they both left to go and fight in France. Nelson later studied at the École des Beaux Arts and worked as a Modern architect in France – I visited him in his later years. After I’d completed my master’s degree at Columbia, Bob Stern suggested I do an exhibition on him. That was my first taste of curatorship.

And it was how you came to meet Philip Johnson.
Yes – he came to see the Paul Nelson show and I gave him a tour, after which he told me that he didn’t like Nelson much. Then he said, “So, you want to be a curator?” I replied that I didn’t really. At the time he was interviewing for the MoMA curatorship, and my reply made him decide that I should do it.

What did you learn from him?
I learned how a curator can use an institution like MoMA as a vehicle or agent to spread a message. He would always ask, “What’s the message?” Achieving clarity is the science – or art – of curatorship.

Any other principles of curation you can share?
A publisher once told me, that people don’t buy books with the word ‘architecture’ in the title as it’s seen as too specialist. So I never used the word in the title of any show I did. Instead I’d use words that everyone can relate to.

As a practicing architect, you’ve had an office with J Keenen since 1984. What’s the secret behind your long partnership?
In the beginning, we both pathologically insisted on working equally on all projects – then we got over that. Now one of us drives the project, while the other is a critic; we take it in turns. A lot has to do with geography. He’s in New York, I’m in Miami.

How did you find combining the roles of curator and architect?
It wasn’t that unusual at MoMA. In the early years, lots of curators were architects or trained as architects, including Philip Johnson, Eliot Noyes, and Edgar Kaufmann. I find it unfortunate that that doesn’t happen anymore and we now have only professional curators who approach architecture through architectural history. I always tried to move away from the museum as exclusively a place of paper architecture.

Can you tell us something about the Marcel Breuer house in Pocantico that we’re going to visit?
I’m so glad we’re going there. It was a show house in the MoMA garden in the early 1950s, along with two others. The irony is that for many years people didn’t realize it had been taken apart and reconstructed. So it was important in creating an audience for the Modern residence. It played a pivotal role. It featured modest and open spaces for living without servants, as well as plywood and other new materials.

Do you have a favorite house?
I love the Farnsworth House by Mies van der Rohe. Also the Glass House by Philip Johnson, which was very inspired by it – he had curated an exhibit on Mies and was borrowing from the master. It was a startling concept and it’s a favorite turning point of mine. Before the gate was put up, a neighbor pulled up next to the house and said to Philip, “I could never live here.” He replied, “You will never have to.”

You live in a house you built yourself. Can you tell us about it?
In 2001, Barry Bergdoll and I curated the exhibition Mies in Berlin at MoMA. I researched the courthouses (a word invented by Johnson) and wrote an essay on them. John Bennett and Gustavo Bonevardi created 3D models and videos of them. Through my research I discovered that Mies had intended the courthouses to be small, economical alternatives to the free-standing single-family house. To save cost and land, they were meant to be constructed like row houses. Philip Johnson more or less turned that courthouse concept into a one-off luxury residence. So, Bennett and I decided to put Mies’ proposal to the test and build at least two of them.  was our third partner. I live in one of them full-time.

How has Modernism informed your own work?
I understand the modern movement in a broad sense, from the Industrial Revolution to the digital era, so it’s the primary source for how I think about architecture.

What role do you think the Modern house plays in our own time?
I think it plays the same role as it did 100 years ago. The Modern house makes people’s lives better. I truly believe that.

What contemporary house will be an icon in the future, if you have anything to do with it?
The one K/R is building in the Little River part of Miami – a hybrid of the art gallery and the loft residence.

On Iconic Houses | LINK

Impose on Autumn Casey

Words by JP BASILEO

Solo projects can often act as a return to an artist’s introduction to music, a reacquaintance with the instrument that started it all, and the enchantment affiliated with learning. And if you’ve ever heard the frenzied psychosis of Philadelphia/Miami noise rock duo Snakehole, it may come as a small surprise to hear that Autumn Casey (guitar/vocals) first approached music by way of piano. A somewhat recent conversation between her and writer/artist/label owner Jordan Reyes incited the return of a prodigal daughter to her musical foundation (not to say that she ever really left the keys, simply that she had perhaps not yet utilized them as a focal point for personal output). The result is Casey’s solo debut, This Is No Dream, just released this past Friday on Reyes’ brand new tape label, American Damage.

Beautiful and mystifying arpeggios descend down a wormhole of emotional release, their hushed tones permeating through the mix like rain through an overtired tent. Sure, the whole thing rings of a Walden-like woodland experience, the disappearance of all things electric allowing for the focus on self and the self’s place in the world. Field recordings weave in and out, in an eerie fashion – things like the rattling of chains and chimes to echo the solitude necessary for introspection. The twenty-nine+ minute piece picks up momentum, loses it, and picks up faster like the fluctuating perception of reality synonymous with a nervous breakdown. But that’s just tempo. Melodically, sped up or molasses-like, it’s calming as ever. What begins as whispered voices in the field recordings slowly reveal themselves to be Mia Farrow from Rosemary’s Baby, the film which inspires the tape’s title, as she realized that she is really getting impregnated by the Devil. Casey notes, “That screamed phrase always resonated. It’s easy to be deep in a situation before noticing what is happening.” The tape, which plays the same on both sides, acts as a dream into which you don’t realize you’ve fallen. It’s too late before you’re out cold and imploring unconsciousness but lucid and longing in ways that channel the process of awakening.

Impose: How long have you been playing piano? 

Autumn Casey: The piano was my first instrument. I think I was around 7 when I asked for piano lessons. I took them for about 4 years before the forced demands of having to practice every day strangled the joy out of it for me. I declared “I Quit”. Then at 14, I asked for my dad to teach me how to play the guitar. I grew up around music and the piano was always around. I’ve gone back to it over the years to see if I could still read music, but I would say around 4 years ago I went back to it with intention. I realized it was a great tool for making melodies that I could transfer over to the guitar for Snakehole or use to collaborate with KC for something cool to add to a record. I re-found the fun with the piano by allowing myself to be creative with it, instead of having to play songs out of a book. In some ways I’ve been playing the piano on and off for 23 years.

I: How did This Is No Dream come to fruition? Was this something you’ve wanted to do for a while? 

AC: All the musical stuff I do seems to funnel into Snakehole. When Jordan [Reyes] asked me if I would consider doing a solo release, it made me more conscious about what was going to become a solo project for me. It was hard to understand where those separations should occur. It all kind of comes down to timing. This opportunity and goal presented itself at a certain time, and this is what was already beneath the surface. 

I: This album was recorded after your move from Miami to Philadelphia. How would you say the move influenced you? Changed you?

AC: I think being able to watch the seasons change has influenced me the most. I love experiencing the seasons change. Being stuck inside during the winter is a great time to get weird as fuck and record an album. This album is more lonely. But lonely in a good way. I’ve dug into being alone. It’s nice to experience the other side of the spectrum, having gone from a popping, infectiously tropical place like Miami. 

I: You had a ton of field recordings ready to go to “weave in and around the piano.” How did the pairing of field recording and piano parts go?

AC: I used the field recordings like collage material. Sometimes I would play the recordings and add piano to it to see what was inspired. Other times I would already have the piano part and just add the field recording on top because I thought it would be an interesting combination. 

I: This is a project rooted in catharsis. Would you say there are different types of catharsis to be pulled from different outlets? Say, like, from playing piano vs. playing in Snakehole? Vs. sculpting or any other artistic endeavor?

AC: They all have different vibes – sure. Snakehole allows me to be more aggressive whereas the piano lets me go into a meditated trance, but those can both be switched depending on mood. You can make a sculpture with violence, and you can write a soft song on the guitar.

I: Will you be performing this live? What does the new year look like for you? 

AC: I am not sure! I am still figuring it out the logistics of what it would take to perform this live. I have another solo release coming out on Primitive Languages and something also in the works for Lost In the Flood. This In No Dream untapped a process I enjoy very much, and I am excited to keep making more sounds. Snakehole has also been working on new music and we’ll hopefully get to record our new album this year.

LINK | on IMPOSE

BOMB Magazine on Derrick Adams

The title of Derrick Adams’s current show at Primary Projects, Black White and Brown, is a literal reference to the brown body, placed in a geometric and shifting environment of black-and-white forms. Adams’s oeuvre is massive, and while much of it draws inspiration from television—specifically the depiction of black culture and the ways it is coopted en masse—it is too big to define it as such, despite the humor and real poignancy of that work (watch the Sesame Street-inspired video interludes from his performance, Go Stand Next to the Mountain, 2010). His repertoire is a kind of collage.

A more specific thread is Adams’s ability to get at the heart of whatever he is exploring by transforming, dramatically, how it’s viewed. When his Culture Club paintings, 2014—depicting black men, women, and children reveling in summertime bliss—were shown at Project for Empty Space, he placed inflatable pool toys in the gallery, specifically for visitors to lounge and revel. When he premiered ON at Pioneer Works, Adams turned the space into a multi-channeled TV set, with rows of SMPTE color bars acting as backdrop to performed scenes.

For Black White and Brown, which features new work and previously unavailable segments from past performances, Adams created an Op art installation to house his collaged forms of sociopolitical commentary, destabilized identities, and good humor. There is—always—an underlying educational component, almost by virtue of the work’s existence: “Here,” it seems to say, “look at us this way.”

— Monica Uszerowicz

Monica Uszerowicz

Tell me about Black White and Brown. It’s a showcase of both previous and unseen work.

Derrick Adams

When I first thought about the content for the show, I was considering my performative works, objects that I’ve used in my performances, and how they would come together as a complete installation to emphasize these performative interests. I created an optical grid of different black-and-white interior geometric forms. Some other work had a consistent amount of figuration, in which I was often the subject, as well as objects that primarily consisted of black and white, with the figure as the black body. The black body would become the representation of “brown” in Black White and Brown.

MU

You’re frequently inspired by television, how stereotypes are portrayed on TV, how we ingest them. Now, media is different—there are many different types of “screens.”

DA

A computer is a television; a monitor is just a monitor. It’s not the same format, but you can have a channel on YouTube or Vimeo, and if you don’t have a channel, you can just have an account. If the television itself, the object, no longer existed, it’s still about the portal—looking into things. People now have more control—or think they do—over what they watch and how they consume images. The idea of cultural representation has flattened out.

MU

In dealing with cultural representation, you’ve spoken about maintaining a double consciousness of yourself, as someone seen as an “other.”

DA

I’m a black artist—and I’m also just an artist. I’m American and educated, but I come from Baltimore, an urban space with various socioeconomic groups of black people. For me, this work is much more complex than a television show, or something that can be condensed into an hour-long program. It’s about understanding the complexity of black people as much as people understand the various ranges of socioeconomic structures of white people—which is equally as contrasting.

The black figure has always been a subject of entertainment in popular culture, as well as an image to sell things. In some ways, that’s how people relate to us—because they’ve seen us on television. But there’s a whole other part of black culture, one that talks about education, scientific innovation, the inventors of objects. There’s so much information that people are uncovering now that most black people know already. I think, due to a lack of education, a lot of people are unaware of the complexity of the category of “black” and of the achievements black people have accomplished.

MU

None of this should be a secret; it’s the way history is presented.

DA

Even in educational systems, kids learn more about the oppressive structure of Western culture than they learn about the achievements of people of color in opposition to that structure. It would really empower younger generations to know that during times even more critical than these, black people were able to prosper and make a positive impact on the world—that living in oppression is not our only legacy. In one hand we can raise a fist in solidarity against oppression while in the other raise a glass in celebration of our achievement.

MU

If you can’t find these stories in the traditional educational system, sometimes it becomes the responsibility of alternative educators or artists to show the multitudinous nature of a particular culture.

DA

That’s what I want to do with my work. I want to talk about what’s not necessarily on the surface—for people to find when they’re looking for reference material and inspiration, and to expose certain histories that aren’t visible. We need a counter-conversation about what’s been achieved within this constant struggle. Some of the inventions created and the progress made by black people, others are benefitting from without even knowing the origin of where they came from, who created them. As an artist, it’s a good challenge to have, because you’re translating these facts into visual experiences.

MU

I like that your work directly engages the audience, too. It’s experiential and accessible even for people who aren’t artists.

DA

I’ve never thought of my work or conversation as solely geared toward my fellow artists—not because I’m not interested in having a conversation with them, but because I realize that once you’re indoctrinated into the institution of art, that becomes your language. But I think you lose a lot in speaking to the general public when you’re part of those institutions. For me, it’s more of a challenge to maintain a sense of directness with the audience, to learn to speak to the people you grew up around.

MU

This is probably why you’ve been able to show your work in so many different settings.

DA

Yes. When it comes to the question of “not the white cube or the white cube,” I don’t think you have to choose either one. I think you can transform any space into one that’s open and engaging to any group of people. It has to do with the artist’s and the space’s intentions—who is their audience? No matter what space I’m in—a museum, an alternative space, a high-end gallery—it’s always more about my conversation, and, within that, a consideration of whom I want to be there for and whom I want to be in conversation with.

MU

In some of your videos, there are elements of shows like Sesame Streetand Schoolhouse Rock. There’s an educational component in showcasing complex histories.

DA

I grew up in the ’70s. When I started to think about where my art comes from—because I often talk about media and television—I thought of what I watched as a kid. Shows like Sesame Street and Electric Company were pioneers in diversity. Those educational shows represented a level of multiculturalism that was rarely seen on other programs then, but is now seen more frequently in visual culture. That was a perfect genre to tap into to talk about some of the things I’m interested in, especially when it comes to shaping people through visual culture.

My undergrad degree is in Art Education. I’ve taught elementary school, and have noticed that the visual imagery shown in schools becomes a big influence on the way kids see themselves—not in a direct, literal sense, but more subconsciously. It plays a major part in self-empowerment. That got me very interested in using the educational structure for making work. I try to acknowledge many different institutions of creative practice, and I want to utilize these platforms to talk about their complexities. I’d like to open up the conversation, to show people there are options—there are ways to critique these systems without necessarily tearing them down or breaking them apart. You can build on top of a corrupt system to overshadow it with information that is more inclusive and historically factual. I’m not sure we’re in a place where destroying anything can be more effective than building something on top, causing a transformation. But time will tell.

The show at Primary Projects acknowledges very different facets of what I’ve been making: a video of a puppet performance called Reality Bites, which I presented as my stand-in during a series of artist readings from the Museum of Modern Art’s library—I had selected two Jim Henson titles—and another of my performances, entitled Finding Derrick 6 to 8, 2016, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in front of Sol Lewitt’s Wall Drawing #370. My own interests as an artist are combined with my interest in other artists and their practices, to show commonalities and differences, to expand the dialogue and introduce new ways of viewing form and content. I’m hoping to present other ways of seeing a particular subject, so that viewers, who might have thought that it had nothing to do with them, can become part of the conversation.

Monica Uszerowicz is a writer and photographer in Miami, FL. She’s contributed work to Hyperallergic, Vice, The Miami Rail, and Avidly, a channel of the Los Angeles Review of Books. 

—-

LINK | on BOMB MAG

Cultured on Derrick Adams at Primary.

When asked what makes Miami stand apart from other cities, Books Bischof, a co-founder of PRIMARY, says, “You can execute your projects with great freedom in this city. It's a small, hyper-unique community already doing something great, on the verge of doing something greater.”

Before settling into a permanent space, Bischof, Cristina Gonzalez and Typoe Gran first started as Primary Flight in 2007, a massive mural commissioning project that painted the neighborhoods of Wynwood and the Design District. The gallery itself has moved from the Design District to Downtown and back, and for Art Basel this year, PRIMARY will show "Black White and Brown" by Derrick Adams, a New York-based artist whose work oscillates between video, 2 and 3 dimensions and performance. The show will be a “monumental solo installation,” according to Bischof.

The gallery’s street cred is undergirded by its spate of local artists with flourishing studio practices. This includes Autumn Casey, whose work combines creepy found-object nostalgia with sophisticated assemblage. This desire to rep locals comes partly from a sense that Miami gets periodically taken over by visitors; and though the influx of outsiders serves Miami’s art scene in important ways, Bischof articulates a solid stance: “Miami belongs to those who inhabit it.”