Peace and Love

Der Fachbereich Abstraktion wünscht ein frohes neues Jahr und lädt zur ersten Klassenbesprechung 2024: 

Am Montag, den 8. Januar ab 11 Uhr in Raum 117, Schillerplatz 3, 1010 Wien 

Es zeigt uns ihre Werke: Liva 

Außerdem freuen wir uns, Euch mitzuteilen, dass wir unseren Klassenraum 117 zum Rundgang bedingungslos der Letzten Generation ihrer guten Sache wegen überlassen werden. Damit sind wir die ersten, die der Letzten Generation eine offizielle Einladung an einer Universität ausgesprochen haben. 

Wir freuen uns auf Euch!

Luisa, Michaela, Stephan und Thomas

Peace and love!

The Department of Abstraction wishes you a happy new year and invites you to the first class meeting in 2024: 

On Monday, 8 January from 11am in room 117, Schillerplatz 3, 1010 Vienna 

Showing us her works: Liva 

We are also pleased to inform you that we will unconditionally give our classroom 117 to the Last Generation for their good cause. This makes us the first university to extend an official invitation to the Last Generation. 

We look forward to seeing you!

Luisa, Michaela, Stephan and Thomas

Material miscellaneous Unterhaltung Zeitgeschichte

st.o.ff – bitte ergänzen

auf NETFLIX: The Andy Warhol Diaries, 6-teilige Serie

° ° ° °


Alice Creischer/Andreas Siekmann im Interview über ihren Werdegang
(new professors of Fachbereich contextual painting.)
Jetzt: Kunst und Bild |Kontext

Kodwo Eshun (Kandidat für die diaspora aesthetics Professur. Wir fanden seinen Vortrag toll, haben aber keinen Einfluß auf die Besetzung)
Heller als die Sonne
übersetzt von Dietmar Dath

Dieses Bild hat ein leeres Alt-Attribut. Der Dateiname ist grafik-1.png


Ruth Sonderegger, Maja Figge, Wilma Lukatsch:
Zur Kolonialität der philosophischen Ästhetik


Wien: Hito Steyerl Woche im Film-Museum
Josef Strau Ausstellung bei E. Layr


CLASS MEETING Mo. 11.12.23, 11:00 |
Di, 12.12.23: ganztägig zwanglose Jahresendbesprechung zum persönlichen Status Quo : Pläne, Ängste, Wünsche


Kiki vor Manu-Bild

Tuesday, 12.12.23 at 117 from 11 am:
short, informal, individual end-of-year talk about your personal situation.

How are you doing? How is your artistic work going?
Is there anything we can support you with?

We look forward to seeing you all!

Even those who had no time to come to the class meetings.



12.12.23 MAK hard/soft Opening

Hearings Kunst und Bild | Figuration
13. + 14.12.23 AdbK Schillerplatz, Sitzungssaal (EG)
ab 10 Uhr
Come by

Über Malerei: Theater als Bild – vice versa
Gloria Pagliani, Alice Dal Bello, Alexander Harve

Fr 15.12.23 19h Exhibit
Eschenbachgasse 11

Stephan Janitzky in Köln
Gereonswall 110
Eröffnung 16.12.23


Souveränes Nonfinito:
In Rudolf Levys „Stillleben mit Mimosen“ von 1942 endet der Tisch einfach im Nichts und gibt Raum für die kobaltblaue Signatur des Künstlers
(Quelle: FAZ)

…. . .. .. … …. …

Es ist anregend zu verfolgen, wie die früher ins Solipsistische lappende und auch vom Verfasser dieser Zeilen seit Jahren nie ganz verstandene „Denkpsychologie“ in Dialoge gebracht wird und auf Verständnisfragen tatsächlich handgreiflich erklärende Antworten hervorbringt. Eine Outsider-Science wird anschlussfähig, vielleicht zulasten ihres künstlerisch-performativen Anteils.


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Resolutionen der Mitgliederversammlung des PEN Berlin,
15. Dezember 2023



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Ein Glück: Der kluge Anton Spielmann von 1000 Robota ist wieder da.
Interview von Oktober 2022. (leicht verlabert, aber im Rahmen.)
Wohnt in Wien!

______________ __________________________

Aus dem Archiv

Schönes Lied 1992



Negative Criticism

By Sean Tatol – founder of „The Manhattan Art Review“

published by thepointmag (July 19, 2023)

I’m an art critic. Most of my writing is on my website, the Manhattan Art Review. Probably the most distinctive feature of the site, and certainly the most divisive, is the “Kritic’s Korner” section, which uses a rating system of one to five stars. I originally intended the section to be an afterthought: quick reviews with the rating acting as a shorthand for my reaction. Five stars is as good as it gets (at the time of writing I’ve given ten five-star ratings out of roughly eight hundred reviews, and six of those have been for historical shows), four is an unconditional success, three is indifferent, two is an unconditional failure, and one star signifies something I found personally offensive. But I quickly realized that my habits were more suited to going to galleries every week than to working regularly on longer pieces, that there weren’t very many shows I wanted to write about at length, and that a regular stream of blithe, off-the-cuff reviews would attract more attention than intermittent longer essays. I’ve ended up writing ten or more reviews every week more or less consistently since November of 2019, minus the COVID-19 lockdowns and a couple of summer breaks.

All of this could sound like a rather obvious format to anyone familiar with Letterboxd, but it’s a disruption to the prevailing norms of art writing. One big reason that art criticism has always been a comparatively marginal practice—putting aside for now the special difficulties of writing about visual objects—is that there’s no market for the kind of quality-based reviews that have long proliferated for other kinds of cultural objects. Film, music, food and book critics write for a general public that can be swayed to spend their money one way or another, whereas the general public cannot afford to buy the art that is written about in Artforum. Critical discourse and consensus do have some limited correlation with the art market, but a good review generating a lot of foot traffic for a show is not at all guaranteed to generate income for artists and galleries—and, broadly speaking, participants in the art market mostly see critics as a threat to their investments. There’s no clear economic reason for art criticism that is not glorified public relations to exist, and so it barely does. But while art is an extreme case in this regard, it’s also a leading indicator: as a defender and judge of quality, the critic is an endangered species in many industries these days. This wasn’t always the case.

Addison could make quite a thing of it. Imagine how snide and vicious he could get and still tell nothing but the truth.
—Eve Harrington, All About Eve

For much of the twentieth century the critic constituted a compelling, if semi-sinister, literary stereotype. The critic was the decadent cynic who, having long since dissipated their capacity for artistic pleasure, used their rhetorical skill to manipulate popular taste for personal gain or idle sadism. These characters range from stock figures to outright parody: All About Eve’s Addison DeWitt, Basil Valentine in The Recognitions, even Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show. In common usage the critic and the cynic are nearly interchangeable terms: by one definition, courtesy of Merriam-Webster, a critic is “one given to harsh or captious judgment,” while a cynic is “a faultfinding captious critic, especially one who believes that human conduct is motivated wholly by self-interest.” The difference is mainly that the cynic believes selfishness is inescapable. That may seem a small distinction, but it already contains within it the existential question that any critic must put to himself: Is criticism nothing more than sophistry motivated by self-interest? Or does the critic have a role to play in helping us make “better” judgments about art?

Naturally, such a question is fallacious, as if the matter could be settled by a straightforward yes or no. For example, in the above quote, Addison DeWitt, by proxy of Eve, is manipulating another character, Karen, to go along with his scheme to make Eve a star. In threatening to blackmail Karen, he threatens to tell the truth about her misdeeds in his column. DeWitt is a malicious character, but he is not a hack. There is never any suggestion he is anything less than an actual expert on theater. It is, in fact, the thoroughness of his expertise that enables his corruption. After all, although DeWitt connives to make Eve a success, he does so because he knew she was worthy of stardom in the first place. That’s what makes it a great movie; Eve dethrones her idol Margo Channing by a calculated betrayal, but the result is not a complete injustice. The theater is simply a den of snakes, and backstabbing is the law of the land. This image of the critic may seem less than flattering, but at least it concedes that the critic’s social standing, however misused, is grounded in the possession of perceptual skills that are of cultural value. At present, even that allowance is no longer certain.

As Hegel defines it: “Thinking is, indeed, essentially the negation of that which is immediately before us.”
—Herbert Marcuse, “A Note on Dialectic”

Today the mere suggestion that some things are better than others, particularly in the arts, is met with confusion and hostility. The insistence that there is no reason not to “let people enjoy things” reigns, as if evaluation itself can be nothing but an act of antisocial pretension. There is, admittedly, a fragment of truth in this. I know very well the dangers that criticism can pose to enjoyment: I was born a pathological overthinker, neurotic and hard to please. For years I nursed vague artistic aspirations, but it turns out that obsessively thinking about art is a bad way to become an artist. Thinking about a movie or a piece of music while it plays is a mental digression, a self-awareness of the act of experiencing that pulls one out of the act of seeing and listening. Conversely, making art is an activity. Artists think, of course, but thinking of what to draw and drawing are two different things. Someone can stare at a canvas all day, thinking about painting, but they’re only a painter if they put some paint on it; whether it’s any good is a question that comes later.

Being stuck in thought negates engagement and enjoyment, so it’s natural that we approve of art as the product of courage and creativity and distrust criticism as so much foul-tempered grumbling. This criticism of criticism inevitably emphasizes that art is subjective, which, according to experience, it is. No two people will have the same exact experience of a work of art. However, to treat art as completely subjective represses the role that thinking plays in our subjective experience, and in particular the process of judgment (which is part of our experience). Once we make any judgment at all we are aspiring to be objective, or at least correct, to the best of our knowledge. This objectivity may not be fully achievable, but if we are to think critically, or at all, the attempt is necessary. It is plainly impossible to approach the world without making judgments: anything from choosing friends you can trust to picking out a ripe orange requires a differentiation of qualities we learn to recognize through experience. Art and media are no different. A toddler will tend to prefer The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Moby-Dick, subjectively, but a twenty-year-old should be able to discern that the latter is an objectively better work of literature, even if they may not go so far as to agree that Herman Melville is better than Harry Potter.

Of course, today’s twenty-year-old is certainly less likely to read Moby-Dick, especially if no one has ever made the case to them that it’s a better or more important book than others that are more accessible and “fun.” This underscores the subtext of “letting people enjoy things.” Refusing negative criticism is not only an instinctive rejection of negativity itself, but also a preemptive defense against the notion that anything strange, antique or otherwise difficult may be of more value than what is familiar, popular or easy.

Another implication of subjective absolutism, alongside the insistence that no one should feel guilty for their “guilty pleasures,” is that these guilty pleasures are the only real pleasures. This means that no one actually likes philosophy, or movies with subtitles, or boring old books like Moby-Dick. The upshot being that, culturally speaking, the arts have been demoted to the level of “media,” recreational content intended for unreflective consumption. What more could one desire than another Marvel spectacle?

Just how vacuous the formal objection to subjective relativity is, can be seen in the particular field of the latter, that of aesthetic judgments. Anyone who, drawing on the strength of his precise reaction to a work of art, has ever subjected himself in earnest to its discipline, to its immanent formal law, the compulsion of its structure, will find that objections to the merely subjective quality of his experience vanish like a pitiful illusion: and every step that he takes, by virtue of his highly subjective innervation, towards the heart of the matter, has incomparably greater force than the comprehensive and fully backed-up analyses of such things as “style,” whose claims to scientific status are made at the expense of such experience.
—Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia

It seems unimaginable to us now that Adorno levied his cranky sneer at all of cinema and jazz as inherently vapid commodities, but we have the benefit of hindsight for a future that was impossible for him to predict. Such are the hazards of attempting a critical theory. For someone who worked on a theory of aesthetics from 1956 to 1969, the last years of his life, Adorno was remarkably indifferent to everything that had happened in art after World War II. This relativity of his own perspective to the passage of time is, however, directly relevant to what it means to make serious critical judgments. You either die young and hip or live long enough to become out of touch. There’s no point to living in fear that one’s judgments will age poorly; it’s certain that most of them will. In Adorno’s case, his judgments appeared pessimistic at the end of the twentieth century, but it seems that society has caught up with him in the 21st.

For literature is like love in La Rochefoucauld: no one would ever have experienced it if he had not first read about it in books. We require an education in literature as in the sentiments in order to discover that what we assumed—with the complicity of our teachers—was nature is in fact culture, that what was given is no more than a way of taking. And we must learn, when we take, the cost of our participation, or else we shall pay much more. We shall pay our capacity to read at all.
—Richard Howard, preface to S/Z

I’m well aware that liking Adorno qualifies me as an insufferable crank, but I contend that we are in dire need of more insufferable cranks. As it stands, society has no criterion for intellectual maturity beyond turning seventeen and being allowed unaccompanied into an R-rated movie. At that point, the whole of experience is considered revealed to us. This is, in a word, stupid. 

I tried to read Ulysses when I was seventeen and made it one hundred pages in before giving up. I tried again last year and read the book from cover to cover (though most of the action in “Oxen of the Sun” still escaped me). Being 33 years old had very little intrinsic impact on how I read the book; the important thing was that I’d spent the intervening sixteen years developing as a reader. I also bought three different editions of Ulysses, a volume of annotations, a book of literary essays on each chapter of the book and a very complicated guide advising hundreds of amendments of typographic errors to each edition. I even spent a couple of months distracted from the book itself because I developed an obsession with the blow-by-blow records of John Kidd and Hans Walter Gabler’s “Joyce Wars.” Some may balk at the idea of going to so much effort, but the effort is its own reward. Even though Ulysses is one of the best books I’ve ever read, the pleasure of reading it is but one particular enjoyment within the perpetual appreciation of literature, which itself is an enrichment of one’s relationship to language, thought and life. As Richard Howard puts it, literature, sentiment, enjoyment, even love, require an education.

And this brings us, finally, to the process of becoming a critic, what that means, what it is. As I mentioned, I was drawn to the arts in high school, mostly music. Like (I assume) many teenagers, I intuited an authenticity and a sprawling sense of possibility in artistic expression that I didn’t find elsewhere. I had liked science fiction and video games as vehicles for fantasy and escape, but by the end of my teens I’d begun looking for something deeper in music, film and literature. In retrospect I was driven even then by a critical impulse. I started with the lowest-common-denominator “best of” lists: The 100 Greatest Novels of the 20th Century, IMDb’s Top 250, Rate Your Music’s Top 100. Aside from the few unimpeachable classics, these lists featured works favored by middling taste, but they were invaluable for giving me a framework grounded in a historical consensus of what constituted great art, something apart from an unreflective consumption of the pop-cultural treadmill’s newest products. With that foundation, I was free to sift through history and see what stuck. This is, crucially, not a merely subjective process. Rather, it’s a dialectic between subjective enjoyment and the abstract notion of great art, in whatever form, that is mediated by the work itself. Teenagers, for all their wide-eyed idealism and thirst for mind-blowing novelty, are both entirely ignorant and unbearably pretentious. I wouldn’t have known about A Love Supreme if it wasn’t the number-one album of all time on Rate Your Music when I was sixteen, but by the next year I recall insisting to a friend that John Coltrane was greater than Charlie Parker because I had read somewhere that Coltrane would practice scales for twelve hours a day. The friend, who had some conventional jazz education, was skeptical, as he should have been, because aside from the fact that Parker practiced just as much, I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. Like most teenagers, I had no ability to make judgments outside of parroting opinions from elsewhere, no sense of the overarching history of the genre or even much ability to listen actively and make my own observations. My affectation of an opinion was laughably overstated, but that’s how one gets started developing an actual point of view.

This is how artistic self-education works today; a young person wants to develop their taste, but they have no framework for judgment except their own meager experience and mostly uninsightful information from the internet. On the one hand, deferring to experience is necessarily infantilizing to someone who has so far only consumed media for children; the mainstreaming of “nerd culture” is the result of society at large attempting to prolong childhood indefinitely. On the other hand, constructing one’s personality around consensus notions of high art is scarcely better, leading to another marginal subculture: the dreaded Reddit music geeks who believe that Radiohead is the greatest band of all time because their albums have the highest aggregated average ratings, or the self-proclaimed film buffs whose understanding of cinema never developed beyond Taxi Driver and Fight Club, rhapsodizing in YouTube vlogs on the profundities of a crane shot or a certain cut ad infinitum. These are two sides of the same coin, an ignorant versus a pretentious philistinism. The only means to bridge them is intelligence. The concept is as fraught as any, but by invoking it I don’t mean any kind of inherent superiority or quantifiable IQ. I mean rather the emergence of sensibility, sensitivity and a distinct personal taste, which are indistinguishable from the slow development of intellectual maturity.

Intelligence does not emerge by rote, or else pretentiousness would be enough. The value of the arts is the capacity to teach intelligence by learning to perceive intelligence, which is itself the content of art; the expression of perceptivity in whatever form. To return to my own education, I ravenously absorbed as much music, film and literature as I could, mostly superficially. My desire to expose myself to everything I was led to believe was good outstripped my patience with the slow development of my ability to understand, let alone enjoy, much of it. This wasn’t an ideal process, and it is probably what doomed me to criticism. It killed whatever intuitive, creative feeling I had (not much, I suspect) in favor of an abstract, detached tendency to think about and analyze art. At the same time, that labor created a discipline and taste for expending effort that eventually became second nature.

There is no happiness other than that of intelligence. I think people like Rousseau, Montaigne, Diderot all attained it.
—Marguerite Duras, “I Thought Often…”

From all this exertion a sort of sense begins to emerge, if not quite a logic. Kerouac is thrilling to teenagers, so, having been thrilled by his writing, you follow his example and seek out his favorite authors, other Beats, Buddhist texts. None of it matches the hormonal rush of On the Road, but some of it is enjoyable, some impenetrable but suggestive, some boring or off-putting. The process repeats, finding an artist whose sensibility seems appealing and who suggests other points of discovery. But a good critic can also be invaluable here, because such recommendations are part of their job. Unlike the compilers of the Top 100 lists, a critic is defined by their taste instead of any consensus or canon, although these are not completely separable. The point is not for the reader to fully subjugate their own judgment to the critic’s, but to recognize and respect that the critic’s sensibility represents some understanding of the scope of their subject, albeit in a contingent, individualized way. Take the first critical voice I really liked: the music critic Robert Christgau, best known for his tenure at the Village Voice from 1969 to 2006. Christgau is probably my most direct critical “influence,” even though I disagree with plenty of his opinions. What compelled me was his ability to articulate more in a couple of pithy sentences than I was used to reading in thousands of words of Pitchfork reviews.

Christgau was able to convey so much so economically, I suspect now, because of his ability to make judgments that were both coherent and convincing, according to standards he had developed in dialogue with a broader canon. The common music-writing formats of pop-culture hagiography, technical and aural descriptions, the “trip report” method of talking about ambient music that was popular on Blogspot in 2010, heinous creative-writing attempts from Tiny Mix Tapes—none of it serves to articulate whether a song is good or not, or how it compares to other songs that might appear superficially similar. Ironically, the line of Christgau’s that has stuck with me the most is one I’m not entirely sure he wrote; I’ve never been able to find it, but it sounds so much like him that I can’t believe that it was anyone else. The line is: “Sonic Youth is the least vocally gifted band since the Grateful Dead.” It’s a mundane statement in retrospect, and maybe not even that witty, but it’s a good example of what he impressed upon me as a college student: a mature perspective on popular music that synthesized a conception of the subject as a whole and allowed for those leaps of logic and reference that I found exciting. The value of these judgments is not in their being absolutely right or wrong, but in the way they crystallize the critic’s sensibility. As the title of Christgau’s Consumer Guide books attest, they also offer the reader an informed suggestion of how they might be advised to spend money and attention in the process of building their own taste.

You couch so much of this in terms of your individual response and the individual creativity of the people making the music—what I say is that all art, even arty-art, high art, which is really the kind of art you’re interested in, whether you like it or not, is dependent on a social context. And if the social context dries up, so does the art.
—Robert Christgau, from a conversation with Gerard Cosloy and Joe Levy in SPIN, 1989

Now, I write art criticism, but I haven’t yet talked about visual art. It doesn’t dominate when I think about art in general, probably because I’ve spent less of my life thinking about it. I was only introduced to art in a more than historical sense in my mid-twenties, so I never had a direct immersion in the art world, which is the only way to really engage with it, until I was already writing about it. I’ve probably learned more about contemporary art in the past three-odd years, since I started writing the Manhattan Art Review, than I knew going into it.

The discipline of art, even as a viewer, is rarefied and particular to itself. It’s hard to access, for one thing. Even if you’re a dedicated gallery- and museumgoer living in one of the few major cities where visual art is readily available, standing in front of specific artworks is still only a small part of one’s relationship to art. What occupies the rest of the relationship is thinking about it: flipping through catalogs and reading biographies, essays, criticism, art theory and artists’ writings. All this is part of the process of refining one’s thoughts about art at a remove from the art itself, and therefore part of the preparation for viewing. It’s in this sense that visual art is particularly tied to criticism; judgment and discrimination are essential to putting the experience of art in motion. It’s rare for an art lover not to engage critically with art at some level.

The disappointment of bad art is its inability to be anything more than what was expected, whereas one of the greatest pleasures of art—and one of the few well suited to the critic—is when it proves to be more than what was suggested by your preconceptions or by the small photo you could make out on your phone. In this sense, looking at art and, by extension, criticism, is a realization of that dialectic between subjective experience and the formal criteria of judgment. A critic who is hardened against having their perspective altered by experience has become staid and dogmatic (as has often, perhaps inevitably, been the fate of opinionated critics like Adorno, Clement Greenberg and Michael Fried), but a critic with no knowledge of art has no means of thinking about their experience in the first place.

Art criticism is not a document of experience: this green wowed me; that box filled me with awe; that figure reminded me of my mother; I cried. Those experiences are as singular and impossible to translate as art itself. Criticism is, rather, the documentation of thinking about art, and particularly about an artwork’s success or failure. A critical judgment may age well or poorly, but the value of these judgments is not in whether they are right or wrong. After all, judgments are never objectively true for all time. Artistic reputations have long risen and fallen in ways that seem ridiculous to us now: Bach was obscure in Beethoven’s day; Piero della Francesca was incompatible with the Victorian sensibilities of Ruskin’s generation, just as Jacques-Louis David and Ingres are off-putting to mine.

A critic’s sensibilities should not be held to a standard of infallibility but to their internal coherence, which is necessary for the value of criticism: to be eloquent and perceptive, to convey with intelligence the value the critic sees in art. Good writing about art serves to elevate and enrich the experience of good art and to clarify the inadequacies of bad art, to put words to the nonverbal aesthetic language that the critic has built. More particularly, a critic’s recognition of artistic quality does not simply put art into words but brings new qualities into being. The subjectivity of art extends beyond the artist’s own intentions, so a critic can discover new ways of seeing art in their criticism in the same way that artists find new ways of seeing the world in their art. This is easiest to conceive of regarding art history: we can see now how della Francesca’s geometric rigor foreshadows tendencies that would be taken up five hundred years later with minimalism, and Monet probably would have been bewildered by Greenberg’s writings on his paintings scarcely thirty years after his death. On less grand but more useful terms, artistic quality is never given; it has to be found, fought for and defended. This is the critic’s fight.

For [Daniel Joseph Martinez’s] 2022 new work, he photographed himself in the (prosthetically enhanced) guise of five pop-cultural “post-human” antiheroes including Frankenstein, Count Dracula and the Alien Bounty Hunter from “The X-Files.” But what makes the piece gripping is a statement that accompanies the images, a scathing indictment of the human race as the earth’s “ultimate invasive species,” one that’s about to self-destruct and take every other living thing down with it.
—Holland Cotter, “A Whitney Biennial of Shadow and Light,” New York Times, 2022

Criticism may be unpopular with the public these days, but what’s even more disturbing is how it has fallen out of fashion with critics themselves. The above is taken from Times art critic Holland Cotter’s indicative review of one of the most indicative art exhibitions in recent memory, the 2022 Whitney Biennial. From Cotter’s perspective, any work that gestures toward a political moral is considered a success as art for invoking that moral. So Daniel Joseph Martinez takes some self-portraits in monster makeup and we are told it is “gripping” because the artist calls them a commentary on human destructiveness. This art presents a platitude that the New York Times considers good, therefore the art is good. Cotter is certainly making a judgment. But the circular logic he employs to justify that judgment negates art itself in favor of generic sentiments, denying engagement with the particular qualities of an artwork that make artistic judgments meaningful in the first place.

The problem is not political art or “wokeness” as such, but rather with the way that treating activist slogans as sufficient criteria for good art—and any artist who peddles those slogans as an adequately accomplished artist—dismantles the function of art: the struggle toward expression, to eloquently articulate qualities that are beautiful, emotive or otherwise engaging. The problem is with a way of seeing that reduces art to a resolved formula, when in fact it is precisely the opposite. Art is actually always about insufficiency, the personal desire to achieve something greater than what is possible, to capture the universal in the particular. Just as objectivity is an elusive ideal of thought, art aspires to an impossible, singular finality, whether in a painting of an apple in all its appleness, an assemblage that fully resembles nothing but itself, or an abstraction that shows the face of God. These goals are unrealizable as absolutes, but nevertheless artistic quality comes from this aspiration. Art cannot be “the sublime,” but it can be sublime, just as a painting cannot be an apple, but it can suggest appleness.

The assertion of art’s insufficiency may seem out of left field, but it points back to the concept of learning and growth that I’ve been attempting to flesh out. Another term for this could be cultivation, as in becoming “cultured,” which underscores its social dimension. Individuals are, of course, implicated in their sociocultural context, which informs and directs their own development. New things, old things, art, historical information and so on, the things we learn from, are cultural products that are undetermined by our individual relationship to them. Subjective intuition, too, plays a role in the instinctual attraction and aversion to specific things, but in the same way that no one becomes a master chef without instruction, these outside influences are the primary means of our cultivation.

Moreover, as one can gather from pseudo-Dionysius, good radiates itself and existence. So what makes a thing good is what makes it radiate. Now radiating is a kind of activity, and substances act by way of powers; so things are called good because of something added to their substance. Being good then adds something real to existing…
—Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones Disputatae de Veritate, 21.1

A woman in an Arc’teryx jacket holding the Wikipedia logo, two paintings of matcha lattes, fruit, flowers, etc., all painted in an imitation of PS2 graphics that doesn’t look impressive or appealing regardless of the technique required, but I’m not under the impression it’s particularly demanding either. Oh, she’s collaborated with Balenciaga? Say no more, I knew this pretentious, gutless, commodified rehash of Berlin from ten years ago reminded me of something.
—Manhattan Art Review, May 2023

In the contemporary context, becoming cultured requires a resistance to the prevailing culture, and could ironically be considered countercultural. Nevertheless the pursuit remains necessary, and perhaps even unavoidable, because it is intrinsic to our nature. Cultivation is the growth into a distinct individuality by means of culture, an understanding of oneself and the world that always seeks to more fully encompass this understanding, a knowledge of life, an intelligence. This aspiration reaches toward an absolute, an omniscience that is both desired by and denied to humans: something I might call God if I were religious, but that for our purposes we can call the good. This good is something we can only put ourselves in service to. Good art, by extension, is good by its achievement of the good, a channeling of an external sense of life into an artwork. Good criticism seeks to recognize this good in art as much as it can. 

The process of learning to discern what separates the truly good from the seemingly good, and the failed attempts at the good from the irredeemably bad, does not follow rules. It cannot be learned like a scientific formula. In a society that has seen a universal decline of the cultural institutions that should exist to edify it, many will not even know that it is a process, or that there is any point in subjecting oneself to it. In this context it becomes doubly important, for the sake of culture as well as for one’s own good, to judge the differences between good and bad, the real, authentic and profound versus the shallow, the crassly commercial and the uninspired. 

My own work with the Manhattan Art Review aims to do this, attempting as best I can to discriminate between artworks that possesses good qualities and those that lack them. Even though some might deem it unsophisticated or needlessly provocative, the rating system in Kritic’s Korner is central to this project. Writing about art can have any number of objectives, but lurking behind any analysis is the question of judgment. Most contemporary art writing uses interpretation as a way of sidestepping the problem of quality, but interpretations are impossible to take seriously if the art itself is bad. A critic who avoids evaluation may have a less contentious body of work; perhaps they will protect themselves from ever saying anything that will sound embarrassing to future generations. The cost is that they won’t be able to help their readers learn how to judge art or to understand it, which are in essence the same thing. In my judgments of particular art shows I convey my understanding of art, or of good art, which I can only hope is of some use to others interested in developing their own taste. The goal of the Review has been to provide a quixotic counterweight to the prevailing conventions of art and commentary about art, which might otherwise, in their greed, indifference and literal-minded sloganeering, counsel cynicism.

When I was younger and wanted to be an artist, my awareness of mature art made my immature attempts at creativity intolerable to me. Unlike young artists who unselfconsciously develop a sense for working before gradually refining it, I couldn’t stand the idea of not making good art immediately, so I resolved to try to understand art as best I could before I started to make it. My method didn’t pan out artistically, but I learned that thinking about art is its own discipline. After years of putting self-education above all else, I came into my own kind of maturity as an observer. Far from implying any lofty or profound genius, what I mean by maturity is only a familiarity gained through experience with the cycles of art and life, learning to slow one’s overbearing urge to consume everything while developing routines whereby the effort to, say, read philosophy ceases to be a chore and becomes a pleasure. Likewise, the task of learning about art only deepens with experience; instead of scouring the archives in an effort to find an objectively correct position, the point becomes expanding the understanding of an artist’s work as you become familiar with them, which widens your conception of art generally. Whether or not the criticism I write now is of any lasting value is not for me to say, but personally my engagement with art is its own reward, a self-perpetuating, inexhaustible exercise of effort and attention, which in the end is, I suspect, as close as I am able to come to the satisfactions of making art.

Artists never complete a single, perfect artwork, and a single work never instigates an absolute transcendence in viewers. We may aspire toward this quasi-theological ideal, but art only has the ability to suggest the sublime. The real sustenance of the artistic is the scope of experience it provides, the cumulative sense of growth and cultivation of ourselves through art, a tendency toward a good that we can never capture but only assist in radiating itself and existence.

Art credit: (1) Rafael Delacruz, Don’t sleep while we explain, oil and cochineal on canvas, 77½ × 144 in, 2022; (2) Rafael Delacruz, Human Audio Sponge, oil and cochineal on canvas, 27¼ × 30⅛ in., 2022. Courtesy of the artist and Mitchell-Innes & Nash.

Negative Criticism | The Point Magazine

Alienation Praxis Unterhaltung ZKF-Erweiterung

Gründung der Abstraktion Big Band mit Mad SESSION Master Stefan Tcherepnin

Einziger Termin: Dienstag, der 17.10.23
Einzelheiten zu Ort und Uhrzeit werden bekannt gegeben
Hier die Ankündigungen/thoughts von Stefan Tcherepnin :

Greetings.  The purpose of this document is to introduce myself to you in preparation for the upcoming workshop. Since we have such a limited time window to activate something, I thought this would be a good platform to share some initial ideas and concerns, as well as to propose an activity for the workshop. 

I look forward to meeting all of you in person. In the meantime, I encourage you to add to the attached document, let’s say three to five things that are currently important to you.  They can relate directly to your practice. Or more generally like, a composer/band/album/song that you’ve been listening to on repeat. An artist or exhibition you are thinking about.  What you’re reading. Etc. The only requisite being it’s something that really affects you in the present moment. 

In the end, I hope this document could act almost like a blueprint for a superzine. Ultimately, though,  I hope it is an effective way to share and combine our most current interests and concerns, rally them together and create a kind of core or essence, from which something(s) else may emanate.  

I would also like to propose my idea for the workshop; i.e. by pooling our various interests and allowing them to cross-pollinate, we are able to establish an essential core; an ensemble or ‘big band.’ That we can use the time we have together to write and record at least one song or musical composition. 

Some of you may have backgrounds in music. Needless to say, a musical background is not necessary for our current exercise. It could even be said that a ‘lack of,’ or non-technical, understanding of music allows one to experience/approach music with purity, which is ideal for the purposes of this workshop.  

Therefore, on the attached sheet, in addition to your 3-5 current interests, I would ask that you please also include your name, along with an instrument- or instruments- that you play or would be willing to play in our big band. It should be an instrument that you can bring with you to the workshop. It could be a traditional/conventional instrument such as guitar, a drum (or drums), electronic keyboard, etc. But also invented or ‘found’ instruments, of which there are virtually infinite possibilities.

If there’s time and interest, I could also talk a bit about some of my current and/or recent projects/exhibitions. Currently, I am preparing a solo performance/presentation for the outdoor Meridians sector of Art Basel Miami Beach in December; a mixed media installation at the Fridericianum in Kassel opening March ‘24; a long-term public art commission in Stockholm in the form of a sculpture park opening in September ‘24. Some recent exhibitions, including Le Consortium, Dijon; Meredith Rosen Gallery, NY; Platform, Stockholm…

In the past I have typically started my workshops with a group exercise in which we perform one of two works by the American composers Pauline Oliveros and Annea Lockwood, respectively. Performing these works effectively breaks social barriers and inhibitions, allowing the participants to exist on an equal ground. I am hoping our own exercise will produce the same result, but include here the instructions for the Oliveros and Lockwood pieces for reference:

Annea Lockwood – Humming, 1972 (*Score instructions paraphrased from memory by the composer to me)

Spend a minute or two simply breathing deep breaths, then start humming on any pitch which feels comfortable to you, letting your pitch drift at will, but without making melodies or rhythms or consciously forming harmonies with other participants, using long slow breaths and pausing when you wish. The group’s sounds will fade naturally from time to time. When this happens, let the humming start up again. It will also end naturally, without anyone leading that decision.

Pauline Oliveros – Teach Yourself To Fly, 1970?

I hope you are excited as I am about the workshop and I very much look forward to meeting you and seeing what we come up with!



Hi all, sorry for the late reply.   I’ll send some additional links later today/ tonight (beguile the end of the weekend). The Kunstalle Zurich one is a good start:)

Website looks good. 

I had some additional thoughts, last night

I was rehearsing with my duo band, Kvantum, in preparation for upcoming performances we’re giving in an installation of mine on the terrace at Art Basel Miami beach in December. The title of the work, Song of Seven Keys, refers, in part, to a faint, mythological melody that can sometimes be heard in the wind blowing from across the bay, beyond Key Largo. In our music, that melody is incorporated into a theme and we are playing four variations on that theme. One way of putting it could be:

Song of Seven Keys – 4 Variations on a Theme

The different variations we are playing, themselves, „wander“ through harmonic modal keys (i.e. F# phrygian -> D locrian -> E phryian -> etc). 

I have a memory of visiting my grandmother, who lived in Key Largo, years ago; at the foot of the bridge to the Key Largo is a kind of trashy restaurant with deck seating on the water- they serve white wine by the glass, in sealed plastic wine cups that you open yourself- anyway, i used to like to go there with my grandmother because I had heard that Ernest Hemingway used to come there sometimes. 

So I can also imagine that this „song of the seven keys“ comes in by the wind, from the ocean, blowing over Hemingway’s ghost sitting on the deck at that restaurant.. the melody swirls around above the Keys, through the keys, comes to Miami Beach to unlock the doors to the space that becomes our little ‚venue‘ on the terrace… 

Anyway, what I’m thinking now for the workshop is to ask the question, What is a theme? What constitutes a theme? What are the essences and contingencies of a theme? 

During the workshop, we would try to construct or create a theme, then perform it and record it.

thanks again, Stefan
See what I ve found. Ei, you and Jutta in my exhibition ARTIST WRITER MENTALIST, Reena Spaulings, NYC 2008.
My first time in New York.
I think I also met Thomas Winkler there! Could it be? Magic!
He was performing new songs on the occasion of the Internationl Elvis-Days, on march 29th. If I am right. There was also JELVIS, the jewish Elvis. But I can t remember.


Einstimmung ins Wintersemester

(via Zappy/Stephan Janitzky)

With Friends

Art is artistic again: sometimes enchanting, sometimes plain commercial. But with formal criteria long left behind, how do we tell the difference?

By Kristian Vistrup Madsen (*1991)

Jake Grewal, Now I Know You I Am Older, 2022. Oil on canvas. Photo: Thomas Dane Gallery

“It was weird to be in New York,” my friend, the artist Jaakko Pallasvuo, wrote me, “Because there, art really just turned into this game of, like – who makes the best shit. But in this really limited sense; like the most skilled figurative painting that looks good on Instagram. It’s giving medieval craft kinda?” 

Jaakko called this newly re-emergent species “very artistic artists”, a phrase that should’t sound as unlikely as it does. I read it as a return to the studio, away from the self-reflexive criticality typical of artists educated in the 1990s, as well as the various discursive, political, and scientific turns as they’ve played out since the 2000s. “It’s giving medieval craft” seems to describe a certain de-alienation and re-mystification, perhaps what it really means to be coming out on the other side of (post)modernism. The limited sense of the best shit, I take as a counterpose to the post-medium condition, returning to medium-devotion, or at least the semblance of it. 

There are good and bad examples of this trend – it is by no means one thing. What good and bad mean – and whether it is possible for quality to mean anything at all – is another matter, as I’ll get to. The New York gallery 15orient strikes me as a prime proponent of medieval craft with artists such as TARWUK and Sam Hindolo presenting genuinely complex and yet completely straightforward artistic art brimming with the haunted animism of orthodox icons. Galleries Mendes Wood and Thomas Dane opt for safe taste, perfectly combining wistful cloud studies by Lucas Arruda and the saliently melancholic back-to-nature paintings of Jake Grewal with savvy picks of artists rediscovered, old, or deceased (the aura of the best of the new artistic art is the aura of the found or aged). At Tim Van Laere, the toothless neo-Pop of Ben Sledsens is naive to the point of trolling. This type of work – hyper-trendy and in dreadful abundance – is “giving” medievalism in the sense that it seems to come from a pluralistic and ahistorical world where images circulate without authors, without discourse. Maybe it’s called Instagram.

To me, this feels new. I have been working as an art critic since 2016, and looking back on those years, none of the big conversations that have been had in the art world – what might be called art criticism – were about art, but about who made it, paid for it, and where it was. From the various Whitney Biennial controversies, the much-maligned landing of Documenta 14 in Athens, its subsequent financial issues, #MeToo scandals, to last year’s Documenta, which was used to funnel money into worthwhile community projects across the world per the logic of: what is art anyway, if not a colonial, patriarchal, continuous reassertion of the powers that be? Who wants art? What does it even do?

In 1993, James Meyer curated a group exhibition at American Fine Arts in New York called What Happened to the Institutional Critique? Earlier this year, November magazine published a roundtable about that exhibition in which one of the participating artists, Andrea Fraser, asked exasperatedly about the current contemporary art landscape: “Where is the anti-aesthetic?” November’s editor Aria Dean explained that What Happened was partly a response to the Whitney Biennial of the same year where a “politics as content” approach “was positioned as a substitute for a sufficient critical model.” Meyer described this approach as “calcified identity’ and ‘a tautological understanding of art and artist”: “here is the Black artist, here’s the woman artist, here’s the gay artist, and they’re making work about those identities.” In the past five or ten years, Meyer continued, we’ve witnessed “the resurgence of the kind of saleable, portable, commodified artworks” that the exhibition set out to critique. “Why,” he asked, “does that seem to be the form of political expression in the time of Trump?”

It all leaves Fraser feeling pessimistic “in terms of the idea of critical practice, how people talk about responding to biennials that they have issues with, artists they don’t agree with or whose work they don’t like – it just feels very static and frustrated […] They’re not reflexive critiques of sites of production and distribution that also then encompass the critique itself and the position of the practitioner, which is how I understand institutional critique. I’m teaching an undergraduate class this afternoon, and there are, like, zero politics in this class[…] I don’t understand what they’re saying, and this is the first time I’ve had this experience. And it’s like, I’ve got to retire as soon as I possibly can because I don’t know what I have to offer these people. So that’s where I am.”

Here, Fraser describes the discourse around many of the big politics-as-content exhibitions of the last decade as well as, with reference to her current students, the more recent tendency towards artistic art. And the two are, indeed, related. If, in the mid-2010s, the quality of an artwork could not be ascertained outside of evaluating its politics (i.e. the artist’s place in the identity matrix), now the success of a painting – for it is, startlingly, mostly painting – will often come down to how many likes it gets. And so the ends meet in a logic of affirmation whose primary object is to not step on anyone’s toes; a cross between Thomas Hirschhorn’s statement “Energy: Yes! Quality: No!” (2013) and Instagram’s “Good Vibes Only”. In place of an anti-aesthetic, there is positivism and sentimentality. My issue is with art that does not issue questions but demands conformity – whether in the sense of joining a political youth organisation (whose spirit much politics-as-content art has inherited), or, quite literally, by tapping “follow.”

Samuel Hindolo, Untitled, 2023. Pencil, ink, color print and collage on paper, 21.5 x 27.8 cm. Photo: Galerie Buchholz.

During the American culture wars of the early 1990s, the critic Dave Hickey wrote that “the professionalized art world, in its quest for moral goodness, replicates the most insidious aspects of Bentham’s [panopticon] by demanding a transparency of political and social intention and thus a more punishing kind of internal control.” Increasingly, art is a sectarian system, and often the problem is not politics but the conditions for criticism. For a few years until 2014, a Berlin blog called Donnerstag posted anonymous art reviews which panned exhibitions in ways no named and networked critic would be able to afford. When it stopped, a post-script was published in English, once again anonymously, which brought the problem of criticism in art back to what the author argues is the art world’s status as cult:

“The bigger and weightier problem stems from the last criterion on the list of characteristics of a cult community: the discrepancy between internal and external views. That discrepancy is the result of a growing internal deficit of standards and critique. And I get the impression that, in this respect, the art world differs conspicuously from literature and theater, branches where fights do still break out over a piece’s artistic quality.”

But quality: What is it? Who can say? A contemporary of Hickey’s, Jean-Hubert Martin, then the director of Centre Pompidou, told the New York Times in 1990: “The term ‘quality’ has been eliminated from my vocabulary.” In this, he was probably informed by the likes of Benjamin Buchloh who’d argued that the idea of quality in art could only be an instrument of hegemony, and that we should instead trace the social fabrics around artworks. But here, thirty-some years later, when both quality and the public sphere are lost objects steeped in melancholy, does that mean we are only making art for our friends? Well, our friends and whoever can be convinced to buy it.  

At a recent conference at Vienna’s University of Applied Arts called The Practice of Criticism (for which this paper was originally written) we discussed the possibility that criticality – devolved from Fraser’s more reflexive definition to (identity) politics as content, set on uncanny repeat – has become its own form of kitsch. Basically, by now, a woke footnote in a work of art is as tacky as painting dolphins under the moonlight or your girlfriend in a summer dress. And so here we are, looking at Sledsens’s girlfriend in just one of an endless line of figurative paintings so apparently earnest we do not – after decades of irony, institutional critique, post-conceptualism, and self-consciously bad painting – have language or structure to ascertain the quality of whatever quality is.

On a visit to Palma de Mallorca’s gallery weekend in the spring, I went to about fifteen commercial galleries, most showing the same kind of cartoonish figurative painting that you see everywhere else. Ceramics is the sculptural equivalent to painting because it also bears the marks of someone having made it, by which I mean touched it, and the less skilled you are the more that effect is enhanced. It’s not the first time in the last months that I’ve been asked to take seriously the outcome of a recent two-month ceramics residency by an artist who has never worked with ceramics before in their life. If the new logic is “medieval craft” then we need to try harder. 

What I took away from the island is that provincialism is well under way to being eradicated in contemporary art. The galleries in Palma show the same kind of work as their colleagues in Berlin, London, and Brussels. There is something positive about this new pluralism; mid-sized cities are growing as Berlin’s magnetic pull wanes. But it’s not really decentralisation so long as Instagram remains the central network through which these tendencies are born and maintained, and the art world’s institutions cannot afford to rise above it, or worse: do not have any incentive to. 

“What does it mean when museums just about trample each other on the way to the same young artists studios and then they do not offer the public a perspective that could clarify what the rush is all about?” asked Michael Brenson in his post-mortem to neo-Expressionism published in 1986. I keep going back to these old quotes just to remind myself that, actually, nothing ever changes. Here’s another one, Hilton Kramer in 1959: 

“Between obscurantism on the one hand and demagoguery on the other there has been very little to choose from in recent art criticism. One has been a defense against the new public interest [in art] – a defense which is also a form of collaboration – and the other has been a pandering to it. Neither has been willing to take on the classical critical task: the elucidation of a work of art itself, and the placing of it in a coherent context of experience and history.”

Lucas Arruda, Untitled, 2020. Oil on canvas. Foto: Tate.

I recently had a conversation at a dinner party with an older artist who makes conceptual political installations. We spoke about another artist, twenty years her junior, who makes poetic formless sculptures – what we might call very artistic art. Somewhat echoing Fraser’s exasperation, she said that she couldn’t stand the work; to her, it looked like first-year student art. I said I really liked it, but not being able to say in that moment exactly why, I stepped off a ledge. I was convinced, I said: “I am convinced by her practice.” “How horribly Greenbergian of you,” my interlocutor replied, and I was grateful that I hadn’t mentioned the possibly even more so stigmatised concept of ‘quality’. 

When I wrote about the conversation in my diary, I noted to myself as a conclusion that I should try and see more. I felt that my conviction was not enough. Or at least that, for my conviction to matter, it should stand on the greater heap of empiricism. When I first started writing picks for Artforum seven years ago, I received a kind of guide to help me. “See as much as you can,” is all I remember from it. And it is useful advice. I think people would be less sceptical of the perceived elitism of critics if they knew they are not speaking from an ivory tower, but from atop that empirical dung heap. But now that everybody sees a lot – feeds are practically overflowing with art, and a deficit of expertise seems to spring from it – we need also to consider the the quality of the looking that we do. What work can stand being stared at in person and at length. Engaged with. Written about. And in this case I really had stared, engaged, and written; it was from these activities that my conviction had grown, and still I had no real critical language for it.   

At another dinner party, I sat next to a formalist conceptual artist and we spoke about Sam Hindolo’s exhibition that opened at Galerie Buchholz during Gallery Weekend Berlin. “I just don’t know what these paintings want from me,” said the conceptual artist, “what is their point?” And I can see what she means. If you’ve devoted your practice to carving out a formal language on the edge of critical discourse, there is something provocative, vertiginous even, about encountering artists who are ready to reject hard-won developments in the various expanded fields and throw so much alienation to the wind, along with all those issues of October – so named after the month of revolutions – and go straight, as Hindolo did, to painting halos around the heads of crouched, cloaked figures.  

This simplified ontology and pluralist circulation of ‘artistic art’ speaks to the end of modernism’s empire, a return to the forthright objecthood of things. It suggests that we are left to contemplate an object no longer alienated, that is, an object in the process of re-enchantment, about which there is nothing else to decode or abstract than the effect of its presence. Let that sink in.

Coming out on the other side of the latest round of politics-as-content, and in the face of all this new, more or less sentimental, more or less deskilled earnestness, it seems to me that art critics need to reinvent a set of formal criteria based not on stylistic progression, but the even older trope of aesthetic feeling. By which I mean that the complexity of our responses – emotional, sensual, or intellectual – might just have to correspond to some idea of quality. One good thing about this “game of who makes the best shit” could be that it asks us to step off a ledge and claim conviction. This is where criticism starts. It’s an invitation to a conversation, and for others to disagree, which they will. Donnerstag concluded by saying that if anyone else was to try a similar project, “I’d seriously advise them to risk their own names. I actually believe that, if the cult can be cut down to size at all, that is how.”

I loved Hindolo’s show. I thought it was powerful and difficult. Morose. I did not finish with whatever feeling those paintings set into motion in me, as I had finished, for instance, with the paintings of Louis Fratino, another New York-based painter born in the 1990s. “He’s the Sally Rooney of painting,” I’d written about him once. That doesn’t exactly have the quality of art criticism either.  

Ben Sledsens, Blue Room, Blue Sea, 2021-2022. Oil and acrylic on canvas, 200 x 165 cm. Photo: Tim Van Laere Gallery.


Jaakko Pallasvuo is/runs the famous



Von mehreren Zuträgern wurde auf dieses Stück BRD-Fernsehgeschichte hingewiesen. Es handelt sich um das in Deutschland meistgesehene Format im Vorabendprogramm des ZDF – BARES FÜR RARES – mit dem Fernsehkoch Horst Lichter.
In der Sonderfolge BARES FÜR RARES XXL der extrem interessante Fall des 60jährigen Intensivpflegers Jörg, der in der Klinik vor zirka 10 Jahren ISA GENZKEN kennenlernte und sich mit ihr anfreundete. Sie hat ihm zum Abschied einen ihrer Weltempfänger geschenkt, den der Mann in diesem kuriosen Umfeld veräußern möchte, wahrscheinlich kennt er keine Galeristen.
Eine lustige Musik setzt ein, sobald der „Stein“ gezeigt wird.
Als der Intensivpfleger seine Preisvorstellung nennt, geht ein Raunen durch die Menge, Horst Lichter reißt die Augen auf und tut verblüfft. 30.000 Euro! Ob das sein Ernst sei? – Das einzige, was den hohen Preis irgendwie zu rechtfertigen scheint, ist Isa Genzkens 11jährige Ehe mit Gerhard Richter. Der ist ja schließlich der teuerste Künstler in Deutschland.

ab zirka 01:12


Die Fernsehshow, gilt aufgrund guter Einschaltquoten als die erfolgreichste Sendung im Nachmittagsprogramm des ZDF. Wochentags sehen etwa drei Millionen Menschen mit einem regelmäßigen Marktanteil von um 25 Prozent zu, selbst zu den Wiederholungen im Vorabendprogramm von ZDFneo finden sich bisweilen bis zu 1,5 Millionen Zuschauer ein.

(Die XXL Sendung vom 6.9.23 sahen 3,55 Millionen Zuschauer)



°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° °°°°°°°°°°°° °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

“Clarity is of no importance because nobody listens and nobody knows what you mean no matter what you mean, nor how clearly you mean what you mean. But if you have vitality enough of knowing enough of what you mean, somebody and sometime and sometimes a great many will have to realize that you know what you mean and so they will agree that you mean what you know, what you know you mean, which is as near as anybody can come to understanding anyone.”

Gertrude Stein

(aus dem Pressetext zur Ausstellung von Charline von Heyl bei Petzel, New York)

°°°°°° °°°°°°°°°°°°
nochmal der freundliche Hinweis auf den klugen Manhattanartreviewmann
wie er mit dem Gegenstand der Kritik umgeht, sich von ihm leiten läßt, informiert, offen, ernsthaft, persönlich, seine Empfindungen und Einstellungen versucht zu erkennen und mitzubenennen — ein sich selbst beobachtendes Medium, das zu Urteilen kommt, die es auch selbst überraschen können. Dem Gegenstand so gut wie möglich gerecht werden, darum gehts. Angenehmerweise auch was schwach nennt, wenn es schwach ist. Durch den link auf die jeweiligen Ausstellungen in Ansätzen mitzuvollziehen.
Bleibt viel Raum für Spekulation, natürlich, weil man selbst – in der Regel – nicht da war.


„It’s hard to juggle effort with aloofness, but art is hard!“

Alienation Praxis

Freie Bahn ins Glück

Schöne Brache zum arbeiten. Da steht auch ein verrostetes grid von Anno Pief. Auf der anderen Seite: EDEKA-Markt Zurheide. unerreichbar.

Die Neue Galerie Gladbeck im nördlichen Ruhrgebiet besteht aus dem ehemaligen Lesesaal der Stadtbücherei aus den 50er Jahren, ( bunte Scheiben) und einem fensterlosen Neubau mit Sichtbetonwänden, angefügt 2009.
Nebenan Rathaus, Spielplatz, Hallenbad. Soziologisch tough.
(nicht auf dem Bild)

Heute ist Mittwoch. Bin noch nicht fertig. Eröffnung Freitag. Zwischendurch große Krise, dann gings, dann wieder nicht. Aber schon was geschafft und sehr gelacht.

Falls jemand nach „Freie Bahn ins Glück“ fragt: man braucht einen Hintergrund, vor dem man arbeiten kann. Als Animation.
Die ursprünglichen Titelideen haben mich zu stark runtergezogen.

Grüße nach Wien

Animationspraxis Gnadeneichwald

Unverlangt eingesandte Rezension von Michaela Moravcikova.
Herzlichen Dank!

Hinweis: bezieht sich auf fehlerhafte Titelliste.
Titel der beiden roten Bilder sind vertauscht.
Vorsokratiker = blaue Figur.

„The Happy Thoughts on ‚Freie Bahn ins Glück‘ ”
by Michaela Moravčíková

Material Pizzicato-Geigen-Untermalung

Fresko Revisited

Eine Woche im Kloster, eine Woche niemand anderer da als wir. Ruhe suchen, Distanz zur Stadt finden, draußen Essen, draußen Arbeiten. Im großen Innenhof, Fisch grillen auf dem Feuer.

Erste Lehrstunde: An Freskomalerei gibt es nicht viel zu romantisieren, die meiste Zeit ist mehr oder weniger anstrengende Baustellenarbeit. Bewegungsspielraum fürs erste begrenzt zwischen Mischmaschine und Wand. Mörtel anmachen und anwerfen. Schaufel und Kelle statt Pinsel und Palette. 

Arriccio, Intonaco, Intonachino. Schicht um Schicht auftragen, dazwischen viel warten – Lässt sich aber gut aushalten an so einem Ort. Dreimal Mörtel, dreimal handwerkliches Geschick gefragt, bevor es ans malen geht. Malen, das laut Hannes reine Umsetzung sein soll. Malen mit Plan also… so garnicht meine Stärke. 

Und dann am dritten Tag endlich der erste Pinselstrich, ein kleiner Moment der Erleichterung, endlich etwas bekanntes. Pinsel & Farbe an die Wand. Festhalten am bekannten Malmodus im Atelier, langsam aber sicher den Prozess verstehen, neue Wege finden und es etwas übertreiben. Man muss lernen direkt zu sein, konkret, alla prima Malerei eben. Erst nach einigen Strichen verstanden was das eigentlich heißen soll. Malerei die die Zeit überdauern soll muss wohl scheinbar direkt sein.

Dort wo vor einigen hundert Jahren noch geschwiegen wurde, haben wir uns im Redeschwall verloren. 

Text von Paul

Material Unterhaltung ZKF-Erweiterung

Sommer-Nostalgie-Audiokurs Köln und Rheinland zweite Hälfte letztes Jahrhundert für dich

Das stetig wachsende Audio-Archiv von Sabine Oelze und Marion Ritter auf ARTBLOG COLOGNE ist Gold wert. Pralle Kunst-, Zeit-, Ideen- und Individualgeschichte der Protagonisten ohne Umweg in dein Ohr, um dort Evidenzgefühle auszulösen. Ah! … Echt?
Leicht eingefärbt in freundlich verwaschenem rheinischen Singsang läuft es besonders gut rein. Ausnahmen erwecken sogleich Argwohn. Ein Mann mit Dialekt aus Fulda erscheint verdächtig. schwatzhaft. Im Grunde unglaubwürdig.

Gute Entscheidung, die Interview-Fragen auszublenden. Die HörerIn sich ununterbrochen und vollständig den Eigenheiten von Stimme und Bericht der sprechenden Person hingeben kann.

Als Einstieg wird Benjamin Buchloh empfohlen. Er hat Ahnung und ist rumgekommen im Milieu und Metier. 1960er, 70er Jahre Köln/Düsseldorf. Polke, Broodthaers, Richter, Immendorff, Genzken, Beuys, Heubach, Zwirner, Galerien, früher Kunstmarkt. Bedingungen, Denken. Austausch mit Übersee. Was ist denn gute Kunst?


Danach vielleicht Gisela Capitain. Galeristin mit Galerien in Berlin und Köln, kennt Martin Kippenberger seit den späten 70er Jahren und veranschaulicht, warum er eine wichtige Figur | zentrale Bezugsgröße für die Gegenwartskunst bleibt. Obwohl er schon seit 1997 tot ist.
Zunächst arbeitete Capitain als Assistentin in der Galerie Max Hetzler und lernte viele Künstler*innen kennen, die sie anfangs auch in ihrer eigenen Galerie zeigte. 1986 eröffnete sie ihre eigenen Räume, zunächst mit Schwerpunkt auf Papierarbeiten. Die 1980-er Jahre, die „Goldenen Jahre von Köln“, waren geprägt von einem harten Konkurrenzkampf um die „besten Behauptungen“.


ebenfalls gestern teilgehört und für interessant befunden:

Chris Reinecke, Friedrich W. Heubach, Peter Bömmels, Siegfried Gohr, Willi Kemp, Markus Oehlen, Albert Oehlen, Franz Erhard Walther, Kasper König, Birgit Hein

aber schaut selbst.

Chris Reinecke war 1961 an der Kunstakademie Düsseldorf in der Hoehme-Klasse und überhaupt in „Freie Kunst“ die einzige Frau. Erst in den 1970er Jahren wurde es langsam besser.


Magie – Art et Politique

Weil Buchloh ausführlich über den öffentlich ausgetragenen Streit zwischen Broodthaers und Beuys 1972 spricht und es sich dabei um eine ewig schöne, exemplarische, grundsätzliche Auseinandersetzung handelt, an der sich viel ablesen und aus der sich viel lernen läßt, hier ein Text des Kunstkritikers Wilfried Dickhoff, der die Sache mit Material anreichert, erschließt, erhellt, vertieft. hoffentlich
Nicht ganz einfach.

(keine Ahnung, wie sich das gegenwärtig darstellt. ob überhaupt irgendwie interessiert. Hier die TikTok Version. kleiner Spaß)

Dickhoff-Text in english

Den klügsten, genauesten Beitrag zum Thema hat vermutlich Stefan Germer geschrieben, frühverstorbener Mitbegründer von Texte zur Kunst.
Haacke, Broodthaers, Beuys. In: October, Vol. 45 (Summer 1988), pp. 63-75 (13 pages)
please read


z.B. Benjamin Buchloh in Conversation with Jutta Koether, 2016
sehr ausführlich

Wer das noch nicht kennt, nach der Vergangenheits- zur Gegenwartsorientierung: sich durch CONTEMPORARY ART DAILY zu graben kann frustrieren, bildet nicht alles ab und gaukelt vor, daß die digitale Betrachtung eigentlich reicht.
Bietet aber immens viel Info, alles, was (vorrangig westliche) Galerie oder Institution rausrückt, Bild-Material meist in hoher Auflösung und damit eine gute Orientierungshilfe im aktuellen Ausstellungswesen. Hier kann man ablesen, was gerade als Kunst gilt, vielleicht auch geht, jedenfalls gezeigt und angeboten wird für Geld. Ob es einem gefällt, oder nicht.

daneben gibt es Sektionen, die als Sammel-Datenbanken des Werks einzelner Künstler fungieren. Für Forscher.

Der Betreiber ist freundlich, hat einen schönen Namen und am gleichen Tag wie ich Geburtstag.

Outside Vienna Praxis Satanismus

Rückblick: 41. Tag der offenen Tür der Polizei Berlin.

12:00 Uhr Vorführung der Diensthunde mit anschließender Tombola

Fit im Waffenrecht?

13:00 Uhr Löschen von Personen

13:45 Uhr Modenschau – Darstellung der Bekleidung und Ausstattung der Polizei Berlin

16:00 Uhr Zum Mitmachen – Parcours „Straftäterverfolgung“

Melvin Praxis

Die Melvins in der Arena

So schade dsss du nicht da bist. 
Super leute hier

ja scheisse verdammte. wegen so idiotischen deppenterminen hier bei mir. was ein ärgernis. 
wer ist denn jetzt mit?

Habe meine 2. karte einem [random] weirdo geschenkt.
War toll. Großartig 
Präzise massiv kompakt extrem gut sufeinander eingespielt .
Jetzt erstmal orientieren.  
Erdberg öuhähö Fahrrad hem

immer am fluss entlang
Bis fast zum Augarten kommst du damit

So hab ich’s gemacjt..easy und alles siehr aus wie Urlaub und Dolce Vita. 
3 innig küssende Pärchen gesehen 
Sowas seh ich in Berlin nie
King Buzzo hatte die Haare heute besonders schon. 
Stand leidee ziemlich weit weg, dafür schön erhöht

cool. bald mal erzählen davon. wenn du widder hier bist.

1994 haben die Melvins zum ersten Mal in Wien in der Arena gespielt [sagt Dale]
ich schick dir ein Video

Das ist ja super. Du hattest ja klasse Platz. Gleich neben dem Mischer. Wo die Checker stehen. Video wäre top für Website.
Sieht geil aus. Wie bei SunnO

War 20 Minuten zu kurz. Sonst top
Gleich Zug

Hab die noch nie Zugabe spielen hören. Zu cool. 
Gute Fahrt!

Doch gab 1 zugabe plus 1 stück buzzo alone.
Insgesamt sehr tight
Sehr kompakt.

Anfangs was von Bullhead [Zodiac]
Freude ohne Ende
Allein die beiden unter den Lebenden zu wissen ++!!!!++1
Dale war geschminkt wie ein Rugby Spieler
Mein Lokführer pfeift vor sich hin 
Beste Laune
Packst du video auf die Webseite?
Im Auftrag

ja mach ich

Vielleicht unsere konversation dazu nehmen ab: so schade dsss du nicht da bist. 
Würde Fehler drinlassen. 
Was meinst? 
Nur 1 Vorschlag.

An unserem Melvins-Tag haben wir die Melvins lauter gespielt, als sie sich selbst. Ich schwöre es.

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