From time to time we will bring you content from our partnering websites. This week we decided to ramp up some of that cross coverage and bring your interviews and articles from the Huffington Post, Beautiful / Decay and Art Practical. Today we are bringing you a recent article from our friends over at DaWire.com. This coverage of Jan Mancuska’s current exhibition Everything that really is, but has been forgotten at Meyer Riegger in Berlin was written by Christina Irrang and translated by Zoe Miller.

Jan Mancuska’s films, installations and stage performances are based on the reception and conception of space. The artist uses linguistic and figurative means to implement a reconfiguration of space, often connected to a fragmentary, dramaturgical, sometimes surreal or existentialistic narrative. A predominant theme in his choreographic concepts is movement; in visual, semantic, architectural and corporeal forms of expression it is articulated – and then dissolved. For his present show in Meyer Riegger gallery the artist created three new pieces, which shift between graphic art, text piece, sculpture, installation and film. Reconstruction, association and disassociation are perceptive techniques that connect and correlate the individual pieces.

In his installation Notion in Progress, Jan Mancuska outlines a description of space. The focal points of the work are the three words Cine, Mato and Graphy which the artist positioned in the room in various media and materials – a free-standing wooden sculpture, a wall projection and a floor graphic. Similar to a mind map, individual associative words branch out from this primary word structure, developing like a chain of terms – in this case physically along wires that span the room diagonally. The installation oscillates between the visibility and the immateriality of thoughts, which condense into fictive, cinematic sequences within the process of contemplating and reading.

The 16 mm film Postcatastrophic Story is presented on three projectors and causes the disassociation of a chronological order to become a constitutive part of the film image as well as the film narrative: The plot revolves around a news report shown from the viewpoint and basically from the memory of five protagonists. The subject is an insignificant catastrophe that occurred in an unspecified town, which one of the protagonists noticed in a newspaper. In the course of the film, which shows each scene looped in delay, the characters as well as the plot threads belonging to the individuals engage in a dialogue with one another.

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L.A. Expanded: Notes from the West Coast
A weekly column by Catherine Wagley

"Breakfast at Tiffany's," film still, 1961.

At the start of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Truman Capote’s charming novella about a troubled socialite looking for “what’s hers” and attracted to everything that’s not, the unnamed narrator receives a message from a bartender named Joe Bell. He meets Bell, an old friend, and the two clandestinely talk about Holly, the socialite who has long since disappeared (as the novella progresses, we find out why). Both men are still quietly preoccupied with her.

“If she was in the city, I’d have seen her,” says Bell. “You take a man that likes to walk. . . and all the years he’s got his eye out for one person and nobody’s ever her, don’t it stand to reason she’s not there? I see pieces of her all the time, a flat little bottom, any skinny girl that walks fast and straight–” Then Bell becomes uncomfortable. “You think I’m round the bend?”

“It’s just that I didn’t know you’d been in love with her,” the narrator replies. “Not like that.”

“You can love someone without it being like that,” Bell says. “You can keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend.”

Francesco Vezzoli, "A Love Trilogy: Self-Portrait with Marisa Berenson as Edith Piaf", film still, 1999.

Strangers are friends in Francesco Vezzoli’s A Love Trilogy: Self-Portrait with Marisa Berenson as Edith Piaf, a short, wistful film that had been on view at MoCA’s Geffen Contemporary until July 12.  In it, the actual Marisa Berenson wears Valentino gowns, lip-syncs to the absent Edith Piaf and floats across the screen like a well-manicured ghost. “The result is a bit like catching a whiff of perfume lingering in an empty elevator,” wrote Richard Flood in a 2000 issue of ArtForum

At one point, Berenson whisks down a red-carpeted aisle in a chapel filled with rows of empty white chairs. Vezzoli patiently waits for her at the altar, wearing a tuxedo that, while certainly not cheap, appears unpretentious next to Berenson’s couture gown. Berenson closes in on him, though doesn’t get close enough to touch him, before spinning around and whisking out. And the whole time, Vezzoli looks boyishly content–when he made the film, he was only 28 years old, practically still a boy; Berenson was 52. Later, Berenson throws herself against a black casket. “When Marisa Berenson entered a room, people would clap: she was so beautiful it was unbearable,” Vezzoli told Massimilliano Gioni in 2001.

In A Love Trilogy, everyone dabbles with what doesn’t belong to them. Berenson, a diva, inhabits the life of Piaf, an earlier diva whom Berenson never met but admires enough to embody. Vezzoli, a diva devotee, shares screen space with Berenson, an idol of his but someone whose life he likely never would have entered if not under the guise of this film about Piaf. These triangulating circumstances keep the characters–and Piaf counts as a character–in Trilogy at arm’s length; their mutual admiration is the film’s narrative glue, but they have to remain strangers because of the gaps between their situations.

Divya Victor, "Hellocasts", FERAL-CAT ATTACK performance still, 2010. Courtesy Les Figues Press.

I saw Vezzoli’s film on a Sunday afternoon, before boarding the Red Line and riding to Hollywood for Not Content 2, one of a series of performances at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions (LACE). LACE’s back gallery was set up as a haphazard auditorium and vodka-spiked lemonade sat on a table next to a boxed blue cake and a carton of water. Most importantly, a big Hello Kitty icon had been inscribed into the far wall and filled with text. During the second third of the performance, I found out why. Poet Divya Victor’s Hellocasts uses the multi-part poem Holocaust by Charles Reznikoff–which talks about S.S. officers throwing stones at groups of Jews, shooting bodies twice to be sure of death, and forcing orchestras of Jewish musicians to play as others died–as a starting point. The word Holocaust sounds like Hellocasts, which sounds like Hello Cats, which, of course, recalls Hello Kitty, a symbol Victor associates with silence (“Hello Kitty, the cat, has no mouth. Hello Kitty, the brand, always speaks for itself; is always spoken for by its consumer; is a felicific felicitation of affirmed desires,” she writes).

Victor’s voice read Holocaust by Reznikoff as seven performers transcribed what she said into Hello Kitty outlines on the wall, often on top of the big, already present kitty. These performers occasionally pulled audience members up and gave them their own Hello Kitty to write in, which resulted in a crowded and quickly filling wall. Victor kept reminding everyone present that the words she read were not Reznikoff’s when they became hers, and that they were not hers when they became the transcriber’s, and that they were not the transcriber’s when they became the audience’s. In other words, the Holocaust/Hellocasts belonged to none of us and all of us. No one seemed to want full ownership, either. Those of us who wrote seemed more than willing to be friendly, silently participating, jotting what we heard into the body of a kitschy kitty cat but keeping the distance of strangers between ourselves and our situation.

If the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh keeps putting on shows like Twisted Pair: Marcel Duchamp/Andy Warhol then maybe the ol’ Burgh deserves a place on the official Dia art pilgrimage map, along with James Turrell’s Roden Crater in Arizona and Walter De Maria’s New Mexican Lightning Field.  Curated by longtime Warhol archivist Matt Wrbican, Twisted Pair is smart, funny and long overdue. Where many curators employ obscure art theory in attempts to somehow prove that what they are doing is true, Wrbican actually uses the archive. This makes for a much more grounded take on these artists, which is exactly what they need after decades of art world deification.

This show reminds us that before all of the flashbulbs, fame and auction numbers, Andy Warhol was just another young New York artist, albeit a very promising one. It also accurately depicts Duchamp as being fairly aware of what young artists were up to, despite his status as art world legend. He was more accessible as a chess playing jokester than a solitary genius.

Andy Warhol, Oxidation, 1978. Marcel Duchamp, Fountain, 1917/1964.

There are some terrific pairings in this show, like Warhol’s Oxidation paintings next to Duchamp’s Urinal. There are also a few rare finds like Warhol’s The Lord Gave Me My Face But I Can Pick My Own Nose, 1948 and Duchamp’s Door at 11 Rue Larrey Photographic Enlargement, 1964. But some of the best stuff on view are the letters and archival material that might truly feel sacred to fans of either artist. Usually ephemera bores me to tears but here I was fascinated to see a butcher-paper test print for one of Warhol’s Shadows hanging above a case full of Duchamp’s optical illusion machines.

Among the qualities that Warhol and Duchamp share are a desire to shock, a taste for celebrity, a belief in the everyday object, a penchant for drag, and a strong voyeuristic impulse.  Duchamp’s groundbreaking idea of the readymade looms larger than any other in the 20^th century and no one did more with it than Warhol.  Warhol understood that advertisements, consumer objects, newspaper photos, the Empire State Building, and people themselves were all up for grabs as objects d’art. If Duchamp’s Bottle Rack looks rather pedestrian next to Warhol’s Brillo Boxes, it’s because Warhol never fully committed to the anti-retinal to the same degree that Duchamp did.

Andy Warhol, The Lord Gave Me My Face But I Can Pick My Own Nose, 1948, Collection Paul Warhola Family.

This show is so effective in pointing out connections between these two artists that it is tempting to see them as the same creative force formed by two separate eras. However, their differences are just as striking as their similarities. Duchamp embodied an authentic lackadaisical attitude that Warhol could only feign. With a work ethic that would make his Pittsburghian forebears proud, Warhol called his studio the Factory and constantly cranked out product.  Duchamp let large amounts of time, not to mention dust, seep into his works before finishing them. Warhol was a worldwide sensation while Duchamp only appealed to art-nerds. These days it is impossible to imagine any appropriation art, assemblage, or hip art collective like the Paris-based Claire Fontaine without these two artists – they are so influential that we are almost tired of them.

My friends in Pittsburgh roll their eyes when I over-praise their city’s magnificent bridges, or go on about how the PPG Building is like the best Banks Violette sculpture ever. And yes, I’ve been caught on Greenpoint Avenue in Brooklyn wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat.  But hometown bias aside, this show is worth traveling for.

On the other hand, Twisted Pair is so essentially New York that its next destination really should be the Whitney, but I doubt this will happen.  If a real sense of what these artists were like intrigues you, and the thought of seeing relics pertaining to their lives and work gets you all fluttery, then a trip to Pittsburgh is a must. After the show, indulge yourself with a little urban exploration. Vacant, post-industrial downtown Pittsburgh might be the closest thing to 60s SoHo to be found.

This week, DailyServing is publishing content from a few of our friends and partnering websites in order share some amazing new artwork with you . Today, we have a fantastic interview with Dan Attoe from our friends at Beautiful/Decay. B/D features really great contemporary art, illustration and cultural content. Make sure to check them out if you haven’t already.

Dan Attoe, The Scrape, Oil on Canvas

When I met Dan Attoe we were both starting the MFA program at the University of Iowa.  I’ve known him for eight years now, and even though Dan lives in Washington State and I live in New York we have maintained our friendship through collaborations, especially with the art group Paintallica.

While at school we became friends – I’ve noticed Dan sort of collects weirdos like me.  Before coming to grad school Dan had created a studio practice that involved making a painting a day, and was already working on paintings that have a relationship to his current work.  While in school Dan wasn’t stuck on some notion of an ideal practice, he just worked while everyone else was talking about how to work, he wasn’t terribly concerned with theories; he has a background in psychology and knew to trust his own creative faculties.

While everyone else was screwing around with their identities, Dan had already settled into a kind of self-knowledge.  I don’t know if his gnosis came from growing up in the deep woods with a forest ranger for a father, or from one of the experiences he had growing up that caused him to study psychology and art.

Being alive you meet a lot of bull shitters and have to play a lot of stupid games, but rarely do you meet someone as genuine and considerate as Dan.

Dan, can you point to any one experience that pointed you towards becoming an artist?  There aren’t any other artists in your family are there?

No, there are no other artists in my family, but my mom has always been into crafts, and gave my brothers and I interesting projects, and lots of materials to work with.  I was one of those kids who always drew on his clothes, and before I had regular paints I used spray paint on my clothing, my skateboard and various ramps that I built.  When I was fourteen, my parents got me a set of acrylics with the intention of redirecting my impulses.  The result was that I started making more meticulous paintings on paper and canvas as well as clothing, but still maintained a fondness for spray paint.

I suppose that growing up in rural and remote places had something to do with my interests too.  There weren’t many activities for kids in the towns and ranger stations that I lived on, unless you were into sports, which I wasn’t.  There was a lot of trails and things to explore, which was pretty formative for me, but there was a lot of time spend indoors too, because winters in Minnesota and Idaho could be long and cold.  In addition, about half the time my family didn’t have television, so that wasn’t an option for entertainment.  I couldn’t always read, because I liked to listen to fast and loud music.  It’s hard to concentrate on a book at the same time as Metallica or Ministry lyrics, so I used to make things.

I got whacked in the head a few times too as a kid, so that might have had something to do with it.

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In an age of twenty-four hour a day news networks that constantly reflect  that we are in the midst of a major environmental disaster, multiple ongoing wars, and the worst economic crisis of our time, it is hard not to become a little paranoid or to begin thinking that the end of the world near. With this in mind it is no wonder that artists have begun to address these issues in increasingly direct ways.

Artist Chad Person is presenting an exhibition titled, Surviving the End of Your World, currently on view at Mark Moore Gallery in Santa Monica’s Bergamot Station. For the exhibition, the artist is presenting works from his RECESS series (Resource.Exhaustion.Crisis.Evacuation.Safety.Shelter), which is essentially the remodeling of the artist’s home into conceptually sound environment that revolves entirely around survival.  Items in RECESS include a converted pool that now acts an operating bunker, a makeshift Double Barrel Shotgun, Modular Rain Barrels, Recycled Solar Oven, Golf Ball Cannon, and Signal Flags among several other objects. Within the context of the gallery these items become art objects loaded with cultural meaning.

The artist has also completed a series of collages which feature war related objects used by the US military, such as planes, helicopters, tanks and ships. These flat works are created through the meticulous deconstruction of US currency. Person actually deducts the money used to create the works from his taxes, potentially refusing to contribute to the war efforts through paying additional taxes. This is a logic that is essentially flawed, but which does make a potent statement.

In the main section of the gallery, the artist presents two large inflatables, which dominate the space. Upon entering the gallery, the viewer comes across a large inflatable of the Mobil Oil Pegasus, lying on its side in a shallow pool of oil. This creature is followed by another large inflatable sculpture, this time of the McDonald’s character Mayor McCheese, who has lost his political stature and is now slumped into a corner. The figure dissolves into a metaphor for all political leaders who have failed in their vain attempt to better the world.

Chad Person lives and works in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The artist is a graduate of the University of New Mexico and has exhibited extensively in Southwest. Surviving the End of Your World marks his first solo exhibition with Mark Moore Gallery, and will be on view through August 14th, 2010.

Today’s article is from our dear friends at Art Practical, where Jessica Brier discusses the new work by On Kawara at the San Francisco Art Institute’s Walter and McBean Galleries.

It’s pretty safe to say that Conceptual Art’s moment has come and gone. Now that we are living in a period in which virtually all art is expected to be “conceptual” in some way or another, it’s refreshing to look back at the origins of Conceptual practice. On Kawara is one of the leading figures of this movement; he is particularly known for his ongoing Today series―iconic canvases painted black, each bearing the date of its own particular creation in bold white block letters. In 1997, Kawara recontextualized seven of these austere works by placing them in kindergarten classrooms across the globe, a social project he titled Pure Consciousness. Since this project existed strictly as a social experiment, the current exhibition in the small overlook gallery of San Francisco Art Institute’s Walter and McBean Galleries modestly showcases the project’s associated ephemera, including a collection of booklets created to document it and the seven paintings themselves.

Pure Consciousness booklet image of kindergarteners in Bethlehem, Palestine, with seven Kawara date paintings from the Today series in background, laid over other booklets. Image courtesy of Walter and McBean Galleries, San Francisco Art Institute.

Kawara is largely known for his sweeping but understated gestures that mark the passage of time. Sometimes these marks are diaristic, other times matter-of-fact. The Today paintings strike me as both―they are personal, in the sense that each is reminiscent of the artist’s hand and reflective of the way he spent a particular day of his life (following his own self-imposed requirement that each one be finished on that given day). But they are also universal, in the sense that anyone can imbue them with his or her own personal associations with that particular date. Aesthetically, they are stark and exact, appearing more like prints than paintings. In this way, Kawara flirts with Minimialism, as well as with the basic principles of graphic design.

Pure Consciousness borrows its title from a quote by Leo Tolstoy; it refers to the stillness of one’s sense of self in relation to the constant passage of time. It’s a Zen-like idea that advocates for paying attention to something as basic as time passing. The title also refers to the notion that children possess a “pure consciousness,” and are more open to absorbing the ideas and images they learn, hear, and observe. This, of course, is the beauty of the kindergarten classroom, the setting for this conceptual project.

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This past week, the United States government sued Arizona to block strict new immigration laws that will criminalize illegal transnational immigration in that state.  In light of this, we chose to pull Krzysztof Wodiczko’s Guests From the DS Archives to be reconsidered in the context of our country’s continuing debate over immigration reform.  Guests takes on new meaning when repositioned close to home.

Krzysztof Wodiczko’s Guests represents Poland at this year’s 53rd Venice Biennale. Wodiczko’s video projection installation is at once an aesthetic and a political work. While much contemporary art addresses social and political issues, it is an exceptional achievement for an artist to convey such commentary through powerful aesthetic means as Wodiczko manages to do in this work.

Guests is realized by the projection of large-scale windows physically surrounding the viewer on the walls and ceiling of the darkened Polish Pavilion.  The windows create an invisible but obvious barrier that cannot be crossed by the shadowy, silhouetted figures behind them.  It is clear that these figures are immigrants and refugees through the installation’s accompanying sound element featuring voices discussing their struggle for work visas, opportunity, and national identity.  These stories are pulled from Wodiczko’s own research into the experiences of immigrants from around the world residing in Poland and Italy. Throughout the length of the looping installation (approximately 17 minutes) various vignettes of people come in and out of focus as they are alternately burdened with luggage, washing windows, blowing leaves, sweeping, and selling umbrellas.  In a few poignant instances the shadowy figures look inside, touching the window panes, underscoring their exclusion.

Wodiczko brings the highly relevant predicament of restrictive immigrant policies into the gallery space to educate and to confront the typically elite Biennale audience.  Wodiczko’s Guests certainly presents an idealized account of the immigrant figure, but in doing so creates an effective argument that perceived ‘outsiders’ and ‘others’ are vital members of society.  Wodiczko’s own intent can be summarized by the quote he includes at the pavilion’s entrance: “Refugees driven from country to country represent the vanguard of their peoples.” (Hannah Arendt, 1943)

Krzysztof Wodiczko earned his MFA from the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw in 1968.  As a prominent contemporary artist, Wodiczko has been awarded many prizes including the Hiroshima Art Prize (1998) and the Katarzyna Kobro Prize (2006).  He is also a prolific writer and theorist.  Wodiczko is currently Director of the Center for Advanced Visual Studies at MIT and professor at the Warsaw School of Social Sciences and Humanities.  He lives and works in New York, Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Warsaw.

Kryzstzof Wodiczko’s Guests was curated by Bozena Czubak.  It was commissioned by Agnieszka Morawinska and the Zacheta National Gallery of Art along with other supporting institutions for the Venice Biennale.  Guests remains at the Polish Pavilion through 22 November 2009.