We Belong Together

Art history student. Fool for love.

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Senga Nengudi and Maren Hassinger, Performance Piece, 1978

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Ana Mendieta, Untitled (Creek #2), 1974

[lovevoltaireusapart]

I am not interested in deconsecrating: this is a fashion I hate, it is petit-bourgeois. I want to reconsecrate things as much as possible, I want to re-mythicize them.

Pier Paolo Pasolini

hell yeah

(via lovevoltaireusapart)

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Leonor Melara, Ian Alan Paul, David Zlutnick, A Future Memorial For NAFTA, 2014

[grupaok]

Actually, to choose is always painful.

(via grupaok)

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color study by Bernadette Pascua

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Carolyn Brown in Merce Cunningham’s Summerspace, 1958. Design by Robert Rauschenberg.

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Mary Heilmann, Spots, 2011

[dappledwithshadow]

Dancer, Edgar Degas Photograph

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Rosemarie Auberson

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Dora Maurer, Studies of Minimal Movements VI, 1972

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Joan Jonas, The Hand Reverts to Its Own Moment, 2007

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Denishawn dancers

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Sydney Cohen, from the Some Other Kinds of Needs series, 2013

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"the self that Trio A instantiates is not one that merely says no; it also is desirous; it is contingent; it is relational and sensitive to its proximities to others; it does not take itself too seriously. In fact, Rainer has said that her 'No Manifesto' has haunted her, and that she 'wishes it could be buried.'  She once told me that she should have written a Yes manifesto.

In the wake of learning Trio A, here is my provisional version of what such a manifesto would look like: yes to looking to the past for a way to endure the present, yes to inventing mediums and yes to creating new muscle memories and yes to alternative models of transmitting knowledge and yes to potential humiliation and yes to possible failure and yes to passion and yes to aging and yes to the messiness of contemporary art history as an uncertain and vital and undefined platform and yes to queer temporalities and yes to desirous histories and, finally, yes to bowing. "

Julia Bryan-Wilson, “Practicing Trio A,” October, Vol. 140 (Spring 2012), p. 74. 

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Nancy Stark Smith and Alan Ptashek, 1979

"You Come, We'll Show You What To Do"

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Andy Warhol, Hand and Flowers, 1957

I have been having difficulty getting into the volume and gristle of my feelings. I'm reminded of when I was told to stick my hand into mysterious, hidden substances in elementary school and was asked to identify the material. All I could find were descriptors and analogies, but I couldn't figure out what the things were. They were soft, warm, light or heavy, they felt like what a cloud must feel like, or grainy and soothing like sand. 

The emergence of postmodern surface always appealed to me, and made me feel sad too. The flattened picture was an impenetrable surface protecting some interior marsh, a vulnerability that couldn't be taken up by capital or misinterpreted in such a painful and disappointing way. I see flattened out soup cans, made with so little of the artist's laboring, individual body, all of that taken out by the silk screen, and I think of being in a relation where one feels less and less comfortable disclosing, lest every disclosure be made into one's ability or inability to be useful.