Several Days

Have been in Brighton for several days now.  Have roughly recovered from jet lag, even went bouldering two days ago, but this morning a slight collapse – brief episode of sleepiness.

Have not yet found adequate means of describing this trip – of teasing out the small moments that are indicative of the peculiar texture of contemporary travel.  Perhaps I cannot recognise them.  Perhaps there is nothing peculiar to travel. Perhaps I only imagine that travel represents a distinct experiential space.  Jet lag is clearly distinctive, but that can be roughly summoned at home via insomnia, hang overs, etc.

Of course one of the defining features of contemporary travel is the paradox that everything changes and nothing changes.  There are still auto-tellers and malls. There are still times of waiting – perhaps more times of waiting.  Seeing something recognisable – a distinctively British streetscape, a pebbled beach, the iconic Brighton Pavillion – produces this inner sense that one should be more impressed, that one should drink in its distinctiveness more completely, but somehow lack the resources. Sooner or later an epiphany no doubt, but constructed from what?

Perhaps I’m simply distracted – unable to see what could possibly be said.  Must find means to be more attentive.  Must find time to write more regularly.  Or maybe not.  It would be nice to describe things adequately, but equally nice to permit some portion of silence.

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Jet Lag

In summary, we missed the 6am flight and had to take the next at 9:10pm.  Sat in a cafe all day with our bags.  Long, uneventful flight to Dubai.  Arrived at 5:20am.  Caught connecting flight to London at 8:30am.  Landed at Gatwick at 12:20pm.  Took forever to get through customs on a non-EUR passport.  Taxi to Brighton.  Walked along the foreshore in the late afternoon heat. People lying on the pebbled beach and swimming in the ocean.  Managed to stay up until early evening and then collapsed – sleeping until the middle of the night.   Sleepy again early in the morning.  Up at 9am.  Left an hour or so later to walk from Hove into Brighton.  Saturday today.  Bank Holiday weekend.  Very busy with fireworks tonight. A cool breeze blowing in the window now in the late afternoon.  Feeling tired again.  Seagulls crying in the near distance.

The strangeness of jet lag – of falling out of phase with the sun.  Only since the middle of the last century has this experience even been possible – this sense of queasy disorientation.  I find it harder and harder to manage.  I can’t help imagining either resolutely remaining in one place or travelling much more slowly, allowing spatial movement to maintain a sense of solar alignment.  This would maintain the fiction that the world obeys a universal cycle – that everywhere is consistently morning, afternoon or night.  Traversing space would in this way retain a cosmic continuity.  Air travel disrupts this imaginative possibility entirely – as well as also disrupting the texture of ordinary experiential reality.  It renders the world in true and yet disintegrative terms.  It demonstrates that the Earth is a sphere, but in a way that alienates us from lived space and time.  Or better, that manifests these in alien terms – within the claustrophobia, immobility and tedium of flight.

(Also met Candy, but that’s another post).

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Excuse for Writing

Too tired to think deliberately.  I walked out into the cold morning beyond the terminal – out to a valet car park and back.  Wrong level for trees. Failing to walk down the stairs.  Recognising that we are stuck here all day, taking turns minding our baggage at a cafe area.  Surprised they even allow us to sit here – that they don’t shoo us away to make space for paying customers. Oh well, here we are.  Travel sucks.  Fucked up travel sucks.  I dream about travel so often.  Travel is a time to begin writing.  But why precisely?  Why is this time any more significant than any other time?  Why is it more conducive to observation and reflection?  And could it be that this reflection is necessarily shallow in that I can only recognise this time for writing?  In any case, the superficiality of this impulse to write within the midst of travel must be acknowledged before anything else is possible.  This is a meditation upon my own limitations, upon the conditions for this writing itself – in 2016, a privileged moment perhaps, when travel and travelogues are still possible.

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Losing Money

What does it matter that some money is gone?  Money is always going or gone.  When we try to save it, things happen to make it go in massive, unexpected chunks.  Somebody explained the karma of money to me – spend money and it returns to you (and grows).  Never been entirely convinced by this, but also very aware that our relation to money is affected by arbitrary events.  Things happen.  Something fucks up.  She fucks up.  I fuck up. There are always fuck ups no matter how carefully we guard against them – and then another chunk of money is gone.  If anything, thinking superstitiously, I’d say that the greater our efforts to manage our limited financial resources in a frugal and responsible manner, the more likely that arbitrary losses will occur.  So in this sense perhaps the karma theory has some validity. Perhaps profligate spending protects against loss.  Why?  Less because loss no longer occurs than because it no longer affect us so much.  Invested in the experience of arbitrary loss, further loss leaves us unmoved.  Within this context, any money that flows the other way – that comes to us – appears as a wondrous gift that can only be protected and celebrated with further arbitrary expenditure.

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Missed Flight

So we missed the flight.  Somehow thought the flight was at 8:30am, when it was actually 6am.  Our early start (3am) wasted.  Big expense buying new tickets for this evening.  Dumb, but what can we do.  Sitting in a airport cafe trying to distract ourselves with work, any kind of work.

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Art, Fieldwork and the Academy

Who says I’m not a writer or an architect or anything? Who has the authority to decide these things? […] Honestly, I am a fraud, I’m an outsider in all these fields, but this gives me the liberty to work subjectively. Truth and accuracy are not my concerns. If an academic would work with fiction in this way, it would be dishonest, wrong even, whereas you’d be a fool to trust an artist in the first place. (Simon Fujiwara (2009) quoted in Rachel Wetzler (2012) “The Art of Fieldwork”,

This mention of fraud leads me to rethink my understanding of the contemporary artistic concern with fieldwork.

It occurs to me that I have got everything wrong, that I have been taken in by the slogans and hoardings, accepting that contemporary fieldwork is all about representing relations beyond art and beyond conventional artistic disciplines when actually precisely the opposite is at stake.

Fieldwork is quite possibly less about opening up experimental relations to an expansive field than about securing a very focused relation to a specific institution – the academy. It is a means of demonstrating that artists engage in some order of faintly reputable research. They have a method. This method, like the scientific method involves two attitudes – one that is scholarly, reflective and withdrawn (occurring in library, laboratory or studio) and one that is outward looking and methodical (fieldwork).

I did a quick Google search to see if I could find anything written about the artistic method of the Impressionists, expecting that somebody would describe their plein air method as a form of fieldwork, but found next to nothing written on the topic. At least initially it would seem that the notion of fieldwork is tied much more to traditions of natural and social scientific research than to traditions of artistic research. Arguably, fieldwork appears now as one among a number of ways of rationalising the relatively recent paradigm of art as research (and art as researcher), which is significantly more about pursuing new forms of artistic patronage than it is about establishing any essential link between artistic practice and scholarly scientific research. Not that parallels can’t be drawn between art and science, not that the two are not and can’t ever be intimately related, simply that the motivation for pushing so strongly for this research based conception of artistic practice is indicative of fundamental dilemmas affecting the position of art in contemporary society. In order to take residence within its new academic institutional home art must find means of adhering roughly to the rules – and that means demonstrating some proper capacity for research.

Yet this produces all kinds of tensions and paradoxes. In the quote above, for instance, Fujiwara at once signals this broader orientation of art – the contemporary tendency to pursue fieldwork under all manner of non-artistic disciplinary guises – but at the same time distinguishes it from properly academic approaches, which he suggests have a dedicated concern with truth. Art, on the contrary, has an irresponsible relation to discourses of disciplinary authority; it plays with them, it wears them as masks, it tells all manner of lies. The artistic fieldworker is an outsider who cannot be trusted, who can be trusted only within the realm of subjective fiction.

So what is it that artistic fieldwork represents? Is there a mode of fieldwork that is properly artistic? Is it linked to representational traditions that involve aspects of observation, sampling and note-taking? Or is it linked to the tradition of art and everyday life experimentation? Possibly, but something else is evident as well – less a native conception of ‘artistic fieldwork’ than a deliberate effort to seek out models from elsewhere, in this case social scientific models of fieldwork. The notion of fieldwork gains prominence as art reconsiders its ontology and epistemology in a new institutional context.

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On the Infinite in Painting

My concern here is not with sublime prospects.

The infinite’ that concerns me here is more prosaic and technical. It is linked to George Cantor’s notion of multiple infinities.

Of course I am not dealing with numerical prospects, but with aesthetic ones. We have the sense that art is a constantly expanding set of possibilities. No longer content with traditional media and conventional institutional contexts, contemporary art exists only at the point that it risks and describes new limits. Within this context painting can appear as a restricted and aesthetically exhausted field. Why bother painting anymore? Everything that can possibly be done with paint has been done. Every brush stroke can only reference other brush strokes. Etc.

But this is mistaken in my view – and here I am not concerned with arguing for the infinite formal potential of any given painted surface, but rather that the attitudes of painting are open and malleable. The sense of restriction is linked more to an inability to imagine other relations to painting than to any intrinsic limitations of the medium. The medium is ultimately not simply a formally, materially constituted thing. Nor is it constituted necessarily by aesthetic regimes of representation or abstraction. It can take as yet other and unknown forms and be informed by other as yet unknown cultural relations.

My sense is that we imagine artistic innovation in crude terms as simply an expansion outwards, when it as available – and even perhaps more so – within the tissue of evidently well-trodden ground. And it may be that this infinity available within any given medium (within the thinking of medium and against the necessity of formal conception of this term) is greater than the crude infinity of x = f+1; of linear motion beyond the last limit, which can all too often collapse into a simple alternation between inside and outside, art and non-art.

There are possibilities within painting that have not yet been discovered and these infinitely extend beyond whatever has already been discovered. The trick is to recognise the openness of this set and its essential uncountability.

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Dreaming of Field Trips

I can recall being despondent one day in my early years of High School. I was sick in bed and unable to go on a long anticipated field trip to the Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden (Miami, Florida). The garden had a motorised train that transported you along red bitumen paths through rainforests and across bright expanses of green lawn. But I was for once genuinely sick and I would never have the opportunity to visit that garden again.

Why do I recount this memory? Perhaps to take another field trip – this time from the necessity of a more formal mode of writing. You see the problem is – as the story above makes clear – I originally associate field trips with pleasure, with freedom from the drudgery of ordinary work and experience.

Of course a ‘field trip’ is not the same thing as ‘fieldwork’. Our concern is properly with the latter. Leaving aside the scientific sense of the term, which I shall return to, ‘fieldwork’ can simply indicate the labour of working in fields – ploughing, planting, harvesting, etc. None of that is especially fun, or is perhaps only fun if it is not characterised by economic necessity. Clearly for many people a well-tilled field represents less a space of freedom than one of poverty and social confinement. If I speak of fields now, it is with the privilege of regarding them metaphorically as openings and as spaces apart.

Scientific fieldwork adopts this latter stance. It conceives dimensions of pleasure, adventure and escape (as well, of course, of reality and evidence). Field work is the stuff of memoirs, while ordinary laboratory research typically seems dull and prosaic.

Here I am afraid I must stray away from the bookish general topic into the field again. My father was a marine microbiologist. He has written extensively of his field work experiences in the Antarctic and in Northern Queensland. His writing starts when he leaves his office and lab. Indeed it is usually with some description of departure from the conditions of his ordinary scientific life that his various memoirs begin. The field appears as a heightened and memorable space. It takes shape in compelling narrative terms. It is conducive to moments of drama, humour and poetic observation. As a child and teenager, I can remember always envying my father’s opportunities for fieldwork. They seemed so much more fun than the kind of science that I studied at school. I quickly realised that I would never obtain the requisite mathematical and scientific skills and understanding to follow in my father’s footsteps, so I opted instead for another order of mediation and abstraction. I became a humanities and creative arts academic. My field work had to discover other and more cunning forms.

I should really explain about my own fieldwork trips up creeks, into the escarpment, to Antarctica, Paris and Turkey, but I will tell another story instead – this time about my mother. While my father pursued his scientific career, my mother brought my sister and I up and pursued a private passion for painting. She never exhibited, but painted all her life. Mainly studio based work, but when we moved up to Townsville in North Queensland in the early 1970s (just shortly before my parents divorced), she bought herself an old Viscount caravan and had a large viewing window installed on one side. This allowed her to travel around Townsville – down to the river, out to the Common – to paint the local landscape. Instead of painting in conventional plein-air style she painted the view from inside the caravan. This enabled her to stay out of the hot sun and to make herself a cup of tea whenever she liked.

Her field work did not seem an escape. Nor did it adapt any adventurous narrative form. It was simply a means of enabling her to work as an artist. Her focus was always on observation – and on the relationship between representation and abstraction. She did not even dress up the experience in conventional artistic terms. There was no fetishisation of standing directly on the ground or of seeing things directly. It was very important for her that she actually went out into the field, but she did not mind that she was looking out through glass from a shaded space. In a sense then, rather than leave the studio behind, she took it with her. I mention this example because I think that many artists do this, even when they feel they are doing precisely the opposite – when they feel they are encountering the world beyond any form of studio constraint. The studio has a way of following you into the field despite our best intentions.

In any case, what interests me about my mother’s practice was that it was unconcerned with any sense of opposition between studio and field. It represented a novel, practical alignment of the two and a deconstruction of their terms of necessary difference. This is what made it much more genuinely radical than it initially appeared.

These memories and experiences shape my conception of field work. Quite possibly, they may have left me confused about what fieldwork represents. At one level I am drawn to my father’s conventional romanticism, at another level I can’t resist ironising it. My mother’s practice appears pragmatic and deflating, but possibly also reveals another layer of romanticism (and realism) – one that avoids standard artistic myths so that, in very contemporary fashion, art and its other can intersect.

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Still Thinking About Field Work

…the experimental artist who plays with the commonplace does so in the very midst of crossing the street or tying a shoelace. There is no excerpting and reenacting them on a stage, no documenting them for a show. Art is thus easily forgotten. And that is the condition for experimentation: the art is the forgetting of art. (Kaprow 2003: 249)

Art exists as a separate world since anything whatsoever can belong to it. […] Art is given to to us through these transformations of the sensible fabric, at the cost of constantly merging its own reasons with those belonging to other spheres of experience. (Ranciere 2013: X-XI)

To enter the field of art is to enter a realm of paradox. Genuinely experimental art tests the margins of art. In doing so it risks passing beyond or outside art, yet this is precisely the point at which contemporary art becomes characteristically manifest – at the instant that it risks its own disappearance. The double maneouvre of rejection and return takes shape as a conventional strategy and expectation.

And it is this sense that there is no genuine passage out into a wider field, because the wider field (its aesthetic alienation and uncertainty) is a feature of art itself. The larger field is actually a subset of the smaller field. Art stages its relation to multiple outsides. For all of its apparent exteriority, all these other places appear in picturesque terms. Here a sly relation between the conventional aesthetic attitudes of the picturesque and the sublime is evident. The infinite prospect of the sphere of non-aesthetic sociality (everyday life, other practices, other disciplines) develops its own conventional iconography and tropes (ellipses, ephemeral records, rough diagrams) – a set of aesthetic lenses for negotiating and representing all manner of alien fields.

So we must cautious about fieldwork. We must be suspicious about envisaging so simple a relation to a pure exterior.

But the statement from Ranciere also suggests something else. While at one level it reflects upon the conventional dialectic between inside and outside in contemporary art, it also suggests something more – something that may help progress matters beyond the impasse of a formal paradox. With its capacity to accept anything and to expand its boundaries however it likes, art has the potential to re-position fields and entities – not so much simply to make them strange within art, but for themselves and in relation to one another. Art – a very imperfect container – has the capacity to juggle elements, and this juggling has implications beyond art itself (partly because art lacks the power to contain everything that it engages with). In this sense, key forms of contemporary art work less to colonise aspects of ordinary experience than to tease out dimensions of estrangement and possibility.

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Light to Dark

Trying to produce the odd oil painting.

Trying to adopt a simple approach – single session, single brush, fairly heavy paint.

Today I decided to begin with the highlights and then work back to the darker tones – mainly to keep my brush light initially.

Seemed to work ok for me – although after a while I ended up moved back and forth between dark and light as I felt inclined, occasionally wiping off my brush with a cloth to make things less muddy.

Discover online that I’m meant to do the opposite – start with the darks and move to the lights. But this creates problems for me. I find it hard to add highlight colours on top of newly painted dark regions. I also like the way darks can be used to lend interest to area of thick highlight colour.

In any case, not much interest in doing anything that creates an illusion of depth. More trying to produce an image that has a diagrammatic aspect, that has a strange, uncertain relation to ordinary vision.

Rear Garden with Previous Painting

Rear Garden with Previous Painting

Subsequently noticed that I’d left a lot of paint on the palette.

Pressed the square of pine that I use as a palette several times on to a piece of paper.

Smeared the paint with a cloth doused in a bit of linseed oil.

Painted around the edge of the smeared central region with black.

Looks a truly bad abstract painting until I hold it up in front of a window – then it becomes like stained glass, with colours and blank portions showing up brightly.

A detail:

Smeared Print of Palette Enclosed in Black and Held up to Light

Smeared Print of Palette Enclosed in Black and Held up to Light

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Triple Diary

Over a few months keep a diary describing three dimensions of being – dreams, bureaucracy and writing.

All three each day entered on a single sheet of paper. A single paragraph for each dimension.

An entry can be filled or blank.

A note about the dimensions:

  • dreams: I typically don’t remember them
  • bureaucracy: this is work – tasks, meetings, emails
  • writing: this can’t be anticipated
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Paint interface

Paint Google
Paint bear idea with different wordings
Paint maps

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So what does it mean to return to painting?

But now without any skill or any sustained interrogation of the conditions of the medium?

Semi-stupidly, in short? [Damn it, that just sets things in train again, reminding me of Duchamp.]

I bought some oil paints and some small, black boards.

I mixed the colours up in a ukelele box.

Which is the painting – the one I discarded or the one I kept?

Who knows.

A Picture as Well as I Can Paint of the End of Time

A Picture as Well as I Can Paint of the End of Time

Discarded Palette

Discarded Palette

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K and I collected Greenstone pebbles on the West Coast of NZ South Island. The seas were wild and foamy and the beaches were dark and covered in driftwood. K was better than me at picking out the little green pebbles from all the other water-washed rocks. Put them in a Chinese bowl when we got back. Couldn’t resist soaking them in ink and tipping them on a piece of paper. Some very direct and fairly indistinct form of printing. Then washed the pebbles and hung the bits of paper up in the shed. The light passed through them in a beautiful way. Took some photographs. Is this an idea? Perhaps.



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Exogenous Paintings

A series of exogenous paintings. Exogenous in that they are directed outwards towards the immediate context. Rather than representing distant things or remaining internally focused, the paintings are deictic – they point to the world (at least until the context shifts).

Stencilled text on a minimal abstract painting that hangs just to the right of a door: ‘The door is just to the left.’

Bright red painting with blue text: ‘The painting opposite is yellow.’
On the opposite wall, a bright yellow painting with blue text: ‘The painting opposite is yellow.’

A painting that depicts the scene directly before it. It is called ‘Vampire Mirror’ because none of the people currently in the room appear. Most evidently, the viewer is invisible.

A painting that directly asks: ‘Who is looking?’

And so on.

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Wayward Titles

A set of abstract paintings with figurative titles (Rothko style black canvas entitled ‘Billy Bends Down to Pick Up 10 Bucks from the Pavement’, ‘Sharon Cooks Dinner Yet Again’, ‘Philip Comes Out to his Work Colleagues’).
A set of narrative-figurative paintings with the standard abstract title ‘Untitled’.
A set of titles for paintings that refer to contextual features rather than to the paintings themselves (‘Next to the Door’, ‘Beside the Yellow Painting’, etc.).
A set of titles without corresponding works (‘Absent Work’, ‘Non-Existent Work’, ‘Stolen Work’, ‘Misplaced Work’).
A set of titles with no text and no works.
A set of titles that express judgements concerning the quality of the work (‘Shit Painting’, ‘Poor Effort’, ‘Excellent Stuff’).
A set of glowing blacklight titles for a set of black paintings in a dark gallery.
A set of large and verbose titles linked to a set of miniature works.
A set of blinding LED white titles.
A set of titles generated randomly on the fly.
A set of titles projected awkwardly on the works.
A set of titles stacked neatly in a small box with no works.
A set of works that are themselves titles.

[PS: I love the way Agnes Martin titled her work – her intricate geometric abstractions are named ‘Mountain’, ‘White Flower’ and the like.]

Agnes Martin, Mountain, 1960

Agnes Martin, Mountain, 1960

Agnes Martin, White Flower, 1960

Agnes Martin, White Flower, 1960

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Job Interview Responses Drawn from the Lyrics of the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin’

So K had given me a copy of the famous Velvet Underground album with Warhol’s banana on the cover. I was playing it on high-rotation in my car. This was a re-release of the original album and included an additional song – ‘Heroin’. I was singing along all the time, imagining melodies that Lou Reed never bothered to pursue, then I had this thought: a video installation of a job interview in which all of the interviewee responses are drawn from the song:

generic job interview

generic job interview

Why have you applied for this job?
I have made big decision.
I’m gonna try to nullify my life.

So where do you see your career heading?
I don’t know just where I’m going.
But I’m gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
‘Cause it makes me feel like I’m a man.

And so what skills do you bring to this position?
I guess I just don’t know.
Oh, and I guess I just don’t know.

Can you work effectively in a team environment?
I really don’t care anymore
About all the Jim-Jims in this town
And all the politicians making crazy sounds
And everybody putting everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds.

This job involves some travel – are you ok with that?
I wish that I’d sailed the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship.
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor’s suit and cap.

Do you have any questions for us?
You can’t help me now, you guys
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk.
You can all go take a walk.

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100 Ideas

Returning to the 100 ideas concept:

The first idea, which falls outside the overall set of one hundred ideas, is to assemble one hundred ideas for art projects. A very limited conceptual-aesthetic filter applies. If an idea registers, even for a moment, as faintly worthwhile then it will be described. I’m acknowledging of course that very few of my wayward ideas are ever realised, so why not document them here instead? They are most likely better in minimal form than inflated into actual works. In many instances they may have been better forgotten altogether.

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Mt Keira boulder

Mt Keira boulder

A small well-chalked boulder problem from March 2013. What an utterly long time ago. Just a few moves, but at my limit. Could scarcely believe it when I finally succeeded, grabbing for the good horizontal break and clambering up on to the slab. Now the chalk will have disappeared and the moss and lantana will have returned. I was there for such a short time. I am so completely gone.

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Fieldwork (the aesthetic)

A common critique of the aesthetic involves delineating its social implications. The aesthetic, it is argued, has served within modern capitalism as a means of naturalising aspects of class difference. As the old explicit delineators of social difference within the feudal system broke down new systems of difference were required. Amongst other means of differentiation, the emerging bourgeoisie distinguished themselves from the working class via dimensions of taste – experiential and consumption preferences that demonstrated affective subtlety, refined sensibility, etc. In this sense, the aesthetic – a sensitivity to the aesthetic – is positioned as a pseudo innate capacity, which provides an ideological alibi for social differentiation and economic inequality.

While this argument retains its force, the aesthetic cannot simply be positioned in these terms. Cast as taste, it certainly has an aspect of naturalisation, but there is also the sense that taste must be trained. The breeding of good taste is not simply a biological process, it requires social cultivation. The phenomenon of the European Grand Tour provides an explicit example of efforts to develop and train aesthetic taste. Schiller’s On the Aesthetic Education of Man (1794) also positions aesthetic sensitivity as something that must be explicitly and deliberately fostered in order to reap socially integrative rewards.

The aesthetic represents a deeply ambivalent and uncertain category/capacity/field. Kant describes aesthetics as a species of judgement that charts a relation between the apriori and the experiential. The aesthetic represents a realm of mediation, negotiation and agreement. Our perception of the beautiful and sublime in the natural world comes to affirm an accord between our inbuilt capacities and the nature of the external world. This can only happen in his view from a disinterested perspective – beyond the corrupting influence of everyday human interests (appetites, instrumental goals). The aesthetic describes a perverse experiential mode – at once engaged and disengaged, at once outward looking, but only in terms of discovering analogues for the apriori. Hence all the of the difficulties involved in recognising the proper field of the aesthetic. Does it lie within some notion of what is proper to the aesthetic – within some sense of autonomy – or within its wider articulation with, in and of the world?

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Fieldwork Notes

What is the place of fieldwork within art? Can fieldwork be placed within art?

Art is a field. The field beyond art is a field.

A field represents an area at once open and delimited.

Can there be a field that is primarily concerned with questioning its delimitation, with insisting upon an openness that is at once true and endlessly compromised?

It seems that art would prefer to be something beyond a field while still maintaining a sense of integral identity – grounded in what? The notion of the aesthetic?

Contemporary ‘social practice’ art, for instance, takes shape precisely in terms of this dilemma. Art is not even mentioned and yet we are not speaking about social practice generally, but instead about a very specific genre of social practice that emerges from debates concerning relational aesthetics, socially-engaged art, etc. ‘Social practice’ imagines a potential for aesthetic action beyond the realm of aesthetics per se and beyond the institutional system of art. Yet at the same there remains a lingering desire to assess works of ‘social practice’ aesthetically/artistically, not simply in terms of their social efficacy and embededdness. The question is posed, how are these works to be judged? What separates them from the wider field of efficacious social action itself? And here is where the difficult problem of conceiving the field of aesthetics and art remains.

We have then a field which insists upon its openness, while equally insisting that there is a distinctly aesthetic field.

Some rough notes from a day or so ago:

Standard distinction between fieldwork and lab work. Malinowski – anthropology and fieldwork – an academic field that includes the apparently wider field as a vital part of its identity. No lab without the field.

And what sense can the aesthetic make of itself without the field? Starting with the senses, the confusion of openings to the world. The aesthetic is not innate but must be developed (Schiller). The Grand Tour as fieldwork and as studio – their necessary intimate relation.

The field is not simply what lies beyond the studio, but what lies beyond the conventional understanding and context of art. Art itself is a field (field as enclosed space of disciplinary operation), but art necessarily reaches beyond its institutional limits and autonomy (Adorno). The field is everything beyond art as well as art itself (Rancierre). Autonomy/Breach is constitutive of art. No art without the field’s encounter with wider fields.

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Complex Fields

Jeff Wall Fieldwork. Excavation of the floor of a dwelling in a former Sto:lo nation village, Greenwood Island, Hope, B. C., August, 2003. Anthony Graesch, Dept. of Anthropology, University of California

Jeff Wall Fieldwork. Excavation of the floor of a dwelling in a former Sto:lo nation village, Greenwood Island, Hope, B. C., August, 2003. Anthony Graesch, Dept. of Anthropology, University of California

Jeff Wall’s ‘Fieldwork’ (2003) depicts archaeological fieldwork in British Columbia.

Two fieldworkers excavate the remains of a Native American (Sto:lo Nation) floor, now part of a field. No longer an interior, the floor has passed outside. The walls and roof have gone. There is only the floor, which is now largely indistinguishable from the ground.

What field? Has this place always been the field? Are fields always resolutely outside? Could they also contain interiors? What is the interior region of a field? How can it be conceived? And what of the forest? Is that also a field? Don’t forests lie at the edge of fields and isn’t entering a forest like stepping into a room? How is the general shadiness and interiority of a forest to be understood?

Actually the ancient floor is now a tiered hole with an archaeologist kneeling before it taking notes. He kneels on one of four mats that are arranged on each side of the square hole. The archaeologist is out in the field but immersed in his fieldwork. He fashions his own delineated space within the field – a space of private observation and writing. He attends to a discrete, excavated area within the larger field and fashions his own field of observation and description.

Another fieldworker stands at the margins. He watches the working fieldworker, while himself simply standing there beneath a lofted branch, his feet shoulder width apart, his hands in his pockets. He is immersed differently in the field – distractedly, inactively, within the prosaic tedium of slow, deliberate archaeological fieldwork.

They have a bunch of stuff lying around. They have created a little dirt track. They have colonised a little bit of the wider forest and turned it into an archaeological field. Once again, the exterior is shaped as an interior.

There is another fieldworker as well – the photographer. Wall photographs the fieldworkers each day. He conveys a sense of the culture and context of archaeological fieldwork in carefully composed formal-aesthetic terms. It is as though a painting of a Renaissance forest scene has been updated – no longer full of cavorting centaurs and nymphs, there are instead two archaeological fieldworkers; who despite themselves, despite their level of distraction or methodical calm, somehow still manage to summon up the memory of an earlier mythical field (accentuated by the subdued, meditative, untimely light). How is this enabled? It is perhaps at least partly by fashioning a relation between interior and exterior space – elaborating curious openings, borders, thresholds and rooms within forests and fields. All of this suggests the complexity of fields and fieldwork. Fieldwork involves much more than simply stepping outside.

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Small Grand Tours

Walk to major Australian galleries through areas of nearby bush or parkland. Preferable if this involves crossing a high hill. My clearest example: walk across Canberra’s Mt Ainslie to the Australian National Gallery. The aim is to mimic aspects of the European Grand Tour in miniature and alienated terms. We are not passing across northern Europe and the Alps to Italy. We are ascending a small eucalypt-covered hill and then wandering across parkland to the gallery. Can all manner of major Australian public galleries be approached in this way – through a preparatory journey that negotiates a relation between everyday life, natural space and art? My concern is to make explicit the often unstated relation between art and a complex exterior – and to explore this relation in playfully classical experiential terms.

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I’m Kiki Dee

Video piece (or maybe just audio). All manner of people lay claim to being Kiki Dee. They say simply “I’m Kiki Dee”, although of course they are not Kiki Dee. Kiki Dee is a British soul singer best known for her 1976 duet with Elton John, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”. Kiki Dee is her stage name. Her real name is Pauline Matthews. The name begins as a fiction – a distant memory of a fiction – and then is resurrected through further fictional claims to identity.

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100 Ideas (earlier)

One hundred and one ideas. I shall not judge them. I was tempted to call them dumb ideas, or DAFT ideas (Dumb Art Fantasy Tasks), but it seems preferable to leave them in their nascent, utopian state. No point in dismissing them quite yet. Allow them at least a fragile moment of expression.

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