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![]() Eye Exam Shining Light
Watching the Fourth of July fireworks this past weekend brought to mind
the very different kinds of lights now hanging at the Museum of
Contemporary Art. Dan Flavin has been dead since 1996 when he left us at
the age of 63, and it's just now that a retrospective of his work is
making the rounds. Curated by Michael Govan, president and director of
the Dia Art Foundation--where the show originated--and Tiffany Bell,
organizer of a definitive Flavin catalog, the wait only increased
expectations, especially given the current rage for Minimalist
reevaluation ignited by the "A Minimal Future? Art As Object
1958-1968" exhibit at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art.
What's significant about Flavin's art is how, in the visual
imagination, he was able to perceive light as a material, the same as we
do paint or marble. Merely confront the yellow and green haze of his
"untitled (to Jan and Ron Greenberg)" from 1972-3 in its constructed
hallways, frames which narrow and intensify the emitted light so it's
like standing in the beam of a giant klieg lamp, and that materiality
snaps into sharp relief. Although it's not a wholly new
concept--photography codified this way of thinking long ago--Flavin's
use of colored fluorescent tubes went even further to transform how we
think of sculpture and architecture. We were suddenly able to inhabit
the space of these artistic forms by stepping into the aura of what
amounted to so much industrial-lighting hardware. It has been argued
that his choice of these common objects was a reaction to the at-times
overwrought mysticism of the Abstract Expressionists, and that seems
right. Minimalism more generally reads now as an attempt to draw back
the reigns of what was once an ever-expanding universe of the Ab-Ex
unconscious. Flavin's contribution to that effort was remarkable enough
to earn him a place among such Minimalist pioneers as Carl Andre and
Donald Judd, but this retrospective also brightly reveals the artist's
inability to reach beyond his one big idea. It's a testament to the
power of that idea, however, that it has sustained his work across more
than three decades, through to the present moment, and doubtless the
unwritten future of art history.
So what does this retrospective do to further illuminate Flavin's
contribution? Well, much has been made of the fact that the MCA gave the
artist his first solo museum show in 1967 (as distinct from his first
solo show, which was in 1961 at New York's Judson Gallery). In that
exhibition, Flavin exhibited "alternating pink and `gold,'" which has
been re-created here. Before seeing this, however, visitors are likely
to encounter "Circle of Influence," an auxiliary exhibit on the third
floor that starts off the retrospective with a little paean to the value
of a contemporary art museum itself. Much of this consists of
correspondence between Flavin and the MCA's first director, Jan van der
Marck, alongside a selection of works by the artist's contemporaries,
such as Ad Reinhart.
Mounting the stairs, you are then guided up by the glow from above. A
few steps later, you'll encounter, hopefully as uncrowded as it was on a
recent Saturday afternoon, his green "untitled (to you, Heiner, with
admiration and affection)" from 1973, a fence-like row of gridded
lights that run the length of the upper atrium. In a side room are a
number of his "icon pieces," which demonstrate the artist's attempt to
integrate his tubes into wall hangings, experimenting, for instance,
with oil on cold gesso on masonite and pine. From one piece to another,
you see a progressive move toward the use of just those colored tubes
until finally we're left with his first light-only work, the single
yellow fluorescent of "the diagonal of May 25, 1963 (to Constantin
Brancusi)." It progresses pretty much chronologically from there, each
piece a demonstration of his selective variation in the arrangement of
tubes, from "the nominal three (to William of Ockham)" of 1963 to his
1989 "untitled." They're all gorgeous. Each is a step in his art
until, finally, he has mapped the furthest outer perimeters of something
that was utterly and entirely new. Buddy less
It's truly sad to see them go, and given how active the space has
been of late, it seems a little untimely. How exactly did this happen?
As de facto guy-in-charge Ed Marszewski put it on a recent visit, "the
landlord just got tired of the graffiti." A fare-thee-well blowout is
in the works, but the general public will have to salve its wounds in
solitude: plans are to make the sendoff admission by invite only. Mea culpa
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