Things discussed: Gravestones; Patches of Sunlight; Retirement; Inner Light; Shaven Lawn.
written by f
Following up on e's obsession with captions—you may find examples of it here, here, and here—here's another curatorial speculation: an exhibition of captions.
Not captions made specially for the exhibition, but a collection of real captions exhibited as works in their own right.
As I've said in my previous post, I have a soft spot for things at rest. I'm attracted to objects that were made to perform a function, performed that function, and then retired. Not thrown away, not discarded: retired. They earned their resting days.
If you remove a caption from the work it describes, you may conceptualize this act in so many different ways: semiotically, philosophically, aesthetically and so on.
There is one image I have, though, that is more powerful than all others: a collection of captions is like a collection of gravestones. And this sad image makes for a playful setup: on a quiet patch of shaven lawn, at regular distance, in rows, tens of captions stand caressed by sunlight.
Not captions made specially for the exhibition, but a collection of real captions exhibited as works in their own right.
As I've said in my previous post, I have a soft spot for things at rest. I'm attracted to objects that were made to perform a function, performed that function, and then retired. Not thrown away, not discarded: retired. They earned their resting days.
If you remove a caption from the work it describes, you may conceptualize this act in so many different ways: semiotically, philosophically, aesthetically and so on.
There is one image I have, though, that is more powerful than all others: a collection of captions is like a collection of gravestones. And this sad image makes for a playful setup: on a quiet patch of shaven lawn, at regular distance, in rows, tens of captions stand caressed by sunlight.
Underneath, we can figure the works they talk about. Van Gogh's restless Sunflowers, now resting in peace; the glowing fluorescents of Dan Flavin, their inner light faded for good; all the wrappings of Christo & Jeanne-Claude, now folded and buried; Brâncuși's timeless, sleepless, moving masterpiece The Kiss, stone among stones, never, ever letting go, and waiting the end of the ages to turn into dust.
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