Solvent form: Art and destruction

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The destruction of art

Solvent form examines art and destruction—through objects that have been destroyed (lost in fires, floods, vandalism, or, similarly, those that actively court or represent this destruction, such as Christian Marclay’s Guitar Drag or Chris Burden’s Samson), but also as an undoing process within art that the object challenges through form itself. In this manner, events such as the Momart warehouse fire in 2004 (in which large holdings of Young British Artists (YBA) and significant collections of art were destroyed en masse through arson), as well as the events surrounding art thief Stéphane Breitwieser (whose mother destroyed the art he had stolen upon his arrest—putting it down a garbage disposal or dumping it in a nearby canal) are critical events in this book, as they reveal something about art itself. Likewise, it is through these moments of destruction that we might distinguish a solvency within art and discover an operation in which something is made visible at a time when art’s metaphorical undoing emerges as oddly literal. Against this overlay, a tendency is mapped whereby individuals attempt to conceptually gather these destroyed or lost objects, to somehow recoup them in their absence. This might be observed through recent projects, such as Jonathan Jones’s Museum of Lost Art, the Tate Modern’s Gallery of Lost Art, or Henri Lefebvre’s text The Missing Pieces; along with exhibitions that position art as destruction, such as Damage Control at the Hirschhorn Museum or Under Destruction by the Swiss Institute in New York. In this sense, destroyed art emerges as a sort of ruin or oddity in which one might wander in the present; however, it might also point to the object as something fatal rather than simply a collection of or an attempt to revive the lost for posthumous consideration. From this vantage, Solvent form investigates work by artists such as Jean Tinguely and Gustav Metzger, while expanding to art in a more general sense through considering works by artists such as Agnes Martin, Rachel Whiteread, Thomas Hirschhorn, Jeremy Blake, Louise Bourgeois, Urs Fischer, Pavel Büchler, and Tracey Emin (again within the context of the Momart fire). In Solvent form, perhaps, there is an absurdity in grouping art together merely because it has been destroyed—but it reveals a resonance. In this sense, the book is neither an art historical document nor even a proposal for bringing together remnants of memory and remainders into some sort of exhibition. Instead, its aim is to investigate what it means when art is destroyed.

Others have similarly considered destruction or undoing as a kind of trick within the inception of a work of art. In an essay on The Brothers Karamazov, Jean Genet proposed that every act "means one thing and its opposite. The act for Genet implies both the thing but also its opposite, so that creation in form similarly implies a destruction, as he warns: everyone expects a miracle, and the opposite occurs."¹ From this, he concludes:

Having read [The Brothers Karamazov] in this way it now seems to me that any novel, poem, painting, or musical composition that does not de-stroy itself—by which I mean, that is not constructed as a blood sport with its own head on the chopping block—is a fraud.²

While this is the sort of proclamation that gets the blood racing, there is also something more nuanced in our understanding of art that Genet is missing. Art, in its inception, implies its own undoing with the cutting of its own head; and this apart and aside from its impulse or intention—conscious or not—through its construction, as Genet stated, separately from its author or artist. What I’m suggesting here is not simply a trick or booby-trap that an artist might build into the works, but instead an energetic revelation of what is at risk or has already disappeared in the endeavor. With this, any art form that is not in a sense undoing or cultivating a destruction of sorts, in Genet’s words reveals a fraud (also an undoing)—and that is what we see here. For example, it might appear a fatal trick when one looks to an artist such as Michael Landy and his Art Bin, in which he asked artists to discard works they were dissatisfied with in a massive bin. Or similarly Jack Kerouac’s attempts to construct On the Road as one long scroll of paper fed through his typewriter so that he could frenetically type it in a stream of consciousness, exactly as it happened and without pause. Kerouac’s scroll became a nightmare for his publisher, and it was ultimately revised and written again so that there remains no definitive condition.

In Solvent form, the intent is not to get caught up in how a specific artist (or, as Genet suggests, novelist, poet, painter, or composer) might choose to construct art to mimic this destruction or contrive it as a booby-trap—as this emphasis tends to cast destruction more as a parlor trick (the work of a didactic clock builder)—or as a clever device a writer or artist constructs and employs. The more accurate observation is that like the shipwreck, which is implied with the creation of the ship, there is a similar destruction implied in the art object itself.³ In this sense, Landy’s Art Bin doesn’t offer this destruction, but a sleight of hand where the work demonstrates the performative action of absorbing the failure and destruction of others into a redemptive act—masking destruction and instead replacing it with compensation. As with the story of Kerouac’s scroll, we are not concerned with the machinations of how an artist attempts to craft a destruction (creating a bin for others to cast their failures into) or the expectations of a publisher, as perhaps the most salient detail of the Kerouac story is that the final section of the scroll was destroyed—apparently eaten by a dog named Potchky.⁴ These are the primary destructions somehow implied in the work of art.

In this manner, this book introduces ideas from Bataille and Paul Virilio (the shipwreck that resides within the ship’s invention) and their conceptions of the negative miracle and reverse miracle, which are correlated to understand a method in which absence makes something visible while simultaneously revealing an impulse within art. Solvent form aims to determine what may be perceived through the destruction of art, how we understand it, and, further, how these destructions might be linked to some general failure in art that allows us to see through instances when art appears to trip on a rug.⁵ Expanding upon this, the text takes cues from literary and varied sources, such as Perec’s Life a User’s Manual—in which the character Bartlebooth spends twenty years painting seascapes of various ports only to spend the next twenty attempting to erase them. Similarly, McCarthy’s Remainder, in which an unnamed protagonist re-enacts obsessive scenarios following an accident; Mann’s The Magic Mountain as an act of withdrawal from the daily flow and decay of the world; or the amassed warehouses of Citizen Kane. These chartings explore art and its destruction through accounts in the media and newspapers, interviews, and cinematic examples. Amid this accumulation, they weave a narrative of art through events that intermingle with Jean Baudrillard’s ideas on disappearance, Jean-Luc Nancy’s concept of the image (or imago as votive that keeps present the past, yet also burns), and Giorgio Agamben’s notion of art as an attempt to make the moment appear permeable. With this, as Bataille proposes, art emerges from a shipwreck with the moment in which assumptions, expectations, or what appears fixed are ultimately undone. Likewise, these destructions are considered through narratives such as Sarah Winchester obsessively building the Winchester Mansion in San Jose, California, as an attempted house that never ceased. Alongside these attempts to construct an undoing, and amid a volatile remainder in art, these events provide a metaphoric consideration of real and emblematic events in the world that underscore ideas of destruction and solvency in art. Through this, our understanding of art emerges not as a timeless and fixed entity, but as one that both burns and is burning—putting forth and pulling down; an art that is perpetually shipwrecked, undone, and given form through this moment inhabited.

With these incidents, the destruction of art absorbs, catching us unaware, yet amassing again in newspapers and online, accumulating in books, or gathering as an impetus for exhibitions—capturing popular imagination and calling a bluff, so that it might appear as if destruction itself is having a moment (or perhaps always is). But what is it that may be perceived through the destruction of art? In conversation, Paul Virilio and Sylvère Lotringer suggested that art had perhaps reached a point where it was not up to the challenge before it, such that art expanded and sped up, becoming more persuasive, cumbersome, and sprawling as compensation and with this, as Virilio observes, They have masked the failure or the accident with commercial success, and in the process made a thing of it.⁶ Lotringer continues: There were all sorts of attempts to maintain the impact of the visual arts in a world that was rapidly changing. So I wonder whether this failure and condemnation …⁷

But then Virilio interjects:

Failure is not a condemnation! It’s not the same thing. Failure is failure. Failure is an accident: art has tripped on the rug. In any case you should not forget my logic of failure, my logic of the accident. In my view, the accident is positive. Why? Because it reveals something important that we would not otherwise be able to perceive.⁸

It is from this perspective of art tripping on a rug that we might perceive something more of art through its destruction. Likewise, it is through these destructions that we may distinguish a solvency within art and catch an operation in which something is made visible through these moments when theory emerges and appears oddly literal. In one sense, events like these present an art engaged in an escape from the thing before us—an undertaking—as artist Pavel Büchler observes of Stéphane Mallarmé and his notion that the poem is the object escaping, likewise proposing that the work of art is, the ‘object escaping’ everything that ‘has a place’…⁹ Eavesdropping, but somehow perversely accurate, like Jean Baudrillard decreeing Art does not die because there is no more art, it dies because there is too much. Therefore, among the extension of too much, a text might take cues from Georges Bataille in the manner he suggests: I wanted to present the development of my thought, disclosing in the course of time, little by little, unexpected relations, rather than offer a drily theoretical statement of those relations or of the method I followed.¹⁰ Beginning here it is hoped that through a similar strategy an understanding of the destruction of art might emerge, and that these investigations might likewise appear, little by little, as a series of bombs in the shape of a book for understanding something of destruction in art.

In which art is destroyed by floods, fires, looting, and catastrophes; a museum is created to take its place

In 2003, critic Jonathan Jones wrote an article about a location he had begun to conceive to house sundry art objects that had been lost and destroyed over the centuries. Setting a stage for destroyed and lost art—in this case work destroyed in floods, fires, looting, and catastrophes—the impulse perhaps being that if we gather them, even in a news story, these unlikely objects might help us understand loss and see what has become invisible, as well as something necessary about art itself. Jones begins his portrayal of the site by evoking a setting and contriving the Museum of Lost Art into existence:

The Museum of Lost Art is a low glass building set in parkland, a place you drive past on the motorway, barely registering it. Approach across the rape fields and what at first had seemed to be a greenhouse turns out to contain not tomatoes but paintings. Hanging low in pale daylight are vanished masterpieces by Rembrandt, Cézanne, Manet, Braque and Vermeer.¹¹

Imagined, it is a site conjured from fancy by Jones for the purposes of his article. Perhaps not invisible cities, in the Calvino sense, but conceivably suburbs that are nearly visible from his front porch.¹² With this news story, Jones begins to assemble the scene for uncovering, attempting to see something that might be revealed through gathering and examining the absence of destroyed or lost objects that continue to exert their absence as a means to envision lost art. Evoked is Richard Brautigan’s conception of a library for unpublished books, which came into being because of an overwhelming need and desire for such a place, or Julian Barnes’s invocation of a net, and thus his conception of biography as a collection of holes tied together with string.¹³ The Museum of Lost Art is depicted as nondescript in its outward appearance, barely registering: the type of place one passes on the way to somewhere else.¹⁴ Perhaps this museum is a nonplace in the most literal sense, as the Museum of Lost Art, by definition, cannot really exist. Yet, in effect, as an operation, it hews a destination of indistinctness from what is no longer, allowing it to gather like a Chinese ghost story through laying out a bowl of clear water for thirsty ghosts to congregate around. The motif of collecting together art that has been destroyed keeps popping up (this accruing tendency of stories of art and destruction in the form of exhibitions, newspaper coverage, books, and popular media, to attempt to have something to show from what is absent), an attempted respite from disappearance through accumulating what is lost, and that is why Jones’s writings in the popular media are such a good place to start. With a museum of lost art, one attempts to create a space for the consideration, ordering, and envisioning of destroyed and lost masterpieces; to find its place and recoup a loss, which in its own right is worth consideration. Jones observes:

Everything in the Museum of Lost Art is invaluable and everything is illegal. There are even masterpieces the world believes to have been lost in floods and fires. As you wander through, paintings take on the appeal of something wrong and sinful. It is my favourite museum.¹⁵

Perhaps impossibility grants the works their charm, linking the museum’s fascination with something illicit and forbidden, proscribed literally through their destruction and absence. Also like another project—this one by poet Henri Lefebvre—The Missing Pieces: a text comprised entirely of citations for works that no longer exist or cannot be accessed.¹⁶ Through it, each entry strings together as a list chronicling a partial catalog of absence, separated by the ellipsis of a dot (•) and rendered as poetry: "Tilted Arc, a monumental, site-specific work by sculptor Richard Serra; commissioned in 1981 by the US Government for the Federal Plaza in New York, it was dismantled in 1989 by its commissioner."¹⁷

Likewise "On the Road: the final seven meters of Jack Kerouac’s original typescript were eaten by a dog."¹⁸ Additionally,

Until 1977, New York artist Jenny Holzer paints on canvas in the style of Mark Rothko; nothing remains of this period; a text by Jenny Holzer, created for the 1982 Documenta exhibition at Kassel and painted on the facade of a building, is erased in May 2002 when the new owner of the building decides to have the facade restored; he did not know it was a work of art.¹⁹

Or further: Forty-two works by Vermeer have come down to us, the others are missing; there isn’t a single line written in his own hand or one self-portrait;²⁰ alongside The Regional Center for Contemporary Art in Corte, Corsica, burns down; a hundred works of art go up in smoke, including those by Dan Graham, Carl André, Sophie Calle, and Annette Messager.²¹

With each entry inscribed as text in a series, Lefebvre gathers as an object a compendium of absence, drawing material from biographies, autobiographies, and newspapers, as well as statements from painters and writers.²² Similarly, Jones, with his Museum of Lost Art, extols a catalog of artists and lost works for consideration: Apelles, gone; Duchamp, thrown out