Let us imagine the suicide of an obscure painter. It is around 1950. He lives in a railroad flat in New York and is painting large all-black canvases. He coveres most of the wall with them, and it is quite dark in his place. Shortly thereafter, he changes to all-white pictures. But he does a curious thing: he proceeds to seal of each of his rooms with four paintings constructed to just fit their space, edging the final one into position as he moves to the next room. He starts in the bedroom and ends in the kitchen (which lets out the hallway). There he paints the same four white panels but doesn´t leave. He builds a series of such cubicles, each within the other, each smaller. He is found dead, sitting in the innermost one.
His act is tragic because the man could not forget art.
Let us imagine the suicide of an obscure painter. It is around 1950. He lives in a railroad flat in New York and is painting large all-black canvases. He coveres most of the wall with them, and it is quite dark in his place. Shortly thereafter, he changes to all-white pictures. But he does a curious thing: he proceeds to seal of each of his rooms with four paintings constructed to just fit their space, edging the final one into position as he moves to the next room. He starts in the bedroom and ends in the kitchen (which lets out the hallway). There he paints the same four white panels but doesn´t leave. He builds a series of such cubicles, each within the other, each smaller. He plans to be found dead, sitting in the innermost one.
But the thought of committing suicide becomes less compelling than the thought of how beautifully he is going about it. He breaks open the cubicles, leaves the apartment, makes a lifelike image of himself, returns to put it on his death chair, replaces all the panels, and then invites his friends to see what he has done.
This act is tragic because the man could not forget art.
Let us imagine the suicide of an obscure painter. It is around 1950. He lives in a railroad flat in New York and is painting large all-black canvases. He coveres most of the wall with them, and it is quite dark in his place. Shortly thereafter, he changes to all-white pictures. But he does a curious thing: he proceeds to seal of each of his rooms with four paintings constructed to just fit their space, edging the final one into position as he moves to the next room. He starts in the bedroom and ends in the kitchen (which lets out the hallway). There he paints the same four white panels but doesn´t leave. He builds a series of such cubicles, each within the other, each smaller. He is found dead, sitting in the innermost one.
Actually, the painter is telling this story to his friends as a project he has in mind. He sees how attentively they listen to him, and he is satisfied.
This act is tragic because the man could not forget art.
Experimental art is never tragic. It is a prelude.
From his essay: Experimental art (1966)
