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Episode #137: Filmed in his Brooklyn studio, artist Allan McCollum discusses two projects utilizing dinosaur fossils—”Lost Objects” (begun 1991) and “Natural Copies (begun 1994)—and his interest in how both scientific and local communities define the historical value of objects.

Applying strategies of mass production to hand-made objects, Allan McCollum’s labor-intensive practice questions the intrinsic value of the unique work of art. McCollum’s installations—fields of vast numbers of small-scale works, systematically arranged—are the product of many tiny gestures, built up over time. Viewing his work often produces a sublime effect as one slowly realizes that the dizzying array of thousands of identical-looking shapes is, in fact, comprised of subtly different, distinct things. Engaging assistants, scientists, and local craftspeople in his process, McCollum embraces a collaborative and democratic form of creativity.

Allan McCollum is featured in the Season 5 (2009) episode Systems of the Art in the Twenty-First Century television series on PBS. Watch full episodes online for free via PBS Video or Hulu, as a paid download via iTunes (link opens application), or as part of a Netflix streaming subscription.

CREDITS | Producer: Wesley Miller & Nick Ravich. Interview: Wesley Miller. Camera: Joel Shapiro. Sound: Tom Bergin. Editor: Mary Ann Toman. Artwork Courtesy: Allan McCollum. Special Thanks: Vera Alemani, Celina Paiz, Marcie Paper & Adele Röder. Video: © 2011, Art21, Inc. All rights reserved.

This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council.

Allan McCollum. Lost Objects, 1991. Enamel on glass fiber-reinforced concrete, dimensions variable. Installation view at John Weber Gallery, New York. Produced in collaboration with the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, Pittsburgh. Photo by Fred Scruton. © Allan McCollum. Courtesy the artist.

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Enrique Chagoya, “Return to Goya No. 9,” 2010. Intaglio with letterpress in two colors on Revere Ivory. Plate: 8 ½ x 6 in.; Sheet: 14 5/8 x 11 in. Published by Universal Limited Art Editions, Bay Shore, NY, as a Benefit for IPCNY. © Enrique Chagoya/Universal Limited Art Editions, 2010.

In 1995, a group of print-world professionals and collectors based in New York joined forces to establish a non-profit organization that would be “dedicated to the appreciation and understanding of the fine art print.” In its early years, the International Print Center New York (IPCNY) did not yet have a gallery presence or public location, but maintained a website and organized member events and fundraising auctions.  The fall of 2000 marked the auspicious beginning of IPCNY’s public exhibitions and permanent gallery, with two simultaneous shows in New York.  The first, titled New Prints 2000, opened September 20 of that year and inaugurated IPCNY’s gallery on West 26^th Street.  The second was a satellite exhibition at AXA’s midtown galleries titled Hard Pressed: 600 Years of Prints and Process, which opened November 2.  The exhibition was accompanied by a catalogue written by guest curators Elizabeth Wyckoff and David Platzker and was a dazzling survey of some of the greatest achievements in the medium throughout history.  In a recent conversation, founding and current Director Anne Coffin explained that Hard Pressed was intended to demonstrate the “range and ambition” of IPCNY’s interests.  Grace Glueck of The New York Times declared it “nothing short of a banquet for the eye.”

In the ten years since, IPCNY has organized over 50 exhibitions, primarily highlighting new editions.  Many are offered as part of its touring program, which caters to other non-profit institutions.  Coffin explained that IPCNY’s exhibition program was conceived to “fill a niche” between traditional museum and gallery exhibitions and “provide an alternative for emerging artists across the country whose work would not be seen otherwise.”  In addition to its quarterly New Prints exhibitions (juried shows that showcase editions completed in the previous 12 months), IPCNY has also organized numerous special exhibitions.  In tune with the New Prints program, these exhibitions often explore topics that may not receive attention elsewhere, such as the recent Seeing God in Prints: Indian Lithographs from the Collection of Mark Baron and Elise Boisanté, which traveled to Wellesley College last year; and Wallworks: Contemporary Pictorial Wallpapers, which will be on view March 9 – April 1 at the Museum of Fine Arts at Georgia College and State University, Milledgeville, Georgia.

Victoria Burge, "Montana Night," 2010. Photopolymer intaglio, edition of 10, 17 ½ x 21 inches. Printed and published by the artist (in New Prints 2010/Autumn, organized by IPCNY and currently on view at the University of Texas at Austin). Image courtesy IPCNY, New York.

This season, IPCNY is celebrating its tenth year on 26^th street with a new space a few doors down (508 W. 26^th #5A) and a roster of special exhibitions and benefit programs.  This year’s opening exhibition, Emerging Images: The Creative Process in Prints (curated by Wendy Weitman), was a tightly-curated group of progressive proofs and multiple states of works by 16 artists ranging from Arthur Wesley Dow to E.V. Day, highlighting the unique creative possibilities provided by the medium due its serial nature.  The following exhibition, New Prints 2010/Autumn – 43 works by emerging and established artists – was shown at IPCNY in October and November and is now on view through March 12 at the Visual Arts Center in the Department of Art and Art History at the University of Texas at Austin, in conjunction with its Printmaking Convergence program.

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In the lead up to this year’s Academy Awards, I found myself on a few occasions defending Joel and Ethan Coen’s True Grit as something other than simply a good remake of a classic western.  My argument in defense of their Oscar-nominated film more or less hinged on the basic point that True Grit can be enjoyed on a couple of levels simultaneously—enjoyed for the wonderfully told story and stunning visuals, and also enjoyed on a more conceptual level, which has more to do with the film as an homage to the genre of the Western.  To this second point I would add that what makes their homage so compelling is that at the heart of the Coen brother’s fine iteration of the Western lies a wonderful paradox.  What follows is my attempt to get to the heart of that paradox.

True Grit centers on a man named Rooster Cogburn, an aging and drunken U.S. Marshall whose violent past and reputation for fierce vengeance places him increasingly at odds with an increasingly more formal rule of law in the western territories, which threatens to render him and his methods of administering justice obsolete.  Precisely for his problematic ways, Cogburn is prevailed upon by an outspoken and implacable young girl named Mattie Ross to bring her father’s killer to justice.

Befitting the tradition of the Western film, True Grit’s landscape is filled with sagebrush and its plot is centered on such fundamental concerns as the maintenance of law and order on the untamed frontier, justice overcoming injustice, and good confronting evil.  With a range of frontier-hardened characters, a period musical score, and the requisite sweeping tracking shots to give a sense of the epic proportions of the western expanse, the Coen brothers patently employ many of the conventions and serialized forms of the genre. In fact, I would argue that the convincing realism and authenticity of their film is paradoxically fashioned through, and thus entirely and purposefully based on those very conventions.

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I fly back to Berlin tomorrow, finally ending a prolonged Kerouac walk-through of mid-sized southern cities; a spring break for the “mild girl.”  During my Texas stay, a sun constitutional in Austin and Houston, I wanted to disassociate myself from anything artistic, preferring instead to concentrate on porch and taco-related endeavors. I was fully equipped with a dismissive sigh refined in Europe and a range of excuses.  But, despite my insistence that I only go to water parks and gay bars, I came across some really good shows that reaffirmed my belief in the work being made in regional art centers.

Highlights in Houston included Jillian Conrad’s nimble assemblages at Art Palace and Carl Suddath’s subtle paper pieces at Inman Gallery.  Former CORE fellows dominated the block, with finessed watercolor cutouts by Natasha Bowdoin at CTRL and the tight group show Weasel, organized by Chelsea Beck and Kurt Mueller at the Inman Annex.

*One disappointment in Houston was the recreation of Kurt Schwitters’s Merzbau at the Menil Collection. The installation seemed so much smaller than the psychic space the black and white photograph occupied in my mind.  However, Schwitters’s reliefs, violent and precocious, more than made up for this fact.

In Austin, Erin Curtis displayed free-form paintings that somehow merged the Leipzig School and Indian tapestry (not an easy feat).  The newly renovated Arthouse had a charmingly autobiographical show by Lisa Tan in which she charted her romantic relationships over the years using printouts of doctor’s visits.  The group show Out of Place, at Lora Reynolds was one of the best I’ve seen in a while, with video standouts Yael Bartana and Oded Hirsch.  I wrote about it.

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Those were the days.... Image: zeegees.ca

Since you can’t swing a cat without hitting a picture of Charlie Sheen at this point, I thought I’d choose a classic for today’s column. I mean, Art21 shouldn’t be left out of the fun, even though Charlie has nothing to do with today’s post.

Today’s post is about teaching with, or perhaps about ambiguity. It’s a tough topic because in today’s standardized-test-driven-one-size-fits-all educational landscape ambiguity is, well, a little too ambiguous. It’s tough to score. It’s tough to stick into a chart or slideshow. It basically gives some people the creeps because they are persistently looking for “the” answer. But artists, especially contemporary artists, are dealing with ambiguity all the time. Artists such as Paul McCarthy, Arturo Herrera, John Baldessari, Amy Sillman, Spencer Finch and Mark Bradford often embrace ambiguity and multiple interpretations of their work.

But how does one teach about working with ambiguity? A starting point might include sharing works by some of the artists above and then beginning a unit of study where students create a single work that communicates more than one viewpoint or perspective. Another possibility involves asking students to create work around a theme and collecting different interpretations from viewers before actually sharing artist statements about the finished art. Participants then compare and discuss how the work was perceived initially and how that perception perhaps changed.

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At 7:30 am, the alarm clock on my Nokia cell phone rouses me from sleep. In preparation of the minus double-digit weather, I layer like a Renaissance oil painting —two pairs of tights, two pairs of socks, long underwear, black legwarmers over my jeans, one turtleneck and one wool sweater. My eyes and feet are glued to the ground lest I should tumble on the ice. The sun rises from a pink horizon as I walk to school.

The corner of Kunnalliskodintie and Koskelantie at 8:30 am

My woodblock printing course officially begins at nine but students drift in around half-past. Today we will start to carve our blocks. Choosing a worthy subject for my woodblock has been agonizing. The process of preparing multiple blocks for color printing is time-consuming; I want to ensure I am adequately attached to the image that will surely take hours to whittle and chisel to life. Moreover, traveling has a tendency to afflict me with the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block. I have difficulty absorbing and producing simultaneously. Though I’ve tried, I cannot keep my eyes open when I sneeze.

Eventually, I decide on a photo I took of a house from the 1930s. The house is on Intiankatu, part of my daily walk to and from school. I get distracted at the library’s copy machine, flipping through the pages of a book on Matisse before heading back to class. Last month I saw Matisse’s Paysage marocain (Acanthes) (1912) at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm, Sweden. The soft lavender atmosphere and lush neon vegetation in Matisse’s painting are alien to the piercing white snow and deep indigo sky from my photograph. The drama of Finland’s climate and the exaggerated angles of the raking sunlight rework the natural world in a bewildering way. As a result, the majority of my recent sketches are brooding landscapes. I assumed that Helsinki’s distinct post-war architecture would be most captivating, but I have been oddly more enthralled with spruce and birch trees.

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There’s nothing quite like the graduate critique seminar – a visit to a classmate’s studio where ten to fifteen artists are hopefully hopped up on enough caffeine that they’ll engage with the artwork hanging on the walls. Otherwise, the forty-five minute critique can seem like an eternity and everyone is left projecting the weirdest things onto the artist’s incredibly vulnerable and passionate ideas. When the rare and unexpected critique does occur, the room is filled with a lively conversation between multiple voices regarding wonderful random issues that affect us in particular ways – all started because of a work of art. This past month, I attempted to get my peers at San Francisco Art Institute to engage in a fervent chatter, and to do that, I organized two group shows at two separate galleries on campus – The Prize and The Biennial.

Jeffrey Augustine Songco, "poster (Prize)" and "poster (Biennial)." Courtesy the artist.

Under the name of a fictional organization I created years ago, I organized two group shows: The Society of 23 Prize and The Society of 23 Biennial. Like the silly comedian I am, I poked serious fun at highly esteemed art events like the Turner Prize and Whitney Biennial. In my reality, these events are an everyday aspiration, so The Society of 23 Prize and Biennial were kitschy artworks in and of themselves. I asked 10 of my graduating classmates to join me in the journey that was The Prize, where I referred to them as nominees throughout the process. I also asked 23 other classmates, comprised of first and second-year students, to participate in The Biennial. At SFAI, there are two student-run galleries: the Swell Gallery at the Graduate Center and the Diego Rivera Gallery at the historic undergraduate campus that also houses a mural by Diego Rivera. When I learned that my show proposals to each gallery were accepted and were to occur during the same week, I was thrilled and scared.

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Photo soure: Guillaumelemay.tumblr.com

In November 1991, Nirvana played on all of our car stereos. We smoked clove cigarettes and drove through the Oakland hills with Nevermind blaring over the speakers. Kurt Cobain drowned out all the other sounds. “With the lights out, it’s less dangerous,” he yelled. Shrouded in fog and night, we agreed.

Grunge had traveled south from the damp Northwest, into Portland coffee shops, onto MTV and alternative radio stations, and into my high school. It wasn’t just music; it was a dress code: Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder wore thrift-store sweaters, waffle-knit long underwear, and plaid flannel shirts. We followed suit.

At fifteen, I raided my brother’s closet, stealing every plaid flannel I could find. I put them all on at once, mixed patterns and colors, donned men’s extra-larges like they were dresses. The shirt was a sign: it meant jeans with holes and cigarettes during lunch. It meant that somewhere inside you, in a place you could feel but couldn’t see, you were against it all: parents, school, “the system.”

Grunge is gone, but plaid is back. Mornings, I walk down San Francisco’s Second Street past throngs of tech workers in plaid button downs. Nights, I walk through the city’s Mission district, past wood-paneled bars awash in plaid, patterns and colors coalescing on torsos.

“Plaid has become unavoidable,” declares a recent Wall Street Journal story. “[S]tyle observers can’t recall a time when it was as popular with as wide a range of men.”

But plaid isn’t new — far from it.

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Art21 is pleased to announce our latest column, Bedfellows: Art and Visual Culture, penned by guest blog alum Victoria Gannon.

Art and visual culture have not always been friends. When programs in the latter began to appear in art schools and universities in the 1990s, art historians were, on the whole, threatened by the sprawling interdisciplinary discipline whose objects of study include advertising and maps, landscapes and architecture, popular movies and other representations not considered art but rich with visual signification. Many believed visual culture, as a discipline, would rob the art object of its unique historical identity, reducing it to merely one more representation in a vast universe of cultural exchanges. Bedfellows: Art and Visual Culture makes no pretense of resolving this academic fissure, nor does it assert that art objects are the same as other forms of cultural production. But it does acknowledge that contemporary art and forms of visual culture often share cultural milieus and influences, and that by examining these forms of production side by side, we can learn more about their shared inspiration than if we considered them individually. In highlighting the similarities between art and visual culture, Bedfellows will ultimately reveal their distinctions and unique approaches to cultural phenomena.

Victoria Gannon was born and raised in Northern California, and she enjoys an ambivalent relationship with her home state. She currently spends her time writing and editing for Art Practical, an online journal covering Bay Area visual culture. She’s interested in art for its ability to embody abstract ideas; she enjoys writing about art for the challenge of translating those ideas into clear language. She earned a degree in English from Mt. Holyoke College, in South Hadley, Mass., and received a master’s degree in Visual and Critical Studies from California College of the Arts, in San Francisco.

Bedfellows publishes on the first Tuesday of the month.