A retrospective by the groundbreaking conceptual artist.
Asking the question, “Why are we like this?”
Capturing subtle moments of transition.
Making interiors exterior.
The oil barrels Ourahmane shipped from Algeria to the UK became the first artwork legally exported from her home country since 1962. Her practice engages escape and displacement narratives.
“When we really like a book, it’s often because its rhythm is similar to our own—to our heartbeat, our breathing, the way we walk. I think that’s what draws us to certain writers and not to others even though we know they are great.”
Embracing boredom and creative constraints, Katchadourian tells of in-flight artwork and other conceptual projects.
If the experimental French writing group Oulipo were to be reborn today, would they return as performance artists? Anne Garréta’s 2002 Prix Médicis–winning novel, Not One Day, marks her as a literary acrobat suspended between those who hold on to the group’s relevance and those who have let it go in favor of conceptual art practices.
Early film, nineteenth-century science fiction, and experimental musical languages serve a young artist’s explorations of race and our political present.
“Making music work to the lyric, and making the lyric work to the note.”
Some released, not yet released, or never to be released works from the last three years.
Tom McCarthy could be considered a conceptual artist whose medium is fiction. His Satin Island is just out. Frederic Tuten, the British novelist’s counterpart on this side of the Atlantic, investigates the novel’s dizzyingly diverse sources.
Agnieszka Kurant’s interests include various forms of surplus, invisible entities, and the phantoms haunting capitalist production. Some of her projects involve crowdsourcing, others outsourcing to nonhuman species: think colonies of termites.
Rock ’n’ roll and the malleability of historical fact.
Chan is not an artist who also writes; he’s an artist and a writer.
“So I had this idea to get an anesthesiologist to knock me out during an art fair, and I could just lie there, well dressed, as if I were out looking at art in this center of commerce, but having totally checked out.”
So I guess Ray Johnson could have been amateur—you know, like that person at karaoke who, as Barthes said, loves to love without the spirit of competition?