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This category contains the following articles
Imran Qureshi, Deutsche Bank´s “Artist of the Year” 2013
"If everyone likes it, then I´ve done something wrong." - Anselm Reyle at Deichtorhallen in Hamburg
Free Radicals - Elad Lassry´s Hermetic Photographic Works
It´s interesting to be unsure - A conversation with Lorna Simpson
On Disappearance and Illumination - Michael Stevenson in the Portikus, Frankfurt


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“It’s interesting to be unsure”
A conversation with Lorna Simpson

She was the first Afro-American to show at the Venice Biennial and one of the few to have ever taken part in documenta—and twice, at that: in 1987 and 2002. In her photographic works, installations, and films, Lorna Simpson investigates how covert sexism and racism affects our view of the other and how we communicate and have dealings with one another. Cheryl Kaplan met with Simpson for an interview in New York.

If Henri Cartier Bresson defined photography as capturing the “decisive moment”—the instant when the photograph coalesced into visual action in front of the camera—then it was Lorna Simpson who allowed photography to unravel, at least a bit. The 1960-born African-American artist began her photographic career in the 1980s. In the beginning she worked with street photography, later with cut and serial images or found material such as pin-ups and magazine reproductions. Today, her photo works are based on studio portraits of black women captured in everyday, “typically female” poses. These images seem clear at first glance, yet the crops and combinations of text fragments that Simpson integrates into her works radically undermine their apparent nonambiguity: Simpson reveals the latent racism and sexism that continue to affect American culture. Her artistic practice brings her near to politically motivated African-American artists such as Carrie Mae Weems, Isaac Julien, and Glenn Ligon, who began in the 1980s to question notions of race and gender. Simpson has used a wide variety of media; along with photography and installation, she has worked with film and video.

Arriving in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, I find a sleek modern building, the site of a former carriage house and the first American project by London-based architect David Adjaye. The door of Vanderbilt Studio is ajar.  Inside, the photographer James Casebere, Lorna Simpson’s husband, is on the phone in his downstairs studio. I walk up a circuitous flight of stairs spilling onto several floors of discretely designed minimalist spaces until, at the end of the maze, I come upon Lorna Simpson. It’s autumn in New York and Simpson is just back from a brief interlude in Long Island, at the beach.  

Cheryl Kaplan: How has your work depended on the relationship between image and written or spoken language? I’m thinking about your early photographs as well as recent cinematic works, like "Call Waiting", 1997 or "Institute," 2007.

Lorna Simpson: The nexus between image and speech is important in Call Waiting and other works. Call Waiting was an attempt [to use] the mechanism of communication. A [series of] conversations jumps from one person to another, some on screen, some off-screen to connect the conversation, forming a scripted, but improvised narrative. What fascinates me about language is the way we speak and assign meaning and how language is culturally coded. The Institute was created from found footage from a speech therapy facility for mentally-challenged children and young adults in the 1950s. Actresses playing mothers ranged in class and age, though not in race, while a patient named Barbara demonstrates language skills, responding to questions like “Where do you live?” and “What are your favorite things?” Her answers reveal a life of isolation; they’re disturbing.

"Call Waiting" cuts back and forth from a phone operator, reminding us of Liz Taylor’s film, "Butterfield 8," where a “service” provides stability in an unstable world. In your work, the “operator” is tucked behind a screen, appearing to control the conversation as he bounces the call from one person to the next. As a director, you create uncertainty; the real story is often peripheral or occurs off-camera

In the films I find most interesting, I don’t know where things are going. If you can engage the audience emotionally and not by manipulation, [you offer them] a language different from what they’re used to. Call Waiting was a film noir experiment for me to deal with duration. Someone who does that well is the Thai film director, Apichatpong Weerasethakul. He has this beautiful way of linking temporal beauty with personal and mythical problems, as in his film, Tropical Maladiy—we don’t know where things are going. It operates viscerally. I like the back and forth of something unplotted.

Why do you withhold part of the story from the viewer?

That’s how we interact and behave in real time. [My process] mimics the uncertainty and drifting of conversation. Life’s not as fluid as reverse shots!

To what extent do you storyboard your films?

For the sake of people I’m working with, I’m driven about storyboarding regarding location, the time it takes to accomplish shots, camera position—though there’s improvisation a few days before the shoot. I’m open to coincidence [once things are storyboarded]. I’ve also been working with found footage and photographs, leaving images on a wall for 6 months to [determine] a new context. My early work was somewhat formulaic in its trajectory, and came to an abrupt halt. In the ’90s I switched to being more open. It’s interesting to be unsure.

"The Institute", 2007 is beautifully organized, but unsettling; there are strange juxtapositions: we see a quadrant of films to the left, a blurry image in the center, and a promotional film of a young woman named Barbara to the right. What’s the role of design in your work?

In the quadrants, four actresses continually nod in relief, responding to an off-camera voice that explains how “their” children will be helped. The quadrant allows them to occupy the same screen to reveal the evenness of their performance. The black/white film of Barbara is crudely shot found footage. She’s dressed impeccably, with a necklace and her hair done—a specimen under observation. I used different approaches within the project to vary surfaces.  

In drawings like "Barbara 1A," the titles feel like classifications or felonies or misdemeanors. The works recently acquired for the Deutsche Bank Collection have titles like "Mixed Grey" or "Jet Black" that feel like hair color names or dyes.

I started to do the Barbara drawings as a lark. The work acquired by Deutsche Bank are like collages that came about in relation to ads from Ebony Magazine—an entertainment news and political magazine started in 1945 for African Americans. The faces are taken from advertisements and the language is the language of advertisements, like Mixed Grey or Jet Black.

The Deutsche Bank drawings are delicate, but also trophy-like. The hair looks like a head-piece or hat. The “mixed grey” feels a bit like celluloid. There’s so much volume in the hair. The Deutsche Bank drawings, like the drawings "Head Q" or "Head D," turn towards or away from the viewer in a ¾ pose, as if volleying between a moment that’s discrete or boldly in the spotlight.

I worked with this idea in photography, where you don’t really see the identity of who’s pictured. It becomes this Rorschach test with the ink and depiction of the hair. I didn’t want to draw faces; this simplicity in the drawings fits with the rest of my work.

Sometimes you use repetition as a clinical or scientific device, which is not dissimilar to how Ellen Gallagher works.  

That’s true, Ellen uses the same kind of elements—it’s the way these things are repeated. She did the wig ads, repeated over and over. They can be different wig ads, but they often look the same. Repetition is part of my work, particularly in my early work, in making editions, but it’s also about acknowledging the plasticity of the medium, of the idea of reproduction in photography, where the same negative is used over and over in different ways or exactly the same manner. The viewer thinks there’s some difference, but there’s no difference, it’s the same image and negative.

The photographic series "Untitled", 2001, features a sequence of cameos, some clearly seen, some knocked back in a shadowy blur. How do these blurs function?

It was a metaphorical device, though it occurs again and again in the work. There are snippets of clarity. In portraiture, one may or may not have a connection to a person in the image. Our own memories are either clear or obscured.

The blur feels like it references the act of focusing visually and socially, as if you’re manually “pulling focus.” That’s also true in the Deutsche Bank drawings where the viewer’s instinct is to focus on the model’s face because it’s clearly drawn. Instead, we’re attracted or distracted by the model’s hair: Pink, Jet Blue, Mixed Grey—the hair becomes a decoy that turns out to be the subject of the story you deliver

That’s true. I guess that’s why I did Momentum. The film represents a dance performance I did as a child at Lincoln Center when I danced with the Bernice Johnson Dance Studio, an Alvin Ailey school in Jamaica, Queens. When it came time to perform, I wished I was in the audience—I was painted in gold paint, with an Afro and toe shoes, very Vegas, and I wanted to see that. The dance was choreographed by Bernice Johnson after Duke Ellington’s [1932] song Sophisticated Lady. Ellington had died the week before. [In 1974] I would’ve become a dancer had it been in me to make a connection in the dark to an audience. With Momentum I wanted a clear photograph of something hidden. I like surprises, I like being unsure, trying things that might be stupid, doing something unknown to look for a trajectory other than the one the work is known for. Not every drawing I do is successful.

In the film "Easy to Remember," 2001 that was at the Whitney Museum of American Art, a group of lips are seen in close-up, humming. They look like wounds. The sound feels like a chain-gang or church hymn. The song feels old, slow, out of time and yet oddly contemporary. You presented the work as a grid of disembodied voices.

As a child, my parents played Coltrane’s rendition of the Rodgers + Hart song on a record player. It’s my favorite to this day. I did a casting call for singers, filming each person with headphones as they listened to Coltrane’s Easy to Remember—a camera with a giant lens captured as much of their face as possible. To hum along, you have to choose octaves and decide which way you’re going. The process put the singers off-balance. For me the work was more a music piece than the visual aspect of creating this chorus. I wanted to make a piece that would use the body in service of music, but that wasn’t about singing.

The rhythm, and perhaps more so, the cadence creates a visual structure.

Yeah, true. That’s what jazz is, it’s what Coltrane was after. It’s not about melody, it is about a cadence and feeling, about the way you go through octaves to create different renditions to let things fall apart or fuse.

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On View
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Gabriel Orozco´s commissioned work for the Deutsche Guggenheim / The Press on Frieze Masters and Frieze London
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