The Kröller-Müller is located on about 60 acres, set within De Hoge Veluwe National Park, and visitors can either park their cars nearby and take a brief walk to the museum, or leave their cars in several locations along the park border and pick up a free bike to cycle to the museum. Taking the latter option, I started to think about the art-viewing pilgrimage—whether it’s climbing the steps of a neoclassical art temple, riding in a van across the New Mexico countryside to reach The Lightning Field, or wending your way through the IMA’s formal gardens and crossing the canal into 100 Acres.  Before the art viewing, there is the preparing for the art viewing.  Not a walk for the sake of a walk, but a palate cleanser in anticipation of a specific, intentional sensory experience.

Along this same vein, I recently enjoyed encountering several empty galleries at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam. As part of its temporary program during the construction of its new wing, the Stedelijk has reopened its renovated original building with a changing installation of works from their permanent collection. Interspersed between galleries that for the most part contain single artworks, are unlit vacant spaces that are at first curious, and, upon further consideration, revelatory. These spaces were designed in part as a creative solution to the fact that the museum is still under construction—insufficient climate control, the need for light blocks for new media works—but they also provide a fascinating pause between artworks: a breath in the often-overwhelming bam-bam-bam of artworks presented in quick succession. The rooms draw your attention to the building itself—its architecture, its history, its key role in the framing of each work on display.

Dan Graham, "Two Adjacent Pavilions," first version 1978, second version 2001.

Most important about the darkened rooms is that they do a fine job of affirming one’s place in the world/city/building/room, urging you to consider your presence as a body in space (phenomenology, if you will). Also very successful at accomplishing this is Dan Graham’s Two Adjacent Pavilions (first version 1978, second version 2001), which is sited near the entrance of the Kröller-Müller Museum. Made of glass and steel, Two Adjacent Pavilions is part architecture, part sculpture, and its reflective surfaces frame and mirror the lush grounds, the more traditional sculpture nearby (Mark Di Suvero’s K-piece, 1972), and also your own encounter with the structure.  Entering the glass cubes (the doors were propped open), I was immediately hurtled into an unstable ground between experiencing the work and being the work. The subject/object relationship was upended marvelously, and I was made acutely aware of my own presence, the proximity of others, and Graham’s expert insistence upon his art’s integration with its context. His art is the context.

I’ll commit a crime here and skip over the contents of the actual museum (except to note that a gallery of early Piet Mondrians is one of the most impressive displays of Modern painting I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing, to say nothing of their collection of Van Goghs) and move directly to the sculpture garden. Opened in 1961, the sculpture garden was designed to capitalize on the museum’s stunning natural surroundings, originally housing sculptures by Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth in formally groomed outdoor galleries and an open-air pavilion by Gerrit Rietveld that was added in 1964. As years passed, the sculpture garden expanded beyond the bounds of the original plans and leaked into the wooded areas surrounding it.

Jean Dubuffet, "Jardin d'email,"1974.

In 1974, the Kröller-Müller added the striking and unmissable Jardin d’émail by Jean Dubuffet. (No, Dubuffet was not a savant who predicted the terminology of the coming technological revolution: émail means enamel in French.) Those who have seen the IMA’s Dubuffet painting from 1964, Courre Merlan, or his large-scale sculpture Monument with Standing Beast outside of the Thompson Center in Chicago, will recognize the black-and-white outlined forms of the artist’s signature art brut style. Quite the opposite of Dan Graham’s glass pavilions, Dubuffet’s bright-white landscape contrasts sharply with its environment. The “enamel garden,” made of concrete and polyurethane painted with epoxy, sprung from the artist’s imagination in the form of a model he created in his studio in 1968, before its final destination was known. This garden-within-a-garden struck me at first as a bizarro mash-up of Alfredo Jaar’s Park of the Laments (you enter from underneath and climb stairs into its center), and Atelier van Lieshout’s Funky Bones (the material, the color, the stylized forms). Traversing Dubuffet’s landscape, I felt as if my fellow garden-goers and I had swallowed an “eat me” pill and emerged on planet Dubuffet, free to cavort and recline within one of his famed Hourloupe paintings. The anti-nature of this garden, surrounded by a ring of trees, reminded me once more that successful outdoor art need not be made of rocks or blend subtly with its environment to engender a fruitful consideration of the relationship between the self and the natural world.

The other day I made an afternoon tour of a few art spots in Amsterdam—my list made manageable by the fact that it was a Tuesday and many galleries were closed—and wanted to give a brief report.

My stops:

1) Stedelijk Museum Bureau Amsterdam (the museum’s project space) to see Alfredo Jaar’s The Marx Lounge, a reading room in which to peruse books by, about, or relating to Karl Marx, Marxist theory, capitalism, and post-colonialism. Jaar’s curated selection is laid out in a neat grid on a vast table, surrounded by red walls and carpet, along with couches, lamps, and neon lettering quietly humming the project’s title. As I do whenever I encounter a work by Jaar, I braced myself to be overwhelmed and to feel the enormity of that which I do not know, but should. You would think this would be a negative experience, but somehow, with Jaar’s work, it is not. I spent a while here, picking up books I wish I’ve read, browsing a few, making notes of books I plan to read, and feeling relief when encountering books I have read. Handily, the website provides a reading list, in case you’re feeling ambitious.

Another iteration of the lounge was part of the 2010 Liverpool Biennial, bringing to mind how site-determined the work is, that the reading list alters in each location, and that the social and political histories of each site, city, and nation come to bear on the interpretation of the piece. While the installation could have had a little more teeth for me if installed in a commercial gallery space, The Marx Lounge felt concise, sobering, and relevant—a plea for literacy and academicism in a time in which folks aren’t acting so literate or academic. Like all Jaar pieces, I felt like he was telling me to think and to remember. And I always appreciate that reminder.

2) Then to see Ryan Gander’s show at Annet Gelink Gallery. The gallery is in the midst of a Venice Biennale bonanza, with a number of their artists in this year’s event: Yael Bartana representing Poland, Barbara Visser jointly representing The Netherlands, and Ryan Gander participating in Bice Curiger’s exhibition ILLUMInazioni – ILLUMInations at the 54th International Art Exhibition. Gander’s installation at Annet Gelink shows he is clearly thinking about art history—in particular Modernism, de Stijl, and one of its leading figures Piet Mondrian. His installation Your present time orientation (Second Act) – Random abstraction is composed of an array of monochromatic, reflective planes that engage the colors and geometries of Mondrian and other de Stijl artists in their iconic abstract paintings. Resting on the floor in a way we are led to believe is random, the installation constitutes an interesting reflection on abstraction—it’s history and how it is manifested today.

Also on the floor of the gallery is a sculpture (You Ruin Everything (The Economy of Zeros), 2011) that takes as its point of departure Edgar Degas’ La Petite Danseuse de Quatorze Ans, which I am told has always engendered pity in Gander when he encounters the sculpture. The dancer, in Gander’s figuration, has shed her pedestal and taken up a variety of actions and positions, in this case she lies on her belly on the floor, gaze directed at a small blue cube resting upon its own minute white pedestal, which she is poised and ready to flick with her finger. Another of the sculptures (not at Gelink) shows the dancer leaning against a pedestal and smoking a cigarette. More than Modernism, the work made me think about sculpture, and how glad I am to be part of the post-70s world of art production that takes for granted the expanded field.

3) My last stop was a survey of Mika Rottenberg’s recent work at de Appel Boys’ School, a perfectly un-museum-like setting for the artist’s superbly bizarre video installations. With installations that mimic the elaborate structures and assembly lines that set the stage for her videos, Rottenberg’s presentation at de Appel (titled Dough cheese squeeze and tropical breeze) offers a gloriously intensive survey of the artist’s highly imaginative and elaborate narrative videos. Once I recover from the initial revulsion of the human oddities on display—women (mostly) of all sizes and proportions struggling, sweating, working, secreting, producing— I am able to fully bask in the gloriousness of Rottenberg’s vision. I had seen Rottenberg’s work before, but never so many of the works together—and the effect is impressive.

Her narrative loops present seemingly unending assembly and production lines, the characters expending huge amounts of energy to produce items such as maraschino cherries out of magically regenerating red fingernails, or (my personal favorite) Tropical Breeze Lemon Scented Moist Tissues made from the sweat of a professional female bodybuilder.

The focus on labor and industry so central to Rottenberg’s work called to mind not only the seeming arbitrariness of art production, but also couldn’t help but remind of my visit to The Marx Lounge earlier in the day. A coincidental alignment only possible in a city with as rich of a cultural life as Amsterdam.

Eden II

On Friday morning, November 20, I stood hard-hatted and slack-jawed beneath Tea Mäkipää’s ship, Eden II, as it hung from a crane far above 100 Acres, and couldn’t help but marvel at the process that turns conversations, emails, and artist’s renderings into an actual, physical, 47-foot, 8-ton object.

This rare pleasure is experienced by those involved with object– and place-making everywhere, but it was felt most distinctly by the crowd gathered for the ship launch in 100 Acres, a park first envisioned in an IMA strategic plan in 1996. While Eden II began its journey via two cranes, one barge, and one motorboat from the park’s central meadow to its resting place in the southwest corner of the lake, one could also see crews at work building the walls of Alfredo Jaar’s Park of the Laments, hear the nearby construction of Marlon Blackwell’s visitor’s center, and observe the assembly of Andrea Zittel’s fiberglass floating island by LA-based fabricators The Barnacle Brothers. At long last, 100 Acres is really happening.

I came to the IMA in summer of 2007 and to Finnish artist Tea Mäkipää’s project in early 2009, after former IMA curator (and friend!) Rebecca Uchill left Indianapolis to pursue a PhD. Mäkipää had first travelled to Indianapolis in July of 2007 to conduct research for her commission, and the idea of developing a boat-based project surfaced early on. Having come across a warship when traveling in the United Arab Emirates earlier that year, Mäkipää was interested in thinking about the waterway system in Indianapolis and, in particular, the canal, river, and lake in and around 100 Acres. We had provided Mäkipää with information about the historic and ecological development of these waterways, and local volunteers took the artist on boat trips along the canal via pontoon boat.

She came to the museum with a proposal for a ship, Eden II, seemingly packed with emigrants from an unknown homeland and mysteriously present in the 100 Acres lake. Much research ensued over the possibility of finding a functional boat and transporting it to the park site, as Mäkipää had originally hoped to procure a ship in Europe and sail it to the United States as an extension of her recent project, 10 Commandments for the 21st Century, whose first rule is: “Do not fly.”

Although the voyage would have been a stunning artwork of its own, unfortunately cost, liability, and timing prevented this plan from proceeding. After searching high and low for suitable ships in the US that would fit the scale and needs of the project (thanks former IMA intern Lindsay Clark!), it became clear that a functioning boat would not only have unnecessary parts for our purposes (an engine), but would also be prohibitively expensive to purchase and transport. In the summer of 2008, the artist submitted a revised proposal to construct “a floating structure that resembles a ship”, and with her we embarked on the mission of devising a building plan.

In July of 2009, Icelandic artist Halldor Ulfarsson arrived at the IMA to work as Mäkipää’s assistant and begin construction of the skeleton of Eden II. The kind folks over at the Herron School of Art and Design, most notably Eric Nordgulen and Greg Hull, agreed to lend us their magnificent sculpture studio for a few weeks to accomplish some of the primary metal work for the project. Ulfarsson worked with IMA staffers, including Mike Bir, Brad Dilger, and Brose Partington, to finalize plans for the ship and construct its primary structure. In August, that structure was transported via truck to the central meadow of 100 Acres, and in September, Mäkipää arrived to begin the work of skinning and detailing the ship with Ulfarsson and noble IMAers Scott Shoultz, TJ Lemanski, and Toni Hook.

Herron students also joined the project: Jason Bord, Ava Larkin, Shi-Fen Liu, Wes French fabricated a menacing-looking harpoon and gun, and Amanda York and Kathryn Armstrong assembled a net of rubbish that hangs from the ship’s deck. All the while, a plan was taking shape for Eden II’s eventual launch into the 100 Acres lake, which would also entail the construction of a pontoon system, a keel with considerable ballast, and anchors that would be set in the bottom of the lake.

This narrative glosses over many details (you may now anxiously await my novel: East of Eden II), but we finally arrived at launch day in late November. After a week of waiting for rainy weather to clear, Mike Bir and much of the IMA’s installation crew assembled in the park early Friday morning with a tightly choreographed plan of action.

A smaller crane lifted the ship from the meadow (it stayed together!) and brought it to the shore of the lake (expertly navigating a grove of trees!). I winced as the crane tunneled enormous tracks into the park ground—under the watchful eyes of many from the Horticulture & Grounds crew who will no doubt have to address said tracks—but comforted myself by repeating my mantra for the day: Better now than a week before the park opens. After the ship was placed near the shore, we gathered for a quick group picture, which included the crew as well as the project’s engineers, crane operators, mighty 100 Acres project manager Dave Hunt, park director Lisa Freiman,

and IMA director Maxwell Anderson. In the absence of the artist, who sadly had to miss the event, and with Mike Bir’s support, I then said a silent prayer and broke a bottle of champagne (ok, ok, it was Prosecco) on the ship’s hull. Then, back to business: a second, enormous crane lifted the ship high enough so that the team could attach the keel and ballast, and the whole contraption was gingerly extended over the lake and placed gently in the water. A barge was then attached to the side of the ship, and it was ferried by motor boat over to its final location, where anchors attached by cable to buoys waiting to be attached. Enter Brad Dilger, IMA Multi-Media Designer and certified scuba diver, who helped set the keel and attach the anchors to Eden II.

By the day’s end, the ship was resting peacefully in its intended spot. There is still much work to be done to complete the stabilization of the ship. And there is still a guard shack to be constructed on the shore of the lake, which will house audiovisual components affording visitors views of what is supposedly transpiring aboard the mysterious vessel. However, my spirit is (forgive me) buoyed enormously by the success of Friday’s launch. Last I checked, museums aren’t in the business of building ships, or even independently floating sculptures that resemble ships. I’m awfully proud of what Tea Mäkipää has accomplished at the IMA, and it couldn’t have happened without the herculean efforts of the IMA staff and the Indianapolis community at large. Thanks, everyone.

First up was the Armory Show, which brought quite a few folks to New York last week. Like many, I have a conflicted relationship with art fairs. I continue to go to them, although the experience is a manic exercise in ambivalence: one is alternately perturbed by crowds of art socialites, happy to run into people one knows (which causes one to worry whether one is posing as an art socialite), worried the art might be decent but that the context is spoiling it, and elated and relieved when encountering a few strong artworks that stand out from the huddled thousands on display. I came away with the impression that much of the art presented at the Armory was decorative and generally uninspiring, although there were a few notable exceptions. I’m a fan of David Shrigley’s work, and there were a few good pieces on display at Anton Kern’s booth, including a most clever projected animation entitled Lightswitch (2007). Ronald Feldman Fine Arts played host to a witty boutique-within-a-boutique with Christine Hill’s The Volksboutique Armory Apothecary, for which the artist worked from behind a counter to dispense personalized remedies to the sundry ailments of visitors. I also had the pleasure of seeing my friend and accomplished video artist Lida Abdul, whose work was on view at the booth of Giorgio Persano Gallery.

Of the handful of satellite fairs also going on, I made it to Pulse and Volta (whose names sound rather ridiculous next to one another) and enjoyed poking around the booths with my most esteemed colleagues Lisa Freiman and Allison Unruh.

Much less fussy than the Armory, these fairs can be a great way to see good art by emerging and mid-career artists in a setting much less likely to induce the mixed emotions described above. At Pulse, the Parsons MFA Fine Arts program put curator Eva Diaz to the task of organizing the smartest of mini-exhibitions, in which she elected to show all program artists instead of a juried few. Small-scale artworks were displayed thoughtfully in an artist-built structure alongside the books the students were reading at the moment.

A most entertaining curiosity cabinet-cum-reading room. What I value most about going to fairs and seeing such a high volume of art at once is how helpful it can be in expanding nascent exhibition ideas. Say I’m interested in doing a comprehensive group show about pencil drawing since the 1980s, then I can learn of Paul Chiappe‘s minute recreations of photographs through Madder 139 at Pulse and see excellent works on paper in The Drawing Center’s current exhibition Apparently Invisible by Michaela Frühwirth and Anne Lindberg.

On Thursday I met up with Danish artist Tue Greenfort, who lives in Berlin but is currently in residence in New York to work on a project for Creative Time. His work is currently on view at Peter Blum Gallery, and he and I are beginning to speak about the potential for a project in Indianapolis. Stay tuned for news of his visit to the IMA this Spring, which I am anticipating greatly. Lisa and I also had the pleasure of visiting Tara Donovan in her studio/home in Brooklyn (sorry no pictures! I got distracted and forgot), where we saw several stunning works on paper that are in development for an upcoming gallery show. We discussed with Tara an exhibition of her work here in Indianapolis in 2010 (hooray!) and spoke about all of the possibilities surrounding such a project.

Last, but not least, I visited the place that has been mentioned to me every time I talk to someone in New York about 100 Acres: The Virginia B. Fairbanks Art & Nature Park: SoHo’s restaurant Hundred Acres.

I mean, it’s delicious and all, but it’s just not as pretty—or as full of innovative art installations—as our developing project. And we come by our name fairly, legitimately covering 100 acres of woodlands, wetlands, meadows and a 35-acre lake, which I must admit I was happy to return to at the end of my trip.