POWER PLANTS PIANO, 2015, Installation, Culver City, CA. “Death of the Artist” installation involving: Blue paint, two square mirrors, 8 potted palms, 7 potted mums, tree bench covered in epoxy, Casio piano on stand, skylight. Note: Play the video with sound on to receive the “that’s too real” conversation. A writing and HC Andersen story follow the mobile phone video documentation.



What does “artist” mean? There was a time it means becoming incredibly skilled and creating something deemed valuable. Thanks to pre and post modern theorists, authors created the ability to think about the structure of life based on a multitude of awarenesses. During the last several decades, the demand for Master degrees as a certification to be eligible to teach or attain certain jobs, created an identifiable social phenomena: artist as identifiable myth. The story of where the artist came from, how that is tied their practice (as if in a perpetual state of never becoming a professional), is not only assumed to be the way for an artist to carve out a career but if a person making art goes against it, they may be cast aside from the “canon.”


In this perspective, art became both advertising and war. Instead of a ballistic material, the art object becomes a transitory object of the artists’ identity. The notion “anything can be art” opened up the field of art so much as to making anyone who questioned the blatant obtuseness of artist productions subject to being labelled in a sociologically negative way. Labels such as “rural”, “dull”, “unsophisticated”, became backed up by a strange blend of European philosophies, the Europeans themselves did not understand. This canon as often marked as having virtue by being related to the prestigious Frankfurt School, tactically warned even describing the obvious nature of what is going on would be cast out (perhaps expelled by the institution receiving cash or federal loan money), and if not then, then cast out of further legitimised work opportunities.


This idealogical apparatus became increasingly apparent as social media and the internet found ways to weaponise media. As every body with a mobile computer device became an unprofessional videographer, photographer, podcaster, editor, reporter or journalist, the space between abject emotional experiences to public viewership collapsed. Instead of clarity, a period of confusion arose. The obtuseness of “art” and the silencing nature of “ssshhhh, you shalt not speak unless degreed” created a scenario as Tom Wolfe writes in The Painted Word. A bit of a complicated version of the children’s story, The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen; in other words the emperor had no clothes on and no one dared say.


Roland Barthes, Death of the Author, sent forth the notion the author is not the matter in the book. The reader takes from the signs on the page and imagines scenes and recreates a story that may or may not be related to the authors intention. The focus on the nuances in temporality may lose the attention of some readers yet clarifies an important aspect into the way the idea an artists’ history and identity is taken up by society. Artist then becomes some kind of signifier of class or virtue; which sucks out all the air from the post-modernist idealism of agency, authorship, freedom  because in post-modern ideals there is no objective truth or reality, and technology and scientific are merely avenues for power. The logos of post modernism becomes a logic unto itself, a closed loop or solipsism. This monocle with which to see the world simultaneously promises rewards (work or income, food and housing) while disregarding and disposing of the bodies and identities used. In this way, artists and their works become stones at which gallerists and societies throw stones at the other. 


In this exhibition, a wall is painted blue; an aqua reminiscent of the colour chosen as the painted bottom of a pool, or the backdrop in a butterfly enclosure. 8 Palms are lined in their shipped pots, spaced with 7 chrysanthemums, sided by a log bench, and an electric piano facing the audience of plants. Two mirrors in the corner of the enclosure, reflected sunlight during a specific window of time the sunlight cut into the roof of the building by the artist inhabiting the space prior to the current installation. (Perhaps viewers would draw meaning from these refracted lights or maybe they would not). The piano was left plugged in and on, and was played by whoever wished to. Instead of a pianist, or a painter, or a performer, the viewers became the witness to the Death of the Artist. While the elements in the room were chosen somewhat autobiographically, the awareness such identity really did not matter. As the exhibition was situated in the graduate exhibition event for the college, in Los Angeles a city noted for a wave of artists working in Institutional Critique, it would not be until several years (nearly a decade later), the work would be written about. 



The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen

Many, many years ago there was an emperor who was so terribly fond of beautiful new clothes that he spent all his money on his attire. He did not care about his soldiers, or attending the theatre, or even going for a drive in the park, unless it was to show off his new clothes. He had an outfit for every hour of the day. And just as we say, “The king is in his council chamber,” his subjects used to say, “The emperor is in his clothes closet.”

In the large town where the emperor’s palace was, life was gay and happy; and every day new visitors arrived. One day two swindlers came. They told everybody that they were weavers and that they could weave the most marvellous cloth. Not only were the colours and the patterns of their material extraordinarily beautiful, but the cloth had the strange quality of being invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office or unforgivably stupid.

“This is truly marvellous,” thought the emperor. “Now if I had robes cut from that material, I should know which of my councillors was unfit for his office, and I would be able to pick out my clever subjects myself. They must weave some material for me!” And he gave the swindlers a lot of money so they could start working at once.

They set up a loom and acted as if they were weaving, but the loom was empty. The fine silk and gold threads they demanded from the emperor they never used, but hid them in their own knapsacks. Late into the night they would sit before their empty loom, pretending to weave.

“I would like to know how far they’ve come,” thought the emperor; but his heart beat strangely when he remembered that those who were stupid or unfit for their office would not be able to see the material. Not that he was really worried that this would happen to him. Still, it might be better to send someone else the first time and see how he fared. Everybody in town had heard about the cloth’s magic quality and most of them could hardly wait to find out how stupid or unworthy their neighbours were.

“I shall send my faithful prime minister to see the weaver,” thought the emperor. “He will know how to judge the material, for he is both clever and fit for his office, if any man is.”

The good-natured old man stepped into the room where the weavers were working and saw the empty loom. He closed his eyes, and opened them again. “God preserve me!” he thought. “I cannot see a thing!” But he didn’t say it out loud.

The swindlers asked him to step a little closer so that he could admire the intricate patterns and marvellous colours of the material they were weaving. They both pointed to the empty loom, and the poor old prime minister opened his eyes as wide as he could; but it didn’t help, he still couldn’t see anything.

“Am I stupid?” he thought. “I can’t believe it, but if it is so, it is best no one finds out about it. But maybe I am not fit for my office. No, that is worse, I’d better not admit that I can’t see what they are weaving.”

“Tell us what you think of it,” demanded one of the swindlers.

“It is beautiful. It is very lovely,” mumbled the old prime minister, adjusting his glasses. “What patterns! What colours! I shall tell the emperor that I am greatly pleased.”

“And that pleases us,” the weavers said; and now they described the patterns and told which shades of colour they had used. The prime minister listened attentively, so that he could repeat their words to the emperor, and that is exactly what he did.

The two swindlers demanded more money, and more silk and gold thread. They said they had to use it for their weaving, but their loom remained as empty as ever.

Soon the emperor sent another of his trusted councillors to see how the work was progressing. He looked and looked just as the prime minister had, but since there was nothing to be seen, he didn’t see anything.

“Isn’t it a marvellous piece of material?” asked one of the swindlers; and they both began to describe the beauty of their cloth again.

“I am not stupid,” thought the emperor’s councillor. “I must be unfit for my office. That is strange; but I’d better not admit it to anyone.” And he started to praise the material, which he could not see, for the loveliness of its patterns and colours.

“I think it is the most charming piece of material I have ever seen,” declared the councillor to the emperor.

Everyone in town was talking about the marvellous cloth that the swindlers were weaving.

At last the emperor himself decided to see it before it was removed from the loom. Attended by the most important people in the empire, among them the prime minister and the councillor who had been there before, the emperor entered the room where the weavers were weaving furiously on their empty loom.

“Isn’t it magnifique?” asked the prime minister.

“Your Majesty, look at the colours and patterns,” said the councillor. And the two old gentlemen pointed to the empty loom, believing that all the rest of the company could see the cloth.

“What!” thought the emperor. “I can’t see a thing! Why, this is a disaster! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? Oh, it is too horrible!” Aloud he said, “It is very lovely. It has my approval,” while he nodded his head and looked at the empty loom.

All the councillors, ministers, and men of great importance who had come with him stared and stared; but they saw no more than the emperor had seen, and they said the same thing that he had said, “It is lovely.” And they advised him to have clothes cut and sewn, so that he could wear them in the procession at the next great celebration.

“It is magnificent! Beautiful! Excellent!” All of their mouths agreed, though none of their eyes had seen anything. The two swindlers were decorated and given the title “Royal Knight of the Loom.”

The night before the procession, the two swindlers didn’t sleep at all. They had sixteen candles lighting up the room where they worked. Everyone could see how busy they were, getting the emperor’s new clothes finished. They pretended to take cloth from the loom; they cut the air with their big scissors, and sewed with needles without thread. At last they announced: “The emperor’s new clothes are ready!”

Together with his courtiers, the emperor came. The swindlers lifted their arms as if they were holding something in their hands, and said, “These are the trousers. This is the robe, and here is the train. They are all as light as if they were made of spider webs! It will be as if Your Majesty had almost nothing on, but that is their special virtue.”

“Oh yes,” breathed all the courtiers; but they saw nothing, for there was nothing to be seen.

“Will Your Imperial Majesty be so gracious as to take off your clothes?” asked the swindlers. “Over there by the big mirror, we shall help you put your new ones on.”

The emperor did as he was told; and the swindlers acted as if they were dressing him in the clothes they should have made. Finally they tied around his waist the long train which two of his most noble courtiers were to carry.

The emperor stood in front of the mirror admiring the clothes he couldn’t see.

“Oh, how they suit you! A perfect fit!” everyone exclaimed. “What colours! What patterns! The new clothes are magnificent!”

“The crimson canopy, under which Your Imperial Majesty is to walk, is waiting outside,” said the imperial master of court ceremony.

“Well, I am dressed. Aren’t my clothes becoming?” The emperor turned around once more in front of the mirror, pretending to study his finery.

The two gentlemen of the imperial bedchamber fumbled on the floor trying to find the train which they were supposed to carry. They didn’t dare admit that they didn’t see anything, so they pretended to pick up the train and held their hands as if they were carrying it.

The emperor walked in the procession under his crimson canopy. And all the people of the town, who had lined the streets or were looking down from the windows, said that the emperor’s new clothes were beautiful. “What a magnificent robe! And the train! How well the emperor’s clothes suit him!”

None of them were willing to admit that they hadn’t seen a thing; for if anyone did, then he was either stupid or unfit for the job he held. Never before had the emperor’s clothes been such a success.

“But he doesn’t have anything on!” cried a little child.

“Listen to the innocent one,” said the proud father. And the people whispered among each other and repeated what the child had said.

“He doesn’t have anything on. There’s a little child who says that he has nothing on.”

“He has nothing on!” shouted all the people at last.

The emperor shivered, for he was certain that they were right; but he thought, “I must bear it until the procession is over.” And he walked even more proudly, and the two gentlemen of the imperial bedchamber went on carrying the train that wasn’t there.




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