Artbash: All Topics

Artbash : Business as Usual : william blake

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 16:07:47 +1200

Leonard Fox paused in his writing to scan the horizon; aquamarine became azure rising to cerulean, a grey lizard crabbed from the shade of a stone to stare at him; it was 30 degrees in the shade. Leonard flipped the postcard over and it showed a remarkably similar horizon, except with dozens of small white plastered cubes, stepping down to the sea; the cubes all had identical cerulean blue windows. The postcard was to send to his mother in New Zealand.

It was another postcard that had set Leonard on the path that found him lying by the pool and owning the luxury modernist villa on the Greek Island of Spanakopita.

After a spectacularly modest career as a landscape painter, Leonard had hit upon the postcard plan. It was a simple plan and all that it needed was courage and time and nothing to loose. He sent postcards to MOMA, the Tate, and various Guggenheims and to all of the top galleries. He sent postcards to all of the big art magazines and the best dealers and then included them in his curriculum vitae.

With this magnificent CV Leonard was a shoe in for a CNZ ‘just let loose- 100% pure Kiwi’ travel grant; which produced more carefully chosen postcards from around the world. Soon anyone who considered themselves important in the art world hungered for a Leonard Fox postcard.

Now Leonard was rich and was living in exile from his Porrirua roots. It was a burgeoning exile managed by his gravel voiced agent Nigel Healy. Nigel had turned the postcards into cash and then into real estate or as he explained to the tax man the ‘manufactories of the raw production’ and grudgingly secured a fine concession from the revenue. Leonard and Nigel now owned thirteen deluxe properties around the world.

Leonard picked up his Mont Blanc and put his mothers address in the allocated space below the stamp and wondered about a beginning. Just then Nigel appeared, clinking with drinks.

“Who’s the postcard for Len?” he asked casually handing Leonard a tall, icy faintly blue drink.

“My mother back in New Zealand” he replied.

“What?” Nigel choked slightly while sipping on his gin. “You can’t fucking do that!” he coughed,” don’t you understand what an unproductive work like that could do to your stock?”

“…But its to my Mum” he replied weakly in a squeaky voice, as Healy took the card.

“No…no…no” scolded Nigel and flicked the card casually but accurately over the marble terrace into the azure.

Paul Gibbon had just made the breakthrough: it was a small lozenge of paint in the bottom corner of a giant striped painting. The stripes were in tones of grey: yellow grey, blue grey and light grey. The major passages were applied with house painting brushes and rollers but the finishing detail was worked up in glazes using the biggest kolinsky sable brush that money could buy. Gibbon had long ago dispensed with canvass had worked through plywood, then aluminium panel and now painted exclusively on titanium sheet which floated exactly 5mm from the wall and was custom made in Finland. The whole work reeked of good taste and considered expression.

He only painted stripes. He saw them as boundaries or horizons, collisions or pairings. He could paint the same work over and over and the small detail of the lozenge could salvage him from the “insanity” that Kipling referred to in his famous quote “as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results”. He had heard this often enough at his A.A. meetings but preferred Einstein’s version as being positivistic and progressive, “ The world we have made, as a result of the level of thinking we have done thus far, creates problems we cannot solve at the same level of thinking”

Gibbon had come to the attention of the art world early on with a large work on canvass, three metres by ten, with black and white stripes and a, relatively small panel of gamboge yellow, entitled ‘The Wasp’. Art critic Evan Woodie had cried foul, and sketched a dismissive review; agreeing that the work was committed by a white Anglo male, but lacked a sting in the tale. Gibbon’s next piece identical, except for the panel being layered in cadmium red and being titled’ The Bull” was panned in Woodie’s column with a photograph and the simple dismissive headline ‘Bullshit!’

Woodie was back in his paper the following day with another photograph, this time with a hand to his rapidly closing eye and bleeding nose and a furious looking Gibbon being forcibly restrained by his dealer, Nigel Healy. Paul Gibbon’s career had never looked back.

The breakthrough that Gibbon had made in the latest piece was painting the lozenge in the same shade of grey that surrounded it. It relieved Paul from the responsibility of finding an eloquent colour to shoulder the burden of the work and it was a continuation of the stripe while not being part of it… It was the actualisation of Einstein’s ‘different level of thought’.

Paul lit a victory cigarette with his paint smeared lighter and he poured himself a good measure of scotch. The peaty drink seemed to ease the headache that he got daily from the paint fumes. He wondered what that cunt Woodie would make of this masterful painting.

Nigel Healy adjusted his left shirt cuff by exactly five millimeters to better expose the navette cut ruby cuff link. It was one of the small details that he felt set him apart from the rest. On the right cuff was a link of similar cut, but emerald, of about two carats; he was going sailing later in the day.

But he needed to earn his keep this morning and so he was representing a sculptor by the name of Brigitte Castle, an older woman but still strikingly beautiful, even if she was dressed like a mechanic.

They were in the grubby offices of Kitschen Engineering, a failing manufactory only just keeping afloat by the good sense of the foreman who had insisted that they reinvest the meager profits of producing stainless steel kitchens into the latest technology and so just keeping ahead of the Chinese importers. It was for this technology that they were here.

Brigitte looked unimpressedly at the ageing lad manager,Dave Kitschen, a migrant from the North of England, shaved head, black and white striped soccer shirt, smoking a taylor made; she was reminded of a mangy whippet her father once owned.

“You want fookin’ what?” Dave fumed.

“We want a whale Dave” Brigitte patiently explained. “A sperm whale, made out of stainless steel”

“ I suppose you will want that life size an all” laughed Dave sarcastically.

Nigel thought it was time to straighten things out before they got out of hand.

“ No Mr. Kitschen, not life size; twice life size actually. Oh and we will pay handsomely. It should get your er.. business out of the doldrums”

Jimmy, the ferret eyed alcoholic foreman who was leaning against the doorjamb interjected.

“ We can do it, no worries, with the cad-cam cutters, epicycloidic rollers and the nitrogen-plasma welder, we should be able to knock off a project of that scale”

“I know, that’s why we are here” said Nigel through his teeth.

Dave observed the ill matched couple for a moment and then asked the seemingly dumb question. “Why?”

Brigitte began her story, which was polished by use to a deep luster. It described other work made by other factories, her philosophy of form and, in this instance, a deep distrust with the still dominant patriarchal hierarchy, in society.

“..and that’s why I’m calling the piece ‘Moby’s Dick’; it’s twice the size of Melville’s .”

That was a couple of years back and Dave thought back to how much of a wanker he was then, not up for it, it was Jimmy who saw the opportunity. The whale job was a good earner for the company but did little for the artist if he remembered correctly, she made hardly any money from the job but that agent guy seemed to do ok.

Dave looked out from his new office at the recently installed promotional orca at the front gate, business was booming, whales, pods of dolphins, seals (with or without balancing balls), schools of tuna, swordfish: the whole marine world was his oyster.

Press Releases : First Thursdays - K Road Art Show : FirstThursdays

Sun, 24 Jan 2010 15:45:20 +1200

Something new has hit the K Road art scene stimulating its creative energy and alternative culture. First Thursdays is a monthly art walk held at historic St Kevins Arcade connecting artists, photographers, dancers, DJs, and art enthusiasts. The first event in December drew a diverse crowd of over 900 Aucklanders, curators and artists.

A broad range of artists were featured including pop surrealist Sister Darling, who painted goddess-like characters from her imaginative, alternate world. Used Bandaid from Wellington offered some deviant, Lolita-inspired watercoulour drawings.

Selene Simcox contributed bold, abstract expressionist designs cleverly using an ironing board as a medium whilst Sylvia Marsters depicted bright, warm hues in her paintings of tropical fruit bowls and flowers.

Glass blower Uri Davillier set up his installation "Raining Sunshine" consisting of hundreds of yellow glass drips hanging from the ceiling which intrigued guests as they walked in.

Jordan Barnes shared a bit of realism with his K Road studies, a self portrait, and observations about life including a giant, mouth-watering hamburger (its caption was “I’m always so f--ng hungry).

Philip Rosieur presented 40 sketches of strangely amusing, sometimes partly clad characters - think Batman missing his superhero pants.

A key figure in the street art scene, Peap contributed one of his signature black and white paintings. Digital artists PJ Paterson and Stephanie O'Connor merged photography and graphic art into urban and theatrical expressions.

Visitors browsed through environmental artist Martin Adlington’s booth of recycled trash turned to art. GeorgeFM sponsored the event with a live DJ set. A surprise Brazilian dance performance by Latin Fever and an electrifying Michael Jackson medley performed by hip hop dance group Triple8Funk caused an enthusiastic uproar.

Inspired by an art walk in her hometown of Seattle, USA event manager Cleo Barnett wanted to provide a new type of social arts gathering in Auckland. What started as an idea has turned into a community conscious, arts collaborative supported by the K Road Business Association, St Kevins shops, Third Eye and Verona Cafe.

The next First Thursdays on 4 Feb is surely not to be missed so check out www.firstthursdays.co.nz.

Art Theory and History : Love Me Tender : william blake

Tue, 19 Jan 2010 10:26:37 +1200

It was a hot August evening on Long Island; the big green convertible was speeding
along; powerfully propelled by its new 303 cubic inch V8 engine.

Slumped drunkenly in the back, Edith was drinking in the night air trying to sober up a little; that damn rummy, who was driving the Rocket 88, had been buying drinks at ol’Moe’s all night for Edith and her best friend Ruth, who had been having a very public affair with the rummy artist for the past six months or so.

Ruth was up front with one hand on the windscreen and the other inside Jackson’s pants and a whisper in his ear. “ do you love me Jackson?” The ‘Old’s engine lost a few hundred revs as the artist, surprised by the question and not a little drunk eased off the throttle. He seemed to consider the question and weigh up the possible consequences of his answer; why lie? “ah guess not” he confessed, he did not love his wife, his drinking buddies, his patrons he especially did not love his critics and regarded his audience with contempt, he realised that he probably no longer loved to paint.

Ruth took her hand out of Jackson’s flies and slapped the radio on, Elvis crooned out.
“Fuck you Jackson” she slurred. He didn’t care about Ruth but the realisation that his love affair with paint was over filled him with a deep sadness and with that realisation he did not notice their speed increasing or the bend at the end of the straight, or, until it was just too late the tree that would stop them dead.

Margaret shaved off a thick piece of yellow cheese and laid it on the slice of coarse bread cut from the loaf that her sister had baked the previous afternoon. She carefully wrapped the sandwich in some brown paper from the kitchen drawer and she put this with an apple and a bottle of water and her paint brushes and paper into the grey canvass pack and left the crib.

She climbed steadily for an hour through the wakening bush the air still cool in front of the heat of the day. She came to the side track and pressed on into an unknown part of the range. She was hot now and took off her coarse woollen jumper and tied it around her waist. The bush was now fully formed in sunlight and alive with the sound of cicadas.

The track was seldom walked and overgrown, it was steep and slow going. Margaret noticed that her socks were coated in long fine hooked seeds, sweat stung her eyes and she was panting like an old dog. At the top of the steep section of track she was brought to a halt by a vertical basalt outcrop. She could see the nature of the stone allowed for an easy ascent, almost a ladder, so she decided to go on.

Margaret reached the top in a few minutes but an overhang made the summit difficult. She reached up and blindly searched for a handhold, a jolt of panic ran through her body as she started to fall backwards. She was hanging; her hand had found a thick tree root that she gripped fiercely and with considerable effort she dragged herself up and lay face down for a time. She considered her stupidity and her mortality and, with a laugh, her achievement at getting there.
The root that had saved her belonged to and old Rata tree an ancient, tortured and stunted specimen but in full scarlet bloom and the view out from under the cool shade of the tree was far and eased to shades of violet. She saw a razor back ridge curving down to the cove where the crib hid, allowing an easy and obvious way home.

Margaret took out her paper and started to carefully sketch the scene and she decided to eat her sandwich after she had laid down her first wash of paint.

Rants : A quick review on a disturbing part of New Zealand culture : Flipper

Sun, 17 Jan 2010 20:09:48 +1200

A quick review on a disturbing part of New Zealand culture. The vision then forms our current national identity by its influence on society. It is partly familiar and partly conjured from that which stimulates a love for ones own reflection. Identity is pride, the faces of dubbed legends whom give hope and purpose to what is otherwise considered as life dull and ordinary.
The latest developments in celebrity culture (see samples below) could be seen as simply a part of cultural ‘progress,’ however I don’t see it in this way. Cultures charm lies in what is regarded as excellent in arts, letters, manners, scholarly pursuits, etc and NOT as a service for mass commodity.
Despite its disposition for contamination it nonetheless doesn’t fail to charm, it still drives into the nation like a sincere mascot of the production line. Take for instance the face of ex all black Colin Meade who after his sport career turned into a celebrity that sold many things including provincial finance. Provincial Finance’s later collapse sent many New Zealanders whom he had encouraged to invest into debt, so thank you Mr Colin Meade, and remember ‘real men don’t wear life jackets.’
And as far as mascots go Dan Carter has been sporting his mascot proudly, both on the field and on the bedroom walls of prepubesent teenagers. Infact he has been parading around the same pair of underwear so long now, some don’t see him as anything more then a model. I don't know what all you readers out there think about this, but I personally feel no pride in identifying myself with a pair of underwear and I think he and his undies are in desperate need of refreshment.

Art Theory and History : This is a new and short article to tell you that I am in the process of writing a new article... : Quint Baker

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 15:15:18 +1200

And it's about how the last fifty years of last century, was a rather strange era for the relationships between artists and consumers. It was a form of idolatry. A foreign artist of some distant land (for example) was worshipped as an elusive hero. Nowadays it has changed. An artist is now expected to interact with his fans. The artist's art is living, a living engagement. He/she creates with them, chats with them, mentors them and provides them with craft techniques (formerly known as 'secrets'). If you have any suggestions for the rising article please inform me in the section below. Help me create this. Lets work together...

Rants : NZ Art after Guantanemo : Flipper

Fri, 8 Jan 2010 13:52:11 +1200

The notion that arts main struggle is with reality is perhaps a simplified version of an adopted perception, in some respects detached from its real threat today. I believe rather then the obvious cause of a degenerating society, this ‘real threat’ now exists within the art world itself, a part of a new paradox that has emerged in the last 10-20 years here in New Zealand.

As I view it, over the last 50 to 100 years of history, society has condemned art to death by divorcing it from the original into separate non-art forms. These products were the vehicles for leaders to condition their followers via propaganda and/or fascistic ideologies. Long after their underlying political agenda was fully realized the non-art forms propagated their kind, as their surface meaning still appealed to the general.

The originals however stayed true to their purpose, and ambitiously broadcasted themselves and their antagonistic critique on society, blaming it for mass ignorance and disempowering their voices. From this art became its own being, true to itself but nevertheless limited to being, and consequentially condemning itself to ‘the green mile’ on which it comments today.

Art telling literally its own truth was and always has been a death wish pursued by artists, where in reality the only way to both vent and survive is through the art of being subtle. But to continue now appears to be like a double death wish. Where the former is avoidable by good-natured vice (mostly), the later is apparently inevitable.

Today the idea that 'art feeds of art' has become exactly like its lucrative self. It has become a comfortable process, but a little tired too. Who for instance guards art from the various specimens its own simulacrum washes in?

The origional problem seems to be that like new driftwood floating into shore it is fated only to begin living out its existence in a fake paradise, infertile and forever longing for the next spring tide. But the way art has responded to the decay of society over time in a sense became a bodyguard that left the celebrity to decompose behind the front. The decomposition does not occur for lack of merit in those genuine aesthetic life forms, or their lack of potential to propagate, but is rather due to a new ‘safe zone’ that accommodates some fertile grounds for exploitation of its own false reward.

Those Institutions, Galleries, Art Administrators that are failing art, are doing so by consciously or probably more unconsciously playing a role in helping that which they maybe wouldn't endorse if they became better acquainted with the rear end of it. Although they may fight against the obvious, - a niche for the market which reflects the motto 'anything can be art,’ these hierarchical classification systems are fools for the subtle anomalies that survive simply because they blend into the background.

The platform would see to it that the current originals are condemned to stray as denied potential amist a newly recriuted wasteland of the living dead. There are few and far between that can firstly distinguish new imitations and the genuine immitations of original infinity, and even fewer that can determine this by distrusting appearance distrust when interrogations takes place. Every artwork that is not obviously a non-artwork thus leaves Guantanamo smiling as either a lie or a truth. I wouldn't know what to trust, when the system fails to propperly take into account the consequences of the filter that it is, now a systematically induced paradox to that which depends on it.

Trust nothing and nobody and art then, when its not sprouting from the forces of its predecessors becomes more of a natural phenomena, synonymous to the way random mutations occur amongst populations of diference. But in this case it is not necessarily the survival of the fittest, or cleverest that becomes its own means of survival, rather it is whether or not it is genuinely inhibited by what occupies the present place in which it exists.

Art Theory and History : Problems Posed by the Question of the Existence (or non-existence) of Q. B. : bunrush

Thu, 7 Jan 2010 09:53:43 +1200

One problem posed by the question of the existence (or non-existence) of Q.B. is in widely held Artbash beliefs, ascribed to his various or, better yet, lack of apparent creative powers (which Q.B. has revealed, by his habitual behavior, at least here on Artbash) that he is be able to lurk or reveal himself for his own purposes.

In addition, according to generally agreed upon concepts of art, Q.B. is not only outside the creative human order, but is by all visual and intellectual evidence a hapless perverter of any and all salient and recurring aesthetic and conceptual tendencies that have pervaded and served the arts for at least the last millennium.

Thus, in Aristotelian terms, when viewed as part of any explanatory creative structure’s need to support rational (or for that matter absurd or a-rational) conclusions, any creative powers Q.B. possesses are, strictly speaking, of an un-natural, and thus un-interesting, order - that is, derived from (metaphorically speaking, of course) Shaitan’s place as up-ender supplantor of all natural order.

Some aesthetic apologists may offer the supernatural explanations for the inability of empirical methods to decide the question of Q.B.’s existence. In Karl Popper's philosophy of science, belief in the viability of truly bad art (and artists) is said to be outside the natural domain of scientific investigation because all aesthetic/conceptual hypotheses must be (ipso facto) falsifiable in the natural world. The Non-overlapping Magisteria view proposed by Stephen Jay Gould also holds that the existence (or otherwise) of Q.B. is irrelevant to and beyond the domain of lay-abouts, remittance-men, family trust-fund milch bubbies, boulevardiers, lifestylers and other categories of dingle-balls that habitually encrust the inexhaustably expelling orifice of the art world.

Logical positivists, such as Rudolf Carnap and A. J. Ayer view any debate about Q. as literal nonsense. For the logical positivists and adherents of similar schools of thought, statements about creative or other aesthetic experiences could not have an 'establish-able' truth value, and were deemed to be without meaning, because aesthetic naturalism, the philosophical basis for logical positivism, automatically excludes any possibility of the existence of Q. B. – that is, outside the constipated private universe Q.B. has created and populated (solely) with his fictional self and the eye-sores his fictional self churns out like so much rancid butter.

In summation: since Q. B. (to which the former proofs/arguments relate) is neither a non-fictional entity in the Artbash universe nor a maker of art object’s or humanly digestible art-theory. It’s not obvious, to this writer, what sorts of arguments/proofs are even relevant, or interesting enough to entertain (without risking intellectual euthanasia, or spontaneous combustion) about Q.B’s existence. Even if the concept of ‘proof’ were not problematic, the fact that there is no conclusive creative proof of his (we are even ambivalent as to his gender) existence, or non-existence the very fact of any argument being made mainly demonstrates that the existence of Q.B. is not a viable question at all. John Polkinghorne suggests that the nearest analogy to the existence of Q.B. in aesthetics are the in the most intangible of ideas – such as those proposed by Lawrence Weiner, in his infamous Statement of Intent - which are seemingly paradoxical but make a sort of Pyrrhic sense of a great deal of tautological data.

Art Theory and History : Are You Scrooge? And Art Missing From Art : Quinton Baker

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:19:01 +1200

Hey you! yeah you there, don't think you can just lurk about artbash and not participate in this forum, you just casually browse over the discussions, that are admittedly sometimes obsurd. But what I wanted to ask you, my dear friend, is, are you scrooge? How do you feel about the Christmas thing? Look at everyone here pretending to be popular by being careful to not make any comments lest anyone may know they really have no life (speak for yourself), well art is my life and Christmas is a pain because it gets in the way of my fun. Christmas and holidays are supposed to be fun, well all the holidays I've been on, even the really exciting seedy ones were ulitmately boring and moreso stacked up beside making art. Don't get me wrong, I fully intend on enjoying the smile on my chicks face on Christmas, but I think I would prefer Christmas to occur once every five years or at least biennially. Again... Are You Scrooge? Another matter I wish to raise with you "oh great alone on Christmas art bash lurker" is, and now I warn you, it comes in from left field, here we go champ or champess;

I always thought creating art/music was an important job for the extension of human development.

What ever the thing is that made us, endowed us with very special powers, the ability for one, to create works of art consisting of metaphors, that speak of our existence and experience.

Why are we then expected to lay down our intellects and then expected to conform to a lesser creative existence producing middle of the road, safe, and restricted works.

Why are we as artists expected to be dumbed down and controlled by non-artists?

Are some people just too weird for the art scene?

News : St Matthew in the City Commits Grevious Sin Against Sinners : Quint Baker

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 09:47:09 +1200

St Matthew in the City has now given up on the billboard following a series of attacks, even one such attack by a woman weilding a knife. The concept of the billboard doesn't particularily bother me. I think that it simply comes across as a contemporary spin on a dowdy institution by a very innovative advertising agency (Saatchi & Saatchi?). I have wondered if people are not offended by the suggestions of the billboard as such, but are instead unsettled that the Christian Christmas message has been successfully released from the little box that our society prefers it to be in? If that were the case then, then it could be regarded as a very provocative and actually rather successful evangelical campaign, "Desperate times call for desperate measures". It is even conceivable "God" will consider beyond the supposed transgressions of St Matthews in this case. And In a society that is dominated and comfortable with sex advertising, it is amusing that certain domains of our culture are so fiercly defended and kept sacred, by not only the religeous, but also the secular. Perhaps the Christ Christmas instition belongs to the profane anyway?

Art Theory and History : RACE : william blake

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 20:21:28 +1200

The 1957 German Grand Prix was a Formula One race held on 4 August 1957 at Nürburgring. The 22 lap race was won by Juan Manuel Fangio, (Balcarce, 24 June 1911 - Buenos Aires, 17 July 1995), nicknamed "El Chueco" ("knock-kneed") and is often cited as one of the greatest victories in racing history.

Fangio had taken notice of the tire and fuel-level selection of the Ferrari drivers, and realized they were probably going to run the entire race without a pit stop. Fangio decided he would use softer tires, and only a half tank of gas. This would allow the car to take corners faster, but also require a pit stop. Fangio took his pit stop on lap 13, in 1st place, and 30 seconds ahead of Hawthorn and Collins.

The pit stop was a disaster, the pit crew had trouble removing one of the wheels. Fangio left the pit lane in 3rd place, and 48 seconds behind Collins who was in 2nd place. Over the next 10 laps, Fangio broke and rebroke the lap record 9 times (7 of the records were in successive laps). Early in the 21st lap, Fangio was beside Collins on a straightaway, approaching a bridge that was barely wide enough for both cars to fit side by side. Collins backed off, and Fangio took 2nd place. Late in the 21st lap, during a left corner, Fangio cut past Hawthorn on the inside of the corner, with only his right tires on the track and his left tires on the grass. Fangio maintained his lead, and won the race.

After the race, Fangio commented, "I have never driven that quickly before in my life and I don't think I will ever be able to do it again".

He won five Formula One World Driver's Championships — a record which stood for 46 years until eventually beaten by Michael Schumacher

Many weeks away by boat in 1957 Colin McCahon begins a second series of French Bay paintings which are even more radically prismatic and brilliantly coloured than his first series. The view in these works is from the cliff-top looking down towards the water, rather than the scene as viewed from the beach. The paintings are densely faceted, full of tiny diamond shapes of colour and glow with a jewel-like intensity.

A day by TEAL clipper from New Zealand the 1957 Alexandra Bus Boycott began, it was a protest undertaken against the Public Utility Transport Corporation by the people of Alexandra in Johannesburg.

It is generally recognised as being one of the few successful political campaigns of the Apartheid era

The bus boycott lasted from January 1957 to June 1957. At its height, 70,000 township residents refused to ride the local buses to and from work. For many people this daily journey to downtown Johannesburg was a twenty mile round trip.

A hemisphere away Yves Klein, 'Aerostatic Sculpture (Paris)'. This was composed of 1001 blue balloons released into the sky. Klein also exhibited 'One Minute Fire Painting' which was a blue panel into which 16 firecrackers were set. Later in 1957 Klein declared that his paintings were now invisible and to prove it he exhibited an empty room. This exhibition was called 'The Surfaces and Volumes of Invisible Pictorial Sensibility'.

The race.