Sitting in a Zen-inspired studio in a converted school building on the Lower East Side, the Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang bemoaned how his native country’s art is often squeezed between pronouncements of record auction prices and denouncements of China’s one-party political system when it is presented in the United States and to some extent Europe.
Hei Hung-Lu (left) and Robert H. Ellsworth (right) in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia, hunting for ink paintings in 1981. Courtesy Andy Hei.
“Objects are your best teachers,” Robert Hatfield Ellsworth liked to say. But now that America’s greatest Asian art dealer is gone, many of us recall Bobby as our best teacher. Collector, connoisseur, world traveller, scholar, author, generous donor and cultural diplomat, Ellsworth was the preeminent force behind the growth of the market for Asian art in America from the mid-1960s until his recent death, on August 3, 2014, in New York City. And while he is best known for his pioneering passion for Chinese archaic jades, early Buddhist sculpture, calligraphic rubbings, Ming hardwood furniture, Qing monochrome porcelain, and modern Chinese painting and calligraphy, he was equally influential in stimulating the fields of Indian, Himalayan, and Southeast Asian art. He also loved Japan: Among the first works of art that greeted us upon entry into his twenty-two room apartment at 960 Fifth Avenue was a superb Kamakura-period standing wood figure of the Jizō Bosatsu (Sanskrit: Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva). It was a likely mascot for a man remembered as a loyal friend and protector; a magnanimous being of grace.
We are following the path that will lead to an international common ground where the arts of the East and the West will influence each other. And this is the natural course of the history of art.
—Yoshihara Jirō, “A Statement by Jirō Yoshihara: Leader of the Gutai,” 1958
In politics, totalitarianism fails; in culture, that which is unfree and akin to totalitarianism must be purged…. If you believe that your art has a spiritual meaning and it helps you develop yourself, such art will truly be on the cutting edge of global culture.
—Shiraga Kazuo, “The Establishment of the Individual,” 1956
Originally published in Yoko Ono: Half-a-Wind Show; A Retrospective. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.
“What I did, I had knowledge of what happened before me and I created my own fate based on that.”
—Yoko Ono, 2012
I recently sat down with Yoko Ono and asked her point-blank about her relationship to Asian aesthetics. I had worked with Ono for over twenty years and written about her art from various perspectives, including her role as a mediator of Zen ideas in the downtown art scene of 1960s’ New York. But writing on this assigned topic for the Frankfurt show somehow made us both balk. Art and biography are not a matter of cause and effect; her being born Japanese does not make her art forever “Japanese.” Artists make myriad choices about the world they feel compelled to mirror, examine, or reinvent; artists like Ono, working in the age of cosmopolitanism and globalism, segue among and between past and contemporary cultures from both near and faraway places, and still remain true to themselves. Does ascribing influences matter?
Originally published in Model Home, A Proposition by Michael Lin. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.
The aim of this show is to take away my authority and to bring in as many other people as possible…. A lot of things are being left open. not because of lack of time but because the material of the process is the subject.
In this kind of space, science turns into poetics. Architecture becomes the framework in which this can occur. —Yoshihara Tsukamoto
In 1971, the Italian artist Alghiero e Boetti travelled to Afghanistan and set up an embroidery workshop at a hotel in Kabul. Working with local antiquities dealers, he gathered a group of craftswomen to produce a hand-embroidered map of the world. Following the artist’s directives, the Afghan embroiderers represented each country’s territory by the patterns and colors of its national flag. This relationship, subverting divisions between artistand maker and giving concept, method and process equal significance in the final work of art, engaged Boetti until his death in 1994 and resulted in his best–known series, Mappa. At first, Boetti was meticulous in laying out each new map, selecting the color thread for each diagram and checking errors as work progressed over months or years. But as the series continued, he became interested in the chance mistakes the anonymous, commonly illiterate Afghan women made, particularly in their choice of color for the ocean, whose nature they had never seen: the blue morphed into green, purple, and even pink. National flags changed, too, as new territorial divisions and political identities came into being in the wake of wars, revolutions and regime changes. Inscriptions in Farsi drafted by Boetti’s coordinators make up the borders of each Mappa,usually recounting the circumstances of the local production, quoting Sufi poetry, and dating works according to the Islamic Afghan calendar. After the invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 by Russian troops, Boetti’s production moved to Peshawar in Pakistan, where the group of Afghans had taken refuge.