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DAN FLAVIN’S CORNER SQUARE Before and after the Mast Christopher K. Ho o begin with an omission: that of Dan Flavin’s comments to Bruce Glaser during a 1964 radio interview entitled “New Nihilism or New Art?” A T participant along with Frank Stella and Donald Judd, Flavin rarely inter- vened, later requesting that even these infrequent comments be excised from the published manuscript.1 Usually seen as an act of deference to his polemical and more articulate peers,2 might this recusal alternatively be read as a determined refusal of the reductivist rendition of modernism proffered if not in practice than in theory by Stella and Judd? Certainly, the shifts Flavin undergoes from the earliest light pieces (produced one year before the Glaser interview) to his later, trademark 1974 corner pieces, testify to this; further, it would appear that Flavin’s proposed alternative circles around, precisely, the notion of omission. I If the notion of omission was always lodged within the narrative of modernism in the form of a kind of ever-receding horizon, the impossible situation that art found itself in the 60s was that this horizon was arrived at in the guise of the monochrome and blank canvas. By 1962, Clement Greenberg declared, “a stretched or tacked-up canvas already exists as a picture—though not necessarily as a successful one.”3 This shift in strategy—from positing art as an internally motivated formal progression towards flatness to a far more idiosyncratic assessment of success or failure—not only bespeaks a breach, perhaps irreparable, in the hitherto rigorous separation of the aesthetic from the everyday (a breach that modernism’s reductivist impulse had, paradoxically and with seeming inevitability, heralded), but its stopgap, taste.4 And this turn towards taste begets a parallel turn, from art as a creative act to an act of judgment; that is, theoretically and ideally, into the purview of the general public, members of which are now compelled for individual reasons to grant an object the status of Art, but, practically and realistically, into the purview of the curator or critic, vested as he is with institutional authority to state unequivocally, “This is Art.”5 © 2004 Performing Arts Journal, Inc. PAJ 78 (2004), pp. 35–44. 35 Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/1520281041969101 by guest on 28 September 2021 Into this backswell of modernist abstraction an alternative tradition partially culled from the readymade can be folded Stella and especially Judd, who reputedly stated, “If someone says it’s art than it’s art.”6 Similarly interpreting Greenberg’s call for medium specificity as the concurrence between pictorial surface and physical support, as the total identification of depicted and literal flatness, their work surpassed even the monochrome, inadvertently veering away from painting and toward three-dimensional objects. Here, rather than consolidating art’s disciplinary boundaries—an ongoing project of modernism—by shoring up the institutional power of exhibition, pinning it under the aegis of judgment and its corollary, intention—“this is art because I say it is so”—a work of art is structured by an inviolate system. No longer wedded to the medium of painting—the shape of the stretcher, the taut weave of the flat canvas—the serial organization manifest in Stella’s 1958–63 striped canvases congeals into a predetermined program deployed to cohere an object: “The thing about my work,” Judd succinctly declares, “is that it is given.”7 Indeed, even as Judd’s 1965–66 Progression pieces are endless, “one thing after another,” they remain rigorously empirical, based on, say, the Fibonacci Sequence.8 Thus just as the process of art-making was disjoined from the studio-bound creative subject, it was retethered to a subject culled from a prescient if limited reading of the readymade (of the artist-as-pasticheur, of the curator-as-artist); and just as seriality was cast adrift from the specificity of painting, it was reanchored, through a limited misreading of Greenbergian modernism (in the logic of the series or in algorithms).9 That curatorial choice was not dissimilar to the creative act, that logical deduction was not unlike formal reduction, would only become fully evident with the privilege of hindsight. Still, the following argues that Flavin had isolated this as an issue by addressing the latent link between Judd’s seriality and illusionism10 as early as 1964 and that, furthermore, this discovery led in turn to a different conception of the monochrome after 1974, of the monochrome as self-different. II Restrained though Flavin was during the 1964 Glaser interview, he was nonetheless far from mute that year; he had two solo exhibitions, at the Kaymar Gallery in March and at the Green Gallery in November. Three groups of works were presented in the first: the punningly titled “shrines” such as Barbara Roses (1959– 62), a ceramic planter crowned with an incandescent bulb containing a miniature bouquet that could be switched on and off by the viewer, that recalled Duchamp in their juxtaposition of words and decontextualized found objects;11 the 1962 “icons,” or square monochromatic Masonite boxes affixed with industrially-produced fluo- rescent or incandescent bulbs, which combined the readymade with the minimalist tendency toward objecthood (the boxes projected as far as five inches into the gallery and, in the case of Icons VI, VII, and VIII, featured beveled edges and corners); lastly, works comprised solely of units of fluorescent tubes, which, in six standard colors 36 PAJ 78 Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/1520281041969101 by guest on 28 September 2021 and four lengths, catered to sequential combination. “There was literally no need to compose the system definitively,” writes Flavin of these. “It seemed to sustained itself.”12 Readymade, monochrome, system: if Flavin seems to have efficiently catalogued the gamut of early minimalism, it would not be without a distinctive mark, a twist that, as it were, with no less efficacy, critiques Judd’s undeclared and latent tendency towards illusionism—and by implication that of the entire trajectory that emerges from his singularly inappropriately titled “specific objects.” For if at the Kaymar Gallery the wires and plugs were untidily exposed (in the Icons in particular, the former hung loosely below, recalling so many unmade beds), Flavin surmounted this untidiness in the November show at the Green Gallery by, whenever possible, either abutting one end or edge of the tubes to the lateral or lower edges of the walls. Thus although in the preparatory sketch a primary picture (1964) was centered on the wall just left of the entrance hall, in the actual exhibition, it was positioned flush to a corner so that its left edge concurred with the seam where two walls met. The subtle (re)positioning accounted to more than an elegant solution to an unsightly practical problem; it also resolutely resisted sliding into the domain of sculpture which, as Yve-Alain Bois has pointed out in the somewhat related context of Mondrian’s neo- plastic works, “has the bad habit of constituting itself as figure around surrounding space, which thus functions as background.”13 And if the positioning of these works resisted the traditional space of sculpture, so too did the fluorescent lamp itself resist that of painting. The “light stick,” to use Flavin’s own term, which he had isolated only the previous Spring with his suggestively titled the diagonal of May 25, 1963 (to Constantin Brancusi),14 simulta- neously reverted to the most traditional means of space articulation available— line—and obliterated it in its collapse of any distinction, and thus hierarchy, between color and drawing (fluorescent lights, unlike filamented incandescents, are atomic: all or none).15 Even as Flavin implicitly linked the readymade and seriality— both lodged within the industrially-produced and standardized lamp—with the tradition of illusionism, a tradition in which line precedes the application of color and which constitutes the pictorial analogue to the field of consciousness from which intentionality is dispatched, he eradicated it. III At this point, Flavin arguably forgoes Judd only to side with Greenberg, who in his position paper “Modernist Painting” famously declared, “the first mark made on a canvas destroys its literal and utter flatness and the result of the marks made on it . is still a kind of illusion that suggests a kind of third dimension. Only now it is a strictly pictorial, strictly optical third dimension.”16 Yet this too would be inaccurate. For even as Flavin countered illusionistic depth with the optical, even as he claimed that his work should produce “rapid comprehensions,”17 his line is not—or not HO / Dan Flavin’s Corner Square 37 Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/1520281041969101 by guest on 28 September 2021 just—optical. As Robert Smithson rightly observed, Flavin’s works are notoriously difficult to receive visually much less instantaneously, preventing as they do “prolonged viewing” upon which “ultimately, there is nothing to see.18 The “nothing” to which Smithson refers brings into purview the issue of the monochrome, and it is necessary here to distinguish two versions of it. For it was through a thorough examination of the monochrome and the attendant issue of “flatness”—which by 1964 had preoccupied critical discourse for some time—that Flavin understood that of “opticality”—which at that date had neither gained commensurate urgency nor the currency which it would soon possess with Michael Fried’s series of essays begun in 1965 with “Three American Painters” and ending in 1967 with “Art and Objecthood,” and thus was less available to an artist like Flavin who, while well-read (he studied art history in the later 1950s), was nonetheless not the most theoretically adept of his generation.