Eva Hesse and Color
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Eva Hesse and Color BRIONY FER John Ruskin recalled in his autobiography how on a trip to Italy he painted a scale of cobalt blues “to measure the blue of the sky with.” Ever keen to measure and calibrate, he called his handmade scale a “cyanometer”1—as if color would be systematically gauged according to its gradation of tones. For all the elaborate the- ories that have been developed to systematize color, I know of no more concise example of the historical drive to control its effects than this brief image of Ruskin, planning his painting trip to the Swiss mountains, mixing his own colors to correspond with the exact blue on his strip of blues, which he matched against the intense blues of an alpine sky. Yet it is an image with a double edge, which both illustrates a positivistic belief in the possibility of measuring color and hints at what is really at stake in the desire to calculate it. Ultimately what is most inter- esting about Ruskin’s would-be purely technical instrument is precisely that which escapes the system of external and verifiable equivalence that he ostensibly wishes to fix in place, the sheer pleasure that overwhelms the measure. Revealed in the process is Ruskin’s own agitated, almost nervous, hypersensitivity to color. In Modern Painters (1843), he would devote long sections to the painting of the sky, which however pure and blue, he writes, is never flat and dead but a “trembling transparency” and “a deep, quivering, transparent body of penetrable air.”2 What trembles but the optical sensation of perception? An instrument intended to mea- sure the color of the sky is instead an instrument to calibrate levels of affect and sensation. That is to say, rather than a system of objective measurement, this scale of gradated color reflects back on the subject to betray a body, like a color swatch gauging a sensual encounter of rising and falling intensities. Even though Ruskin’s pictorial sensibility is admittedly as far removed from Eva Hesse’s world and, more generally, the American art world of the 1960s as is possible to imagine, the anecdote provides a useful image to think with: a graded color sample. Imagine an array of color swatches, for instance, little pieces of fabric 1. John Ruskin, Praeterita (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), p. 141. 2. John Ruskin, Modern Painters, vol. 1, 2nd ed. (London: J. M. Dent and Co., 1906), p. 197. OCTOBER 119, Winter 2007, pp. 21–36. © 2007 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2007.119.1.21 by guest on 30 September 2021 22 OCTOBER cut from a roll or a scale of paint samples, and it is clear that color is both attached to and detached from a referent, embedded in and cut off from experience. Think of it as an instrument—an instrument commensurate with a living, moving, phenome- nological body rather than with a world to be pictured—which can gauge the more elusive yet tenacious effects of color (as well as the powerful effects of so-called noncolor or the apparent absence of color) in experience. Entirely insensitive to straight binary oppositions between the systematic and the asystematic, the objec- tive and the subjective, it registers instead ambivalence and infinite difference and so is all the more alert to the movement of unconscious psychic and bodily drives. What happens if I hold up a color swatch to that moment in the mid-1960s when color took on a kind of hallucinatory contemporary vividness at the same time as it became subject to a series of prohibitions—strictures that would only intensify with conceptualism? To draw a dividing line between Pop and Minimalism as colorful and colorless, respectively, would be obviously and entirely wrong, as both move- ments deployed both chromatism and achromatism amply and strategically. David Batchelor coined the term “chromophobia” in his book of the same name where he argues that fear of color is ultimately interchangeable with its opposite, chro- mophilia.3 Perhaps because of the critical emphasis on Hesse’s materials and processes and on her work as a sculptor from 1965 on, her use of color, which she would abandon that year just as enthusiastically as she had earlier embraced it, has been largely overlooked. Her interest in color, on the other hand, which of course includes her interest in black and white and gray, never left her.4 By focusing on it here I certainly don’t want to turn her back into “Albers’s little color studyist”5 (as she mockingly described herself) or turn my back on her processes of making, but I would like to highlight that moment when she abruptly gave color up. Whether or not a long time in preparation, when it came, the break was sudden. Art historians are often inclined to imagine that such moments of rupture are dramatic when in reality art does not work like that; “turning points” are rarely so clean. But in this case it is no exaggeration to claim that there really was some kind of volte face, a turn- ing against color on Hesse’s part that was both extreme and unequivocal. The change can be dated to the month if not the day. It was September 1965, when Hesse returned to New York after a year spent in Germany with her husband, the sculptor Tom Doyle. A German industrialist had given Doyle what we would now call a residency and Eva accompanied him to Karlsruhe, where they both had 3. David Batchelor, Chromophobia (London: Reaktion, 2000). 4. Black, white, and gray are colors, of course, but their somewhat complicated status as noncolors or, alternatively, as marking an absence of color, particularly in the monochrome tradition, has a cul- tural valency that is the topic of this essay. Also, I should note that while noncolor signifies a negation of color and the achromatic signifies an absence of color, these two categories are often treated syn- onymously. Finally, although monochrome, strictly speaking, connotes a picture of a single uniform color, it is also a term commonly used to describe art works that are either black or white or grisaille— and I have occasionally kept this loose usage here. 5. Eva Hesse, in Cindy Nemser, “A Conversation with Eva Hesse” (1970), in Eva Hesse, October Files 3, ed. Mignon Nixon (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002), p. 5. Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2007.119.1.21 by guest on 30 September 2021 Eva Hesse and Color 23 Eva Hesse. Oomamaboomba. 1965. © The Estate of Eva Hesse. Hauser & Wirth Zürich London. studios in a former textile factory. When she returned to New York from Europe, she took with her not the fourteen highly colored reliefs she had made there but instead fourteen three-by-three-inch transparencies of the work she left behind. Back in New York, she would abandon color and turn to monochrome grays and blacks. In a famous photograph of her Bowery studio, taken some six months after her return, a wall is hung with a host of abstract sculpture, some attached to the wall, some freestanding, all of it evocative of sexual body parts in shape and tex- ture, all of it monochrome. Most of this work, moreover, had been finished within three months, that is, by the end of the year. This marked a pivotal point for Hesse, but a question that has not been adequately addressed, surprisingly enough, is what role color, and the loss of it, played in this radical shift.6 One work not shown in the photo but that would have been in her studio at the time was the last colored piece she made, a purple-painted wall-hung serial arrangement of screw threads attached to a wooden post. The grading of mauve through purple, light to dark, corresponds to the way she was then using gray through black, but also recalls the pungent, bright colors she had used in Germany. It is not exactly a throwback, especially given its seriality, but neither is it an accident that it is left out of the group of monochrome works that she carefully arranged on her studio wall for the photograph. There is also a relief that she made in Germany, which is all grisaille colors but for a single pinhead of pink plastic punctuating its center; but these exceptions, if we can call them that, do little to make the about-face on color seem any less dramatic. 6. The exception to this is Benjamin H. D. Buchloh’s recent essay on Hesse’s drawing, “Hesse’s Endgame: Facing the Diagram,” in Eva Hesse Drawing, ed. Catherine de Zegher (New York: Drawing Center; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006). Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2007.119.1.21 by guest on 30 September 2021 24 OCTOBER To understand how extreme was Hesse’s refusal of color, it is necessary to stress the extremity of her color, particularly the way she had used it in her German reliefs. It is well known that while working in her makeshift studio in the textile factory in Karlsruhe Hesse picked up machine parts and string off the floor to incorporate into her reliefs. She assembled these found materials in star- tling ways, often protruding awkwardly outward or beyond the framing edge. Their spindly mechanical parts, meticulously bound with string, have a certain insectlike elegance, but they are ungainly as well.