Studio Afterlife

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Studio Afterlife

The Function of the Posthumous Studio in Contemporary Art

David Eastwood

A thesis in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

School of Art & Design

Faculty of Art & Design

November 2018 Thesis/Dissertation Sheet

Surname/Family Name : Eastwood Given Name/s : David Abbreviation for degree as give in the University calendar : PhD Faculty : Art & Design School : Art & Design Thesis Title : Studio Afterlife: The Function of the Posthumous Studio in Contemporary Art

Abstract 350 words maximum: The late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries have seen a proliferation of posthumously “museumised” artists’ studios. This global phenomenon is characterised by the conservation or reconstruction of deceased artists’ studios within museums. The museum creates an “afterlife” of the studio, contributing to its cultural and historical significance by interpreting an artist’s work or biography.

This practice-based study identifies an emergent current of contemporary art practice that engages with the posthumous studio. Significant contemporary artists Tacita Dean, Christian Jankowski, and Thomas Demand are among those who interpret or intervene in these sites. My project contributes to this underexplored area of art practice and art theory. It employs the posthumous studio as a resource for artistic practice and conceptual reflection, challenging the mythologisation of the modernist artist’s studio as the private domain of the solitary genius.

The research focuses on the posthumous studios of two modernist painters, commencing with the restored studio of Giorgio Morandi in Bologna, followed by a more comprehensive study of the Francis Bacon studio reconstruction at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. While painting is the primary medium employed within the research methodology, intersections with other media such as photography, installation, and video play a significant role. Informed by museum practices in which aspects of posthumous studios are simulated for the purposes of display, my practice similarly incorporates the reconstruction of modernist studio artefacts. Derived from engagement with selected examples, the practice adopts the posthumous studio as a site for artistic exploration.

In his seminal essay ‘The Function of the Studio’ (1971), Daniel Buren denounced the modernist studio as an ivory tower confining art practice to the production of portable objects “isolated from the real world.” A more nuanced reinterpretation of the modernist studio proposed by this project presents it as an assemblage of distributed materialities and agencies, an approach informed by the thinking of Gilles Deleuze, and Jane Bennett’s notion of “vibrant matter.” The project moves beyond the postmodernist, post-studio critique, bringing to light new understandings of the artist’s studio as concept and material phenomenon via investigation of the posthumous studio.

Declaration relating to disposition of project thesis/dissertation

I hereby grant to the University of New South Wales or its agents the right to archive and to make available my thesis or dissertation in whole or in part in the University libraries in all forms of media, now or here after known, subject to the provisions of the Copyright Act 1968. I retain all property rights, such as patent rights. I also retain the right to use in future works (such as articles or books) all or part of this thesis or dissertation.

I also authorise University Microfilms to use the 350 word abstract of my thesis in Dissertation Abstracts International (this is applicable to doctoral theses only).

31 August 2018 …………………………………………………………… ……………………………………..……………… ……….……………………...…….… Signature Witness Signature Date The University recognises that there may be exceptional circumstances requiring restrictions on copying or conditions on use. Requests for restriction for a period of up to 2 years must be made in writing. Requests for a longer period of restriction may be considered in exceptional circumstances and require the approval of the Dean of Graduate Research.

FOR OFFICE USE ONLY Date of completion of requirements for Award: ORIGINALITY STATEMENT

‘I hereby declare that this submission is my own work and to the best of my knowledge it contains no materials previously published or written by another person, or substantial proportions of material which have been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma at UNSW or any other educational institution, except where due acknowledgement is made in the thesis. Any contribution made to the research by others, with whom I have worked at UNSW or elsewhere, is explicitly acknowledged in the thesis. I also declare that the intellectual content of this thesis is the product of my own work, except to the extent that assistance from others in the project's design and conception or in style, presentation and linguistic expression is acknowledged.’ INCLUSION OF PUBLICATIONS STATEMENT

UNSW is supportive of candidates publishing their research results during their candidature as detailed in the UNSW Thesis Examination Procedure.

Publications can be used in their thesis in lieu of a Chapter if: • The student contributed greater than 50% of the content in the publication and is the “primary author”, ie. the student was responsible primarily for the planning, execution and preparation of the work for publication • The student has approval to include the publication in their thesis in lieu of a Chapter from their supervisor and Postgraduate Coordinator. • The publication is not subject to any obligations or contractual agreements with a third party that would constrain its inclusion in the thesis

Please indicate whether this thesis contains published material or not. This thesis contains no publications, either published or submitted for publication ☐ (if this box is checked, you may delete all the material on page 2) Some of the work described in this thesis has been published and it has been documented in the relevant Chapters with acknowledgement (if this box is

☒ checked, you may delete all the material on page 2)

This thesis has publications (either published or submitted for publication) ☐ incorporated into it in lieu of a chapter and the details are presented below

CANDIDATE’S DECLARATION I declare that: • I have complied with the Thesis Examination Procedure • where I have used a publication in lieu of a Chapter, the listed publication(s) below meet(s) the requirements to be included in the thesis. Name Signature Date (dd/mm/yy) David Eastwood 31 / 08 / 2018

‘I hereby grant the University of New South Wales or its agents the right to archive and to make available my thesis or dissertation in whole or part in the University libraries in all forms of media, now or here after known, subject to the provisions of the Copyright Act 1968. I retain all proprietary rights, such as patent rights. I also retain the right to use in future works (such as articles or books) all or part of this thesis or dissertation. I also authorise University Microfilms to use the 350 word abstract of my thesis in Dissertation Abstract International (this is applicable to doctoral theses only). I have either used no substantial portions of copyright material in my thesis or I have obtained permission to use copyright material; where permission has not been granted I have applied/will apply for a partial restriction of the digital copy of my thesis or dissertation.'

AUTHENTICITY STATEMENT

‘I certify that the Library deposit digital copy is a direct equivalent of the final officially approved version of my thesis. No emendation of content has occurred and if there are any minor variations in formatting, they are the result of the conversion to digital format.’ Abstract

The late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries have seen a proliferation of posthumously “museumised” artists’ studios. This global phenomenon is characterised by the conservation or reconstruction of deceased artists’ studios within museums. The museum creates an “afterlife” of the studio, contributing to its cultural and historical significance by interpreting an artist’s work or biography.

i Contents

Acknowledgements ...... iv

List of Figures ...... v

Publications ...... x

Introduction ...... 1 Chapter overview ...... 5

PART ONE: The Rise of the Posthumous Studio ...... 8

Chapter One: The Phenomenon of the Posthumous Studio ...... 9 A museological genre ...... 9 A typology of the posthumous studio ...... 16 The historic site ...... 19 Off-site reconstruction ...... 28 Replication ...... 33

Chapter Two: Revisiting the Modernist Studio ...... 40 The trope of the modernist studio ...... 40 Exhibiting the studio ...... 47 Mise en abyme ...... 51

Chapter Three: The Afterlife of the Studio ...... 55 Seeing into the studio ...... 55 The posthumous studio as muse ...... 58 Christian Jankowski ...... 61 Thomas Demand ...... 63 Tacita Dean ...... 67 Casa Morandi ...... 70

PART TWO: The Francis Bacon Studio ...... 80

Chapter Four: Designing Chaos ...... 81 The studio and the artist’s psyche ...... 81 Ordered chaos ...... 85 The prehistory of Bacon’s studio ...... 93 The return of Bacon’s mirror ...... 98

Chapter Five: The Mirror’s Two Sides ...... 102 Both sides of the mirror ...... 102 The atemporal mirror ...... 109 ii Chapter Six: Studio Assemblage ...... 118 The agency of the studio ...... 118 Hoarding ...... 123 Distressed images ...... 124 The distributed studio ...... 128

Conclusion ...... 132

Notes ...... 138

Bibliography ...... 164

Appendix: Documentation of the Ph.D. Exhibition ...... 186

iii Acknowledgements

I wish to thank my two supervisors, Dr Toni Ross and Professor Paul Thomas, for their steadfast support and mentorship throughout the course of this research. I am most fortunate to have benefitted from the continual encouragement and astute insights of both. My leap into doctoral research was due in no small measure to Paul’s powers of persuasion. His knack for posing intellectually probing questions during our many thoughtful discussions remained a motivating force from the inception of this project through to its conclusion. Likewise, Toni’s generosity in sharing her extensive knowledge, incisive critique, and clear-sighted advice proved invaluable. As a guiding light and an inexhaustible source of wisdom, Toni set an inspiring example of scholarly rigour. I could not have hoped for better supervisors.

I am also indebted to a long list of museum curators and custodians of collections who responded to my queries and granted my requests to access posthumous studios around the world. In particular, I would like to thank Margarita Cappock and Jessica O’Donnell at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane for patiently answering my questions and facilitating my access to the vast digital archive of the Francis Bacon Studio Database, and Alessia Masi at Museo Morandi for granting me entry inside the studio at Casa Morandi and attending to my subsequent enquiries.

My research has led me far and wide, bringing me into contact with many people who have assisted me along the way, among whom I must thank Frans Postma for his willingness to share his knowledge and contagious enthusiasm, Professor Michael White at the University of York, Helen Harrison at Pollock-Krasner House, Susi Muddiman and Ingrid Hedgcock at Tweed Regional Gallery, Lizzy Marshall for lending me her time and her books, and Anna Maria Haworth for her cooperation.

I wish to also acknowledge the camaraderie and support of my friends and colleagues at UNSW Art & Design, and am particularly grateful to Chelsea Lehmann for sharing her valuable insights and advice throughout the progress of our respective doctoral projects. Much appreciation goes to Robin Gibson and Carl Lykert at Robin Gibson Gallery, and to David Galbraith, Andrew Pethebridge, and Kate Smith for their enthusiastic support and encouragement. My gratitude also goes to my friends and family for their valued assistance and moral support, especially Melanie and Rob Giovannoni, Brook Morgan, and my parents.

This research was supported through an Australian Government Research Training Program Scholarship.

iv List of Figures

Figure 1: David Eastwood, Pink Frost, 2010-11, acrylic on linen, 183 × 183 cm...... 2

Figure 2: The author’s home studio in Sydney, with work in progress. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017...... 5

Figure 3: Atelier Cézanne, Aix-en-Provence, France. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 11

Figure 4: Edward Hopper's studio, New York University. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017...... 14

Figure 5: Charles Dickens’ desk and chair, Charles Dickens Museum, London. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 15

Figure 6: The barn-studio at Pollock-Krasner House in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 18

Figure 7: The studio at Maison André Derain, Chambourcy, France. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 20

Figure 8: Jackson Pollock’s footprint on the floor of his barn-studio in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 23

Figure 9: Text panel and photographs on the studio wall at Pollock-Krasner House in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 24

Figure 10: Karl Duldig's sculpture studio at the Duldig Studio Museum and Sculpture Garden, Melbourne. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2018...... 25

Figure 11: The stone carving studio at the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden, St Ives, England. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016...... 27

Figure 12: Francis Bacon studio reconstruction, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 29

Figure 13: Installation view of the reconstructed Atelier Brancusi, Paris. © Constantin Brancusi/ADAGP. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016...... 31

Figure 14: Eduardo Paolozzi's reconstructed studio at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2008...... 32

Figure 15: Replicated version of Jackson Pollock’s studio. Installation view of the exhibition ‘Jackson Pollock,’ MoMA, NY, 28 October, 1998 through 2 February, 1999. New York, Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). Digital image © The Museum of Modern Art, New York/Scala, Florence...... 34

Figure 17: Replicated version of Piet Mondrian's Paris studio with video projection of architect Bob Kauffmann portraying the artist, installed at Mondriaanhuis, Amersfoort. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 37

v Figure 18: Life-size animatronic model of Hokusai and his daughter Ōi in the studio, Sumida Hokusai Museum, Tokyo. Photograph: Melanie Giovannoni, 2018...... 38

Figure 19: Installation view of the reconstructed Atelier Brancusi, Paris. © Constantin Brancusi/ADAGP. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 46

Figure 20: Bruce Nauman, Mapping the Studio I (Fat Chance John Cage), 2001, multiscreen projection, installation view, Dia: Beacon, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017. ... 48

Figure 21: Christian Boltanski, The Life Of C.B., 2010-ongoing, nine CRT video monitors, installation view, MONA, Tasmania. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017...... 49

Figure 22: Exterior of the “Boltanski Cave” housing Christian Boltanski’s The Life of C.B., MONA, Hobart, Tasmania. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017...... 50

Figure 23: David Eastwood, video still of the Francis Bacon Studio, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2016...... 51

Figure 24: Diagram showing an aerial view of the author’s plan for the video installation Mise en Abyme, 2018...... 53

Figure 25: Giorgio Morandi, Courtyard at Via Fondazza, 1954, oil on canvas, 48 × 50 cm. Private collection. © Giorgio Morandi/SIAE. Copyright Agency, 2019...... 55

Figure 26: David Eastwood, Peep, 2013-14, acrylic on polyester, 61 × 51 cm...... 57

Figure 27: Giorgio Morandi's posthumously reconstructed studio in its former location at Palazzo d’Accursio, Bologna. Courtesy: Museo Morandi, Bologna...... 58

Figure 28: Christian Jankowski, Cleaning Up the Studio (Desk), 2010, diptych, C-prints, 101.5 × 126.5 cm each...... 62

Figure 29: Thomas Demand, Barn, 1997, Chromogenic print face-mounted on Diasec, 183.5 × 254 cm...... 64

Figure 30: Jackson Pollock in the studio working on One: Number 31, with Lee Krasner seated. Photograph: Hans Namuth, 1950...... 65

Figure 31: Thomas Demand, Atelier, 2014, Chromogenic print face-mounted on Diasec, 240 × 341 cm...... 66

Figure 32: Henri Matisse and studio assistant in the studio at Hotel Regina in Nice. Photograph: Lydia Delectorskaya, circa 1952...... 66

Figure 33: Giorgio Morandi's studio, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 68

Figure 34: Tacita Dean, Still Life, 2009, four fibre-based prints on paper (edition of 6), installation view, Summer Exhibition 2014, Royal Academy of Arts, London. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 70

Figure 35: David Eastwood, Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm...... 71

Figure 36: Giorgio Morandi's studio, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 72 vi Figure 37: David Eastwood, Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm...... 73

Figure 38: David Eastwood, Quadri Sbagliati, 2014, acrylic on polyester, 46 × 38 cm...... 74

Figure 39: David Eastwood, Model, 2014, acrylic on board, 24.5 × 19.5 cm...... 75

Figure 40: Giorgio Morandi, Still Life, 1956, oil on canvas, 25 × 40 cm. Museo Morandi, Bologna. © Giorgio Morandi/SIAE. Copyright Agency, 2019...... 75

Figure 41: Giorgio Morandi's studio with a self-portrait of the author reflected in a mirror, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 76

Figure 42: Installation view, A Working Model of the World, UNSW Galleries, Sydney, 5 May – 22 July 2017. Works by David Eastwood (left to right: Model, 2014, Assemblage, 2013, Casa Morandi, 2013, and Diorama, 2013). Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017...... 78

Figure 43: David Eastwood: Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm...... 79

Figure 44: Francis Bacon, Triptych, 1977, oil on canvas, 35.5 × 30.2 cm each. Private collection. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd...... 84

Figure 45: A section of a John Deakin photo of Bacon’s studio c.1965, re-photographed by Prudence Cuming for Bacon’s use. Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane and the Estate of Francis Bacon. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019...... 84

Figure 46: The room preceding the Francis Bacon studio reconstruction, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, featuring a video projection of an interview with the artist in his studio. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014...... 85

Figure 47: David Eastwood, Exit, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 51 × 71 cm. Photograph: Document Photography...... 88

Figure 48: David Eastwood, Exit (unfinished state), 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 51 × 71 cm...... 90

Figure 49: David Eastwood, Excavation (underpainting), 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 107 × 107 cm...... 91

Figure 50: David Eastwood, Excavation (finished state), 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 107 × 107 cm...... 91

Figure 51: Francis Bacon in his studio at 7 Reece Mews. Photograph: Derek Bayes, 30 May 1962. © Derek Bayes/ Lebrecht Music & Arts...... 92

Figure 52: An article featuring Francis Bacon’s design studio, published in The Studio, August 1930...... 93

Figure 53: David Eastwood, Voyeur, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 152 cm. Photograph: Document Photography...... 95

Figure 54: Eric Megaw reflected in Bacon’s mirror, Carlyle Studios, c.1932. Photograph: Thérèse Veder (later Megaw)...... 96 vii Figure 55: Francis Bacon in his studio in Battersea, 1960. Collection: National Portrait Gallery, London. © Cecil Beaton Studio Archive, Sotheby’s London. Photograph: Cecil Beaton...... 98

Figure 56: Francis Bacon reflected in his studio mirror at 7 Reece Mews. © The Lewinski Archive at Chatsworth / Bridgeman Images. Photograph: Jorge Lewinski, 1963...... 99

Figure 57: Francis Bacon, Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror, 1968, oil on canvas, 198 × 147.5 cm. Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Hugo Maertens...... 104

Figure 58: David Eastwood, Imposture, 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 107 × 107 cm...... 106

Figure 59: Hans Holbein the Younger, The Ambassadors, 1533, oil on oak, 207 × 209.5 cm. © The National Gallery, London...... 108

Figure 60: Francis Bacon’s reconstructed studio, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016...... 112

Figure 61: David Eastwood, replica of Francis Bacon's mirror. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016...... 112

Figure 62: John Deakin, black and white photograph of George Dyer in Francis Bacon's studio, c.1965. Crumpled, torn and overpainted as a consequence of its use by Bacon as a working document. Original print size approx. 30.5 × 30.5 cm. Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane and the Estate of Francis Bacon. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019...... 113

Figure 63: Installation view, David Eastwood, The Atemporal Mirror, Robin Gibson Gallery, Sydney, November 2016. Photograph: Document Photography...... 114

Figure 64: David Eastwood, The Surrogate, 2015-16, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 167 cm. Photograph: Document Photography...... 115

Figure 65: Francis Bacon, Two Studies of George Dyer with Dog, 1968, oil on canvas, 197.5 × 147.6 cm. Private collection. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd...... 116

Figure 66: Francis Bacon, Portrait of John Edwards, 1988, oil and aerosol paint on canvas, 198 × 147.5 cm. Private collection. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd...... 116

Figure 68: David Eastwood, Passage, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 41 × 41 cm. Photograph: Document Photography...... 120

Figure 69: Francis Bacon, Study for Self-Portrait, 1964, 152.4 × 140 cm. Private collection. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd...... 125

Figure 70: John Deakin, photograph of Lucian Freud, c.1964. Gelatin silver print with paper clips, 32.3 × 32.3 × 1.5 cm. Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane and the Estate of Francis

Figure 71: David Eastwood, Collage, 2016, oil and acrylic on polyester, 38 × 51 cm...... 127

Figure 72: The author accessing the Francis Bacon Studio Database at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2016...... 128

Figure 73: David Eastwood, Studio, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 198 cm. Photograph: Document Photography...... 130

Figure 74: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries...... 186

Figure 75: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, left to right: Voyeur, 2016; False Wall, 2018; Collage, 2016; Passage, 2016, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries. 187

Figure 76: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, left to right: Collage, 2016; Passage, 2016; Excavation, 2017; The Surrogate, 2016, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries...... 187

Figure 77: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, left to right: Studio, 2016; Exit, 2016; Imposture, 2017, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: David Eastwood...... 188

Figure 78: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries...... 188

Figure 79: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view: exterior of Mise en Abyme, 2018, two-channel HD video installation with mirror, timber, and plasterboard, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: David Eastwood. .. 189

Figure 80: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view: Mise en Abyme, 2018, two-channel HD video installation with mirror, timber, and plasterboard, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: David Eastwood...... 189

Figure 81: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view: Mise en Abyme, 2018, two-channel HD video installation with mirror, timber, and plasterboard, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: David Eastwood...... 190

Figure 82: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view: Mise en Abyme, 2018, two-channel HD video installation with mirror, timber, and plasterboard, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: David Eastwood...... 190

Figure 83: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view: Mise en Abyme, 2018, two-channel HD video installation with mirror, timber, and plasterboard, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries...... 191

ix Publications

During the course of the research, earlier versions of passages from this thesis have appeared in the published texts listed below.

Peer-Reviewed Publications: David Eastwood, ‘The Function of the Posthumous Studio,’ ACUADS Conference 2013: Locations of Practice, Sites for Creativity: From the Studio to the Cloud, Sydney, University of New South Wales, University of Sydney, National Art School, September 25-27, 2013. Peer-reviewed conference proceedings published in 2014 at: http://acuads.com.au/conference/article/the-function-of-the-posthumous-studio/

David Eastwood, ‘Contaminated Immersion and Thomas Demand: The Dailies,’ in Lanfranco Aceti and Paul Thomas (eds.), Interference Strategies, San Francisco, Leonardo/ISAST, 2014, 36-49.

David Eastwood and Paul Thomas, ‘Disruptive Agents: Transdisciplinary and Posthumous Manifestations of the Studio,’ Ubiquity, Vol. 4, No. 1 & 2, 2015, 3-21.

David Eastwood, ‘The Atemporal Mirror,’ Ubiquity: The Journal of Pervasive Media, vol. 5, no. 1, 2016, 149-59.

David Eastwood, ‘The Studio as Cloud,’ in Lanfranco Aceti, Paul Thomas, and Edward Colless (eds.), Leonardo Electronic Almanac: Cloud and Molecular Aesthetics, vol. 22, no. 1, Cambridge, MA, LEA / MIT Press, 2017, 64-71.

Other Publications: David Eastwood, ‘Open Studio,’ in Connie Anthes and Rebecca Gallo (eds.), Make or Break: A Live Art Project, Sydney, Firstdraft Gallery, 2016, 19-23.

David Eastwood, ‘Artist and Model,’ in A Working Model of the World, website, published in conjunction with the exhibition ‘A Working Model of the World,’ UNSW Galleries, Sydney, and the Sheila C Johnson Design Centre, New York, 2017. http://workingmodeloftheworld.com/Artist-and-Model (Part of this essay previously appeared under another title. See: David Eastwood, ‘Speculative Spaces,’ Artist Profile, no. 22, 2013, 142-143.)

x Introduction

In February 2008, while visiting the Ludwig Museum in Cologne, I viewed a major Mondrian exhibition, at the tail end of which visitors were able to walk through a life-size replica of the Paris studio inhabited by Mondrian from 1921 until 1936.1 Unexpectedly, I encountered the same replica less than a year later, in the exhibition Interior/Exterior at the Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg. I wondered how it was that this carefully arranged studio had come to be fabricated and made available as a touring artefact for these exhibitions. Between these two encounters, on a visit to Dublin, I had seen Francis Bacon’s cluttered studio at The Hugh Lane, where it has been on permanent display since 2001, relocated from London in its entirety after the artist’s death— walls, floor, ceiling and everything within. The comparison between the studios of the two artists, Mondrian and Bacon, is striking. Reflecting the two extremes described by artist and writer Brian O’Doherty as “the studio of monastic bareness” on the one hand, and “the studio of accumulation” on the other,2 they appear as though they are two polarities “seeing each other in the studio’s distorting mirror.”3 These encounters with posthumous studios triggered a curiosity that has led to the central premise of this practice-based Ph.D. investigation. I am interested in how, as an artist, one can engage with and investigate the peculiar museological genre of the posthumously reconstructed artist’s studio in order to revise our understanding of what the modernist studio was, and better understand its relationship to contemporary art practice.

The research focuses on the posthumous studios of two modernist painters, commencing with the restored studio of Giorgio Morandi in Bologna, followed by a more comprehensive study of the Francis Bacon studio reconstruction at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. While painting is the primary medium employed within the research methodology, intersections with other media such as photography, installation, and video play a significant role. Informed by museum practices in which aspects of posthumous studios are simulated for the purposes of display, my practice similarly incorporates the reconstruction of modernist studio artefacts. Derived from engagement with the two selected examples—Casa Morandi and the Francis Bacon Studio—the practice adopts the posthumous studio as a site for artistic exploration.

At the time of my first encounters with the studio simulacra of Bacon and Mondrian, I was travelling in Europe in pursuit of an interest in period rooms and historic houses as research for my work as an artist, during which I was preoccupied with painting invented interiors. My paintings were composite images, comprising elaborate spatial arrangements in which elements belonging to different eras and locations were combined in images that I imagined as virtual extensions of the room in which I worked. My museum visits would often lead to ideas for paintings, and I would return to the studio to work on canvases based on subjects I had encountered on my travels. Upon seeing the museumised studios, it occurred to me that they were

1 also period rooms of a sort, although quite distinct from the ornate, aristocratic interiors typical of the genre. Bacon’s reconstructed studio in particular had an immediate influence. Soon after, I began to incorporate elements of the site into my work, juxtaposed with an assortment of other interiors in order to formulate fictive spaces, as in the painting Pink Frost (2011), in which a pile of Bacon’s studio detritus appears in the background of an incongruous setting (fig. 1). Rarely would a human figure make an appearance in my work. Instead, the furniture and drapery stood in as the primary protagonists within the compositions. It was not until embarking on the research for this project, however, that the posthumous studio was foregrounded as the predominant theme within my work.

Figure 1: David Eastwood, Pink Frost, 2010-11, acrylic on linen, 183 × 183 cm.

Common to all posthumous studios is the absence of the artist associated with the site. For any studio that has been museumised following the death of the occupant, it is tempting to interpret the space left behind as an expression of the departed artist’s identity, as if the studio is a metonym

2 for the deceased. In fact, before the posthumous studio existed as a museological phenomenon, the vacant studio as a portrait of the artist was already established as a genre in painting. Art historian Rachel Esner observes that in representations of “the empty studio,” the missing occupant may be said to be embodied by the inanimate objects depicted therein.4 She concludes her essay thus:

To depict the empty studio is […] a form of philosophical reflection on one of the most fundamental problems of the artist in the modern world: the conflict between autonomy and engagement, between the demands of the discourse of the modern artist and the reality of actually being one. This is of course a problem that would continue to occupy artists throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. And indeed, one of the most fascinating aspects of these empty studio images is their longue durée and the continuity of meaning one seems to find in them. In fact, very little separates the painted meditations of Friedrich or Bazille from those of Henri Matisse or Pablo Picasso, or even—despite the different mediums—those of Bruce Nauman or Paul McCarthy. A real understanding of the function of the studio in the various economies of modernity will require an approach that ignores the boundaries of time and space without, however, ignoring the specific conditions under which individual artists work. This is the challenge for a future “iconography” of the (empty) studio.5

For Esner, the empty studio is a genre that closely links the work of artists across centuries and mediums. The studios represented in these works are, of course, seldom “empty,” but simply devoid of people. Even in the absence of humans, studios can, in fact, be quite “full,” and are commonly characterised by the accumulation of materials.

The challenge set forth by Esner is one taken up by this project. Rather than interpret the materiality of the studio in terms of its role as a portrait of the absent artist, however, I am interested in the agency of the studio itself, and what role it can play in the production of art. In doing so, I confront what art historian Caroline A. Jones describes as “a powerful topos—the solitary individual artist in a semi-sacred studio space.”6 Despite the mythologisation of the modernist artist’s studio as the private domain of the solitary genius, and the tendency for the museumisation of posthumous studios to reinforce this popular image, I explore the possibility of recalibrating the balance between the human and the non-human elements typically recognised in the modernist studio, and examine ways in which the modern artist can be understood as operating in collaboration with, if not eclipsed by, the studio.

Toward the aim of recognising the contribution of the studio in the creative process, and retrieving it from the formidable shadows cast by the celebrated artists whose studios are selected for museumisation, the philosophical concept of the assemblage is a helpful tool. In particular,

3 cultural theorist Ian Buchanan’s application of the term “clutter assemblage”—with specific regard to Francis Bacon’s studio and informed by the thinking of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari—is of significance here.7 In determining the function of the posthumous studio in relation to its continuing agency within contemporary art practice (an example of which this project aims to demonstrate), the assemblage is explored as a theoretical framework, against which to test political theorist Jane Bennett’s concept of “vibrant matter.” For Bennett, “an understanding of agency as a confederation of human and nonhuman elements” underpins her interpretation of the assemblage.8

In the introduction to A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari relate the concept of the assemblage to a book; “a little machine” constituted by a multiplicity of phenomena such that the possibility of attributing an author is rendered implausible.9 As philosopher Thomas Nail elaborates:

we cannot extract the being of a book from the vast historical conditions of the invention of an alphabetic language, distribution of paper, the printing press, literacy, and all the social contingencies that made possible the specific book of our inquiry, with all of its singular features (color, lighting, time of day, and so on) and all the conditions under which someone is inquiring into the book. A vast network of processes continues to shape the book and thus there is no final product.10

The book serves as an apt metaphor for the artist’s studio in the context of this research. In the words of philosopher and literary critic Gaston Bachelard, “we ‘write a room,’ ‘read a room,’ or ‘read a house.’”11 Acknowledging Bachelard’s example, art critic and writer Kirsty Bell, in her book The Artist’s House, describes the methodology she adopts for each of her case studies as “an exercise in close reading.”12 Likewise, through my practice-based research, I develop strategies of careful analysis that bring me in close proximity to the subjects of my study: Casa Morandi in Bologna firstly, followed by the Francis Bacon Studio in Dublin.

Bell describes the close reading of a site where an artist both lives and works as “an attempt to pick it apart, discover its clues, and use these to elucidate the generative possibilities of the three- way connection that links artist, home and work.”13 The studios of both Morandi and Bacon were situated within their homes. For each artist, private accommodation and professional practice coexisted under the same roof. Morandi’s studio, in fact, was also his bedroom. For Bacon, the studio was confined to a single room in his modest London mews apartment. My own workspace is similarly domestic in its context, utilising a room in my house as a makeshift studio (fig. 2).

Figure 2: The author’s home studio in Sydney, with work in progress. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017.

In the cases of the two posthumous studios I examine in detail, they were removed from their domestic contexts to be reconstructed in museums. In Morandi’s case, the city of Bologna later acquired his apartment, where the studio was subsequently reinstated, but only after the majority of the domestic interior was converted to museum space. The two examples examined here highlight the fact that the studio is regarded as a specialised zone, conserved within museums, while the adjacent domestic context is erased as though its significance is negligible. In this thesis, I document a practice in which different spaces—public, private, and somewhere in between— overlap in various ways, contemplating how the historical concept of the studio haunts the present, and how it might productively inform current and future prospects for studio practice.

Chapter overview This thesis is divided into two halves. Part One, ‘The Rise of the Posthumous Studio,’ charts the presence of the posthumous studio within the museum, contextualises it in relation to the modernist studio, and identifies its role in relation to key practices of contemporary artists, myself included. Part Two, ‘The Francis Bacon Studio,’ is dedicated to the research undertaken in relation to the reconstructed studio of Francis Bacon, which is the principal focus of the practice.

As a precursor to the argument set out in the chapters that follow, Chapter One, ‘The Phenomenon of the Posthumous Studio,’ provides an overview of the posthumous studio as a museological 5 practice, describing various iterations in order to identify it as a genre, and classify it according to a typology of distinct categories. The aim of the first chapter is to establish a sense of the scope and history of the posthumous studio as a global phenomenon dating back to the nineteenth century, and indicate its proliferation over the past few decades in particular. The accompanying review of literature on studio museums demonstrates that the topic has only emerged as a focused field of research relatively recently, with the majority of studies published since the turn of the millennium. The relevance of this overview to the rest of the thesis lies in the conservational and curatorial strategies it outlines, aspects of which are adopted as an integral part of my studio practice, as outlined in detail in later chapters.

Chapter Two, ‘Revisiting the Modernist Studio,’ examines the reputation of the studio in the twentieth century, and seeks to complicate perceptions of the modernist studio that have been established since the emergence of post-studio discourse. Emerging in the late 1960s, the post- studio view regards the studio as a modernist institution to be dismissed as an irrelevant constraint upon art practice. For instance, artist Robert Smithson, writing in 1968, regarded the “confines of the studio” as characterised by “the snares of craft and the bondage of creativity.”14 Following on from Allan Kaprow’s observation in 1966 that the studio “will probably disappear in time,”15 fellow artist Daniel Buren declared in his seminal essay ‘The Function of the Studio’ (1971) that all of his work proceeds from the studio’s “extinction.”16 The subtitle of this thesis paraphrases the title of Buren’s essay, which denounces the modernist studio as an ivory tower confining art practice to the production of portable objects “isolated from the real world.”17 In reassessing this critique, I examine some of the widely accepted assumptions of post-studio discourse and seek to re-evaluate the modernist studio from a twenty-first century perspective. Key video installations by Bruce Nauman and Christian Boltanski are examined in terms of how they represent the legacy of the twentieth century studio, and this in turn contextualises a discussion of my own video installation, Mise en Abyme (2018).

Chapter Three, ‘The Afterlife of the Studio,’ reflects on the role of the posthumous studio as a provocation for contemporary art practice, highlighted and explored through key works by artists such as Christian Jankowski, Thomas Demand, and Tacita Dean. The chapter also discusses the initial phase of my studio practice, which is based on the restored studio of Giorgio Morandi. The process of model making as a strategy for simulating aspects of the studio is examined in relation to its implications for both museological and artistic purposes. The first iteration of the practice- based research involved the construction of a 1:15 scale model of Morandi’s studio, which informed a series of subsequent paintings. This aspect of the practical work is contextualised by an analysis of two specific photographs by Thomas Demand that reconstruct photographs of the studios of Jackson Pollock (Barn, 1997) and Henri Matisse (Atelier, 2014).

6 The second half of the thesis is focused on the research into Francis Bacon’s reconstructed studio, which became the primary focus of the studio practice during the course of this study. Chapter Four, ‘Designing Chaos,’ examines the posthumous reconstruction of Francis Bacon’s studio with a particular focus on the artist’s circular mirror, thought of as both a witness and a catalyst within the studio. The mirror is shown to have its origins in Bacon’s first studio, where he worked as a furniture designer and interior decorator, and associations are drawn between this career and the subsequent iterations of the studios in which Bacon worked as a painter. The role of chance in Bacon’s studio is examined, and paintings produced for the practice component of the research are discussed in relation to this.

Chapter Five, ‘The Mirror’s Two Sides,’ examines the philosophical and psychoanalytical significance of the mirror in Bacon’s studio. Deleuze’s concept of the mirror as a “prosthesis instrument” in Bacon’s paintings informs the way in which the blemished mirror serves to interact with and sublate human presence within the body of work produced. The chapter provides an account of my practice-based research into the mirror, for which I fabricated a copy of Bacon’s studio mirror to use it as a “portal” through which to explore aspects of Bacon’s studio, informing a series of paintings, and taking a central role in the aforementioned Mise en Abyme video installation.

Chapter Six, ‘Studio Assemblage,’ examines Bacon’s reconstructed studio in relation to the Deleuzean concept of the assemblage, and Jane Bennett’s notion of vibrant matter. The manner in which the site has been archived will also be considered. The material in Bacon’s studio not only appears in the reconstructed museum display in Dublin, but it has been exhaustively documented in a digital database, and much of the material has been relocated to a separate archive, replaced by replica versions in the display. This chapter examines the contradictions between authenticity and artifice present within posthumously reconstructed artists’ studios in relation to what critic and art historian Hal Foster has termed “an archival impulse,” typified by the archive’s equivocal status as “found yet constructed, factual yet fictive, public yet private.”18

The thesis concludes by observing that with the post-studio condition apparently having run its course, the studio is no longer a limiting frame isolating art practice from the “real world,” as Buren argued.19 Instead, it can be a nebulous, distributed, and unpredictable entity of open-ended possibilities and ever-expanding potentialities, not confining art practice, but enabling it. The posthumous studio suggests continuing potential and new contexts for understanding artists’ workspaces of the past, present, and future, helping to define the “post-post-studio” age. Beyond post-studio critique and associated notions of the private and isolated domain of the solitary genius, a more nuanced and complex interpretation of the studio as an assemblage of distributed materialities and agencies is established.

PART ONE The Rise of the Posthumous Studio

8 Chapter One The Phenomenon of the Posthumous Studio

A museological genre The late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries have seen a proliferation of posthumously “museumised” studios. This global phenomenon emerged in the late nineteenth century, becoming increasingly prevalent over the course of the twentieth century and up to the present. It is characterised by a range of practices involving the conservation or reconstruction of deceased artists’ studios for display as museum exhibits. Although certain examples may have characteristics in common with period rooms or heritage sites more broadly, the posthumous studio museum can be seen as a distinct museological genre in which the studio is presented as a specific context for interpreting and understanding the work or biography of an artist. Art historian Laurier Lacroix points out that, distinct from other monographic or memorial museums that retain traces of a celebrated artist’s life, the studio museum transforms an artist's workspace into a place of conservation accessible to the public.20 Additionally, there are cases that do not involve conservation of the original studio or its contents, but aim to replicate the studio environment by remaking it or simulating it virtually.

By the second half of the nineteenth century, a popular fascination for the artist’s studio had developed, fuelled by biographical accounts of artists in both non-fiction and fictional literature published during that period, and pictorial articles in the illustrated press, as Esner has shown.21 Although the holistic presentation of an artist’s posthumous workspace did not become an explicit museological practice until the twentieth century, notable precursors may be identified in sites like the Museo Gipsoteca Antonio Canova in Possagno, “one of the first museums dedicated entirely to the work of a single artist,”22 constructed in 1834-36 and opened in 1844, and the Thorvaldsen Museum in Copenhagen which opened in 1848. These two sites memorialise the famed neoclassical sculptors Antonio Canova and Bertel Thorvaldsen respectively, with selected contents from the artists’ Rome-based studios transferred to purpose-built museums in their birthplaces.23

Cultural theorist Bill Brown describes the fascination with relics and period rooms that emerged in the nineteenth century as a desire “to come close to touching what had been touched: to make some metonymic contact with the dead.”24 This desire is taken further by the posthumous veneration of Canova’s body. His right hand is preserved at Venice’s Accademia di Belle Arti, his heart is interred in the Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, also in Venice, and the remainder of his body is entombed in the Tempio Canoviano in Possagno.25 The collecting of such relics is characteristic of the Romantic era’s cult of genius, as art historian Julia Behrens notes in relation

9 to the nineteenth-century renewal of interest in Albrecht Dürer’s home and studio in Nuremburg which led to its purchase by the city in 1826.26 The site became a memorial to the artist in 1828, the 300th anniversary of the artist’s death, and on the 400th anniversary of his birth in 1871, it was opened as a museum still in operation today.27 Other examples of artists’ houses that have been restored and opened as museums centuries after the artist’s lifetime include Rembrandthuis in Amsterdam which was first opened in 1911, although it was not until 1999 that further restoration returned the building to the conditions of Rembrandt’s occupation of the site in the seventeenth century. Similarly, Rubenshuis in Antwerp was opened to the public in 1946, restored more than 300 years after the death of Rubens.

Early examples of posthumous studios established as museums in the nineteenth century tend to focus on the presentation of art rather than the preservation of the workspace per se. For example, the Brussels studio of Belgian painter Antoine Wiertz became a museum in 1868 in accordance with the artist’s will, and “was gradually ‘sanitized’ from various eccentricities and shrunk into a more conventional picture gallery.”28 As the posthumous studio became more established as a museological genre over the course of the twentieth century, the desire to imagine the site as frozen in time—as if untouched since the day of the artist’s death—was increasingly pronounced, giving rise to the commonly expressed impression that “one feels that the artist has just left the room.”29 Recalling his 1949 visit to photograph Paul Cézanne’s studio in Aix-en-Provence, magazine editor and photographer Alexander Liberman observes:

Today Cézanne’s beret, his cape, his paint boxes, his rosary, his palettes and bottles of turpentine, all the objects that surrounded him during his work are there as he left them, untouched, unmoved throughout the years.30

Liberman, whose sentimental commentary imagines the site as an accurate and intact record of the studio during the artist’s lifetime, overlooks the interventions of Cézanne’s son (also named Paul) and widow, Marie-Hortense Fiquet Cézanne, who emptied the property of its inventory of artworks shortly after the artist’s death in 1906.31 The items left behind by the family, who lived in Paris, may have been regarded as having little market value, but there is evidence that the studio and its remaining artefacts held significance for Cézanne’s son. When he sold the property in 1921 to Marcel Joannon, a local poet known by the pseudonym Marcel Provence, the sale was agreed to by Paul junior on the understanding that the premises would be protected, and, according to Joannon himself, “the studio would not be re-arranged; it would remain a sanctuary of remembrance.”32 The new owner, an admirer of Cézanne, lived on the ground floor of the two- storey building in order to preserve what remained of the studio upstairs, which became a site of pilgrimage. Joannon welcomed numerous Cézanne enthusiasts, writers, artists, and researchers into the studio up until his death in 1951.33

Figure 3: Atelier Cézanne, Aix-en-Provence, France. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Upon Joannon’s death, an American campaign to protect the site ensued, led by the Cézanne scholar John Rewald and writer James Lord, resulting in the purchase of the property in 1954 by the specially formed Cézanne Memorial Committee, who donated it to the University of Aix- Marseilles the same year, when it officially opened to the public.34 Stressing the significance of the artefacts to the experience of the studio, Rewald declared, “if some of the relics that date from Cézanne’s time had been removed, I would not have been interested in the acquisition since the studio would have become a shell without a soul.”35 Now managed by the Aix Tourist Office, the artist’s materials, objects, furniture, and clothing that have survived through the years are still visitable, positioned against the studio walls and roped off (fig. 3). There are inevitable touches of artifice, such as the contrived tabletop arrangements of fruit that supplement the relics, mimicking Cézanne’s still life compositions in an apparent attempt to evoke the long-since departed artist at work.36

While key examples of individual studio museums such as Atelier Cézanne have occasionally been the subject of focused scholarship,37 publications that provide a broad overview of the studio museum as a genre are somewhat limited. As literary historian Harald Hendrix points out, however, contributions to the analysis and interpretation of artists’ homes and studios can be found in non-English scholarship, with the most notable early work in this area produced in Germany during the 1980s.38 Also in German, Franz Zankl’s comprehensive 1972 survey of

11 European museums devoted to individual identities, a phenomenon he dubs “personalmuseum,” is a notable early text in this area of study, although significantly broader in its thematic focus, including institutions dedicated to writers, composers, architects, military figures, politicians, and so on.39 These studies predominantly focus on examples from the nineteenth century and earlier (many examples of twentieth-century artists’ studios have only been established in their current incarnation as posthumous museums since the 1980s).

As for English-language publications, since the turn of the millennium the subject has been the focus of a number of richly illustrated “coffee-table” books and other informal guides covering touristic information about deceased artists’ preserved homes and studio museums for the casual reader and sightseer.40 Observing this tendency in relation to the historic homes of writers, composers, and artists more broadly, art historian Andrzej Pieńkos states that the museumisation of such sites “rarely result[s] in the publication of scholarly analyses or monographs.”41 Likewise, curator and art historian Giles Waterfield notes that “little critical attention” has been focused on museums of this type, and he speculates that this may in part be due to their typically small scale.42 Pieńkos surmises that as the living and working environment is a peripheral dimension of an artist’s oeuvre, the topic “lies in between disciplines,”43 and most cases are regarded as curiosities that possess “negligible artistic quality,” and they are therefore “shrouded in a slight aura of embarrassment.”44 In recent years, however, noteworthy scholarship on the topic has begun to appear in English, among other languages, interpreting posthumous studios from the perspectives of various disciplines such as architecture,45 museology and curatorial studies,46 and art historical studies in which selected artists’ studios and homes are evaluated as contexts for interpreting the practices of artists,47 or as works of art in their own right.48 Although focused on European and North American examples, these publications indicate the proliferation of this museological genre and its recognition as a bona fide category within museum culture.

Reflecting the currency of interest in the status of the posthumous studio as a museological genre, organisations dedicated to the co-ordination of networks of such sites in both Europe and the United States have recently been established, with online directories documenting the practice in those regions in order to bring studio museums to the attention of a wider audience. The Historic Artists' Homes and Studios program (HAHS), according to the official website (first published online in May 2014), “is a coalition of more than 30 museums that were the homes and working studios of American artists.”49 Currently, there are a little over 50 artists listed on the website in association with 36 heritage sites (some sites are associated with multiple artists).50 The initiative was proposed by the US-based National Trust for Historic Preservation. It places an emphasis on the conservation of heritage sites, and “each member of this coalition is a museum that commemorates an artist (or a group of artists) and preserves and interprets their working environment.”51 Among the criteria for inclusion in the coalition are regular operating hours as a

12 publicly accessible museum; recognition of significance as an historic or architectural site by local or state government; and the ability “to maintain, conserve, and administer the historic place to protect and preserve the historical integrity of features, materials, appearance, workmanship, and environment.”52

In Europe, the Artist's Studio Museum Network links posthumously preserved and reconstructed studios throughout the continent. It was initiated by Watts Gallery Artists’ Village in England, itself a museum featuring the posthumously restored studios of the artist couple George Frederic Watts and Mary Seton Fraser Tytler (first opened as a gallery in 1904, with Watts Studios, where the couple worked, only opening as a museum in 2016). Coinciding with the opening of Watts Studios, the website for the Artist’s Studio Museum Network was originally published online in January 2016. It states its aim as “to bring single-artist museums, house museums and studio museums across Europe closer together in partnership.”53 The site currently lists 137 museums that are identified with a total of 193 artists.54 As the example of Watts Gallery itself suggests, the term “single-artist” as an adjective here is somewhat inadequate when one considers the studio museums associated with more than one artistic identity. Creative couples such as Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant (“Charleston,” their home in East Sussex, opened to the public in 1986) are counted among the Artist’s Studio Museum Network. Additionally, the home shared by married artists Jean Arp and Sophie Taeuber in Clamart, near Paris, is a museum, preserved by Fondation Arp since 1979. Studio museums dedicated to couples in North America include Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner (Pollock-Krasner House in East Hampton opened to the public in 1988); fellow American abstract artists George L.K. Morris and Suzy Frelinghuysen (Frelinghuysen Morris House and Studio in Lenox, Massachusetts, opened to the public in 1998) and, based outside of the United States and therefore beyond the scope of HAHS, the celebrated Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera (Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo in Mexico City opened to the public in 199755).

While both HAHS and the Artist’s Studio Museum Network represent a relatively comprehensive overview of posthumous studio museums in their respective regions, there are omissions worth noting. Off-site reconstructions of studios such as the Henry Darger Room Collection, on permanent display in its new location at Chicago’s Intuit museum since 2008, fall outside the remit of HAHS, which focuses on sites of historical significance. Darger was a self-taught artist whose oeuvre remained undiscovered until after his death in 1973. Also, the former apartment- studio in the tenement building overlooking Washington Square Park where Edward Hopper lived and worked with his wife and fellow artist Josephine Nivison (“Jo”) Hopper, is not a member of the HAHS network. Although preserved and accessible upon special request, it is not regularly open to the public and does not formally qualify as a museum. Instead, it is now a functioning part of New York University, where staff and students meet and work among Hopper’s studio

13 artefacts, such as his easel, model’s platform, printing press, and stove heater (fig. 4).

Figure 4: Edward Hopper's studio, New York University. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017.

The Artist’s Studio Museum Network is a little broader in scope than HAHS. With less stringent criteria for inclusion, it can list examples removed from their original locations such as Francis Bacon’s London studio reconstructed at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. However, it too is an incomplete inventory. Giorgio Morandi’s bedroom-studio in Bologna (Casa Morandi, open to the public since 2009) and Eduardo Paolozzi’s studio in Edinburgh (gifted by the artist to the National Galleries of Scotland in 1995 and open to the public since 1999, prior to the artist’s death in 2005), for instance, are two notable European examples not currently listed. However, the advantage of online directories is their ability to be endlessly revised and amended, and, as evolving resources, these web sites are likely to continue accepting new members and updating their inventories.

Figure 5: Charles Dickens’ desk and chair, Charles Dickens Museum, London. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Concurrent with the rising interest in posthumously museumised artists’ studios is the recent scholarship around the parallel phenomenon of the historic writer’s house.56 Perhaps the most prevalent type of historic house museum, homes of deceased writers are the subject of enthusiastic literary tourism, an enduring pastime that became widespread in the nineteenth century and has continued into the twenty-first century.57 Hendrix asserts that writers’ houses can only indirectly represent the cerebral process of writing via the physical evidence of the heritage site.58 For the visitor, they are “tools to stimulate one’s imagination,” producing what Hendrix refers to as a “through-the-looking-glass-effect.”59 He identifies two related but distinct functions of the house museum: “remembrance,” a primarily conceptual condition shaped by the site’s genius loci combined with interpretations by later generations, and “documentation,” consisting of visible artefacts of biographical significance. Differentiating between writers’ and artists’ house museums, Hendrix argues that because the material legacy of an artist’s practice can be preserved, the function of the posthumous studio is therefore primarily documentary, predicated on associated notions of authenticity, whereas the writer’s house brings the visitor into contact with the author’s imaginative world.60 However, like the posthumous artist’s studio, the writer’s house museum commonly displays the material legacies of the former inhabitant’s praxis, whether it is Emily Brontë’s pen nib, or Charles Dickens’ desk (fig. 5). Furthermore, Hendrix overlooks the intellectual and immaterial aspects of artists’ practices, as though the writer’s claim to intangible heritage is pre-eminent. If, as Hendrix argues, it is possible for the visitor at a writer’s house

15 museum “to come into contact with the imaginative world created by the author,”61 there is no reason not to imagine a similar possibility for the visitor at a posthumous artist’s studio.

In relation to the act of remembrance, Hendrix notes that historic house museums “are often the products of initiatives by persons or institutions interested in constructing a particular kind of public memory or a commercially exploitable tourist attraction.”62 With specific regard to writers’ house museums, he observes:

they accumulate the various interpretations and appropriations of those ideas and ambitions by later generations, who tend to project onto the material object of the house both their vision of the writer and some of their own ideals and idiosyncrasies. As a medium of remembrance, writers’ houses not only recall the poets and novelists who dwelt in them, but also the ideologies of those who turned them into memorial sites.63

The same could be said of posthumously museumised artists’ studios. But rather than try to recover the “reality” of posthumous studios prior to their museumisation (imagining that such a task were even possible), this research project accepts the implicit tendency within posthumous studio museums to intervene in and interpret a site, potentially inflating the importance of some aspects while obscuring others. For the purposes of this research, the posthumous studio is understood as a flexible and manipulable space, with the process of museumisation contributing to this condition and serving to open it to further interpretation, in contexts that need not honour the ideas or intentions of the original inhabitant.

A typology of the posthumous studio Due to the varied nature of posthumous studio museums, it is worthwhile establishing a typology in order to identify different categories within the genre. Lacroix proposes four types of studio museum that he respectively terms décor, galerie, inventaire, and processus (décor, gallery, inventory, and process), citing one example of each.64 The “décor” type, according to Lacroix, is characterised by an emphasis on the careful arrangement and display of domestic furnishings of an artist’s home, as exemplified by Olana, the nineteenth Century home of American artist Frederic Edwin Church. The “gallery” type emphasises the display of the artist’s works on site, for which Lacroix offers the example of the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden in St. Ives. The “inventory” category applies to studio museums that have an extensive collection of the artist’s oeuvre, with a mix of finished and unfinished works, and Lacroix cites the studio museum of Swedish sculptor Carl Eldh to illustrate this type. The final category, “process,” presents evidence of various stages of the artist’s methods of production, such as preliminary sketches, models, and progressive stages of work under construction, as seen in the studio museum of Daniel Chester French.65 The posthumous studio’s function as a museum is the primary focus of Lacroix’s four-part typology. 16

However, when applying Lacroix’s typology to other examples of studio museums, ambiguities arise. The Musée National Gustave Moreau in Paris, for example, seems to correspond with all of Lacroix’s categories. Moreau, having extended his home with an additional two storeys from 1895 to 1896 in order to establish a studio museum dedicated to his life’s work, stated in his will of 10 September 1897 that he wished to bequeath the house:

with all it contains: paintings, drawings, cartoons, etc., the work of fifty years, and likewise what is enclosed in the named house and the old apartments formerly occupied by my father and my mother, to the State, […] with the express condition to keep this collection forever—this would be my dearest wish—or at least as long as possible, maintaining the integral character that allows the sum of the work and the efforts of the artist during his life to be recognised in perpetuity.66

Moreau died in 1898 at the age of 72, and in the final two years of his life he worked industriously in the freshly completed studio museum, devoting his efforts in the vain hope of completing dozens of unfinished paintings.67 It is reported that more than 100 easels bearing canvases were posthumously found in the studio.68 The comprehensive display of work on the second and third floors, open to the public since January 1903, corresponds with Lacroix’s categories of “gallery,” “inventory,” and even “process,” given the many examples of sketches, studies, and unfinished paintings alongside completed works in the collection. Likewise, Moreau’s museum exemplifies the “décor” category, especially since the domestic setting in the first-floor apartment, which the artist designated as off-limits to visitors, was eventually opened to the public in 1991.69 While a typology need not consist of categories that are entirely mutually exclusive, one of the difficulties with Lacroix’s categories is that the distinction between them is not clear-cut, with too much potential for overlap between the various types.

Furthermore, there are studio museums that are not entirely compatible with Lacroix’s categories. For instance, the main appeal of Pollock-Krasner House in Springs, East Hampton, the preserved home and studio of artist-couple Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner, is not the “décor” within the home, and, although temporary small-scale exhibitions are occasionally mounted inside the house, there is no significant collection of work on display to correspond with the categories of “gallery,” “inventory,” or “process.” Rather, the spartan barn behind the house is the dominant feature and “star attraction.”70 Used by Pollock as a studio from 1946, and later by Krasner following Pollock’s death in 1956, it is devoid of art and, aside from a lone chair in one corner, furnishings. The barn’s interior architecture and its paint-spattered surfaces are all the more striking for the room’s bareness (fig. 6). While Lacroix’s nuanced categories describe certain roles performed by many studio museums, a broader typology that encompasses a wider range of examples can better demonstrate the diversity and extent of the genre.

Figure 6: The barn-studio at Pollock-Krasner House in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

For the purposes of this research, the following typology will be adopted in order to classify the posthumous studio into three basic categories: (1) THE HISTORIC SITE, characterised by the in situ preservation or restoration of the original studio, and, in many cases, its contents; (2) OFF- SITE RECONSTRUCTION, characterised by the relocation of the original contents of the studio, reassembled in a separate museum environment that aims to evoke the conditions of the original studio; and (3) REPLICATION, characterised by the ex novo fabrication of a facsimile environment or simulated version of a specific artist’s studio from the past, without any original artefacts. This typology identifies three basic methodological approaches to the museumisation of the posthumous studio, and serves as a general indication of the degrees of separation from the original site that arise in the process.

There are hundreds of posthumous studio museums worldwide, but calculating the definitive number that exist today is a difficult enterprise. Not only is the quantity continuing to increase, the breadth of possibilities as to how to define an artist or what might constitute a studio leaves many questions open as to what may or may not fall within the uncertain criteria for determining applicable sites. For the purposes of this study, however, the focus is on the studios of practitioners known primarily for their work in fine art, as opposed to, say, architecture, literature,

18 or music. Admittedly, there are many figures who work across disciplines, contributing to the difficulty of calculating the scale of the posthumous studio genre. Related to the tendency to preserve and reconstruct artists’ studios are archives of selected studio materials stored in museum collections. The Conservation Department of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, for instance, “has been actively growing a collection of artist’s materials”71 in recent years, but such collections are distinct from the typically more comprehensive or holistic approach that takes place in the museumisation of the posthumous studio. What follows is an overview of the categories of the posthumous studio under consideration in this study.

The historic site The historic site museum is the most common type of posthumous studio. They can vary dramatically in terms of how well preserved the studio may be. Often, the site will have served not only as a studio, but as the artist’s domestic residence. Some bear little trace of the original studio, with evidence of the site’s former use as an artist’s workspace largely erased in favour of converting the space for exhibition purposes, and these types are of less significance to the present study. Some remain well-preserved and relatively unchanged since the artist’s lifetime, while others undergo major restoration which might occur following a period of inactivity or utilisation for other purposes, during which the original studio contents may have been damaged, lost or dispersed, and the architecture altered. In Vienna, for example, the last studio occupied by Austrian painter Gustav Klimt from 1912 until his death in 1918 had been long since vacated and renovated by the time it was rediscovered in 1999. The historic site was reconstructed in situ and opened to the public in 2012 with facsimiles in place of the original furnishings.72 Similarly, although the London home of the nineteenth-century English painter Frederic Lord Leighton was first opened to the public in 1929, the contents had been sold following the artist’s death, and it was not until the 2008-2010 refurbishment of the site that newly purchased antiques were installed in order to approximate the artist’s original décor. By augmenting what remains of such historic sites with objects in place of lost artefacts, museums attempt to evoke the original atmosphere, acknowledging the significance of the building’s contents and their arrangement, in accordance with careful observation of historical evidence such as inventories and archival photographs. However, as Waterfield notes, some historic sites “neglect the possibilities offered by the studio,” such as at Claude Monet’s former home in Giverny, opened to the public in 1980, where the large purpose-built studio now serves as the museum gift shop.73 The house features a ground-floor study originally used by Monet as a workspace, but Giverny’s main attraction is the renowned garden, a kind of outdoor studio featured in many of the artist’s plein-air paintings.

The preservation of studios for posterity is sometimes initiated by the artists themselves, with provisions set out in their wills, perhaps motivated by a desire to keep an estate intact as a collection.74 In some cases, it is the heirs who choose to protect the site, and they may even

19 establish and operate a private museum themselves for this purpose. Even in cases when the family sells the property, the new owner may agree to maintain the site, as demonstrated by Joannon’s 30-year stewardship of Cézanne’s studio prior to its official museumisation. Likewise, when André Derain’s house in Chambourcy, just outside Paris, was sold by the artist’s heirs in 1988, the new owners, Albert and Hélène Badault, agreed to maintain the studio as the family had left it (fig. 7). Guided tours were given at the site on the fourth Sunday of each month until the house was acquired by the town of Chambourcy in October 2014. It is now undergoing conservation, after which the property, including the preserved studio, will re-open to the public.75

Figure 7: The studio at Maison André Derain, Chambourcy, France. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

A posthumous studio museum situated on its historic site belongs to the broader museological category of the site museum (sometimes referred to as “on-site museum”), “a museum on a specific, usually archaeological or historical, site.”76 The scope of the site museum is “the story and meaning of the site.”77 The aim, according to museologist Hermanus Johannes Moolman, is “to create (if necessary), preserve and interpret the total cultural, historical or natural reality in situ.”78 The site museum is exemplified by the house museum, of which the artist’s home and studio (sometimes referred to as maison d’artiste79 or artist’s house-museum80) is one type among many. Art historian and curator Rosanna Pavoni identifies a wide range of sites that can be counted as belonging to the house museum:

20 from palaces, to the homes of famous people, the homes of artists, houses representing particular periods or styles, homes of collectors, family homes reflecting the passage of time and sedimentation of the history of generations, houses representing homogeneous social groups, to historic residences that have become settings for collections unrelated to the history of the residence itself. 81

A 2007 report prepared by the ICOM International Committee for Historic House Museums (known by the acronym DemHist82) proposes nine categories of historic house museums, defined according to purpose. Among these, of most relevance to the present study is the “personality house,” which includes the former homes of “writers, artists, musicians, politicians, military heroes, etc.”83 In an earlier effort to categorise historic house museums by curator and historian Sherry Butcher-Younghans, three types were proposed: documentary (containing original artefacts from a house in commemoration of a former resident or significant event), representative (houses restored with artefacts not originally from the house, interpreting an historical lifestyle rather than a specific identity), and aesthetic (installed with artefacts displayed “for their own merit” rather than in accord with the house’s historical context).84 Butcher-Younghans, who focuses on American examples, acknowledges that, in some house museums, more than one category may be identifiable, citing the C.M. Russell Museum in Montana as a hybrid of all three. Active in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Charles M. Russell, nicknamed the “Cowboy Artist,” was a painter and sculptor who depicted mythologised scenes of the American West.85 At the museum complex that stands in his honour, the original log cabin studio, containing the artist’s props, equipment and art materials, is the documentary component, while the house, containing “few of the original furnishings,” relates more closely to the representative site, and the gallery addition dedicated to the artist’s work is the aesthetic site.86 Since first opening in 1930, the hybrid nature of the site has only expanded, encompassing education spaces, a research centre, additional gallery space, a gift shop, and a sculpture garden.87

As with my typology of posthumous studios, each of Butcher-Younghans’ house museum categories describes a level of intervention that affects the site’s authenticity.88 Museologist Giovanni Pinna is mindful of the issue of authenticity, and is more selective in his definition of historic house museums. He does not recognise historic houses that have been re-purposed as museums with no direct relevance to the historic site, rejecting Butcher-Younghans’ aesthetic type from consideration as a historic house museum on the basis that it does not maintain the “integrity” of the site’s history, since the museum’s collection is not consistent with the historical context of the house.89 Furthermore, Pinna is cautious about Butcher-Younghans’ representative type, noting debates around the authenticity of historic houses furnished with replacement artefacts, where a too immoderate manipulation risks “a kind of Disneyland reconstruction.”90

21 In relation to the posthumous studio museum, the historic site’s claim to authenticity partly derives from its correspondence with the original geographic location of the studio. Knowledge of the site having witnessed the artist’s creative process can enhance the visitor’s “sense of the genuine, the real or the unique.”91 The primary significance of the site, however, is not merely conceptual, but visual.92 The historic architecture is typically intact, or restored to correspond with the conditions of the deceased artist’s former occupation of the site. Additionally, modifications—for the purposes of, for example, enabling public access, improving safety, installing amenities, and protecting artefacts—are commonly made in the transition from functioning studio to museum. This transition, as architectural theorist Maarten Liefooghe points out, gives rise to the ambiguous architectural status of the artist’s house museum, in that its role as a museum is established subsequent to its former role as a home and studio, presenting the architect with the challenge of establishing a synthesis between “the ‘authentic’ private atmosphere and the contemporary public museum.”93 Pinna states that the role of the historic house museum is “to conserve, exhibit or reconstruct real atmospheres which are difficult to manipulate (except to a very slight extent) if one does not wish to alter the very meaning of ‘historic house’.”94 In order to convey the studio’s “atmosphere,” or, as Liefooghe puts it, “the immersive experience of contact with the historical setting,”95 the historic site is typically installed with original artefacts (or copies) associated with the artist, evoking its previous function as a studio. This evocation of history relates to art historian Georgina Downey’s description of the historic house museum as “a site of memory,” that “can convey stories told in the round, through all the senses, which is why house museums are sites of pilgrimage where visitors attempt to re- experience past senses of interiority and spatiality.”96 Beyond a merely “visual site,”97 Downey emphasises the polysensorial experience of the house museum.

The visitor’s experience in the barn-studio at Pollock-Krasner House extends beyond the visual, encompassing a palpable experience underfoot. After removing their shoes and covering their feet with hospital slippers, visitors are permitted to enter the studio, wherein the distinct sensation of walking on the floorboards can be felt through the thin footwear. The paint-stained floor of the studio is a vivid reminder of Pollock’s painting practice, abundant with wayward dribbles and splashes of colour; traces of the artist’s fluid, gestural working method. Beneath their feet, astute observers will notice details such as the paint-laden footprint of the artist (fig. 8), and a squashed cigarette butt painted over and firmly embedded into a timber board. The ritual of donning slippers not only serves the practical function of protecting the floor’s surface, but it builds anticipation prior to entering, and implies a symbolic value for this particular room above all others encountered at the site. This is despite the use of an upstairs room inside the house as a studio early on at separate times by both Pollock and Krasner. Art historian Ellen G. Landau describes the requirement of removing footwear as a reinforcement of “the solemnity” of stepping into the barn-studio of Pollock and Krasner.98 The visitor is primed with a sense of reverence for the space,

22 and made aware that one must tread carefully in order to protect the sanctified studio.

Figure 8: Jackson Pollock’s footprint on the floor of his barn-studio in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

While the studio floor attests to the fact that one is literally retracing the steps of the artist, it is Pollock’s footsteps that one encounters, not Krasner’s. Pollock renovated the barn in early 1953, covering over the floor boards with tar paper and Masonite, the same surface that remained in place throughout Krasner’s subsequent occupation of the studio. During the restoration of the site from December 1987 to March 1988, the original floor boards were exposed, revealing the stained surface of the floor upon which Pollock worked from 1946 until 1952.99 Prominently displayed in a vitrine beneath the large window is a selection of Pollock’s unorthodox painting materials: hardened brushes, sticks, basting syringes, and thirteen cans of house paint. Their central position within the studio is in contradistinction to the trolley containing Krasner’s painting materials in the storage area preceding the barn’s main room.

Figure 9: Text panel and photographs on the studio wall at Pollock-Krasner House in Springs, East Hampton, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Regarding the apparent focus on Pollock’s history within the studio, Caroline A. Jones observes, “Krasner’s historical marginalization is here literalized in her representation as a footnote to Pollock’s studio shrine.”100 However, art historian Andrew Hardman notes an effort to establish a sense of balance in recognising evidence of Krasner’s use of the studio alongside Pollock’s.101 As the director of Pollock-Krasner House, Helen A. Harrison, points out:

it is a combination of the remnants that were left from both Pollock and Krasner, who did not use the studio simultaneously, they used it in succession. […] If the floor covering had not been removed, you would not have the evidence of Pollock; you would only have had the evidence of Krasner. We were fortunate that Krasner liked to work on the walls. So the evidence of her occupation that’s visible is only on the walls, because she didn’t lay her canvases out on the floor.102

Despite this, it is Pollock who remains the dominant presence in the studio. Text panels and photographic reproductions adorning all four walls of the barn-studio provide a visual and written account of the individual uses of the site by both Pollock and Krasner, and the subsequent restoration by conservators, but this effort to inform the visitor of the studio’s history ironically results in the partial concealment of that history’s primary evidence by obscuring some of Krasner’s traces of paint around the walls (fig. 9).

Pollock’s eclipse of Krasner within the posthumous studio in East Hampton is paralleled by their respective levels of recognition as artists more generally. Krasner’s perceived roles as wife and then widow to Pollock often overshadowed her reputation as an artist.103 Correspondingly, both Jones and Hardman observe an implied division at Pollock-Krasner House, characterised by Krasner’s dominant presence within the domestic domain, and the emphasis on Pollock’s imprint within the inner sanctum of the barn-studio.104

Figure 10: Karl Duldig's sculpture studio at the Duldig Studio Museum and Sculpture Garden, Melbourne. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2018.

Similar interpretations of the gendered division of space could be applied to other posthumous studios at historic sites, such as the Duldig Studio Museum and Sculpture Garden in Melbourne. Although dedicated to an artist couple, it is the husband alone, sculptor Karl Duldig, whose artistic legacy is housed within the purpose-built studio separate from the house (fig. 10). Duldig’s wife, artist and inventor Slawa Duldig (née Horowitz), appears to have been less prolific, judging by the works displayed at the house museum established in 1996 by the couple’s only child, Eva de Jong-Duldig. Another Australian example is The Cedars in Hahndorf, South Australia—the historic site that was home to the Australian landscape painter Hans Heysen and his family, and officially opened to the public in 1994—where there are two posthumous studios on display. The most prominent attraction at the museum, and reputedly Australia’s oldest surviving example,105

25 is the purpose-built artist’s studio used by Heysen from the time it was first built in 1913 until his death in 1968. The furnishings inside the converted shed on the property that his daughter Nora Heysen used as a studio at the start of her career from 1926 until 1933,106 before travelling to Europe and eventually settling in Sydney, are more distinctly domestic. Following approval from Nora, who was still alive at the time, this studio was added to the tour a few years after the historic site became a museum.107 As a consequence, the site presents an inequitable comparison between the workspace of the father’s established career and the more modest studio of the daughter’s fledgling years.

Julia Behrens notes that despite the dominance of men as the primary occupants of modernist studios, significant examples of women’s studios feature among posthumously preserved historic sites, such as “Casa Azul” in Mexico City, Frida Kahlo’s family home where she lived and worked for most of her life and which opened as a museum in 1958 (separate from the purpose-built studio-residence she shared with Diego Rivera which is also a museum); Barbara Hepworth’s studio and sculpture garden in St Ives, England (fig. 11), which opened in 1976; and Georgia O'Keeffe’s studio in Abiquiu, New Mexico, which opened in 1997.108 A recent example that could be added to this list is the New York City townhouse used by Louise Bourgeois as a home and studio from 1962 until her death in 2010. The adjoining townhouse was purchased shortly before the artist’s death and serves as an exhibition space, archive, research centre, and the offices of the Easton Foundation, established by Bourgeois as a non-profit and charitable organisation. At the time of writing, the house is currently undergoing conservation and cataloguing of the archive, with plans to eventually open the site for guided tours.109 While it is less common for a posthumous studio museum to be solely dedicated to a woman, the practice dates back to as early as the example of Rosa Bonheur’s Château de By in the town of Thomery, south of Paris. Bonheur, primarily known as a painter of animals, died in 1899, and her studio was established as a museum in 1904 by the artist’s sole heir, Anna Klumpke.110 The historic site still stands as a well-preserved nineteenth-century studio. Beyond the Euro-American focus typical in studies of the posthumous studio, the Cape Town home of the South African painter Irma Stern, where she lived and worked for close to forty years until her death in 1966, was opened to the public in 1971. It is one of the few historic site museums dedicated to a South African artist.111

Figure 11: The stone carving studio at the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden, St Ives, England. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016.

The museums dedicated to Irma Stern, the Duldigs, and the Heysens, mentioned above, indicate that the phenomenon of the posthumous studio extends to the Southern Hemisphere, although this is frequently overlooked in literature on the topic. Other Australian examples in the historic site category include William Dobell’s house in Wangi which opened to the public in 1971;112 the Norman Lindsay Gallery and Museum in Faulconbridge which opened in 1973;113 and Mulberry Hill, the home on the outskirts of Melbourne shared by artist Daryl Lindsay (brother of Norman), and his wife, author Joan Lindsay, who bequeathed the property to the National Trust upon her death in 1984 (for many Mulberry Hill visitors, Joan’s legacy as the author of Picnic at Hanging Rock would be of greater interest than Daryl’s career as an artist). Each of these sites features the studio of the artist-occupant, as with later examples including the Brett Whiteley Studio in Sydney which opened to the public in 1995; and Arthur Boyd’s studio, part of Bundanon, the New South Wales property that the artist donated to the nation prior to his death in 1999. “The Rodd,” the final studio of Boyd’s contemporary and fellow Australian painter Sidney Nolan, is likewise preserved, and opened to the public in 2017, but based outside of Australia, in the Welsh town of Presteigne. New Zealand has McCahon House in Auckland, where painter Colin McCahon worked and lived with his family from 1953-59, which has been open to the public as a museum since 2006. There are non-Euro-American examples in the Northern Hemisphere also, such as Tokyo’s Tarō Okamoto Memorial Museum, which opened in 1998 in the former home and studio

27 of the artist, who died in 1996.

As the most common category of posthumous studio, the historic site represents a wide variety of museological approaches to commemorating an artist’s life and work. This study is focused on museums in which the site is configured in a manner that explicitly recalls its previous function as an artist’s studio. The degree of authenticity within such sites is variable, and inevitably undermined by the transition into a museum. Whether museums on the former site of a deceased artist’s studio preserve or restore the venue, or convert it for exhibition purposes, the unifying factor is the connection of the site itself to the artist. The next section will examine the relocation of posthumous studio artefacts for permanent display in a separate museum.

Off-site reconstruction The off-site reconstruction of a posthumous studio involves the installation of authentic artefacts relocated and displayed within a separate museum, with the aim of making visible the conditions of the original site. As far as possible, the configurations of such displays maintain “ensembles constituted from a previous context.”114 Like many period rooms, the preserved materials are typically presented within a setting intended to be viewed from the outside. As design historian Jeremy Aynsley observes:

the orthodoxy of the museum period room is to look on to the interior, as if the fourth wall were removed, which is also often actually the case. […] Few museums allow the visitor to enter every room and in this sense the experience of looking on to a naturalist setting of an unpeopled room is not totally removed from viewing its representation on the published page.115

Aynsley implies that the period room, like a photograph, is generally conceived of as a moment from the past frozen in time. It typically remains shielded from physical contact, separated from the reality of the museum visitor. This is the case with Constantin Brancusi’s studio, for instance. Originally located in Montparnasse and eventually reconstructed in 1997 outside the Pompidou Centre in Paris, Atelier Brancusi is housed within a purpose-built museum designed by Renzo Piano, where most of the outer walls of the studio have been replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows, creating a “fishbowl” effect that accentuates the visibility of the contents while keeping the space hermetically sealed.

The division between the accessible space of the museum and the rarefied realm of the studio reconstruction is consistent with what art historian Bernard Vere describes as “the attempt to retain aura.”116 Typically protected behind barricades or plexiglass screens, posthumous studio reconstructions are characterised by a degree of inaccessibility that Vere relates to the role of distance in critical theorist Walter Benjamin’s concept of aura.117 Film historian Miriam Bratu 28 Hansen describes aura’s commonly understood definition “as an elusive phenomenal substance, ether, or halo that surrounds a person or object of perception, encapsulating their individuality and authenticity.”118 For Benjamin, aura is a key concept, characterised by “the unique apparition of a distance, however near it may be.”119 The distance described by Benjamin may be understood in terms of the modes of display of posthumously reconstructed studios, rendering them out of reach in a spatial sense. It may also be understood as remoteness in time.120 Seemingly isolated from the present, the off-site reconstruction is preserved as a historical era situated in the lifetime of a deceased artist.

Figure 12: Francis Bacon studio reconstruction, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Benjamin applies his concept of aura to phenomena endowed with what he describes as the “ability to look back at us.”121 In this sense, auratic entities are bestowed with agency in an apparent subversion of the distinction between subject and object, as Hansen notes.122 According to Benjamin, “Experience of the aura thus arises from the fact that a response characteristic of human relationships is transposed to the relationship between humans and inanimate or natural objects.”123 The capacity for materials to produce effects in this way, summed up by the term “material agency,” is emphasised in this thesis and explored in more detail in Chapter Six. Central to this argument is Francis Bacon’s famously chaotic studio (fig. 12), which Vere singles out in relation to his observation that, in aiming to preserve aura, “reconstructions can exhibit a

29 paradoxically extreme concern with materials, a fetishized desire to make order out of chaos.”124 On permanent display since 2001 in the city of the artist’s birth at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, painstaking effort went into the recreation of its conditions, as if to compensate for the dislocation of the studio from its historic site at 7 Reece Mews in London. Although Aynsley identifies the absence of “everyday paraphernalia” as a feature that “distinguishes the period room in the context of a museum from the historic house museum,”125 this is not the case with reconstructed studios. Significantly, off-site studio reconstructions demonstrate a preoccupation with ephemera. The artist’s studio is understood as more than just its architectural frame or arrangement of furniture. Within off-site reconstructions of posthumous studios, as full an ensemble of elements as possible is presented in an effort to show the manner in which the space functioned for its inhabitant.

Furthermore, not only were the contents of Bacon’s original studio carefully excavated by a team of archaeologists, but the interior architecture itself was removed for inclusion in the museum installation. The comprehensive reconstruction in Dublin preserves the original floorboards, ceiling, and the distinctive, paint-smeared walls. Aside from two relatively discreet peepholes, the viewing positions for the reconstruction are consistent with the original site’s architectural openings at the doorway and windows. Without compromising the visibility of the display, the site maintains all of its surrounding walls. Further demonstrating the effort to archive every aspect of the studio, the inventory is documented in detail in the digital database produced in conjunction with the studio’s museumisation. Despite the upheaval generated by its removal from London, and certain elements that undermine the installation’s authenticity,126 the preservation of the studio as a total environment was pivotal to its reconstruction.

Prominently displayed amid the disorder of Bacon’s studio reconstruction is a distinctive mirror. Its reflectivity literalises the propensity for auratic objects to return the beholder’s gaze, as noted by Benjamin, and its circular form underscores this ocular role. Bacon’s reconstructed studio is the primary subject of this study, and the mirror serves as a focal point of the research, an account of which is detailed in the second half of this thesis. It is interesting to note that inside Atelier Brancusi is a mirror that closely corresponds with Bacon’s, matching its circular shape, blemished surface, and murky reflected image in which museum visitors can regard their own hazy likenesses (fig. 13). Benjamin’s allusion to the topos of “the seer seen”127 is echoed by Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who evokes the enterprise of the artist (and, by extension, the environment of the studio) when he writes, “as many painters have said, I feel myself looked at by the things, my activity is equally passivity.” 128 For Merleau-Ponty, vision entails a mutual exchange that can produce a profound sense of being outside oneself, “to be seduced, captivated, alienated by the phantom, so that the seer and the visible reciprocate one another and we no longer know which sees and which is seen.” 129 The initial observation of my own reflection in the mirrors of both

30 Bacon and Brancusi produced a disorienting sensation. In each case, the vague form in the distant mirror was barely recognisable. Like an apparition, it unexpectedly infiltrated the hermetically sealed studio space. The significance of the mirror’s production of a distorted and blemished reflection, and its duality as both a prosthesis of the beholder and a challenge to subjectivity, will be examined in more detail in relation to Bacon’s studio in Chapter Five.

Figure 13: Installation view of the reconstructed Atelier Brancusi, Paris. © Constantin Brancusi/ADAGP. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016.

The correspondences between the mirrors of Bacon and Brancusi to some extent also extend to the example of Eduardo Paolozzi’s reconstructed studio at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art in Edinburgh (fig. 14). There, a circular mirror hangs directly opposite the railing that designates the visitor’s point of observation. Unlike the mirrors of Brancusi and Bacon, however, its surface is pristine, as if to exemplify what Vere notes as a cleaned up version of the studio from which “knee-deep piles of material” were removed during the reconstruction process, including pornographic magazines despite the belief that these were consulted by the artist as anatomical references for his work.130 According to the gallery’s curator Patrick Elliot, the studio is a “sanitised” version of the original.131 Irrespectively, the Paolozzi studio reconstruction is filled with an abundance of materials. Consisting of the contents of Paolozzi’s London studios, it was donated by the artist in 1995, who suggested that “a studio reconstruction might act as a catalyst for people wishing to make art.”132 The reconstruction is unusual in that it was installed during

31 the artist’s lifetime in 1999. It remains on display as a posthumous installation since the artist’s death in 2005.

Figure 14: Eduardo Paolozzi's reconstructed studio at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2008.

As Vere observes, the off-site reconstruction of artists’ studios is something of a burgeoning phenomenon of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, demonstrated by the examples of Brancusi, Bacon, Paolozzi, and, until his studio was restored at its original address in 2009, Morandi.133 Additionally, one could cite Nam June Paik’s reconstructed New York studio, sold by the artist prior to his death in 2006 to the then yet to open Nam June Paik Art Centre in Korea. It has been permanently installed since the museum opened in 2008. More recent is the case of the Paris studio occupied by Alberto Giacometti from 1927 until his death in 1966. His widow, Annette Giacometti, preserved the contents, comprising furniture, art materials, and works of art in varying stages of completion. The effort to conserve the site even “entailed cutting down the walls of the sculptor's former workroom and bedroom, which bore drawings and daubs of paint,” prior to moving out of the premises in 1972.134 After decades in storage, the artefacts were eventually reconstructed as a permanent installation within the newly established Giacometti Institute in 2018, situated nearby the studio’s original location in Montparnasse.

Having been established as a museological practice, reconstructed studios set examples that

32 influence curators at other museums. This is evidenced by the fact that, in preparation for the Tweed Regional Gallery’s plans to reconstruct three rooms of the Sydney-based home studio of Australian painter Margaret Olley (opened in 2014), the gallery’s director, Susi Muddiman, undertook a research trip to consult key examples of similar museums in 2012. The sites Muddiman chose to visit were the Francis Bacon Studio in Dublin, and Casa Morandi in Bologna, affirming the studio reconstruction as its own recognised genre.135 As with each example of off- site reconstruction discussed here, the consistent factor initiating these museums is the collection accumulated in the studio, and a desire to preserve it for posterity as an ensemble. By contrast, the third and final category in this typology addresses posthumous studios staged in the absence of such collections.

Replication Replications of posthumous studios are distinct from off-site reconstructions in that they do not include original artefacts from the studios they represent. In this category I include both physical constructions and the relatively recent development of virtual environments generated via digital technology. As such, this type of posthumous studio is the furthest removed from what is typically understood as authentic. Unlike the historic site and the off-site reconstruction, the replica is more likely to be installed in conjunction with a temporary exhibition than placed on permanent display.

When I visited New York for the first time in 1998, my arrival coincided with a major retrospective of Jackson Pollock at the Museum of Modern Art, which I attended on the last Tuesday of the year. Among my most vivid recollections of the exhibition is the life-size replica of Pollock’s barn-studio erected within the museum (fig. 15). The aim behind the replication of the studio was to evoke what the exhibition’s curator Kirk Varnedoe describes as “one of my most powerful experiences: the barn’s small size, and the mundane nature of its space in contrast to the transcendant pictures.”136 Despite the attention to detail in terms of matching the timber boards and the overall dimensions and design of the barn,137 the 1998 replication was a more ascetic version of the already spartan studio preserved at Pollock-Krasner House. At MoMA, none of the artist’s tools or materials were present, and the pristine space bore no trace of paint. It was no more than an empty shell. Once inside, the juxtaposition between the enclosed space of the barn and the expansive paintings in the adjacent galleries was pronounced.

The presence of the replicated barn at MoMA indicates the significance attributed to the studio as a context for Pollock’s work. According to architectural historian Victoria Newhouse, Varnedoe was justified in his desire to install a copy of the studio.138 Newhouse notes exhibition designer Jerry Neuner’s effectiveness in placing a photograph of the original studio’s paint- spattered floor at the entrance rather than trying to replicate the stains on the floor, but observes that Hans Namuth’s photographs of Pollock in the act of painting, displayed around the interior to entice the viewer to step inside, compromised “a true sense of the barn’s space and function.”139 Newhouse suggests that the imposition of a secondary function as a photo gallery (similar to the situation encountered by visitors to Pollock-Krasner House in East Hampton), becomes a distraction within the MoMA version of the studio, and that the beholder of the space should have the opportunity to experience it for its own sake. However, the replica, in its pristine condition inside the crowded museum, was unlikely to accurately represent the studio in any case. Whereas Newhouse assumes a singular function for Pollock’s studio, my view is that studios are dynamic and flexible spaces, open to shifting contexts, and this is perhaps especially true for posthumous studios.

While the creators of the replica of Pollock’s studio had the benefit of the original site to examine closely, other replicas have no surviving source from which to work. The absence of the original can be the motivation for replicating such sites, in order to recover and experience that which is

34 no longer extant. The primary source material for such projects typically comprises images that serve as the only surviving visual documentation of the original site. This was the case with architect Peter Bissegger’s replica of Kurt Schwitters’ Hannover studio, the original of which was destroyed in 1943 during a British air raid.140 The studio is famous for its “Merzbau” installation, a sculptural assemblage that began in a corner of the artist’s studio in 1917,141 and eventually merged with the interior architecture throughout as many as eight rooms of the artist’s home.142 Bissegger’s version is based on a handful of images of the original interior, resulting in “a close approximation of the original studio” as it appeared in three photographs taken by Wilhelm Redemann in 1933.143 Commissioned by Harald Szeemann for the 1983 exhibition Der Hang Sum Gesamtkunstwerk at the Zurich Kunsthaus, the replicated Merzbau was subsequently shown in Berlin, Düsseldorf, and Vienna, and it is now permanently installed at the Sprengel Museum in Hannover, with a second version constructed in 1988 as a “travel copy” for temporary exhibitions.144

A similar project, also reliant on archival photography and commenced in the 1980s, was undertaken by the architect Frans Postma when he replicated the Paris studio of Piet Mondrian. Occupied by the artist between 1921 and 1936, only a handful of images of the space were available as reference material, the principal sources being three photographs taken in 1926 by

35 Paul Delbo.145 As early as 1974, there had been curatorial interest in constructing a replica of the space, but there was not yet enough known evidence to achieve an adequate result. It was more than a decade later that Postma initiated his research, setting it as a project for students at the Delft University of Technology where he taught architectural model making.146 The intention was to engage the students’ three-dimensional imaginations by setting a task that required them to build architectural maquettes based only on two-dimensional images.147 One of the great challenges in constructing an accurate replica of the site was the fact that the building that housed Mondrian’s studio was demolished in 1938 to make way for the expansion of Montparnasse Station, but a search of archives in Paris led to the discovery of the architectural plans in 1987.148 Using the architectural plans in conjunction with Delbo’s photographs, Postma was eventually able to construct an architecturally accurate, life-size replica, complete with copies of paintings on the walls and imitations of the original furnishings (fig. 16).

First exhibited in Amsterdam in 1994 to mark the fiftieth anniversary of Mondrian’s death, the full-scale replica was then installed in Mondriaanhuis, a museum dedicated to the artist at the site of his childhood home in Amersfoort. The installation remained on loan there for over a decade, and when Postma retrieved it with the intention of touring it to various museums internationally, the museum in Amersfoort hired another architect to produce a replacement version. Like the two versions of the replicated Merzbau, the Mondrian studio replica exists as both a travelling version and a permanent installation. The copy that now permanently occupies the museum in Amersfoort lacks the attention to detail evident in Postma’s version, with some inconsistencies in relation to the installation’s materials, colour scheme, and architectural measurements. It does, however, offer a fuller experience of Mondrian’s apartment through the inclusion of a secondary space adjacent to the studio, containing Mondrian’s kitchen and bedroom. Also in the Amersfoort version is an eccentric addition to the installation: a video projection of an actor portraying Mondrian plays on a loop at three separate positions within the studio reconstruction (fig. 17). Shown cooking at the stove, smoking a cigarette on the couch, and playing a record by the window, the actor performing these brief pantomimes is Bob Kauffmann, who not only bears a resemblance to Mondrian, but is in fact the architect responsible for the installation at Amersfoort. Kauffmann, apparently with the aim of conjuring the artist’s presence, becomes a kind of imposter, insinuating his own ghostly presence into Mondrian’s studio as an audio-visual projection. This apparition of the artist, appearing in triplicate no less, is projected onto the furniture and walls, into which the image dissipates as the looped video fades in and out.

The creative liberties taken with Mondrian’s replicated studio in Amersfoort are indicative of a tendency especially evident in replicated studios. In the absence of authentic, historical artefacts and the reverence usually afforded to them, it seems that replica studios can sometimes generate a converse motivation to manufacture a sense of the artist’s aura.149 Although Postma is not responsible for the audio-visual interventions introduced at Amersfoort, he too expresses an interest in more vividly representing Mondrian’s presence within his travelling version of the studio. Noting that Mondrian was a chain smoker, Postma has considered infusing the installation with a strong smell of tobacco. As the architect explains, “I want that people can smell and feel the atmosphere of Mondrian’s workplace and can place themselves in the year 1926!!”150 In an effort to bring Delbo’s photographs to life, Mondrian’s studio is replicated in a manner that strives to produce an immersive and embodied experience. Ironically, art historian Michael White asserts that for Mondrian, among the various roles performed by the studio was its function “as an image in its own right.”151 Through his creative staging of the interior and the carefully choreographed photographs taken there, Mondrian was invested in the two-dimensional translation of his working environment and its dissemination via photographic reproduction, “utilising the studio to prepare his critical reception.”152 Almost a century later, the photographs of Mondrian’s studio now generate a reverse trajectory, translated as multisensory environments to be experienced in the round.

The studio of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai pre-dates photography, but it is recorded from memory in an image drawn in ink by his apprentice Tsuyuki Iitsu. The drawing shows Hokusai at work while his daughter, Katsushika Ōi, also an artist, watches over him. The passive role of the female onlooker is commonly seen in representations of studios, reinforcing their stereotype as a masculine space. The Sumida Hokusai Museum, which opened in 2016 in Tokyo’s Sumida City, the artist’s birthplace and home for much of his life, replicates the image as a life-size, three- dimensional diorama (fig. 18). Lifelike mannequins represent the figures inside. The effigy of Hokusai is even animated: his right arm—hand poised with brush over a drawing in progress—is slowly lowered and raised in repetitive, animatronic motions, doubtlessly transgressing the bounds Pinna warns of, beyond which a museum begins to resemble an amusement park.153

Figure 18: Life-size animatronic model of Hokusai and his daughter Ōi in the studio, Sumida Hokusai Museum, Tokyo. Photograph: Melanie Giovannoni, 2018.

The use of technology in recreating posthumous studios extends to computer-generated experiences, with virtual reality emerging as a trend employed in major museums. Recent exhibitions of Francis Bacon’s works at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in 2016, and those of Amedeo Modigliani at Tate Modern in London in 2017, are two such examples. Given that Bacon’s studio is permanently installed in Dublin and visible from the outside only, and Modigliani’s former studio in Montparnasse is now a private residence, the sites were digitally

38 replicated in an attempt to evoke the environments of each. VR headsets were made available to visitors in order to provide an immersive experience of the studio as a supplement to the work on display.

Andrew Hardman interprets the posthumous studio via Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok’s psychoanalytic concept of “preservative repression,”154 understood as “the subject's fantasy that the object it fears losing can be saved.”155 According to Hardman’s analysis, “the art world” in general is identified as the traumatised subject, which he suggests is drawn to the preservation of modernist studios as a reaction to losses generated through the postmodern condition that heralded the death of the author and the dematerialisation of the art object.156 Paraphrasing performance art theorist Peggy Phelan, Hardman suggests that “the studio stands in, like an ‘illustrated corpse,’ for what the subject most desires, the return of its beloved object, the artist.”157 The fantasy of posthumous studios—“staged as if their former occupants may have just left and may, at any moment, return”158—is predicated on an illusion of the artist’s proximity, reinforced by the presence of a historic site, original artefacts, or a convincing replica.

The context of the museum, however, is an ever-present reminder of the posthumous studio’s inherent artifice and the fact that the artist has departed, never to return (or was never really there in the first place). The illusion can be most startlingly unsettled by the introduction of an imposter standing in the artist’s place, such as the animatronic Hokusai in Tokyo, or the Mondrian impersonator encountered via video projection in Amersfoort. In addressing the posthumous studio as the subject of this thesis, the aim is not to assuage anxiety over some kind of loss, or indulge in nostalgia for a bygone era. Nor is there a desire to pay homage to dead artists or resume their preoccupations. Instead, the project employs the posthumous studio as a resource for artistic practice and conceptual reflection, challenging the mythologisation of the modernist artist’s studio as the private domain of the solitary genius. The threefold typology examined above elucidates museological approaches to the posthumous studio, establishing criteria that inform my methodology for investigating selected case studies via practice-based research, as set out in the chapters that follow.

39 Chapter Two

Revisiting the Modernist Studio

The trope of the modernist studio Since the turn of the millennium, and in the past decade especially, a wealth of literature has been published on the history of the studio, debates around its function and value, and its relevance for contemporary practice.159 Likewise, an array of recent publications that revive the tradition of vue d’atelier photography,160 and the proliferation of the posthumous studio in museums globally, suggest there is a ready audience that regards the studio as worthy of attention. This recent increase in scholarly and popular attention—what Rachel Esner terms a “reawakened interest in the artist’s studio”161— is concurrent with a re-evaluation of post-studio critiques from the latter half of the twentieth century. In this chapter, I identify some of the key themes underpinning the dismissal of the studio in postmodern thought and art practices. Rather than attempt a historical account of the studio in modernism, the intention here is to summarise the key myths associated with the modernist studio, and consider alternative perspectives in order to problematise the dominant narrative and challenge established assumptions in post-studio discourse. A selection of artworks from recent decades, in which the studio is featured within a gallery or museum, will be raised later in the chapter, examining how they contribute to understandings of the studio and reflect the legacy of what Caroline A. Jones refers to as the “trope” of the modernist studio. These examples contextualise the video installation, Mise en Abyme (2018), discussed in the final section of this chapter and produced as part of my practice-based research investigating the reconstructed studio of Francis Bacon.

The popular fascination for the artist’s studio, already established in the late nineteenth century as mentioned in the previous chapter, continued into the twentieth century. The photography of Edward Steichen was influential in this regard in America,162 where a profusion of illustrated features in the popular press of the mid-century participated in what art historian Mary Bergstein describes as the “mystique of the artist’s atelier.”163 Bergstein observes that artistic production, as represented in such magazines as Life, Vogue, and Harper’s Bazaar, is dominated by men and equated with masculinity and virility.164 By contrast, women in the studio are “cast as natural, passive beings whose role was opposite and complementary to the artistic pursuit.”165 Bergstein’s focus is on images of the studios of artists such as Giacometti, as photographed by Alexander Liberman and Brassaï and appearing in the abovementioned American magazines, as well as the books that later compiled their respective oeuvres (Liberman’s The Artist in his Studio, originally published in 1960, and Brassaï’s The Artists of My Life, 1982). Feminist critiques of the modernist studio are by no means confined to just these examples, as Bergstein herself points out.166 Art historian Carol Duncan, for example, notes the promulgation of the image of the virile male artist

40 contrasted with the female subjugated to a powerless role in much twentieth century art representing the studio.167

Implicit within the myth of the studio as a masculine domain is an emphasis on the male genius who masterfully manipulates his materials, which are understood as passive and inert. According to this account, the studio is an extension of the artist’s identity, its passivity making it a ready receiver of the artist’s imprint, affirming the subject who works there. Andrew Hardman identifies representations of artists’ studios as a genre unto itself which he calls the “studio-view,” translated from the French term vue d’atelier.168 It has its historical roots as a subject in painting and, later, photography, but Hardman also admits into this category the focus of my own investigation: the posthumous studio, which he refers to as “the burgeoning trend to archive and exhibit the materiality of the artist’s studio.”169 There is a tendency for the studio-view to be interpreted as having a direct correlation with the mind of the artist-occupant.170 The studio as an extension of the artist’s identity is evident, for example, in Esner’s interpretation of artists’ representations of their “empty” studios as a form of self-portraiture,171 thus reinforcing the so-called master’s dominion over the site, even when absent from view. The studio, seen in this light, is regarded as “ideologically suspect,”172 frequently thought of in connection with unfashionable themes and romantic clichés of the tormented artist mired in heroic, solitary, masculine labour.

Over the past half-century, postmodernism, and the post-studio discourse that accompanied it, has questioned the institutions of modernism, debating the relevance of the studio. For some artists, the studio is considered an unnecessary accessory tied to modernist art practices and inhibiting the development of new ideas and techniques. Robert Smithson, associated with post-studio discourse early on, stated in 1968, “Deliverance from the confines of the studio frees the artist to a degree from the snares of craft and the bondage of creativity.”173 The idea of the studio as a restriction on art practice emerged in this context.

Perpetuating the theme of the studio as a limitation, Daniel Buren’s frequently cited essay, ‘The Function of the Studio’ (1971), describes the studio as art’s “first frame, the first limit, upon which all subsequent frames/limits will depend.”174 According to Buren, the “frame” of the studio serves to keep the work made there “isolated from the real world” so that it may remain “subject to infinite manipulation” by curators, dealers, collectors, etc.175 The “unspeakable compromise of the portable work [of art],”176 to be reframed in a foreign environment or at the hands of curatorial intent, is regarded by Buren as the studio’s ultimate failing. That is, a work of art must depart the studio in order to receive an audience, but, having done so, is divested of its history, meaning, or specificity. While Buren regards this reframing as a loss of meaning, he claims that a far more ruinous fate of “total oblivion” inevitably falls upon any artwork remaining within the confines of the studio.177 Buren’s argument reinforces the image of the studio as a hidden domain

41 inaccessible to outsiders.

The separation between the studio (and any artwork produced within it) and the world beyond, from which it is “totally foreign,” represents a gaping void for Buren. He describes this as “an abyss which, were it to become apparent, as sooner or later it must, would hurl the entire parade of art […] into historical oblivion.”178 Buren’s view of the studio as isolated within an “abyss” conforms with its generally negative characterisation as an institution, which, by the latter decades of the twentieth century, had come to be criticised for what Jones describes as “a time-honored trope of the site of creation as solitary, male, and free—an ivory tower unencumbered by worldly affairs.”179 While the museum is the quintessential destination of the work of art’s passage into the public eye, by contrast, the modernist studio in particular is typically regarded as closed off from the outside world.

In her book Machine in the Studio: Constructing the Postwar American Artist, Jones charts the rise of post-studio practices in the 1960s. The focus of her detailed study is the development of a new approach to art making in which industrial and corporate practices are a significant influence, evident in the studios of Frank Stella, Andy Warhol and Smithson. Jones contrasts these with modernist studio practices, particularly the American studios of the pioneers of the so-called New York School in the post-war era, which she describes as contributing to “a powerful topos—the solitary individual artist in a semi-sacred studio space.”180 The artist occupying such a workspace is correspondingly portrayed as a “saturnine recluse.”181 According to Jones, “the isolation of the studio” is something that, by the 1960s, “became an absurd anachronism, impossible to maintain (but […] always ready to return from the repressed).”182 In her interpretation of the modernist studio as a private space and closed shop of contemplation, deliberation, and labour, Jones follows the discourse of post-studio critique. Art historian Frank Reijnders notes that, for Jones, post- studio practices are “a form of liberation from the confines of the studio” which is “always a negative point of reference” in her account, and thus she does not debate its characterisation according to post-studio discourse.183 Such limiting perspectives rely on generalisations, and popular perceptions that too easily dismiss modernist studio practices en masse, overlooking its complexities and useful implications for contemporary practice. The rigid boundaries evident in most descriptions of the modernist studio ought to be unsettled.

Among the accounts of the modernist studio that demonstrate an openness to agencies above and beyond the singular identity of a reclusive artist is the example of Laszlo Moholy-Nagy’s so- called “telephone paintings” from 1922. According to the artist, his series of five enamel paintings on steel were ordered from a sign factory via telephone, working from a colour chart and using graph paper to establish the compositions.184 This gesture suggests a concept of the studio as distributed across different sites with the aid of telecommunications. As an alternative approach

42 to the common understanding of practices of the modernist era, Moholy-Nagy’s telephone paintings represent a departure, signalling an opening up of the closed world of the studio. While the precise details of these works have been disputed, including an account from the artist’s wife Lucia Moholy suggesting the works were in fact ordered in person,185 the project is significant in its outsourcing of labour. Jones describes Moholy-Nagy’s delegation of labour for the telephone paintings as an “extraordinary move” which ultimately was not indicative of a wider trend,186 but it nonetheless prompts a consideration of how a more nuanced understanding of the modernist studio might position it as a precursor to the so-called “post-studio” rather than its antithesis.

In this light, art historian Morgan Thomas argues that in the spacious, commercial sites in which many Abstract Expressionists worked, “the displacement of the studio” is activated, rather than a precipitation of its decisive fall.187 She identifies the relationship to space in Mark Rothko’s working methods as a case in point. In contrast to Buren’s concept of the studio as the work of art’s “first frame,” Thomas points out that for Rothko, “the studio doesn’t necessarily come first.”188 Contesting the notion of Rothko’s studio as the “closed world” suggested by Jones,189 she points out that Rothko adapted his working conditions to correspond with the destinations of commissions he worked on. Rothko set up his studio to establish an engagement with the world outside, particularly in relation to major projects for the Seagram Building, Harvard University, and the Houston Chapel, for example. The Chapel project involved the construction of a “built- to-scale simulation of three of the eight walls.”190 Thus, far from a closed and isolated environment divorced from the world beyond, the example of Rothko shows an acute awareness of the outside contexts that await the work produced within it. Correspondingly, rather than signalling a rupture from the studio, Thomas sees “post-studio” practices such as Robert Smithson’s as an expansion of the studio rather than a departure from it, continuing the “outward direction” of studio practices she attributes to Abstract Expressionists like Rothko.

Indeed, there is a long tradition dating back centuries in which the artist’s studio operates with remarkable flexibility, breaching the confines of the insular studio to incorporate plein air practices or collaborative processes of various kinds. According to art historians Michael Cole and Mary Pardo, for instance, two kinds of spaces for artistic practice operated in tandem in the Renaissance era: the studiolo (a mostly private inner sanctum for withdrawal, reflection and study), contrasted with the workshop, or bottega (“the airy, crowded environment” in which assistants engaged in the ostensibly more menial tasks of production).191 Art historian Anthony Hughes presents an even more complex view of the artists’ workspaces in the Renaissance era. Discussing the workshops of Florentine artists, he describes the remarkably ad hoc conditions of studio personnel, comparing their workplace to a modern construction site with specialist workers subcontracted for short-term tasks. Far from being a fixed entity, Hughes states that it “could expand in different directions on occasion, draw in apparently foreign matter and even split to

43 form new ventures.”192 Even in this early period, discerning a definite shape of the site of artistic production, and the operations within, is a somewhat elusive endeavour. As Hughes observes: “The boundaries of the studio proper were often extremely difficult to define.”193 Despite the presence of a master occupying an atelier’s inner core and overseeing the activities taking place in the bottega, the Renaissance studio was a variable entity split between different functions and operating in a state of flux. Thus, even from the origins of the studio in the early modern period, it is characterised by openness and versatility.

By contrast, Buren, dependent on an interpretation of artists’ workspaces as fixed and inflexible sites, claims its complete abandonment within his own practice, declaring in the final line of his essay, “All my work proceeds from its extinction.”194 He sums up what he regards as the studio’s tripartite function thus: “1. It is the place where the work originates; 2. It is generally a private place, an ivory tower perhaps; 3. It is a stationary place where portable objects are produced.”195 Buren’s adoption of an itinerant practice of installing work in situ wherever he exhibits may bypass the latter two points, but Buren is unable to escape the first. In fact, “the place where the work originates” is of central importance for Buren, who argues that the removal of this context is fatal for works of art: “Torn from their context, their ‘environment,’ they had lost their meaning and died, to be reborn as forgeries.”196 As art historian Wouter Davidts points out, Buren has on occasion acknowledged a continuing role for the studio in his own practice: “My studio has multiplied itself in the world, so it feels as if I’m in my studio every day to produce things.”197 Davidts observes that Buren is dependent on the studio as “his true point of departure but ever denied point of reference.”198 Without it, according to Buren’s own argument, the work lacks any context, and all meaning is at risk of being lost in the abyss.

Despite Buren’s purported rejection of the studio, he concludes his essay by professing admiration for Constantin Brancusi’s supposed circumvention of the “infinite manipulation” to which art is subject when it leaves the studio and enters a “foreign” context: gallery, museum or collection.199 Praising Brancusi’s intelligence in bequeathing his work to the French Government with the stipulation that it be preserved in his Paris studio, Buren observed that Brancusi, who died in 1957, “thwarted any attempt to disperse his work, frustrated speculative ventures, and afforded every visitor the same perspective as himself at the moment of creation.”200 It is curious that Buren, in a defining document of post-studio discourse, should single out an example of a posthumous studio as a solution to the dilemmas he addresses in his essay. Critic and art historian Isabelle Graw suggests that this identification of Atelier Brancusi as an exemplary model attests to Buren’s grief and nostalgia for the studio.201

Ironically, Brancusi’s studio in the Impasse Ronsin in Paris had already been demolished in 1961, ten years prior to Buren’s essay, due to structural deficiencies in the building.202 There have since

44 been three posthumous reconstructions of Brancusi’s studio in Paris, beginning with the Palais de Tokyo’s Museum of Modern Art in 1962. Buren notes that his essay refers to this first reconstruction.203 According to architect Albrecht Barthel, all three reconstructions “would fail to recapture what had been lost in the demolition, even though they would display Brancusi’s sculptures in their original configuration.”204 Buren later added to his own original observations, stating:

In the case of the Brancusi studio, in its first incarnation, you had a conceptual totality as designated by the artist rather than a reconstruction that was never requested by him, as happened later when the studio was reconstructed outside the Pompidou Centre in 1977 and again and even worse in 1997.205

While Buren makes reference to the “first incarnation” of Brancusi’s studio, it would appear that what he has in mind is in fact its first reincarnation, i.e., the posthumously relocated version situated in the Palais de Tokyo from 1962, which, according to Barthel, “did not bear any resemblance to the historic studio.”206 Barthel points out the differences in wall and floor surfaces, the reduced daylight, and the absence of larger sculptures due to a lower ceiling height. He also goes on to detail instances of what he describes as “intrusions,” “alterations” and “transgressions” perpetrated by art historians, curators and conservators in the 1962 version of the studio which were “in violation of the artist’s intentions.”207 These issues are not addressed by Buren, who instead implies that the studio had been preserved according to Brancusi’s wishes up until its move to the Pompidou Centre in 1977.

Buren’s advocacy of the production and presentation of art as a “conceptual totality” controlled by an individual artist reflects a modernist perspective on the artist as the sole arbiter of meaning, and the studio as a protective sanctuary for the artist’s intentions. Buren’s attitude is antithetical to an opening up of the studio to other agents and intentionalities. The terms of Brancusi’s bequest pre-empt such disruptions, with instructions intended to prevent potential (and arguably inevitable) alterations to the experience of the studio following the artist’s death. As both Barthel and Buren make clear, the studio ultimately succumbed to interventions from others despite Brancusi’s instructions. However, within the posthumous context of Brancusi’s studio today (fig. 19), the notion of a ‘conceptual totality’ is not so much lost as reshaped by a distributed agency.

Figure 19: Installation view of the reconstructed Atelier Brancusi, Paris. © Constantin Brancusi/ADAGP. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

The legacy of post-studio critiques such as Buren’s is that the artist’s studio continues to be plagued by something of an image problem. “The challenge to the studio in recent times,” according to art historian Svetlana Alpers, “is not Warhol’s factory model but the greater world outside it. At present, either the studio is felt to be too constrained, or constraint itself is suspect.”208 The constraint to which Alpers refers is the perception of the studio as an insular environment, a view inherited from post-studio discourse. But as art theorist Lane Relyea suggests, the negative view of the studio has lost its relevance.

No longer does the studio appear as an ideological frame that mystifies production, a space where the realities of social or mass production are supposedly held at bay in favour of an antiquated craft model that showcases the individual artist’s creative genius. And no longer is the studio seen as belonging to a ‘system’ such as Buren described, as a space characterized by box-like enclosures, of ‘frames and limits’, each assigned a discreet place in some rigid, stable and all-determining structure or order.209

The studio is a far more complex phenomenon than post-studio discourse suggests. Far from being relegated to history, artists’ studios continue to proliferate and evolve, and remain integral to much contemporary art practice. However, the studio as a phenomenon in the modernist era, and the postmodern critiques of it, remains an implicit concept within recent self-reflexive practices

46 that seek to examine the status of the studio in the present. This can be seen in projects in which artists place the studio itself at the centre of the exhibition.

Exhibiting the studio As Buren’s essay demonstrates, post-studio discourse was critical of the boundary separating the studio from conditions external to it. One of the key strategies artists have adopted in mitigating the separation between the private domain of the studio and the world beyond is to situate the studio within an exhibition context. Reijnders observes, “Since the early 1960s, a transformation has taken place and one is tempted to view the closed studio as the anachronism, a relic of the Romantic era.”210 An early example of the transformation to which Reijnders refers can be identified among works such as Lucas Samaras’ Room #1 (1964), a reconstruction of the artist’s New Jersey bedroom studio. Likewise, the studio of Robert Morris and its associated processes and activities were relocated to a gallery context when the artist established a workspace reminiscent of a construction site in his performance-based exhibition Continuous Project Altered Daily at Leo Castelli’s warehouse space in 1969.

Julia Behrens observes that, subsequent to early examples from the 1960s, “the exhibited studio” became a prevalent phenomenon in art in the 1990s.211 Relevant in this context is Tracey Emin’s 1996 performance at Stockholm’s Galleri Andreas Brändström, in which the artist lived inside the gallery for a three-week period equipped with a series of blank canvases and painting materials.212 Titled Exorcism of the Last Painting I Ever Made, the performance called for Emin to work intensively on paintings for the duration of the exhibition, a discipline she had not attempted since 1990. Furthermore, the exhibition called to mind the studio’s history as an institution rooted in romantic clichés and phallocentric fantasies. Sixteen fish-eye lenses were positioned in the walls, enabling the public to voyeuristically peer into the inner sanctum of the studio as the artist worked naked, simultaneously assuming the guise of both artist and model.213 According to Rachel Esner, Emin’s performance is “less a parody of the traditional trope of the studio as the isolated sanctuary of artistic genius than a restitution and, ultimately, appropriation of it.”214

Art historian Julia Gelshorn makes a similar point in relation to installations by Matthew Barney, Martin Kippenberger, Jason Rhoades and Paul McCarthy, in which feminist critiques of the “masculine mystique” of the studio serve as a departure point. She writes: “the attempts to undermine, subvert or renounce the myth, tend only to reveal that the annihilation of the studio is itself a counter-myth.”215 The pervasive myths of the modernist studio are difficult to overcome, particularly when the studio is re-staged as a site for interrogating the artist’s identity, or indeed in any context that privileges the artist at the centre. When Corin Hewitt mounted his Seed Stage project in 2008, for example, he took up residence in a studio installed inside the lobby gallery of

47 the Whitney Museum in New York. The artist’s segregation from the public was made conspicuous, with narrow openings at the corners of the walls enabling the only views into the otherwise enclosed studio. Consequently, viewers were relegated to the status of “voyeurs rather than relational participants,” as art historian Judith Rodenbeck notes.216 The relocation of a studio into a museum or gallery for public display can reinforce stereotypes as much as challenge them.

Figure 20: Bruce Nauman, Mapping the Studio I (Fat Chance John Cage), 2001, multiscreen projection, installation view, Dia: Beacon, New York. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017.

Writing on Bruce Nauman’s Studio Films of the 1960s and ’70s, art historian Eric de Bruyn highlights the well-established mystique of the artist’s domain as secret and privileged when he observes: “by introducing the camera, Nauman has punctured the private shell of the studio.”217 What Nauman frequently reveals in his early studio videos is the artist himself, performing repetitious activities for the camera. However, a work from 2001, Mapping the Studio I (Fat Chance John Cage) (fig. 20), commences with the artist’s departure and is notable for his absence over the work’s six-hour long duration. A number of permutations of the work have been shown featuring an immersive multi-screen projection that shapes the exhibition space in such a way as to approximate the dimensions of Nauman’s studio. The video consists of edited night vision surveillance footage of his New Mexico studio.218 The idea was to document what, if anything, happened in the studio when the artist wasn’t there. The video briefly captures Nauman leaving after switching on the cameras, and proceeds to document the stirrings of the occasional mouse

48 and Nauman’s uninterested studio cat. Describing the work in a manner befitting any posthumous studio, critic and curator Robert Storr writes: “It is the life of the studio after the life of art has been suspended. It is the artist’s environment absent the artist and his transformative presence.”219 Nauman’s absence highlights what art historian Beatrice von Bismarck describes as the studio’s “independent, living nature.”220 Mapping the Studio suggests that the artist’s specialised knowledge cannot offer up all there is to know about the studio. Rather, it is an entity unto itself, in possession of its own mysteries that persist whether or not the studio is inhabited, and which Nauman attempts to discover with the aid of night vision video footage.

Figure 21: Christian Boltanski, The Life Of C.B., 2010-ongoing, nine CRT video monitors, installation view, MONA, Tasmania. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017.

Related to Nauman’s empty studio view is Christian Boltanski’s work The Life of C.B. Inside a small, bunker-like room at Tasmania’s Museum of Old and New Art (MONA), nine monitors screen continuous live and pre-recorded video transmitted from Christian Boltanski’s studio (fig. 21). Once recorded, the video from each 24-hour day is stored on Blu-Ray Discs that continue to accumulate on the shelves installed inside the room. Due to the time difference between Boltanski’s studio in Paris and the museum in Hobart, the artist is seldom present in the live feed during MONA’s opening hours. Commissioned in 2009 by MONA owner David Walsh, The Life of C.B. has been recorded since 1 February 2010 and is to continue until the artist’s death.221 Boltanski’s oeuvre, known for addressing the role of the archive, is perhaps exemplified in the

49 video work at MONA, described by David Houston Jones as “The most extreme version of the self-archiving project.”222 According to their agreement, Walsh pays Boltanski a monthly fee that ceases upon Boltanski’s death, incorrectly predicted by Walsh to occur within eight years from the work’s commencement.223 By the end of the initial eight years, the payments amounted to the agreed value of the work. For every subsequent month the artist lives beyond the life expectancy predicted by Walsh, the more expensive the work becomes. Studios in general are more than just a site of production; they record and store evidence of the artist’s processes and materials. Through the surveillance of Boltanski’s studio at MONA, the studio’s role as an archive is transferred off-site as a virtual, “pre-posthumous” studio.

Figure 22: Exterior of the “Boltanski Cave” housing Christian Boltanski’s The Life of C.B., MONA, Hobart, Tasmania. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2017.

The Life of C.B. enacts a dissemination of Boltanski’s studio via the video transmission, and yet the installation at MONA in some ways reinforces the studio’s status as a closed and isolated environment. It is situated by the gallery’s ferry wharf inside an air-conditioned bunker of concrete, timber and zinc cladding (fig. 22). The work’s purpose-built, windowless structure with its door concealed around the side does not evoke an inviting presence to visitors, many of whom walk directly past it on their way to the main gallery, not realising there is an artwork inside. In its austere monumentality, it appears as an emblem of high modernism, its architecture echoing the closed world of the studio.

Despite the many artists who have sought to challenge the confines of the studio, there has not been a predominant or permanent shift in art practice to succeed in dismantling the image of the studio as the private domain of the isolated genius. From Tracey Emin’s studio-habitat inside a gallery, to the 24-hour surveillance of Christian Boltanski’s Paris studio, the conception of the studio as the artist’s inner sanctum is frequently implicit in its public exposure. There remains a tension between the studio’s private and public contexts. The pervasive concept of the studio as an enclosed, private domain continues to attract efforts to critique, expand or demystify its function.

Mise en abyme Among the works produced as part of my practice-based research is the video installation Mise en Abyme (2018), consisting of an architectural construction at UNSW Galleries in Sydney that replicates Francis Bacon’s studio on a 1:1 scale. In contrast to the fortified architecture of Boltanski’s Cave at MONA, the exposed studs on the exterior of the installation highlight the provisional nature of the space as a temporary model. Furthermore, the installation’s open doorway and the gap between the walls and ceiling offset the sense of enclosure and confinement.

Figure 23: David Eastwood, video still of the Francis Bacon Studio, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2016.

The video featured within the installation was shot at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane where Francis Bacon’s studio is reconstructed. Screening on a loop, the video sequence shows the paint- stained wall in the studio against which Bacon’s mirror is prominently placed in the centre of the composition (fig. 23). Cluttered objects such as bottles, jars, tins, brushes, rags, and piles of books line the bottom edge of the frame. The video is projected life-size against the corresponding wall

51 in the installation. However, in place of the mirror, which has been blacked out of the video image in post-production, is an actual mirror manufactured to the same dimensions, carefully positioned on top of built-in shelving matching Bacon’s shelves. The mirror is integrated with the projection so that when the viewer stands before it, their own reflection appears to enter the video frame as a shadowy figure within the darkened room.

A second video is projected onto the wall opposite the one described above. It shows the circular mirror from Dublin in isolation, projected on an enlarged scale. It is the inverse of the first video, in that the wall surrounding the mirror has been blacked out in post-production. In the video of the mirror, Bacon’s studio windows, positioned opposite, are reflected. They show a glimpse of the space beyond the studio: the museum. The foggy silhouettes of museum visitors move past the window frames, looking in. One onlooker is myself, another is an anonymous passerby who happened to walk past during the video shoot.

Produced as a replica of the original during the course of this research, the mirror used in the installation has previously been put to use as a prop in my studio, with the observed reflections informing my paintings, as will be discussed in more detail in the second half of this thesis. The mirror thus has a dual significance as an artefact associated with Bacon’s studio and my own. It serves as a “portal” connecting the exhibition venue with the different spaces of Bacon’s studio (both its original location in London and its reconstruction in Dublin), and my own studio in Sydney. In their positions opposite each other, the replica mirror on the shelf and the video projection of the Dublin mirror allude to an infinite loop of reflection, hence the title’s reference to the mise en abyme; the visual effect observed between two mirrors that reflect each other endlessly. In the installation, however, the capacity of the mirrors to reflect is impeded. The video of the mirror, of course, reflects nothing in the room in which it is viewed. On the other side of the installation, in the deteriorated state of the blemished mirror surface, only a dim reflection of visitors in the room is possible. The mirror also reflects the video projection of Bacon’s mirror opposite, allowing the possibility of the two video projections to be reassembled as one, while also permitting the intrusion of other elements, such as observers who enter the space.

As a posthumous studio replica, Mise en Abyme (fig. 24) omits much. Absent is the well-known clutter that litters every available surface inside the Dublin version of the studio. Also absent are the impasto paint smears on the walls. The installation takes a minimal approach to the site’s replication, isolating the mirror as the sole object inside, thereby implicating observers reflected within. In contrast to Bacon’s studio reconstruction in Dublin, which is permanently sealed off from the outside world, my installation may be entered and viewed from within. Ultimately, however, it is a somewhat hollow experience, in a literal sense. Participating in the genre of the empty studio, the work manifests the phrase mise en abyme, from the French, meaning: “put into

52 the abyss.”224 The emptiness here extends to not just the absence of the occupant, but the studio’s condition as a whole, void of its clutter. Elements of Bacon’s studio—specifically, the mirror and the studio’s outer frame defined by the walls—are staged for the installation at UNSW Galleries. The concept for this developed out of the replication of the mirror for use within my own studio, which in turn was influenced by the comprehensive reconstruction in Dublin. Through this work, I reconsider the “abyss” that Buren so vehemently declares to be the source of the studio’s isolation. Instead of affirming the studio’s fixed boundaries, whether it be my studio in Sydney, or Bacon’s original studio in London, my work proposes a reconsideration of the studio as it has been conventionally understood in post-studio discourse. In contradistinction to the trope of the modernist studio as a stationary and private domain insulated from the world, Mise en Abyme unmoors the studio, restaging it within a gallery setting. Set adrift in the “abyss,” the installation suggests that the studio can adopt a nomadic dimension, and may be potentially replicated ad infinitum.

Figure 24: Diagram showing an aerial view of the author’s plan for the video installation Mise en Abyme, 2018.

Significantly, the paintings produced in my studio as part of this project, some of which will be described in Part Two of this thesis, are exhibited adjacent to the installation, within view of its exposed framework on the exterior. It is as if the “frame” of the studio, mourned by Buren as the missing context stripped away from the portable art object, is equipped with its own portability. The description of the installation Mise en Abyme outlined here is largely speculative, since, at the time of writing, it is yet to be fully realised. It marks a shift within my own practice, which until now has been consistently focused on paintings produced within my studio. While tests of the video projected over the mirror have been undertaken within my studio, the full-scale realisation of the project, larger than my own studio, necessitates a relocation beyond the studio

53 for the work’s fabrication. The project involves a physical and conceptual shift of my studio beyond the confines to which I am accustomed. As a project to be constructed in situ, blurring the roles of studio and gallery, the installation is materialised as a studio-gallery hybrid, much like the posthumous studio genre to which it refers.

Bacon often spoke of the chaos of his studio, and his relationship to chaos is explored in Chapter Four. The origin of the word “chaos” comes from the Greek khaos, meaning ‘vast chasm, void.’225 In this sense, the chaos and the abyss may be understood as closely aligned.226 The point here is that the phenomenon of Bacon’s studio is not confined to its material presence in a singular geographic location, as highlighted by its posthumous manifestation as a museum exhibit, archive, and digital database. Having incorporated elements of Bacon’s studio into my own studio, such as the replicated mirror, I undertake a close reading of Bacon’s studio for the purposes of this practice-based research, culminating in the exhibition of which Mise en Abyme is a part.

The emptiness of my video installation signifies an erasure of much of the signature traces of Bacon’s studio that constitute its aura and affirm the artist’s dominion. While Eric de Bruyn states, “The studio is a site where subjectivity is produced,”227 this project, in exploring the studio’s afterlife, attempts to dismantle the subjectivity of its former inhabitant. Contending with the mythology of the modernist studio that posits the isolated, male genius at the centre of a closed and private site of creativity, here the studio is made public, unconstrained, and available to a multitude of subjectivities.

54 Chapter Three

The Afterlife of the Studio

Seeing into the studio Alongside his more frequent and well-known preoccupation with still life, landscape painting was an aspect of Giorgio Morandi’s oeuvre that the Italian artist repeatedly returned to throughout his career. While many of his landscapes were painted en plein air,228 others were produced indoors, based on the view from his studio window in Bologna, or from his accommodation while on vacation in the Italian countryside (Grizzana, the small village now known as Grizzana Morandi, was a destination favoured by the artist, and where eventually, in the final four years of his life, he kept a second studio in the summer house that he shared with his sisters229). When Morandi worked indoors painting the view through a window, he typically omitted his immediate surroundings, preferring to concentrate on a distant view, reputedly aided by binoculars or a telescope, or a viewfinder frame which the artist sometimes used to eliminate peripheral details.230

Figure 25: Giorgio Morandi, Courtyard at Via Fondazza, 1954, oil on canvas, 48 × 50 cm. Private collection. © Giorgio Morandi/SIAE. Copyright Agency, 2019.

On the rare occasion when Morandi permitted a hint of the studio environment to encroach upon a landscape composition, it featured only as a flat plane at the margin, as in Courtyard at Via Fondazza (1954) (fig. 25). Barely identifiable but for its position in relation to the adjacent 55 window view, the beige rectangle dominating the left side of this picture may be interpreted as architecture occupying the foreground, as if it were part of the building—say, a window jamb, as curator Maria Christina Bandera suggests231—from which the exterior scenery is observed. Here, even as the studio is brought into the picture, it figures as a blind spot: nondescript, and obstructing the painting’s principal subject; the landscape view beyond. Morandi assigns an equivocal status to the studio. It is admitted into the painting as a dominant compositional device, but simultaneously marginalised, as if to be disregarded. In the years since the artist’s death in 1964, however, the attention focused on his studio has only increased. Not only has it been posthumously recorded by numerous photographers,232 the studio and its contents are conserved in situ in the Bologna apartment that Morandi shared with his three sisters at 36 via Fondazza, now a museum, as is the Grizzana summer house.

There is no shortage of artists who have chosen to incorporate references to the interior architecture framing the view through the studio window, often far more explicitly than Morandi. A recurring motif within the genre that Rachel Esner identifies as “the empty studio,”233 the window frame featuring a prominent view to the outdoors is a common subject, particularly for paintings. Such works literally foreground the studio as the context from which the artist observes and interprets the world. Artist and writer Brian O’Doherty cites paintings by Caspar David Friedrich and Henri Matisse as noteworthy examples of this approach,234 but observes that the view in the other direction is notably scarce:

The liberating act of ‘looking out’ has its reciprocal twin, the act of ‘looking in,’ with connotations of illicit observation, of scopophilia, of narcissistic empowerment. Voyeurism, one of the most powerful of human instincts, does not appear in our context; I know of no depiction of the view looking in through the studio window. This is so even though the creative process is generally a secret activity, and secrets ask to be revealed.235

O’Doherty’s identification of the studio as a place of secrets is consistent with the trope of the modernist studio discussed in the previous chapter. Despite the popular image of studios as clandestine, artists frequently feature their own workspace in their art. Inevitably, such representations are from an insider’s vantage point. Hence, the view into the studio from the outside is indeed rare.

The less common vantage point from outside the studio is relevant to my project. It is the view one often encounters in relation to studios displayed as exhibits: one looks through glass screens and window-like openings that offer voyeuristic gratification but deny physical access. Seeing into the studio as an external onlooker affords a perspective not ordinarily considered by artists in relation to their own studios. The preservation or reconstruction of deceased artists’ studios, a peculiar museum practice that has proliferated in the late twentieth and early twenty-first

56 centuries, raises questions as to the ramifications of this cultural phenomenon. How does the recontextualisation of an artist’s studio as a museum shape our understanding of studios, and how does this understanding impact on contemporary art practice?

Figure 26: David Eastwood, Peep, 2013-14, acrylic on polyester, 61 × 51 cm.

My practice-based research was initiated with an investigation of the posthumous studio of Giorgio Morandi. The project involved the construction of a small-scale model of the Italian painter’s bedroom-studio in Bologna. The model formed the basis of a series of paintings, among which is Peep (2013) (fig. 26). This work depicts a view looking into the miniature simulacrum of Morandi’s studio from outside the window. It could be thought of as an inversion of Morandi’s landscapes, as though the exterior scenery were returning the artist’s gaze. Moreover, it is the precise view that O’Doherty identifies as atypical in representations of the studio. Given that Morandi’s studio is located on the second storey of an apartment building, the vantage point shown in Peep is an unlikely one. However, before Morandi’s home and studio at via Fondazza became the museum known as Casa Morandi, his bedroom-studio was reconstructed off-site in the Museo Morandi in Bologna’s Palazzo d’Accursio in 1993.236 Its sole entry point for visitors was from where the window once would have been (fig. 27). Beyond this point, it was only possible to take a few steps inside, with further access prevented by a plexiglass barrier, thus 57 protecting the furniture, objects and other displayed artefacts in Morandi’s studio. The reconstruction at Palazzo d’Accursio was eventually dismantled so that the contents could be reinstated in Morandi’s home at Via Fondazza in 2009, following its acquisition (in July 1998237) and renovation by the municipality of Bologna. The view from the position of the window, now inaccessible to visitors at Casa Morandi, is one of many views made available through simulation via the scale model.

Figure 27: Giorgio Morandi's posthumously reconstructed studio in its former location at Palazzo d’Accursio, Bologna. Courtesy: Museo Morandi, Bologna.

The “museumisation” of Morandi’s studio is not an isolated phenomenon. In recent decades, the posthumous presentation of artists’ studios for public display has become an increasingly prevalent museum practice around the world, as shown in Chapter One. The influence of this phenomenon on contemporary art will be examined in the following sections of this chapter, focusing on key examples of recent work produced by artists Christian Jankowski, Thomas Demand, and Tacita Dean. These practices serve as a context for my own body of work investigating posthumous studios. A more detailed discussion of the practice-based research on Casa Morandi will be taken up later in this chapter.

The posthumous studio as muse Art historians Jennifer Barrett and Jacqueline Millner note that, within modern art practices, there is “a rich tradition of artists engaging with the museum” dating back to the early twentieth

58 century.238 Such practices were featured in The Museum as Muse, a major exhibition held at MoMA in 1999, surveying works of art in which museums serve as prominent sources of inspiration or are subjected to various forms of institutional critique. The exhibition’s curator, Kynaston McShine, notes the emergence of a trend, especially since the 1970s, for art that takes “the museum as its central interest,” reflecting an era in which “the range of ideas about and attitudes toward the institution grew and deepened.”239 Although McShine notes the transformation of the studio as “a museum of one's own” by some artists, citing Brancusi as a prime example,240 the exhibition did not extend to artistic responses to the museological genre of the posthumous studio. In fact, such practices tend to be confined to isolated cases, and— concomitant with the proliferation of posthumous studio museums since the late twentieth century—are a relatively recent development. Perhaps too esoteric and uneven to be identified as a cogent tendency in recent art, it is nonetheless worthwhile to consider how the posthumous studio is finding expression as an emergent current among the practices of living artists, in order to gauge the impact of this phenomenon on contemporary culture.

Barrett and Millner take up the “museum as muse” theme in their recent study of Australian art projects that engage with “the museum as a site for artistic intervention.”241 Writing of artist Jo- Anne Duggan’s photographs of ornate museum interiors and historic houses, they note the tendency for her images to disregard prominent museum artefacts in favour of marginal details.242 In this context, they cite literary historian Stephen Greenblatt’s concept of “resonance,” a particular model of museum display that evocatively conveys an object’s broader sense of context by featuring peripheral and incidental elements, accentuating the “power of the displayed object to reach out beyond its formal boundaries to a larger world.”243 Greenblatt distinguishes resonance from its correlative concept, “wonder,” which he defines as the singular power of a museum piece to transfix and enthral an observer, or, in his words, “to convey an arresting sense of uniqueness, to evoke an exalted attention.”244 Wonder is epitomised by the masterpiece isolated as the sole object of the viewer’s focused contemplation, whereas resonance mitigates the isolation of individual artefacts by opening them up to a set of complex relations. Greenblatt outlines the potential he sees for resonant museum displays:

to illuminate the conditions of their making, to disclose the history of their appropriation and the circumstances in which they come to be displayed, to restore the tangibility, the openness, the permeability of boundaries that enabled the objects to come into being in the first place.245

As the “ground zero” of an artwork’s origin, the posthumously museumised studio corresponds well with the concept of resonance. Fittingly, Greenblatt identifies “the mute eloquence of the display of the palette, brushes, and other implements that an artist of a given period would have employed,” as examples that could be classified as resonant objects.246 Despite the muteness to

59 which Greenblatt refers, marking a distinction from the verbosity of wall texts, audio guides, and catalogue essays, resonant objects possess a different kind of “eloquence.”247 Resonance both animates the historical circumstances of a museum object, and makes the object more vividly present in the here and now.

In some respects, the emphasis on recognising “a far richer sense of the vital and dynamic nature”248 of materials in Greenblatt’s theory of resonant objects is echoed by what Jane Bennett describes as “a vitality intrinsic to materiality,”249 which she terms “vibrant matter,” a concept taken up in Chapter Six of this thesis. Both concepts—the former rooted in the theoretical framework of new historicism, and the latter in new materialism—attribute a liveliness to materials which is partially dependent on circumambient connections, against perspectives that would regard objects as static and disconnected from the beholder. The antithetical perspective to Greenblatt’s concept of resonance is that which views the museum as a cultural cemetery, as summed up by architectural theorist Robert Harbison, who writes:

The act of museumifying takes an object out of use and immobilizes it in a secluded atticlike environment among nothing but more objects, another space made up of pieces. If a museum is first of all a place of things, its two extremes are a graveyard and a department store, things entombed or up for sale, and its life naturally ghost life, meant for those who are more comfortable with ghosts, frightened by waking life but not by the past.250

Likewise, philosopher Theodor Adorno associates the museum with the mausoleum, housing “objects to which the observer no longer has a vital relationship and which are in the process of dying.”251 As art critic Amelia Groom observes, Adorno characterises the museum as a place where objects end up “when they are ready to withdraw from life.”252 Responding to Adorno’s provocation, Groom poses the question, “But is there not also potential for strategies of reactivation within the museum-mausoleum?”253 This question lies at the heart of my project. My contention is that artistic responses to the museum—with specific regard to the posthumous studio—enable us “to think about ways of setting its contents in motion, in accordance with the needs of the present,” as Groom suggests.254 In responding to the museum and undertaking a “reactivation” of the site, an artist can help to identify and draw out the “resonance” of a cultural institution.

Recognising the role that artists can play in engaging with their collections, museums are taking advantage of what Barrett and Millner describe as “the reciprocal benefits of collaboration between the museum and the artist.”255 It is not uncommon, for example, for museums to invite artists to participate in artist-in-residence programs, such as the Margaret Olley Art Centre at Tweed Regional Gallery, where the recent exhibition A Painter’s House featured the work of past resident artists who responded to Olley’s reconstructed home.256 This follows a tradition of

60 exhibition programs at historic house museums such as the Freud Museum in London (the final home of psychoanalysis pioneer Sigmund Freud) and Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth (the former home of novelists Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë), which regularly feature projects by contemporary artists produced in response to their venues. The posthumous studio museum is a special case, however, in that the prospect of a contemporary artist engaging with such a site precipitates a degree of self-reflexivity, accentuating the studio as a phenomenon inherited from the past and interrogated in the present.

Christian Jankowski According to cultural theorist Ross Gibson, there is an incongruity at the heart of interactions between artists and museums. “Artists like to mess with matter,” he observes, “to find out what’s possible, to get their hands on the stuff so they can figure what are the limits of what you can do with matter.”257 By contrast, he continues, “Museum folks have to keep matter as stable and untouched as possible.”258 The disparity between the intentions of the artist and the museum is apparent in a mischievous work by German multimedia artist Christian Jankowski that succeeds in transgressing the bounds normally set by the museum. Following an invitation from South Korea’s Nam June Paik Art Centre to produce a work on-site, Paik’s reconstructed studio from New York became the subject of a work by Jankowski. The resulting video, Cleaning Up the Studio, 2010, shows a South Korean cleaning firm called Beautiful Cleaning at work cleaning the reconstruction. In the video, Jankowski’s hired cleaners dust and reorganise individual objects in the studio. Cables are wound up, furniture is rearranged, detritus is swept away, and dust is vacuumed, while a spokesperson for Beautiful Cleaning speaks about the company’s aims and ideals. The cleaning firm was instructed by the artist to prepare the studio “for another artist to work there.”259 According to Jankowski, they spent five hours tidying the space, and after the completion of the video, museum staff spent another three weeks returning the reconstruction to its regular configuration.260

Jankowski’s project demonstrates that the conventional act of cleaning typically associated with the care and maintenance of materials is antithetical to the posthumous studio. Repeating an observation made many times before, art historian and curator Angela Rosenberg states, “the precondition for these [preserved or reconstructed] studio situations is always that they be presented as if the artist had just left the room.”261 Thus, there is an expectation that the arrangement of materials in the studio remain undisturbed since the original artist’s departure. However, as Jankowski remarks, “When a studio as chaotic as Nam June Paik’s gets packed into chests and reconstructed in Korea, one can imagine that a certain amount gets lost in translation.”262 Despite the site’s relocation from New York to the South Korean city of Yongin just south of Seoul, the idea of the studio’s aura is intrinsic to its installation in the museum. However, the presence of another artist working in such sites can “overwrite” the presence of the

61 original inhabitant, placing the “aura” at risk, as Jankowski demonstrates. Speaking of the project, Jankowski describes it as if it were an artwork made collaboratively between himself and the deceased artist: “the original Paik became a Paik-Jankowski.”263 For the Nam June Paik Art Centre, the significance of the Paik studio reconstruction lies in its indexical relation to the museum’s namesake as the sole author and occupant. The “reactivation” of the site by another artist as a functioning workplace undermines the logic of the posthumous studio, which is caught in a conflict between the museum’s responsibility to conserve its collection, and its desire to maintain its relevance for a contemporary audience.

Figure 28: Christian Jankowski, Cleaning Up the Studio (Desk), 2010, diptych, C-prints, 101.5 × 126.5 cm each.

In addition to Jankowski’s video that was recorded while the cleaners worked, the Cleaning Up the Studio project includes a series of photographs presented as diptychs, showing “before and after” views of Paik’s studio (fig. 28). Conceptually implicit in the work, although not part of the visual documentation presented by Jankowski, is the issue of the shifting nature of the site over a longer duration. The “before” images detail a site already uprooted from its original location— we are not shown the original New York configuration—and the “after” images show it in a provisional state only: the short-lived outcome of the cleaners’ labour. In an effort to restore the site’s perceived authenticity, conservators returned the installation to its previous configuration shortly after the project’s conclusion, relying on “a minutely documented plan [that] makes it possible to reconstruct the studio down to the last detail, over and over.”264 According to Jankowski, in an effort to address concerns that the project had disturbed the site’s aura, “the museum director carried out a Buddhist ritual—to recapture the spirit of Nam June Paik.”265

Jankowski’s work directs a questioning of what exactly is of value within the reconstructed studio. Does the reconstruction of posthumous studios protect their integrity or contaminate them, and where does the distinction between authenticity and artifice lie? Who can say, for instance, how

62 much of the dust swept up by the cleaning firm hired by Jankowski originated in the museum itself and how much was from Paik’s New York studio? Cleaning Up the Studio suggests the potential of posthumous studios to operate as productive spaces for subsequent artists to challenge their conventional museum function.

A precedent for Jankowski’s irreverent project is Canadian artist Panya Clark Espinal’s intervention into another posthumous studio. First Snow, 1998, was a site-specific installation inside the shack where Canadian landscape painter Tom Thomson lived and worked during the last few winters before his untimely death in 1917. Clark Espinal’s response to the site was to cover the furnishings and objects inside with a layer of synthetic snow, staging a winter landscape effect inside the studio, thus evoking imagery from Thomson’s paintings. The work is like a reversal of Thomson’s plein air practice, bringing an element of the outdoors into the studio, as opposed to taking the studio practice outdoors.266 By coating the contents of the studio with an artificial substance, Clark Espinal calls attention to the staged quality of the interior, the authenticity of which, the viewer is reminded, “is undermined by representation and simulacra,” as literary historian Sherrill Grace points out.267 Thomson’s shack was originally located in Toronto, and now exists as an off-site reconstruction. It was dismantled and relocated from its historic site in 1962, to be “rebuilt as a replica”268 at the McMichael Canadian Art Collection in Kleinburg, Ontario, where it has been on public display since 1968.269 According to architectural historian Andrew Waldron, the reconstructed studio “has lost all of its integrity, despite being restored in 1989” because it lacks the history of the original site.270 Clark Espinal’s installation, like Jankowski’s intervention in Paik’s studio, heightens the site’s disconnection from history. First Snow highlights a “Disneyland” effect of artifice and illusion.271 Thus, the lack of authenticity for which posthumous studios are sometimes criticised can be an integral element for contemporary art that engages with these sites. By calling the authority of the site into question, Jankowski and Clark Espinal enact a subtle form of institutional critique. Not only is the museum’s function challenged, but the studio itself is reinterpreted as a nomadic entity open to shifting contexts: from its original location to the museum, and from art history to contemporary art.

Thomas Demand Another contemporary artist for whom the posthumous studio has served as a provocation is Thomas Demand. In 1997, he produced Barn, a photograph based on the studio at Pollock- Krasner House in East Hampton (fig. 29). Rather than respond directly to the site of the museum, however, Demand’s methodology is reliant on mediated image sources. Hans Namuth’s well- known photo shoot of Jackson Pollock working in the studio in 1950 is his reference material for Barn. This is consistent with Demand’s practice of taking culturally significant photo- documentary subjects from history and reconstructing them as elaborate, life-size paper

63 sculptures which are then re-photographed. Human presence is erased, and all visible objects are recast as fragile facsimiles. Upon close inspection, the initially convincing scene gives way to an uncanny sensation. The understated strangeness is engendered by the image’s remediation as a paper model, and its flimsy materiality becomes increasingly apparent the more one looks. In Demand’s hands, photography undermines itself in the sense that its purported indexical link to the real is exposed as an illusion.

Figure 29: Thomas Demand, Barn, 1997, Chromogenic print face-mounted on Diasec, 183.5 × 254 cm.

As an ex novo fabrication of a studio facsimile, the paper model constructed in Demand’s studio for his Barn photograph corresponds with “replication,” the third category in the typology of posthumous studios outlined in Chapter One. In fact, Demand’s work pre-empts the first museological replication of Pollock’s studio, which was installed at MoMA the year after Barn was created. Both Demand’s and MoMA’s replicated versions of Pollock’s studio are notable for the sterile nature of their interpretations, with no visible evidence of the dribbles and spatters of paint that make the original site in East Hampton so distinct. This erasure of the original artist’s traces corresponds with the cleaned up version of Paik’s studio produced by Jankowski. In Demand’s work, the removal of the original inhabitants is especially conspicuous when compared with his source image (fig. 30). Namuth’s original photograph shows Pollock leaning forward as he flings paint onto a large canvas laid out on the floor, while a seated Lee Krasner observes.

Figure 30: Jackson Pollock in the studio working on One: Number 31, with Lee Krasner seated. Photograph: Hans Namuth, 1950.

Demand returned to the theme of the posthumous studio with Atelier in 2014 (fig. 31), which has some noteworthy correspondences with Barn. In both cases, the source images are widely published photographs of artists’ studios from the early 1950s. Atelier represents the studio at the Hotel Regina in Nice where Henri Matisse produced the “cut-outs” of his late career. As with Barn, the modernist studio, a site typically mythologised as the nerve centre of the male creative genius, is represented as a paper-thin fabrication in Atelier. It is a playfully self-reflexive image: not only is a representation of another artist’s studio staged within Demand’s own studio, but the specific reference to Matisse’s cut-outs calls to mind Demand’s own reliance on cut paper within his practice. Echoing the relationship between Krasner and Pollock in Namuth’s photograph, the source image for Atelier shows a female studio assistant sitting and observing Matisse at work (fig. 32). In both cases, Demand refers to photographs that portray the female in the studio as passive and marginalised, alongside the active male artist at work and taking centre stage (despite

65 the elderly Matisse’s reliance on a wheelchair). Also drawing comparisons between representations of Matisse and Pollock in the studio, art historian Griselda Pollock identifies both artists as protagonists within prototypical images of the male painter at work. She asserts that in each case, the artist is represented in a manner that contributes to a mythos of “the potency and activity of the masculine body” of the artist.272 In relation to Demand’s depiction of the studio from Pollock-Krasner House, minus the figures photographed there, Andrew Hardman observes that “the contentious, heterosexualised paradigm that these artists’ bodies play out in Namuth's photograph—the ‘artist and wife’ paradigm—is also hidden from view.”273 A similar observation could apply to Demand’s interpretation of Matisse’s studio. By erasing the protagonists from each image, Demand subtly undercuts the dubious gender politics inherent in the trope of the modernist studio.

Figure 31: Thomas Demand, Atelier, 2014, Chromogenic print Figure 32: Henri Matisse and studio assistant face-mounted on Diasec, 240 × 341 cm. in the studio at Hotel Regina in Nice. Photograph: Lydia Delectorskaya, circa 1952.

Ultimately, however, Demand’s primary motivation in replicating the studio of another artist is less likely to lie in what he chooses to eliminate from the image than in what he preserves. The artist’s own remarks about the original photograph of Matisse indicate that it was the materiality evident in the studio that resonated with him. He identifies the ambiguous potential of the pile of cut out shapes of paper as particularly evocative, awaiting to form part of a future collage, or to be discarded. “[T]he leftovers on the floor might get back into the game,” Demand speculates, “and even if not, they are equally notable because they are what often turns a studio into the suspended world it can be.”274 Clearly finding correspondences between Matisse’s studio detritus and his own, he similarly remarks that his studio is “colonised by pieces of stuff which aren’t small enough to get discarded but not large enough to ever be of any use again.”275 Matisse’s studio does not exist in a museum context, but the replicated version constructed in Demand’s own studio can be understood as part of the posthumous studio phenomenon. It represents an impulse to materialise the site, giving it a tangibility via the model, in order to more fully engage

66 with the promise implied by the fragments cast aside in the original photograph. As Demand comments, “To form something from nearly nothing, to obtain meaning by shaping, is what this picture promises.”276 The same impulse lies at the heart of my practice, in which model making is a key methodology, as discussed later in this chapter.

Tacita Dean In 2009, soon after the contents of Morandi’s studio were reinstated in the artist’s home in Bologna, the British contemporary artist Tacita Dean was granted access to the newly established historic site museum in order to produce work in response to it. Dean’s fascination for the anachronistic situates her as an appropriate artist to engage with the defunct studio of Morandi. Born in 1965, the year after Morandi’s death, Dean states: “Everything that excites me no longer functions in its own time. The one thing I have noticed is that so often I am attracted to things conceived in the decade of my birth.”277 Dean’s remarks have significance for my research of the posthumous studio as a temporally dislocated phenomenon, and its potential to function beyond its own time is a key provocation.

Consistent with Dean’s preoccupation with materials from the past are the recurring references to well-known male artists of the mid-twentieth century that feature in her work, as a number of commentators have noted.278 There is a biographical dimension to much of this work, with some of her elderly subjects appearing on camera for Dean (shortly prior to their deaths, as it turns out).279 Her practice has been associated with a recent tendency in which artists adopt methods associated with historians, characterised by an interest in archives and archivisation.280

Posthumous studios are a form of archive, and Casa Morandi is no exception. His bedroom-studio in Bologna is a storehouse for the objects that formed the visual vocabulary of a life’s worth of still life paintings (fig. 33). Upon encountering the space, Dean observed that Morandi’s objects “still held the aura of their depiction.”281 The impression of an aura around the objects is not only cultivated by the familiarity of their likenesses in Morandi’s paintings, but also by the transformation of their status from studio props to museum pieces, sealed behind glass at Casa Morandi. In contrast to Jankowski’s intervention in Paik’s studio, Dean’s project did not involve any manual handling of artefacts.282 Instead, Dean chose to encounter Morandi’s objects exactly as they were presented.283 The objects’ resistance to touch in the context of a museum collection aligns them with historian Krzysztof Pomian’s concept of the “semiophore.” Distinct from the everyday usefulness and tangibility of ordinary objects, semiophores are objects that have been taken out of circulation and moved into a museum collection. From that moment, collection items, “being endowed with [new] meaning, represented the invisible. They were put on display instead of being handled, and were not subjected to wear and tear.”284 Despite having access to Morandi’s studio, Dean’s self-imposed limitations meant her activity within the space was confined to

67 observation and documentation. The semiophoric nature of the posthumous studio renders it out of Dean’s grasp, an experience at odds with the endless manipulations and modifications characteristic of Morandi’s studio practice.

Figure 33: Giorgio Morandi's studio, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Inspecting the studio, Dean observed the extent to which Morandi had manipulated his objects. Identifying evidence of what she terms “his interventions,” she cites boxes carefully wrapped in brown paper, hand-painted bottles, and various other adjustments to vessels, stating:

He did not choose, as I had always imagined, simply not to paint anything about an object that he did not deem necessary, but instead transformed it beforehand, making them the objects he wanted to see.285

Morandi’s interventions into objects, transforming them into motifs fit for his purposes prior to painting them, invests them with a more pronounced indexicality to the artist, thus heightening the potential for their fetishisation. The studio prop is itself a kind of semiophore. As art historian Michael Newman suggests, “The studio is a place for being with things that are, at least temporarily, removed from the world of instrumental relations, and are allowed to disclose themselves in other ways.”286 This encapsulates the role of the studio props, or models, which Morandi created for himself, and which I utilise in my practice. In a sense, the objects at Casa

68 Morandi possess a double aura, in that they are twice removed from circulation as ordinary objects: firstly as Morandi’s studio props, and secondly as museum pieces.

One of the challenges faced by a contemporary artist responding to Morandi’s studio is to avoid being seduced by the site’s mythic aura. The popular image of Morandi is as a monk-like figure who lived a hermetic existence in his bedroom-studio. In returning to the site at the heart of this narrative, Dean risks reinforcing established clichés, raising, as art historian Ed Krčma puts it, “the danger that in encountering his auratic traces, Dean would simply affirm Morandi’s aesthetic or further service his myth.”287 After some deliberation in Morandi’s studio, Dean settled upon the idea of filming a series of Morandi’s individual objects. The result, Day for Night, 2009, enacts what Krčma describes as “the staging of a decelerated and heightened attentiveness to the worn surfaces of the material world.”288 Each object is placed in the centre of a still frame, without regard for the arrangement of forms in the surrounding space of the image. In doing so, Dean claims she “did as Morandi would never have done: made their composition random.”289 The point here is that, for a contemporary artist investigating a posthumous studio, the intentions of the original artist are peripheral to the objective of finding renewed possibilities in the site, as I aim to demonstrate with my work and the other practices discussed in this chapter.

Also created at Casa Morandi is Dean’s Still Life series, 2009, featuring photographed details of Morandi’s tabletops (fig. 34), upon which sheets of paper bear the cumulative evidence of objects repeatedly rearranged. Pencil marks, traced by Morandi around the bases of objects, delineate the precise positions of a multitude of still life configurations. Having lain dormant for half a century, these “‘rediscovered’ and ‘involuntary drawings’,”290 as curator Gianfranco Maraniello describes them, indicate just how carefully Morandi planned his compositions. As the focus of a series of selectively framed closeup photographs by Dean, the indexical signs of Morandi’s artmaking might be thought of as a collaborative project between the two artists, similar to Jankowski’s suggestion that the Paik studio became a “Paik-Jankowski” as a result of his intervention there. However, the notion of collaboration could misleadingly suggest the consent of the deceased artist. As Dean suggests, her “random” approach to both the filming of objects and the cropping of found pencil marks is the antithesis of Morandi’s considered compositions. An alternative understanding of Dean’s work might situate it in the context of an intrusion or disruption that subverts the intentionality of the studio’s original inhabitant, demonstrating how posthumous studios have the capacity to host a combination of divergent intentions. This premise underscores my practice-based research. While the posthumous studio is understandably fixated on the historical significance therein, there is also potential to dislodge it from its earlier period and function, opening it up to alternative interpretations by other artists.

Figure 34: Tacita Dean, Still Life, 2009, four fibre-based prints on paper (edition of 6), installation view, Summer Exhibition 2014, Royal Academy of Arts, London. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

Since Dean’s work in Morandi’s studio, other contemporary artists have likewise been invited to engage with the site, such as the American conceptual artist Catherine Wagner and Italian photo artist Brigitte March Niedermair. Their projects form part of an exhibition program that facilitates artists’ access to Morandi’s studio. The program was developed by the Museo Morandi, which is housed at the Museo d’Arte Moderna di Bologna (MAMbo), where the outcome of these “collaborations” with Morandi’s studio are exhibited, and which is responsible for the management of the nearby Casa Morandi. The program enables Morandi’s posthumous studio to function as an ongoing resource for contemporary art practices.

Casa Morandi Morandi, whose father died in 1909, moved into via Fondazza no.36 in Bologna with his mother and three sisters in 1910, initially in an apartment facing the street, and then, in 1933, to a quieter apartment where, from 1935 until his death in 1964, he occupied the now museumised bedroom- studio.291 As noted earlier, this site was the focus of my own practice-based research at the outset of this project. The attraction of the site lay in its archetypal status as an ivory tower, typifying the mystique associated with “the solitary individual artist in a semi-sacred studio space.”292 The mythos of Casa Morandi served as a provocation to my interest in breaching the site’s rarefied sense of containment and insularity.

Figure 35: David Eastwood, Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm.

Developed independently of the Museo Morandi’s exhibition program, my method of “accessing” the studio was to source information from postcard images, written descriptions, and photographs found in books and on the Internet. Working from these sources in my studio in Sydney, I constructed a 1:15 scale model of Morandi’s studio (fig. 35). Titled Casa Morandi after the museum in Bologna, the model reduces the room in which Morandi lived, slept and worked to the scale of a typical group of the artist’s objects, effectively transforming the studio itself into a three-dimensional still life. While a high degree of fidelity to Morandi’s actual studio was aimed for, direct access to the studio in situ was not sought during the process of the model’s construction, even though the site is open to the public. Instead, like Thomas Demand’s models of the studios of Pollock and Matisse, remote observation of Morandi’s studio through mediated sources informed the construction, allowing for re-interpretation of the available material, with archival images influencing the outcome. It was not until the conclusion of the project that I visited Casa Morandi in person. The original studio had, after all, been distorted over time through renovation of the architecture and the reconfiguration of contents. Thus, any reliable sense of the site’s authenticity is ultimately elusive.

Figure 36: Giorgio Morandi's studio, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

The apartment today preserves most of the original architecture of Morandi’s bedroom-studio, except for one corner of the room, which, during the artist’s lifetime, was occupied by two doorways and a stove heater, and now serves as the viewing point from which visitors can observe the room through a glass partition (fig. 36). Much of the artist’s home no longer retains its domestic setting. The former kitchen and the bedrooms of Morandi’s sisters have been converted into museological spaces, including a reception area, photography gallery, reading room, and a multipurpose audio-visual room for screenings and talks. Aside from the bedroom-studio, there are two other spaces inside Casa Morandi that reconstruct the apartment’s setting from during the artist’s lifetime, all sealed behind glass: a small storage room containing some of the artist’s still life props; and an anteroom displaying a few pieces of furniture and antique paintings from Morandi’s personal collection.

The interior of the model I created (fig. 37) closely follows the studio as it was prior to Morandi’s death, reinstating the corner removed during the renovation. The miniature furniture and objects inside may be rearranged in any configuration, and the walls and ceiling are removable, facilitating multiple vantage points and opening up possibilities for hidden views of Morandi’s subjects and their peripheral spaces. This functionality was significant for the use of the model as a tool for paintings. The opening up of the walls of the model also corresponds to some degree with the partial removal of walls inside Morandi’s home, opening up the studio—popularly

72 understood as insular and enclosed during the artist’s lifetime—for increased visibility. The model’s blank exterior is a featureless white cube, signalling the absent rooms of Morandi’s family members that appear to have been regarded as dispensable, having been replaced with sleek museum interiors.

Figure 37: David Eastwood, Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm.

Using the model, individual paintings by Morandi can be reconstructed and examined from new angles. These possibilities informed the series of my drawings and paintings subsequently developed from the model, such as Quadri Sbagliati (fig. 38) showing a downward perspective towards the studio floor. The painting depicts the lower half of Morandi’s easel along with an assortment of still life objects placed on the floor, as though relegated to a subordinate status. Situated on the table shown in the upper right are objects arranged to emulate Morandi’s 1957 still life painting in the permanent collection of the Art Gallery of New South Wales. The vantage point in the reinterpretation has shifted from the view that Morandi presents in his work. The model enables this re-enactment of Morandi’s studio, imagined as it might have looked in 1957, for example, when Morandi was working on the aforementioned still life. The configuration of objects on the table becomes newly visible from an oblique angle, but of greater prominence is the hypothesized surrounding environment. By shifting the vantage point represented in Morandi’s painting, a new perspective emerges, as with the shifted vantage point of Tacita Dean’s

73 Still Life photographs that focus on details in the studio that Morandi omitted from his paintings, such as the traced outlines on tabletops. The composition of Quadri Sbagliati shifts attention toward peripheral objects occupying the space beneath the table upon which Morandi set up many of his still life arrangements.

Figure 38: David Eastwood, Quadri Sbagliati, 2014, acrylic on polyester, 46 × 38 cm.

The title, Quadri Sbagliati, is an Italian term used by Morandi to describe the paint caked over his easel. Translated in English, the phrase means ‘painting mistakes,’ a reference to Morandi’s habit of scraping wet paint off paintings-in-progress when he regarded them as failures. The built- up paint texture on Morandi’s easel suggests a history of discarded painting decisions evident in the accumulation of paint. Likewise, the objects on the floor set aside in favour of the arrangement on the tabletop highlight the model’s role as a speculative tool in addressing the studio as subject matter, alluding to hypothetical possibilities that may yet be enacted. My painting shifts the focus from the tableau to the periphery, where things are relegated to a state of unfulfilled potential, as with Demand’s focus on Matisse’s pile of unused paper fragments.

74 Model, 2014, is another painting of my miniature replication of Morandi’s studio (fig. 39). It shows a closeup view of an arrangement of objects based on a composition painted by Morandi several times in the mid-1950s (fig. 40). My painting depicts the carved, miniature versions of Morandi’s objects shown from an alternative view, to the side. The paintings from my Casa Morandi project turned a searching gaze on his studio, scanning and translating the environment through a series of mediations. My intention is to reorient the site, shifting it from its mythos of insularity and seclusion in order to revivify it as a tactile, mutable zone of ongoing material engagement. Having collected visual fragments of Casa Morandi, disseminated via tourist photographs on the Internet, postcards, books, and Morandi’s own paintings, enough data was available to construct a working model of the site, which in turn was manipulated and scrutinised in my own studio for the purposes of the paintings made from it. The model functioned as a portal through which my own studio communed with Casa Morandi.

Figure 39: David Eastwood, Model, Figure 40: Giorgio Morandi, Still Life, 1956, oil on canvas, 25 × 40 cm. 2014, acrylic on board, 24.5 × 19.5 Museo Morandi, Bologna. © Giorgio Morandi/SIAE. Copyright Agency, cm. 2019.

The process of working from found images to build a model remote from the subject, then producing images of it, enacts a distancing from primary experience, resulting in representations removed from the original studio. The studio reconstructed as a museum artefact, a simulacrum arranged for public display, is similarly removed from the authenticity of the original studio. It no longer functions as the workspace of the artist, instead becoming a life-size diorama, sealed behind glass and inert. My model of Casa Morandi effectively reactivates Morandi’s workspace as a miniature, virtual and prosthetic studio within my own studio, yielding alternative views. Its function corresponds with Groom’s provocation, cited earlier, pointing to the “potential for strategies of reactivation,” retrieving the studio from the status of semiophore, and “setting its contents in motion.”293

Figure 41: Giorgio Morandi's studio with a self-portrait of the author reflected in a mirror, Casa Morandi, Bologna. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2014.

In terms of its manipulability, my model, encountered in its miniaturised form, exceeds the approach adopted by Tacita Dean working on-site at Casa Morandi in 2009. Ultimately, however, for Jankowski, Demand, and Dean, as well as myself, creative encounters with posthumous studios are characterised by a distanced observation and “hands-off” approach in relation to the original site. Even for Jankowski, whose intervention in Paik’s studio represents the most intrusive project discussed here, the rearrangement of the site was outsourced to the Beautiful Cleaning company, who assiduously cleaned the site in preparation for a hypothetical artist who never arrived to make use of it. The artistic investigations into posthumous studios discussed here operate somewhat remotely in the sense that the interpreters are not fully established inside—in many respects, they are on the outside looking in. Only after having completed the model of Casa Morandi and a series of paintings based on it did I seek to access the original site in person. In July 2014, I travelled to Bologna and was granted access to enter Morandi’s restored studio (fig. 41), an experience not ordinarily available to visitors at the museum. Upon being inside and seeing it life size, the site felt strangely familiar from the experience of constructing it in miniature, but at odds with the scale that I had mentally assigned to it: the reality was marginally smaller than I had imagined. I only spent an hour inside observing and documenting it, too brief for any sustained engagement, all the while aware of my reverent caution among the museum display. It was a very different experience from the availability and utility of my model, which, unlike the museum in Bologna, serves as a readily accessible tool of endless manipulability.

As a prism through which to view the world and source material for imaging practices like painting and photography, models offer rich possibilities for the artist as an intermediary step between the imaginary and the real.294 On the one hand, the model’s idiosyncratic features, such as fragile materiality or miniaturised scale, can heighten appearances as strange or artificial. At the same time, as objects that occupy three-dimensional space, offering multiple vantage points with the ability to be placed under various lighting conditions, the model allows the artist to test and observe a constructed scenario under “real world” conditions, lending a sense of veracity and plausibility to an imaginative concept that might be otherwise absent in a painting produced entirely from imagination, for instance. The typically modest size of the scale model in particular is indicative of its intermediary role as an implement for testing out ideas, often fabricated at a tabletop scale, and frequently intended for subsequent interpretation or mediation. According to scientific theorist Margaret Morrison, models operate as “autonomous agents.”295 They are neither strictly theoretical nor entirely empirical—“neither just theory nor data”—and therefore function as partially independent tools of investigation that “mediate between theory and the world.”296 Morrison and co-editor Mary S. Morgan’s study Models as Mediators (1999) is chiefly concerned with the application of models in modern science, but their insights can be usefully applied to an interpretation of models constructed within the context of artistic practice.

It is evident that model making is a significant practice in contemporary art, as reflected in several exhibitions in recent years.297 Contributing to this curatorial interest in the application of models in art is A Working Model of the World (UNSW Galleries, Sydney, and Parsons School of Design, New York, 2017), an exhibition that included my model of Morandi’s studio and a selection of associated paintings (fig. 42). The curators Lizzie Muller and Holly Williams broadened the study beyond discipline-specific boundaries, examining modelling practices across diverse fields such as art, architecture, science, sociology and economics. In her catalogue essay, Muller observes the scale model’s ability to bring phenomena “within the reach of human perception and manipulation.”298 Reflecting on the case study of Morandi’s studio which formed the starting point of this research, I recognise that the work produced during this initial phase reflects a degree of overdetermination evident in the model itself. While full of potential as a rich source of imagery, the miniature Casa Morandi (fig. 43) can be manipulated and controlled in a manner somewhat at odds with the autonomy that Morrison identifies in models. Consequently, the resulting paintings tend to conform to relatively precise and reliable outcomes. This is not to say that the model was completely under my control. For instance, the translation of Morandi’s objects into miniaturised replicas was met with a degree of material resistance, like the surface irregularities of balsa wood fibres that impeded attempts at verisimilitude in representing glass and ceramic vessels. I became increasingly interested in this kind of “material agency,” a concept developed and examined further in Chapter Six.

Motivating my shift in focus to Francis Bacon’s studio, to be discussed in Part Two, was the challenge of a studio too unruly to be easily subjugated through my practice. Seeking an approach that would in some ways resist my attempts to represent it with pictorial clarity, there seemed little to be gained in applying the same methodology of constructing a miniature model, which, after all, has already been done by the French artist Charles Matton in 1986 with his work L’Atelier de Francis Bacon. Rather, I had become more interested in the “blind spots” and latent phenomena of the studio that are less easily identified, and not an obvious part of the familiar understanding of the role of the studio. As previously discussed in Chapter Two, the established discourses around modernism posit the artist as a lone agent operating within the context of what Caroline Jones identifies as “a time-honored trope of the site of creation as solitary, male, and free.”299 The intention behind this project is not to mirror established representations of the studio as a fixed and contained site under the dominion of a sovereign authority, but to understand the studio’s potential as a “collaborative agent” with a degree of independence from the artist’s control.

Figure 43: David Eastwood: Casa Morandi, 2013, paper, cardboard, foam core, wood, plastic, wire, glue, ink and paint, 25 × 32.2 × 36.8 cm.

PART TWO The Francis Bacon Studio

80 Chapter Four

Designing Chaos

The studio and the artist’s psyche The reconstructed studio of Francis Bacon is the principal case study selected as the basis of this project. The comprehensive nature of the elaborate reconstruction and the subsequent attention it has attracted from curators, scholars, and the general public make it a noteworthy example of the posthumous studio phenomenon. Its prominent status and the broad fascination with the site has granted me licence to focus on the Francis Bacon studio reconstruction for my project. Bacon’s studio, like Casa Morandi and my own workspace, is primarily a painting studio, however, its selection by me does not function as an excuse to pursue my own established mode of working. In conjunction with the close reading of Bacon’s studio outlined in the second half of this thesis is the practice-based research, produced in connection with the emergent current of contemporary art practice identified in the previous chapter. My investigation of the site represents a sustained engagement that reflects on the history of the space in which Bacon worked, and its role in shaping the work produced there. My practice serves as a catalyst to shift the discourse of the studio towards the concept of “collaborative agent” as a challenge to the cliché of the private and isolated domain of the solitary genius.

The abundance of materials accumulated by Bacon, in evidence at The Hugh Lane, raises the question as to the function of this studio. This chapter considers whether Bacon’s studio could be said to have exceeded the artist’s authority, demonstrating agencies distinct from human will. The role of chance, paradoxically implemented by design, is examined in Bacon’s studio. It will be argued that the dense accumulation of materials there is not merely an extension of the artist’s psyche, but a presence in its own right with the potential to subsume and, at times, overwhelm the artist’s authorial presence. The artist’s subjectivity, rather than dominating the environment in which he worked, is contested there. This assertion contributes to a richer understanding of the studio as agential rather than passive. By subjectivity, I refer to the psyche of a “knowing subject,” a conventional understanding of which is encapsulated by cultural theorist Chris Weedon as “an individual conceived of as a sovereign, rational and unified consciousness, in control of language and meaning. It is the ‘I’ that thinks and speaks and is the apparent author of meaning.”300 For Bacon, the contestation of subjectivity was a means of generating unanticipated outcomes and a central strategy for his artistic practice. This, in turn, operates as a context for discussing the challenge presented by the site to my own practice.

In Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, the studio of Francis Bacon has been posthumously reconstructed, having been relocated from its original site at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington,

81 London, where the artist lived and worked from 1961 until his death in 1992. Beginning in 1998, the entire contents of the studio, including the dust on the floor, were catalogued by archaeologists and moved into the museum in Dublin with painstaking attention to detail. According to Margarita Cappock, the project manager for the Bacon studio reconstruction and Head of Collections at The Hugh Lane, “This process, with its forensic attention to detail, uncovered the full extent of Bacon’s visual archive, which was much larger than anticipated.”301 The relocation of the studio and its contents also presented the opportunity to compile a comprehensive digital database documenting more than 7,500 items found in the studio.302

The director of The Hugh Lane, Barbara Dawson, states that Bacon’s studio was subjected to “meticulous cataloguing and photography,” thus establishing The Hugh Lane “as the resource centre for study on this artist.”303 Bacon’s studio, or rather the reconstruction of it and its accompanying digital archive, has subsequently become the subject of considerable research and scholarship, now operating as the primary basis for interpretation of the artist’s work in the numerous publications and exhibitions that have been produced since the artist’s death, and particularly since the reconstruction was first opened for permanent display on 23 May, 2001.304

The increased scholarly and curatorial attention given to Bacon’s studio in its posthumous context is in contrast with the reticence sometimes attributed to Bacon in terms of allowing detailed examination of the contents of his studio. Bacon scholar and editor of the artist’s recent catalogue raisonné Martin Harrison notes instances when Bacon denied public access to this material:

He politely declined a request from John Russell (in regard to a revised edition of his 1971 monograph on Bacon) for access to previously unseen source images, saying that ‘it would take a volume in itself—and in any case I do not think [it would be] very helpful’. Towards the end of his life Bacon was asked by a researcher to bequeath his working documents to an archive, whereupon, according to Dennis Farr, he swept up ‘all the photographs and press cuttings that littered his studio floor, bundled them into two plastic sacks, and made a bonfire of them.305

However, Bacon’s studio was not kept completely off-limits to others, despite its reputation as a private and exclusive domain. In fact, it was not uncommon for the artist to allow cameras in. The long list of photographers who documented the Reece Mews studio include Derek Bayes, Peter Beard, Bruce Bernard, Ian Berry, Jane Bown, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Prudence Cuming, John Deakin, Mario Dondero, Jesse Fernandez, Carlos Freire, Francis Giacobetti, Francis Goodman, Michael Holtz, Jorge Lewinski, Mayotte Magnus, Arnold Newman, Michael Pergolani, Edward Quinn, Terence Spencer, Peter Stark and Marc Trivier. The tendency was for photographers to reveal only a general view of the interior, with or without the artist in the frame, producing images described by art historian and researcher Katharina Günther as “showing an unspecific, confusing

82 abundance of working material [that] unwittingly supported Bacon’s public myth of the accidental genesis of his paintings.”306 Rather than perpetuate this myth, I argue that the studio is neither a site of pure accident or intention. Rather, it produces a distributed agency resulting from the complex combination of its constituent human and non-human elements. The complexity of the studio cannot be summed up in its photographic representation. However, in contrast to previous images of Bacon’s, Perry Ogden’s series of photographs, taken just prior to the original studio’s dismantlement in 1998, record 7 Reece Mews with greater scrutiny than had typically been attempted when the artist was still alive.

If Bacon was conscious of protecting the material in his studio from scrutiny, there are instances when it appears that he let his guard down. The artist had already permitted relatively close inspection of an earlier work space when art historian Sam Hunter photographed the “montage” of images in the studio at 7 Cromwell Place for an article published in 1952.307 Further inquiry was permitted in the Reece Mews studio when Bacon was filmed there for a BBC-TV interview with art critic David Sylvester in 1966. The pair looked through images scattered on the floor and discussed their significance for the artist.308 Generally, the attention already received by 7 Reece Mews during Bacon’s lifetime reflects what Harrison describes as the studio’s “cultish attraction.”309

Evidently, Bacon’s studio played a prominent role in constructing his public image during his own lifetime. Photographs of the studio in catalogues for the artist’s solo exhibitions at Marlborough Gallery, especially ones in which there is no visible presence of the occupant, could be seen as portraits of the artist by proxy.310 Bacon himself drew analogies between himself and the studio he worked in, stating, “This mess around us is rather like my mind; it may be a good image of what goes on inside me, that’s what it’s like, my life is like that.”311 On another occasion he commented, “the places I live in, or like living in, are like an autobiography, I like the marks that have been made by myself, or other people, to be left. They’re like memory tracks for me.”312 Bacon’s remarks correspond with the concept of the studio interior as a reflection of the occupant’s mind.

The architectural interior, and the home in particular, is frequently interpreted as a manifestation of the inhabitant’s inner character.313 Art historian Georgina Downey identifies the modernist era as a time when “a connection between actual interior space and psychological interiority began to develop.”314 Interiority, according to design historian Penny Sparke, “assumes a blurring of the inner, mental activities of occupants and the material and spatial environments they occupy.”315 Seen in this light, and corresponding with the tendency identified in Chapter Two in which the studio is regarded as an extension of the artist’s identity, the Reece Mews studio is a surrogate for

83 the artist himself. The close identification between Bacon and his distinctive workspace contributes to the site’s perceived historical significance and the ongoing fascination with it.

Figure 44: Francis Bacon, Triptych, 1977, oil and dry transfer lettering on canvas, 35.5 × 30.2 cm each. Private collection. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd.

In 1977, Bacon produced an unusual work consisting of three panels and simply titled Triptych (fig. 44). In the artist’s catalogue raisonné published in 2016, Harrison describes this triptych as “the only painting of this kind that he completed.”316 It is unique in Bacon’s oeuvre due to the fact that it is his only known work that makes such explicit reference to his studio. The dimensions of the three canvases are small; their scale is consistent with the format that Bacon usually reserved for the portrait heads he often painted. The right-hand panel, a self-portrait,

conforms to the conventions of Bacon’s small Figure 45: A section of a John Deakin photo of Bacon’s studio c.1965, re-photographed by portraits. The other two canvases, however, are Prudence Cuming for Bacon’s use. Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane and the Estate of uncharacteristic. As a group, the three paintings have Francis Bacon. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. 317 All rights reserved. DACS/ Copyright Agency, been interpreted as a form of autobiography. From 2019. left to right, the paintings show views of the artist’s studio, his bedroom, and the artist himself. As Cappock has shown, the source image for the left- hand panel is a fragment of a photograph taken by John Deakin in c.1965 (fig. 45), and comparison with the painting reveals Bacon’s surprisingly faithful representation, right down to the vertical black band where the image is cropped along the left-hand side.318 Something of an anomaly in the artist’s oeuvre, the small triptych situates 7 Reece Mews as a locus of interiority, associating the home as an integral aspect of identity, and the studio in particular as synonymous with the artist’s psyche.

84 Beyond the focus on the site as an affirmation of Bacon’s persona, however, it may be fruitful to consider a more reciprocal relationship between the artist and his studio. While Harrison cautions against the “absurd reduction” of directly linking the pictorial space of Bacon’s paintings to the physical space in which they were made, he concedes that Bacon himself invited this kind of speculation, as demonstrated by the artist’s remarks about being “very influenced by places—by the atmosphere of a room.”319 The question of how the artist’s environment and materials exceeded his authority, rather than simply acting as passive repositories of human will, is examined in the analysis of Bacon’s studio that follows.

Ordered chaos Among the representations of Bacon’s studio to appear in the public domain during the artist’s lifetime is a television documentary filmed for ITV’s The South Bank Show in 1985. Melvyn Bragg interviews the artist in various locations throughout the program, ten minutes of which are set in the Reece Mews studio. On view as part of the visitor’s experience of the reconstruction in Dublin, the ten-minute segment is projected onto a wall in a purpose-built room adjacent to the studio, screening on a continuous loop (fig. 46). As if to conjure the presence of the artist, Bacon’s voice remains audible in the adjoining space as one gazes into the room where the interview was filmed.

85 In the short clip, soon after entering his studio with Bragg, Bacon quips, “These are my few abstract pictures here,” as he gestures toward a paint-stained wall and door, explaining “I use the walls and things just to test the colours out on.”320 Although Bacon’s flippant reference to “abstract pictures” is made in jest, the painted marks around the room are worth considering as counterpoints to the stress on figuration throughout Bacon’s paintings. The studio walls evidence a range of painterly gestures enacted without regard for any representational impulse: the paint is loosely brushed, smeared, spattered and dripped across the surface of the interior architecture. Bacon was fond of allowing the agency of his materials to generate unexpected results. He often spoke of the role of chance or accident in his work, and would, for example, hurl paint at the canvas and use various other techniques to generate marks that signalled defiance of the hand’s control. Bacon states:

You know in my case all painting—and the older I get, the more it becomes so—is accident. So I foresee it in my mind, I foresee it, and yet I hardly ever carry it out as I foresee it. It transforms itself by the actual paint. I use very large brushes, and in the way I work I don’t in fact know very often what the paint will do, and it does many things which are very much better than I could make it do.321

It is debatable how apposite the term “accident” is here. In fact, Bacon immediately questions his own assertion, going on to say, “Is that an accident? Perhaps one could say it’s not an accident, because it becomes a selective process which part of this accident one chooses to preserve.”322 The paradox of escaping one’s own intentional agency in the process of making art was a dilemma that preoccupied the artist for much of his painting career: “I always think of myself not so much as a painter but as a medium for accident and chance.”323 Bacon’s frequent invocations of “chance or accident”324 as his modus operandi sought to diminish his own self-conscious contribution to the authorship of his paintings.

Bacon is not alone in this pursuit; the role of chance has been a preoccupation of artists throughout the twentieth century.325 And, according to art historian Dario Gamboni, the nineteenth century was an instrumental age for the fascination with chance in art and its interpretation.326 Central to this conceptual development is what Gamboni identifies as “the revaluation of materials, elevated from the status of inert matter to that of agents in the creative process.”327 Many of Bacon’s statements indicate that he shared this interest, like when he says: “in trying to do a portrait, my ideal would really be just to pick up a handful of paint and throw it at the canvas and hope that the portrait was there.”328 As Gamboni notes, however, the notion of eradicating the artist’s conscious will in the creation of art is typically just that: an ideal—theoretically speaking—and in reality, the artist remains, at best, a “collaborator” with his or her materials.329 What Bacon refers to as accident, some critics have regarded as a contrivance.330 However, as art historian Margaret Iversen argues, the intentional courting of chance by an artist does not preclude

86 unintentional outcomes.331 Curator Anthony Bond proposes an understanding of Bacon’s process as characterised by the coexistence of two contradictory accounts of the artist’s work as a result of both “a prodigious intellect” and “an unconscious, almost drunken, leap into the dark.”332 Similarly ambivalent is Gilles Deleuze’s use of the term “manipulated chance,”333 indicating a technique understood to be partially under Bacon’s control. According to Deleuze, for chance to be effectively implemented, it is reliant on the artist’s intervention: “It is in the manipulation, in the reaction of the manual marks on the visual whole, that chance becomes pictorial or is integrated into the act of painting.”334

By claiming the accident as integral to his practice, Bacon perpetuates romantic notions of the creative act as impulsive and mercurial. At times, he speaks of his process as though the images are conjured miraculously: “I watch the forms form themselves.”335 When Bacon speaks of receiving images in this way, he characterises his process as akin to a shamanistic ritual. It is interesting to note, however, that at the heart of the act of painting, Bacon implicates an agency beyond his own control. By attributing agency to the paint, Bacon suggests that his materials collaborate in the authorship of his work, producing outcomes that exceed his conscious will. Deleuze writes, “these marks, these traits, are irrational, involuntary, accidental, free, random. They are nonrepresentative, nonillustrative, nonnarrative. They are no longer either significant or signifiers: they are asignifying traits.”336 Bacon occupies an ambiguous position as an artist who aims to disappear from his own work. He sought the chance effects of paint with the aim of relinquishing control and subverting his own intentional agency.

Likewise, the studio itself reflects Bacon’s interest in chance. Architect and academic Yeoryia Manolopoulou describes Bacon’s studio as an architecture of chance in which accidents were “trapped” on the floor as visual reference material became worn and fragmented underfoot.337 The environment in which the artist worked bears many traces of use, with ample evidence of paint having been loosely brushed, flung, and dripped. Hence, the walls of Bacon’s studio might be understood as a testing ground for the artist’s so-called accidents.

The walls of Bacon’s studio feature prominently in my painting Exit (2016) (fig. 47), a work that depicts the room in a transitional state: no longer a functioning workspace and not yet a museum display. Having been cleared of its contents, the interior architecture is shown prior to being fully dismantled and transferred to Dublin. The image is based on a photograph taken after the studio’s thousands of items had been removed in preparation for the reconstruction in Dublin.338 In the vacant space, the painted marks around the walls become all the more conspicuous, accentuating the architectural boundaries of the space, and yet, simultaneously causing their partial obfuscation, as though veiled in an eccentric camouflage pattern. The equivocal status of paint as a medium for both describing and concealing form is made evident here.

Figure 47: David Eastwood, Exit, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 51 × 71 cm. Photograph: Document Photography.

This work emerged from an interest in the identification of a room with its inhabitant, and how the atmosphere is affected by the removal of the room’s contents. Atmosphere—in the sense of ambience—is a defiantly ineffable concept, eluding a precise definition beyond “a certain mental or emotive tone permeating a particular environment.”339 It is difficult to quantify, but may be understood as partially elicited by a particular site or situation, and partially dependent on subjective interpretation. As philosopher Gernot Böhme notes, atmosphere does not reside in physical matter, but “is rather a floating in-between, something between things and the perceiving subjects.”340 The representation of the room in Exit is interrupted by a pale blue smear, or haze, situated in the central area of the composition. It hovers like a cloud of dust, or an emanation of ectoplasm. The ghostly form bears comparison with the spirit photography illustrating Baron Albert von Schrenck-Notzing’s publication Phenomena of Materialisation (1920), featuring spurious images of paranormal scenes from spiritualist trances and séances. The book was found among Bacon’s possessions in his studio and has been noted as a direct influence on several of his paintings.341 Harrison draws a link between Bacon’s attraction to this publication and his view of himself as a mediumistic “receptor of images.”342 The haze in Exit gives an impression of “floating in-between,” and contrasts with the solid forms that surround it.

One of the most solid forms in Exit is the orange plastic folding chair, the only piece of furniture to be seen in the painting. It is an anomaly in the context of this interior; a familiar item from my

88 own studio inserted into the otherwise remote site associated with Bacon. Conspicuous for its clarity, the chair is distinct from the hazy paint smear but its compositional placement establishes a connection between the tangible world of grounded objects and the fugitive and ethereal characteristics associated with atmosphere. The relationship between the chair, which belongs to the bodily here and now, and the disembodied haze, marks a passage between the familiar and the mysterious. The haze’s adjacency to the chair on one side, and the doorway on the other, suggests a movement from inside to outside; an exit. Beyond the room is a blackened view through the doorway. The rest of the interior is absent; the other rooms were not preserved in the reconstruction process. The boundary between what remains of 7 Reece Mews in the reconstruction and what has been lost in the translation is not as clearly delineated as an architectural threshold. Among the losses one may speculate about, for instance, are items that may have been posthumously removed from Bacon’s studio prior to The Hugh Lane’s acquisition of the collection. As Andrew Hardman notes, “Martin Harrison recalled being told of 20 or so bin bags of material being removed from the Reece Mews studio between Bacon's death in 1992 and its handover to The Hugh Lane in 1998.”343 However, the veracity of this anecdotal report remains unclear. Correspondingly, the hazy zone in my painting marks an indeterminate space; it is the multitude of inconsistencies, from the conspicuous to the imperceptible, amounting to the distinction between the original studio in London and the version now in Dublin.

The underpainting of Exit is comprised of an earth-coloured acrylic ground worked over with bright red enamel spray, followed by loosely brushed and spattered oil paint in black, pink, and pale blue (fig. 48), closely matching the appearance of Bacon’s studio walls. This stage of the painting is undertaken prior to planning the subsequent image, and is therefore not directed by any clear intention in relation to how the composition ought to take shape. It is this phase of work that most resembles what Bacon might have referred to as accident or chance. For Bacon, however, the chance act often came at a late stage in the work, like the impasto dollops of viscous white paint flicked across many a figure in his paintings. The intention behind establishing abstract grounds in the initial phase of my painting is to build up a surface of underlying non- representational marks, or “asignifying traits,” that will disrupt the subsequently painted image. The work belongs to a series of paintings commenced in a similar manner. This disruption occurs as an underlying texture, or as a colour shift visible from beneath a translucent area in the outer layer of the finished painting. The underpainting is also revealed via areas of the image that are erased in the painting process, either by wiping away wet paint or sanding back dry paint. The haze in Exit is partially produced in this way, accentuated by later additions of the same colour in lightly sweeping brushstrokes from right to left in order to convey the directional movement suggested by the title. The pale blue swatch of paint prominently positioned in the centre of the unfinished canvas, traces of which remain visible in the finished version of the painting, becomes a pivotal element in the image.

Figure 48: David Eastwood, Exit (unfinished state), 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 51 × 71 cm.

A related painting, Excavation (2017), adopts a similar methodology, starting with a ground that I anticipated to be in conflict with what was to come later in the painting (figs. 49 and 50). In this case, the image became another version of Bacon’s empty studio, without the cameo of my chair that appears in Exit. The interference to figuration that results includes a pink blob seeping through the skylight and remnants of a pink smear in the darkened doorway. In many ways, Exit and Excavation correspond closely with the hallmarks of earlier work of mine produced over the preceding decade: a vacant interior defined by rigid linear perspective and crisp articulation of forms. A primary motivation for the selection of Bacon’s studio as the focus of this research was the recognition of these tendencies in my practice, and an interest in adopting different strategies. I wanted to challenge certain habitual modes within my work and trigger alternative approaches to painting. It is through the alteration of certain conditions in the studio and inviting in “foreign” elements that I aim to generate new developments in my practice. The chaos associated with Bacon’s studio—and the corresponding antagonism between figuration and abstraction in his work—suggests that an investigation of the reconstruction can reveal provocations for art practice. Indeed, the serendipitous irruption of the gestural underpainting unsettling the otherwise lucid interior scene of Exit demonstrates the potential shift initiated by the adoption of Bacon’s studio as a particular external influence on my practice.

Figure 49: David Eastwood, Excavation Figure 50: David Eastwood, Excavation (finished state), (underpainting), 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 107 × 107 polyester, 107 × 107 cm. cm.

While Bacon’s studio walls appear to be dominated by the chance effects of gestural paint, his oeuvre is a different matter altogether. Never isolated as a means unto itself, chance is a strategy for distorting and disrupting figuration in his paintings. Bacon’s “accidents” are dependent on representation as their counterpoint. Bacon spoke of wishing to avoid illustration and narrative, claiming that “the moment the story is elaborated, the boredom sets in; the story talks louder than the paint.”344 For this reason, he tended to paint isolated figures, characterised by distortions aimed at situating his images at the boundary between the representational and the abstract. Bacon saw his work as “a kind of tightrope walk between what is called figurative painting and abstraction. It will go right out from abstraction, but will really have nothing to do with it.”345 For Bacon, neither figurative painting nor abstraction was wholly satisfactory in isolation.

Bacon generally spoke dismissively of abstraction. He once declared, “I feel that nearly all abstract art is really decorator's art, and that means to decorate a room, or make a 'pretty' room or lobby for somebody, and it is nearly always that.”346 In light of this comment, the walls of the Reece Mews studio can be seen as a literal manifestation of this idea. Thus, one might question whether the artist’s motive for marking the walls with paint was simply a function of testing out colours as he claimed, or whether there was in fact a secondary intention, more akin to the role he ascribes to abstraction as a “decorator’s art.” Despite the derision intended by the comparison with decoration, Bacon’s professional beginnings were, in fact, as a decorator and designer. Although he had abandoned this first career by the 1940s, the artist’s background in interior design introduces a significant context worth considering in relation to the painting studio at Reece Mews, as discussed later in this chapter.

91 The apparent chaos of Bacon’s studio gives the impression that its genesis was a gradual and haphazard accretion of materials accumulated over a prolonged period. While the particular combination of items found there after the artist’s death was the result of collected ephemera spanning decades, Bacon’s approach in establishing the appearance of the room may have been quite calculated, or a “consciously cultivated chaos” as art historian Nicholas Chare puts it.347 Bacon once commented, “If I did have to leave and I went into a new room, in a week’s time the whole thing would be in chaos.”348 One could infer from this comment that the chaotic state of Bacon’s Reece Mews studio was established soon after he moved in Figure 51: Francis Bacon in his studio at 7 Reece Mews. 349 Photograph: Derek Bayes, 30 May 1962. © Derek Bayes/ there around autumn 1961. Lebrecht Music & Arts. Supporting this hypothesis is Derek Bayes’ photo shoot from 30 May 1962 (fig. 51), among the earliest known photographic evidence of the site.350 It shows the studio in an already relatively advanced state of disarray: detritus is scattered over the floor and piled up on a table top, materials and ephemera are shabbily stored on shelves, paint is smeared over walls, and the blemished mirror is in the position where it was to remain for the rest of the artist’s life.

For all the sense of chaos and upheaval suggested by the room’s appearance, it would seem that in many respects the basic features of Bacon’s Reece Mews studio were established very early on and remained relatively consistent throughout Bacon’s occupancy there. As Cappock observes:

Although the first impression of the studio is one of total disorder, the archaeologists’ deconstruction revealed that it was divided into specific areas: where Bacon painted, where he kept his prized sources, arranged jars of pigment, abandoned unfinished canvases and even where he discarded his empty champagne boxes.351

If the “chaos” of Bacon’s studio was the result of the artist’s careful orchestration rather than random placement, the elaborate reconstruction that took place nearly forty years later may not

92 be so at odds with the site’s inception. The “deeply ordered chaos” that Bacon attributed to his own work is a term that might equally apply to the studio.352

The prehistory of Bacon’s studio The notion that the mess of Bacon’s studio may have been strategically choreographed by the artist is fitting in light of the fact that, during the late 1920s and early 1930s, Bacon had a brief career as a furniture designer and interior decorator. This, his first profession, preceded any serious efforts he made as an artist. Bacon intermittently pursued an interest in painting during the 1930s, and found initial success with his 1933 painting Crucifixion, which was published in Herbert Read’s book Art Now in the same year. However, it was not until 1944 that Bacon committed himself to painting as a primary and ongoing professional occupation. By that time, he had ceased his work in interior decoration, which had continued until the late 1930s.353

Figure 52: An article featuring Francis Bacon’s design studio, published in The Studio, August 1930.

Bacon’s design studio opened in 1929 and operated out of a two-storey venue at 17 Queensberry Mews West, South Kensington. “The mews building,” writes Harrison, “was transformed by Bacon into a stark modernist interior, with rugs, wall hangings and furniture of his own design.”354 While this period of Bacon’s life is not documented in great detail, there is evidence to indicate that his design work received some early attention. In particular, a double-page article dedicated

93 to his design studio appeared in the August 1930 issue of The Studio. Entitled “The 1930 Look in British Decoration,” the article was illustrated with three photographs, the largest of which featured two mirrors which appear to be oval and circular in shape respectively, both mounted on the wall and accompanied by other furnishings designed by Bacon (fig. 52). Art Deco in style, Bacon’s furniture demonstrated the influence of Le Corbusier, Eileen Gray and Marcel Breuer.355 His interiors have been described as having “a Bauhaus-like austerity and an orderliness quite alien to his later lifestyle.”356

Apparently seeking to diminish any significance that may have been attributed to his work as a designer and decorator, Bacon later dismissed his foray into interior design as derivative.357 However, it is worth considering later aspects of Bacon’s life in relation to this early phase. There is an apparent incongruity between Bacon’s early profession as a designer of sleek, modernist interiors and the excessive detritus that characterises the studio of his mature career. And yet, there is some continuity between these two distinct careers. Harrison observes:

from the few surviving photographs the early interiors he designed appear not to resemble the airy suntraps of his modernist peers, but rather enclosures—claustrophobic spaces in spite of their sleek lines—in which he substituted circular mirrors for windows.358

Harrison’s observation suggests that Bacon’s early interior designs can be seen as foreshadowing the Reece Mews painting studio he occupied from 1961, and the foreboding atmosphere of his paintings more generally. Writer and art historian Christopher Turner observes:

Bacon thought that his previous career as a designer-decorator detracted from his prestige as a painter; his later messy workspace might be seen as an attempt to escape this past, even though the disarray itself can be understood as a form of décor.359

In fact, the Reece Mews studio has something in common with many of the world’s most splendid and noteworthy historical interiors: it has been preserved for display in a public museum, in the tradition of the period room. As Bacon’s only interior preserved for public display in a museum, the reconstructed Reece Mews studio may ultimately be regarded as his crowning achievement as an interior designer. The so-called chaos of Bacon’s studio may be regarded as not so much a random accumulation of mess but an arrangement cultivated in a manner somewhat analogous to the artist’s first career.

Figure 53: David Eastwood, Voyeur, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 152 cm. Photograph: Document Photography.

The shifting contexts of Bacon’s studios, ranging from the sleek design studio in 1930 to the chaos of the painting studio from the 1960s onwards, and to its current status as a museum artefact, are alluded to in my large painting Voyeur (2016) (fig. 53). The circular form in the upper left corner is based on the mirror, a witness to various phases of Bacon’s working spaces. The stool in the opposite corner at lower right is another remnant from Bacon’s early career as a furniture designer. The design is recognisable from the 1930 article in The Studio, and its pale turquoise colour, similar to Australian artist Roy de Maistre’s depiction of the same stool in a 1930 painting of the Queensberry Mews studio, is based on a version that surfaced at auction in 2013.360 The neat arrangement characteristic of the design studio at Queensberry Mews West is forsaken in the painting in favour of the untidy assortment of clutter associated with the Reece Mews studio. This site is represented by the shelving, art materials, and some of the artist’s reference sources comprising books and photographs. The depiction here is partially informed by historical

95 documentation of the studio, indicated most conspicuously by the photographic fragment of the semi-clad figure with crossed legs. The image is taken from a sequence of shots photographed by John Deakin in Bacon’s studio, discussed in more detail in Chapter Five. The contemporary context of the studio is indicated by the two peepholes in the wall at the upper right portion of the composition, a feature at The Hugh Lane installed during the reconstruction process, allowing museum visitors to peer in. Recalling art historian John G. Hatch’s observation that when we look at Bacon’s paintings, “we are in a privileged position by being made witness to acts of intense privacy,”361 these two apertures breach the confines of the studio, connoting the illicit vantage point of the peeping tom, and prompting the title of this painting.362

Voyeur is a composite image. The overlapping spaces constitute an amalgam of Bacon’s studios; the workspaces of Bacon as both young designer and mature artist are collapsed into a single context, alluding to Reece Mews as a hybrid of these two phases of Bacon’s professional life. If his two professions overlapped at all, it is during the 1930s, when he was still executing furniture commissions while pursuing a fledgling but somewhat frustrated career in painting.363 The distinction between Bacon the designer and Bacon the artist is not clear-cut at this time, but his output in both fields was sporadic throughout this relatively unproductive period, characterised by a waning interest in design and a lack of confidence with painting.

Bacon’s precise address is unclear in the period immediately following his departure from the Queensberry Mews West design studio in 1931 or 1932. However, there is evidence to suggest that he occupied a studio with Roy de Maistre in Carlyle Studios, Chelsea.364 As noted previously, Bacon’s connection with the Australian artist is evident from de Maistre’s adoption of Bacon’s design studio as a painting subject in 1930. As Harrison and Rebecca Daniels point out, Bacon and de Maistre must have become acquainted with each other shortly after de Maistre’s arrival in London in March 1930, considering the fact that de Maistre had completed a portrait of Bacon which was among seven of his paintings included in a three-person exhibition with Jean Shepeard and Bacon himself, who showed paintings as well as rugs, mounted at Bacon’s Figure 54: Eric Megaw reflected in Bacon’s 365 mirror, Carlyle Studios, c.1932. Photograph: Queensberry Mews West studio. Photographs of Thérèse Veder (later Megaw). the interior of Carlyle Studios dating from around

96 1932 reveal a number of the furnishings that had been designed by Bacon, including a rug, a sofa, a wall-mounted cocktail bracket of glass and steel, and a circular mirror (fig. 54).366 The sofa remained in de Maistre’s possession until the end of his life.367 As for the mirror (already familiar from the abovementioned article in The Studio, 1930), one just like it—perhaps the very same one—appears decades later as a prominent feature within Bacon’s painting studio at Reece Mews, although with significant deterioration to the mirror’s reflective surface.

In the intervening years between the early 1930s, when the clean surface of Bacon’s circular mirror echoed the streamlined aesthetic of his design practice, and the early 1960s, when the transformed mirror resurfaced amid the detritus of the artist’s chaotic painting studio at 7 Reece Mews, the mirror’s location is something of a mystery. Not only is it unclear where the mirror was kept, so too it is difficult to say how it came to develop such a blemished surface with the tain of the mirror extensively eroded. Perhaps the mirror was stored in a place where it was particularly susceptible to the elements, kept out of mind as Bacon travelled extensively. Stained- glass artist and chairman of the Francis Bacon Estate Brian Clarke describes the mirror’s transformed state in the Reece Mews studio:

A large circular mirror that began life as part of an earlier more innocent time when Bacon designed furniture […] leant against the back wall but was now decayed and pitted. No longer pristine and minimal, incapable of hiding the damage time had inflicted on it. A clear and easy metaphor for the transformation that the artist who created it had undergone himself. Curiously comforting in its corruption.368

Subsequent to the spotless design studio of 1930, as Bacon became increasingly preoccupied with painting, the nature of the spaces he worked in shifted distinctly. A diary entry by Eric Allden, a close friend of Bacon in the 1930s, notes that on 28 June 1934, “Francis was just as untidy as ever attired in a filthy red bathrobe, and the studio [at 71 Royal Hospital Road] was like a pig sty with paint all over everything.”369 Allden’s comments indicate the clear distinction between the disorder of the painting studio and the tidiness evident in the design studio of only a few years earlier, which, after all, was intended as a showroom for clients. While the photographic evidence of the painting studios Bacon occupied prior to 7 Reece Mews is scant, it suggests that Bacon surrounded himself in increasingly cluttered and shambolic environments in which to work. Bacon’s Battersea studio at Overstrand Mansions, where he worked between 1955 and 1961, was photographed on a few occasions, including a shoot by Cecil Beaton in 1960 (fig. 55). More so than the rare, earlier photographs of Bacon’s studios at Cromwell Place and the Royal College of Art, the images at Battersea reveal much in common with the Reece Mews studio, such as detritus strewn on the floor and paint applied liberally to the walls. The circular mirror, however, is nowhere to be seen.

Figure 55: Francis Bacon in his studio in Battersea, 1960. Collection: National Portrait Gallery, London. © Cecil Beaton Studio Archive, Sotheby’s London. Photograph: Cecil Beaton.

The return of Bacon’s mirror Following the three decades during which the circular mirror was unaccounted for, its reappearance in Bacon’s studio became a prominent feature in many photographs of the site, as in Jorge Lewinski’s 1963 portrait of the artist’s reflection in it (fig. 56).370 The image quite clearly indicates the extent of corruption to the mirror’s surface. Writing about this photograph, curator Barbara Steffen notes, “The material condition of the mirror alters the reflected image, creating an irritation similar to that of a distorting mirror.”371 This effect is further demonstrated by subsequent photographs of the studio throughout the 1960s by John Deakin, Ian Berry, and others. Curiously, it appears that no further discernible deterioration was sustained after that time. Although the mirror underwent a substantial transformation during a window of time occurring within three decades, it now remains fixed in more or less the same state several decades after Bacon’s arrival at Reece Mews.

Figure 56: Francis Bacon reflected in his studio mirror at 7 Reece Mews. © The Lewinski Archive at Chatsworth / Bridgeman Images. Photograph: Jorge Lewinski, 1963.

Having rejected his previous career in interior design, Bacon’s acceptance of the mirror back into his studio suggests that the distressed surface held a significance for the artist, although the question of its instrumentality remains underexplored. In Margarita Cappock’s detailed study of the contents of Francis Bacon’s studio, each of the six chapters covers a different category of object: photographs; illustrated publications; drawings; handwritten notes; artist’s materials; and destroyed canvases.372 Despite Bacon’s early career as a furniture designer and interior decorator, no chapter is dedicated to the studio’s furniture or furnishings, perhaps because this aspect of the studio was somewhat meagre. Cappock, however, does describe Bacon’s circular mirror as “possibly the most singularly striking object in his Reece Mews studio.”373 The mirror’s dominant

99 physical presence within the studio not only corresponds with the recurring role of mirrors in Bacon’s paintings, but stands as a notable reminder of the artist’s previous career.

Of all the objects found in Francis Bacon’s Reece Mews studio, the circular mirror that was placed against the west wall is the only artefact with obvious and direct links to the artist’s first profession. As Christopher Turner observes of the 1930 article on his design studio, “Only the circular mirror, which later had a prominent place in the painter’s studio, provides any sense of continuity with Reece Mews.”374 The Hugh Lane website highlights the prominence of the mirror and speculates on its role within Reece Mews:

It was placed in a central position on the back wall of his studio and appears to have remained there unchallenged throughout the artist's time at Reece Mews… As well as giving a sense of space to Bacon's small studio, the mirror may well have performed a role in the production of his paintings.375

It is intriguing to speculate about the role that the mirror may have performed in Bacon’s studio. From Brunelleschi’s mirror for devising linear perspective, to the Claude mirror for observing picturesque landscape effects in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, to the function of the mirror’s reflection in the background of Diego Velázquez’s Las Meniñas (1656) as, in the words of Michel Foucault, “a metathesis of visibility,”376 the mirror has served as a painter’s device in various art historical contexts. The traditional role of mirrors in painters’ studios is typified by a passage from Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks, in which he advises painters to:

look at your work as reflected in it, when you will see it reversed, and it will appear to you like some other painter’s work, so you will be better able to judge of its faults than in any other way.377

The arrangement of furniture in Bacon’s studio directly corresponds to Leonardo’s recommendation, with Bacon’s large easel and mirror facing each other from opposite ends of the studio. As The Hugh Lane’s website notes, “Bacon could have turned and looked at the reflection of his work in the mirror.”378 The quote from Leonardo suggests that in the studio, artists lack critical distance from their own work. He ascribes to mirrors a capacity for revealing to artists a view of their work virtually removed from the confines of the studio and encountered anew, as if authored by another hand. Bacon’s mirror, however, cannot fully comply with this role, as its blemished surface disrupts the illusion of the specular image. Rather than establishing objective distance between artist and artwork, the reflection is impeded by the mirror’s flaws. No longer a transparent screen, the pitted mirror surface serves, I would argue, to assert the studio’s imprint as a vibrant material presence.

100 In its state of surface deterioration by the 1960s, Bacon’s mirror is worthy of attention in that it can illuminate the manner in which his studio operated as a site for contesting subjectivity. The philosophical and psychoanalytical significance of mirrors in relation to the construction of the subject will be examined in the next chapter, leading to a consideration of how the specific context of Bacon’s mirror subverts these ideas, instead pointing toward the status of the human subject as dissipated and fragmentary. The argument is informed by an analysis of Bacon’s studio as well as the paintings he produced there.

101 Chapter Five The Mirror’s Two Sides

Both sides of the mirror Several commentators note the prominent role played by mirrors in Bacon’s paintings. Art historian Ernst van Alphen, for instance, identifies two “tools of vision”—the mirror and the lamp—as salient features throughout much of Bacon’s output.379 In Western culture, as van Alphen points out, these tools of reflection and illumination have traditionally signified vision’s central role in the production of knowledge. Bacon, however, dispenses with this tradition, instead subverting these devices such that they cause bodies to “lose their forms and boundaries.”380 In the case of the mirror, it fails to produce an adequate reflection in his paintings. Van Alphen relates this failure to the loss of a cohesive self he attributes to Bacon’s work, asserting, “Identity gets blurred when the mirror image cannot be identified as a mirror reflection.”381 According to van Alphen, Bacon’s paintings “demonstrate perception not as a process by which the subject controls his world, but as a process in which the body disintegrates.”382 The disintegrating human body is a predominant motif within my practice. In response to the trope of the modernist studio that privileges the subject (equated with the solitary, male genius), I interpret the studio as an entity that can exceed and overwhelm the subject, rather than affirm the clichés that have been linked to the studio’s dismissal in post-studio discourse. Similarly, the instability of the mirror image in Bacon’s paintings ultimately suggests the dissolution of the subject’s sovereignty.

Likewise, in his book Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, Gilles Deleuze highlights the mirror as one of three recurring motifs of significance in Bacon’s paintings, along with the washbasin and umbrella. Deleuze describes these objects in Bacon’s paintings as “prostheses-instruments” through or into which the body dissipates.383 In the cases of “the umbrella and the washbasin as much as the mirror,” according to Deleuze, “the Figure is no longer simply isolated but deformed; sometimes contracted and aspirated, sometimes stretched and dilated.”384 The philosophical significance implied by Deleuze’s interpretation of Bacon’s paintings of mirrors is situated within the context of a post-structuralist rejection of the primacy of a fixed and autonomous subjectivity. Instead, he posits the subject as divided and extended beyond itself, dependent on the mirror as a prosthesis.

The mirror as prosthesis is a predominant theme in Umberto Eco’s essay ‘Mirrors.’385 Eco identifies the primary role of the prosthesis as a replacement for a part of the body, offering the examples of artificial limbs and dentures. He broadens this definition by adding that prostheses can function to extend organs: stilts, magnifying lenses and periscopes are among the examples Eco offers in this respect.386 The mirror, for instance, extends the reach of the eye, enabling vision

102 at tangential angles that would otherwise be impossible for unaided vision. The unique wonder of mirrors, according to Eco, “lies in the fact that their extensiveness-intrusiveness allows us both to have a better look at the world and to look at ourselves as anybody else might.”387 Bacon’s mirrors, however, deviate from this way of looking. Rather than showing and reinforcing conventional appearances, the reflections reveal an unfamiliar body.

The incompatibility between the body and its reflection apparent in Bacon’s paintings raises the question, in what sense does Deleuze see these mirrors as corresponding with prostheses? The Deleuzian prosthesis-instrument challenges the body as much as it augments it. Rather than extending ordinary vision and showing the subject to itself as a mere reflection, Bacon’s mirrors are repositories into which the subject escapes and is transformed. Deleuze claims, “Bacon's mirrors can be anything you like—except a reflecting surface.”388 They are prosthetic in the sense that they augment the subject, admitting an alienated identity in place of the subject’s reflection. In Bacon’s hands, the mirror reflection produces a manifestation that operates at the boundary of the self, revealing “the deformed body that escapes from itself.”389 The writer Milan Kundera recognises this antagonism when he observes, “Bacon's portraits are an interrogation on the limits of the self.”390 The paintings Kundera has in mind provoke him to ask, “Up to what degree of distortion does an individual still remain himself? […] Where lies the border beyond which a self ceases to be a self?”391 Bacon’s mirrors operate at this border. Instead of reflections, they depict what Barbara Steffen describes as “new identities, making, so to speak, the unconscious conscious and the invisible visible.”392 They reveal an aspect of the self that is unrecognisable and foreign.

Bacon’s characteristic handling of mirrored subjects can be seen in his Portrait of George Dyer in a Mirror (1968) (fig. 57). It is this work that Deleuze has in mind when he vividly describes the bodily contortions witnessed in Bacon’s painted reflections: “the head is split open by a large triangular crevasse, which will reappear on two sides, and disperse the head throughout the mirror like a lump of fat in a bowl of soup.”393 The figure outside the mirror is faceless and distorted, partially obscured like an image folded upon itself. The vertical white line that divides the body from the ear down to the leg is suggestive of a crease in a photographic print. It is as though this figure, with its crumpled suit and missing features, is incomplete. While the details of the face are more evident in the reflection, the figure in the mirror is no less diminished than his counterpart. All we find in the mirror is a dissolving head. Mirror and figure are interdependent. As if to emphasise the connection between the two, flicked across the surface of the canvas is a lump of white paint. The ejaculatory path of the projectile blob spans from the figure across to the mirror’s stand, suggesting an ectoplasmic escape while simultaneously tethering the body to its prosthesis.

103

Deleuze identifies a tendency in Bacon’s oeuvre in which the figure is shown under duress, dissolving into the space and objects around it. According to Deleuze, this tendency moves towards the complete dissolution of the figure. The philosopher points to a handful of Bacon’s late paintings, from towards the end of the 1970s and into the early 1980s (contemporaneous with the book’s original publication), in support of this argument, observing, “The Figure is dissipated by realizing the prophecy: you will no longer be anything but sand, grass, dust, or a drop of water.”394 Although the human body remained the predominant subject in Bacon’s work, Deleuze recognises the emergence of Bacon’s occasional inclination toward painting unpopulated scenes late in his career, as in Jet of Water (1979), Sand Dune (1981), and Water from a Running Tap (1982). Bacon’s figures are conspicuous in their absence from these late works in which, as

104 Deleuze suggests, human presence can be understood as having been completely subsumed into the surrounding environment. This metaphorically corresponds with the condition that Bacon arguably sought for himself: a diminished subject in the face of the studio’s material agency. Similarly, in failing to faithfully reinforce the image of the figure standing before it, Bacon’s treatment of the mirror in much of his work participates in this dissolution of the subject. The fact that the blemished mirror remained a fixture in the studio throughout the artist’s occupation of 7 Reece Mews invites speculation that it influenced his painted representations of mirror reflections.

In contradistinction to the distortions of Bacon’s mirrors is the privileging of reflection as a philosophical task. In this context, the self-conscious subject is established and affirmed by philosophical reflection, analogous to the clarity of a pristine mirror. The philosopher and literary theorist Rodolphe Gasché points out that the fundamental role of philosophical reflection in the rationalist tradition is the foundation of the self as a distinct, autonomous subject, disentangled from the world.395 He writes:

In giving priority to the human being’s determination as a thinking being, self-reflection marks the human being’s rise to the rank of a subject. It makes the human being a subjectivity that has its center in itself, a self-consciousness certain of itself.396

In subverting the role of the mirror, Bacon challenges this self’s privileged position, dislodging the subject established through reflection. In this sense, Bacon’s work can be interpreted in the context of Jacques Derrida’s critique of philosophical reflection. Derrida looks beyond reflection, instead emphasising the tain of the mirror: the mirror’s reverse side, characterised by a tarnished screen rather than a lucid representation of the reflected subject.397 According to Gasché, the tain “alludes to that ‘beyond’ of the orchestrated mirror play of reflection that Derrida’s philosophy seeks to conceptualize.”398 In Derrida’s words, this view of the mirror reveals “the ghost of what it reflects, the shadow deformed and reformed,”399 whereby the rational subject is displaced. The mirror’s tain produces a reflection tainted by alterity. To confront the tain is to look past the subject and interrogate the privileging of subjectivity itself.

According to Bacon, the distortions in his paintings come about in an attempt “to get out of the formula of making a kind of illustrative image.”400 Bacon explains:

I just wipe it over with a rag or use a brush or rub it with something or anything or throw turpentine and paint and everything else onto the thing to try to break the willed articulation of the image.401

The smears, flecks and blotches in Bacon’s paintings are corruptions of the image’s clarity which, like the blemishes on the surface of his studio mirror, deny the possibility of an illusion of 105 cohesion. What we find instead are disfigurations; asignifying traits that amount to what Deleuze describes as the figural, a concept he borrows from Jean-François Lyotard, for whom the term represents a “fundamental ambiguity between subject and object, signifier and signified, word and image.”402 Deleuze’s interpretation of the figural is the “Figure.” Spelt with a capitalised initial, as though it were a proper noun, it indicates the distinction he wishes to make between Bacon’s representations of bodies and the common noun figures typically found in figurative art.403 Deleuze asserts, “There are two ways of going beyond figuration (that is, beyond both the illustrative and the figurative): either toward abstract form or toward the Figure.”404

Figure 58: David Eastwood, Imposture, 2017, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 107 × 107 cm.

Recurring in a number of my paintings created during my investigation of Bacon’s studio, references to human figures are apparent, but their depiction is corrupted by other elements. This is evident in the work Imposture (2017) (fig. 58), in which the leaning figure of a man dressed only in underwear reaches over to a stack of boxes as if to support his balance. Parts of his body are erased, disrupted by loosely brushed paint. The image explores the concept of figural ambiguity set within the studio environment. The scene represents a hybrid of Bacon’s studio, signified by features such as the chair and the pile of detritus on the left, and my studio, signified

106 by the boxes and crates to the right. My painting does not seek to emulate the stylistic traits of Bacon’s work per se, but utilises a reference source of his: one of many photographs posthumously found in his studio. A re-enactment with props is staged in my studio to imitate the original photograph, and the two scenes are incorporated as a composite image in the painting. My intention is to bridge two studios, Bacon’s and my own, as well as emphasise the interdependence between human and non-human entities that constitute the studio.

Although Bacon aimed to avoid narrative and illustration in his work, he never wished to turn to pure abstraction. He pursued the path “toward the Figure” instead, and for Bacon, this meant a “tightrope walk”405 between figuration and abstraction, parallel with the tension he sought between control and accident. Consequently, the “Figure” that Bacon reveals tends to oscillate between contradictory states, as articulated by media theorist Darren Tofts: “The human form [in Bacon’s paintings] trembles between presence and disappearance as a perceptible trace that is both manifest and obscure.”406 Inherent within Bacon’s construction of the figural is an antagonism between those aspects of his work more closely identifiable as illustration, and the “accidents” he courted in order to subdue the operation of subjective control and “set a trap with which one would be able to catch the fact at its most living point.”407 According to Bacon’s typically grand terms, the fact at its most living point cannot be conveyed by the will of the artist through illustration, but occurs at the point where “paint comes across directly onto the nervous system.”408 It is an elusive condition that requires a letting go of control, foregrounding the agency of materials which, for Bacon, frequently takes the form of disfiguring blemishes.

In her book Beyond Pleasure: Freud, Lacan, Barthes, Margaret Iversen compares two paradigms of psychoanalytic art theory based on differing readings of Lacan:

While the mirror model—which Lacan introduced in his celebrated article on the “mirror stage” of infantile development—emphasized the spectator's identification with a coherent form, the anamorphic moment of art criticism turns its attention to what is necessarily expelled in that exercise.409

Just as Lacan’s mirror stage elicits the infant’s “jubilant assumption of his specular image,”410 the mirror model of art theory asserts that an artwork conforming to the perceived stability of the viewer’s world produces a sense of satisfaction correlating with an enhancement of the ego. Iversen cites the “illusion of visual mastery and control” in the work of Piero Della Francesca as an exemplary case in accordance with this interpretation of art.411 The anamorphic model, on the other hand, undermines the ego by revealing it to be an illusion. This model is exemplified by the distorted representation of the skull in the foreground of Hans Holbein’s The Ambassadors (1533) (fig. 59), a painting that Lacan himself discusses in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho- Analysis.412 The hidden skull in The Ambassadors is most discernible from an oblique angle at

107 the right-hand side of the painting, at which point the stretched form appears perspectivally corrected while the rest of the composition becomes obscured. Despite the masterful execution of the double-portrait by Holbein, which the viewer may at first identify as a reinforcement of their own illusory sense of cohesion as a unified and autonomous subject, Iversen explains that the unsettling shape in the lower portion of the composition exposes “the stain, and the blind spot,”413 that is, the blemish of self-deception. Ultimately, according to the anamorphic interpretation, the viewer’s “satisfaction would be troubled by the unintelligible stain in the foreground and totally undermined when the perspectivally skewed skull came into view.”414 As Lacan asserts, “Holbein makes visible for us something that is simply the subject as annihilated.”415

Figure 59: Hans Holbein the Younger, The Ambassadors, 1533, oil on oak, 207 × 209.5 cm. © The National Gallery, London.

In fact, the subject’s potential annihilation is always already present in Lacan’s account of the mirror. “This illusion of unity, in which a human being is always looking forward to self-mastery, entails a constant sliding back again into the chaos from which he started.”416 Lacan is conscious of the fact that the mirror is by no means a flawless device that always succeeds in producing a lucid image, particularly if the mirror in question is the product of historical manufacturing methods. He writes: 108 In becoming fascinated by a mirror, and preferably by a mirror as it has always been since the beginning of humanity until a relatively recent period, more obscure than clear, mirror of burnished metal, the subject may succeed in revealing to himself many of the elements of his imaginary fixations.417

Iversen elaborates on Lacan’s point, noting, “If the mirror is imagined as burnished metal, it already creates anamorphosis-like effects.”418 Anamorphosis, then, can be understood as the underside of the mirror, a psychoanalytic counterpart to Derrida’s philosophical tain. The comparison of Piero and Holbein is used by Iversen to illustrate the distinction between the mirror that affirms the subject and the anamorphosis that undermines it. In order to challenge his own subjectivity and facilitate a slide into chaos, Bacon prepared for himself at 7 Reece Mews an environment of supreme disorder verging on incoherence. Central to the chaos was the mirror whose pronounced surface disruptions served as an ineluctable reminder of the anamorphic stain marring the subject’s fragile formation and illusory consolidation, which I demonstrate through my adoption of Bacon’s mirror as a recurring motif in my practice-based research.

The atemporal mirror Viewing the reconstruction of Bacon’s studio in its present location in The Hugh Lane, one observes the dishevelled interior as if it had been frozen in time, undisturbed since the artist’s death. One might regard the site as a static artefact, vacant and inactive. In his biography of Bacon, Michael Peppiatt writes:

If one visits the studio today, it seems shrunk, melancholy and oddly pointless, making it difficult not to conclude, for all the archiving and cross-referencing of which it has become the object, that nothing is deader than the studio of a dead artist. 419

Such a response relates to a perspective in which the museum is posited as being “only concerned with the manner in which art or artifacts are ‘ended.’”420 As curatorial theorist Jean-Paul Martinon points out, museums have long been criticised as “mausoleums, repositories of carcasses of bodies that were once alive, whether attached to a cult or as part of an artistic process.”421 Such views correspond with sentiments expressed by Robert Harbison and Theodor Adorno, cited in Chapter Three, and have historical precedents dating from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, as evidenced by the writings of the architectural theorist Antoine Quatremère de Quincy. Quatremère took an unfavourable view of museums as a context for experiencing art, claiming that, once inside a museum, art became “unfaithful to the beliefs that watched over its making.”422 An echo of these sentiments can be found in Peppiatt’s observation of the Francis Bacon studio. Peppiatt writes, “once uprooted and re-created in a context with which the artist had no connection beyond the accident of birth, the studio was bound to lose all real significance.”423 For Peppiatt, the measure of the site’s significance lies in its auratic presence,

109 which he finds lacking. By contrast, I argue for an alternative reading of the posthumous studio. The displacement of Bacon’s studio and its corresponding aura is an opportunity to rethink the studio. My adoption of Bacon’s studio as a virtual workspace involves a kind of interference with the site’s legacy, questioning its aura and the authority of the original inhabitant. If the posthumous studio is to contribute to contemporary conceptions of the studio, its significance need not be equated with its success in preserving the aura from the artist’s lifetime. Rather, it must be thought of as an evolving phenomenon in the present, open to reinterpretation, as my project demonstrates.

Aside from the studio’s removal from its “proper” spatio-temporal context, another significant alteration evident in its posthumous incarnation is the fact that it can only be experienced from the outside. Sealed behind glass and isolated from the present-day world, the physical inaccessibility of Bacon’s reconstructed studio potentially contributes to a perception that it is an impenetrable relic, dead to the world. Despite the recess at the doorway that enables the visitor to stand on the studio’s actual floorboards, visitors are excluded from entering past the threshold, all the better for preserving the interior’s faithful simulation of the room as Bacon left it. Public access is restricted to five external viewing positions behind glass: a doorway, a pair of windows, and two peepholes positioned at different heights in the wall opposite the doorway. In many ways, visiting the Bacon studio at The Hugh Lane ultimately remains a virtual experience, and as such the studio appears to elude the here and now. Commenting on the fact that “we are not allowed in,” Jon Wood remarks, “this is not ultimately Bacon’s studio at all but an extraordinary and wonderful simulacrum.”424 Despite the fidelity to the original site evident in the recreated version in Dublin, the studio has been inevitably altered.

Indeed, the archival materials collected from Bacon’s studio are not entirely housed within the reconstruction. The canvas left on the easel at the time of the artist’s death and other unfinished paintings found in the studio are now framed and hanging in the gallery space adjacent to the reconstruction. Various other items regarded as too valuable to remain in situ such as drawings, photographs and books have been relocated to a separate, climate-controlled archive enabling conservation, research, temporary display and loans to other institutions. High-resolution scans of photographs in the studio have been printed and, according to Margarita Cappock, “crumpled the appropriate way.”425 These and other replica items have been fabricated by conservators and placed among original items within the studio reconstruction to replace the archived materials.426 Bacon’s studio, presented as an authentic specimen under the institutional authority of the museum, might in fact be better understood as an artifice, dislocated and staged for the public.

What, then, does this defunct studio have to say to the present? Can the clearly demarcated boundary that separates the display from the context of the here and now be infiltrated, and for

110 what purpose? Returning to Martinon’s commentary on perceptions of the museum, an alternative position is identified. Instead of the museum understood as a site where artefacts meet their end, Martinon observes, “On the other hand, the museum is the place where both the artwork and the viewer also depart. It is the place where, for the viewer, the imagination is let loose, where the world is placed below parentheses in order to pursue a voyage into another world—past, present or future.”427 Rather than regarding the Bacon studio reconstruction as a pale impression of a past from which we are disconnected, I wish to argue that it can instead be understood as a departure point for rethinking temporal relations and renewed possibilities for the contemporary studio. As a museum artefact, it operates within a spatio-temporal plurality distributed among several manifestations: studio, theatrical set, museological archive, and digital database. As mentioned in Chapter One, it has even been staged as a three-dimensional virtual reality environment. As part of the Guggenheim Bilbao’s major Francis Bacon exhibition in 2016, museum visitors were able to experience the Reece Mews studio with the aid of a headset in the museum’s didactic space.428

The posthumous studio reconstruction, having proliferated as a museological genre in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, could be seen as a peculiarly contemporary phenomenon. It is synonymous with the information age’s impulse to store and retrieve data, and symptomatic of a conception of contemporaneity defined by philosopher Peter Osborne as “a coming together of different but equally ‘present’ temporalities.”429 In its strange new environment, Bacon’s studio exists within the temporality of the museum, a perpetually restless present according to Martinon. He writes:

Contrary to common understanding, the museum is not an archival institution in the sense of a repository of past events. Because it is engaged in the daily business of staging performances and catering to an ever-increasing audience, the museum is always positioning itself within a performative structure, always engaged in its own event.430

Despite the hermetic seal prohibiting physical access and seemingly separating it from the world outside, the external reality of the Francis Bacon studio’s present-day context as a museum exhibit is most conspicuous within one key object inside the studio. The two windows that look into the studio face Bacon’s large, circular mirror at the opposite end of the eight-metre-long room. At certain angles, not only is it possible to see these windows in the mirror, but the visitors and museum interior beyond can be observed in the foggy reflection (fig. 60). Via the portal of the mirror, the studio interior reveals its newfound context. Symbolically, the mirror looks back into the museum, breaking the metaphorical “fourth wall” and admitting a glimpse of the here and now. Of all the artefacts within the studio, Bacon’s mirror most readily and apparently strays outside of the temporality of the display, and enables the visitor a virtual point of entry.

111

Figure 60: Francis Bacon’s reconstructed studio, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016.

Figure 61: David Eastwood, replica of Francis Bacon's mirror. Photograph: David Eastwood, 2016.

112 Corresponding with the implication of the viewer within the contained space of the studio via the mirror, Bacon’s predilection for framing his paintings behind glass is noted by art historian Susan Felleman. Pointing out the mirror-like effect of the glass, Felleman observes: “When one sees one of his typically monumental canvases in a museum or gallery display, one sees a ghostly moving picture at the same time: the reflection of oneself and others moving about the space of the gallery.”431 The prominence of reflections in relation to Bacon informs my attempt to reproduce those effects with a replica model of Bacon’s mirror. Echoing the practice of the conservators who fabricated facsimiles for the studio reconstruction, I had a circular mirror manufactured to the exact dimensions of the original, and proceeded to disrupt the reflective surface (fig. 61). The protective backing on the reverse side was removed with paint stripper, and droplets of bleach were applied onto the exposed tain of the mirror. The bleach partially dissolved the reflective substrate, closely following the pattern of deterioration evident in Bacon’s mirror. The mirror was then propped on a shelf and leant against the wall opposite my easel, much like it was positioned in the studio of Bacon himself. Observations of the reflections produced in the replica mirror have subsequently informed paintings intended as contemporary responses to the provocations arising from the reconstruction of Bacon’s historical studio.

113 The manner in which the mirror’s blemished surface impedes the reflected image corresponds with the antagonism between images and their material substrates in evidence in many of the photographs found in Bacon’s studio. For example, photographs of Bacon’s lover George Dyer, taken by John Deakin at Bacon’s request in c.1965, show typical signs of having been handled by Bacon while painting in the studio (fig. 62). Photographed inside Bacon’s studio, the sequence of images features Bacon’s prominently positioned mirror in the background. Observing the mirror in this image, we find multiple impediments to observing the reflection. Firstly there is the mirror’s own deteriorated surface, then there is the mediation of the image through photography, and thirdly there is the accretion of stains, creases and tears in the physical surface of the photograph.

Several paintings produced for my research project, and included in my exhibition The Atemporal Mirror at Robin Gibson Gallery in November 2016 (fig. 63), contain imagery derived from photographs found in Bacon’s studio. Deakin’s photo shoot with Dyer in Bacon’s studio is a recurring reference source for my body of work. Those photographs in particular were significant for the fact that not only were they taken inside the studio at 7 Reece Mews, but Bacon’s circular mirror featured prominently in the background.

Figure 63: Installation view, David Eastwood, The Atemporal Mirror, Robin Gibson Gallery, Sydney, November 2016. Photograph: Document Photography.

In combination with observations made using the replica mirror in my studio, one of Deakin’s photographs of Dyer forms the basis for the painting The Surrogate (2015-16) (fig. 64). The work

114 combines references to Bacon’s studio with my own, which can be seen reflected in the mirror, where three stacked canvases mimic a similar configuration in Bacon’s studio. The image is a composite construction of spatio-temporalities. The seated figure remains only partially described, his absent face replaced by the mirror’s blemished surface, as if to suggest a certain transferability of the identity within the studio. I am suggesting here that Bacon’s studio, in its museumised context, is now a resource for others to conceptually inhabit, as I am doing with this project. Likewise, the left foot has been replaced with my own, alluding to the idea of the figure as a kind of proxy or surrogate composed of interchangeable parts. While the foot is grounded and solid, the rest of the figure dissolves into the space around it to varying degrees, unsettled by the loose, painterly marks applied as underpainting to establish a field of blemishes aimed at resisting a straightforward representation. Despite the partial insertion of myself into the image, my own subjective presence is not asserted in a dominant way, but integrated with the surrounding environment: the studio and the artist are interdependent.

Figure 64: David Eastwood, The Surrogate, 2015-16, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 167 cm. Photograph: Document Photography.

115 The source photograph from Bacon’s studio is linked with the notion of interchangeable identity, with Bacon himself having used the same image as the basis for a number of paintings over a two-decade period, sometimes replacing the face with that of another (figs. 65 and 66). George Dyer, who committed suicide in 1971, becomes a surrogate body onto which John Edwards’ face is superimposed in a 1988 portrait by Bacon.

Figure 65: Francis Bacon, Two Studies of Figure 66: Francis Bacon, Portrait of John George Dyer with Dog, 1968, oil on canvas, Edwards, 1988, oil and aerosol paint on canvas, 197.5 × 147.6 cm. Private collection. © The 198 × 147.5 cm. Private collection. © The Estate Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. DACS/ DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Copyright Agency, 2019. Photograph: Prudence Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd. Cuming Associates Ltd.

Similarly, the posthumous reconstruction of Francis Bacon’s studio can facilitate a form of studio surrogacy. Having staged Bacon’s studio as a permanent museum display, The Hugh Lane opens possibilities for others to interrogate the space in the absence of the original inhabitant, and question the relationship between the agency of the artist and that of the studio itself as a conglomeration of material objects. I have done this by co-opting elements within Bacon’s studio for use within my own studio, incorporating visual cues from the studio into my paintings such as references to the paint-stained walls, and replicating key items such as the mirror and selected photographs. The Hugh Lane provided me with high resolution scans of photographs I selected from the vast archive contained in the Francis Bacon Studio’s digital database.

Critic and art historian Hal Foster identifies the potential of archival objects to “serve as found arks of lost moments in which the here-and-now of the work functions as a possible portal between an unfinished past and a reopened future.”432 Francis Bacon’s mirror can be seen as an atemporal portal through which to undertake a re-examination of the modernist studio. Despite,

116 or perhaps because of, its re-contextualisation as a museum artefact, Bacon’s studio invites a reconsideration of the material, spatial, and temporal phenomena in operation within the studio, all of which remain available to be re-activated as a virtual or surrogate host for contemporary practice. The former occupant’s human presence—and the associated clichés of the solitary, male genius that have been synonymous with the modernist studio and discredited within post-studio discourse—may potentially be circumvented in the posthumous studio, where the agency of the studio itself can be prioritised.

117 Chapter Six Studio Assemblage

The agency of the studio Since the reconstruction of Francis Bacon’s studio was established in 2001, much research has focused primarily on the identification of links between individual artefacts and specific paintings. While a teleology of individual items within Bacon’s studio contents might offer useful insights into the processes and techniques of the artist (e.g., many of the photographs and book illustrations found in Bacon’s studio have been identified as the sources for specific imagery in Bacon’s paintings), there is more to understand about the studio beyond the artist’s intentions and sources of reference. For a more comprehensive understanding of Francis Bacon’s studio (fig. 67), it may be helpful to explore the site beyond the authority of the human occupant. This is not to suggest that the artist should be disregarded. Despite the decades that have passed since Bacon’s death, he remains an emphatic presence in the studio reconstruction at The Hugh Lane. Indeed, his renown as an artist is the very reason for the studio’s installation as a museum artefact. As noted in Chapter Four, the artist’s recorded voice is constantly within earshot of the

118 reconstruction. Clearly, an awareness of the identity of the artist is central to the experience of viewing the reconstruction. But I have been arguing in this study that the studio should be regarded as more than simply a trace of the artist. The modernist cliché of the isolated genius engaging in the creative act as a singular agent does not fully account for the complex operations within the studio.

The studio environment involves a complex set of relations that can help focus questions around materiality and agency. In recent years, a renewal of interest in theories of materiality has emerged that seeks to develop concepts of agency beyond an exclusively human domain, as evidenced by the work of Jane Bennett, whose concept of vibrant matter will be further examined below. Loosely gathered under the heading “new materialism” and influenced by the thinking of Deleuze and Guattari, other key theorists in this area include the feminist scholar Karen Barad, whose term intra-action describes “the mutual constitution of entangled agencies.”433 Political theorists Diana Coole and Samantha Frost sum up the new materialist perspective, stating, “materiality is always something more than ‘mere’ matter: an excess, force, vitality, relationality, or difference that renders matter active, self-creative, productive, unpredictable.”434 Given the primacy of materials in much art practice, it is not surprising that new materialist concepts have been taken up by artists. Applying new materialist theory to artistic discourse, artist and theorist Barbara Bolt writes, “matter as much as the human has responsibility for the emergence of art. In other words matter has agency.”435 Similarly, artist and theorist Chris Salter asks, “What is it that artists do with pliable, responsive matter in those secluded studio-laboratories-black boxes and public sites? How do they manipulate materials (and how do materials manipulate them)?”436

Informed by new materialist discourse, I argue that there is an agency of the studio. That is, the studio is not simply a passive arena in which the artist creates in isolation. Rather, the studio performs a collaborative role in producing agency. Agency in this context is any action that produces an effect, and is understood as distinct from human intentionality.437 Archaeologist Lambros Malafouris’ theorisation of material agency as a reciprocal phenomenon between artist and materials is relevant here. Appropriately, Malafouris situates his argument in the studio, taking the potter’s wheel as the prime example of what he terms “material engagement.”438 He highlights the significance of clay as a “neuro-compatible” material with tactile qualities that accentuate the collaborative relationship between artist and materials.439 Likewise, the similar properties of paint as a manipulable and responsive medium could be cited in the same context. According to Malafouris, the “obligatory point of passage for the emergence and determination of agency” is material engagement.440 The view of agency as an “emergent product” corresponds with my concept of the studio as a collaborative agent, operating between humans and non- humans, rather than an inherent property within any singular entity.441 As Malafouris states: “With respect to agency there is nothing to be found outside of the tension of mediated activity.”442 In

119 other words, agency requires the friction or intra-action produced between “co-constitutive components”443 within a studio assemblage.

Figure 68: David Eastwood, Passage, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 41 × 41 cm. Photograph: Document Photography.

In my experience, the agency of the studio is evident when paintings seem to take shape in advance of decisions that I make for them, or when unanticipated outcomes emerge. My painting Passage (2016) (fig. 68) exemplifies this. I regard it as a wayward work, not in any pejorative sense, but simply that it is uncharacteristic for me; not quite recognisable as my own. It is a small canvas in which “unfinished” passages within the composition leave the underpainting prominently exposed, producing an aesthetic that I find alien to my practice. The composite pictorial space has a makeshift quality, as if having been thrown together in haste. The image shows a view of the floor in Bacon’s studio, observed in a torn corner of a photograph from The Hugh Lane’s digital database. George Dyer’s feet encroach into the visual field at the right, with various items of detritus painted with a brevity of marks. The pink disposable glove depicted in the upper left was the final addition to the composition, an object observed on the floor of my studio in Sydney. It is as though the image is only on the verge of cohering, and could dissipate 120 at any moment. The precarious nature of Passage is signalled by the craquelure in the surface of the paint, a rogue element in conflict with my intentions, like so much about this painting. As an accretion of discordant elements that generate a dynamic energy, it is analogous to the studio as an assemblage.

The posthumous reconstruction of Bacon’s studio in The Hugh Lane affords an opportunity to think more deeply about the “assemblage” of matter that also constitutes the artist’s studio. While my own research into Bacon’s studio is focused on the circular mirror, my interest does not lie solely within the mirror’s status as an individual object regarded exclusively, or in relation to specific paintings by Bacon, but as one element within the conditions that form the studio more holistically. As Nicholas Chare argues, “The studio, if it is to form a part of inquiries into Bacon, should be viewed as a whole.”444

Interviewed by David Sylvester in the mid-1980s, Bacon discussed the Reece Mews studio, observing, “the place had an atmosphere that made me know I could work here.”445 He went on to say:

There are certain places where you know you can work and there are certain places where you know you can’t... I once bought a beautiful studio round the corner in Roland Gardens, with the most perfect light, and I did it up so well, with carpets and curtains and everything, that I absolutely couldn’t work in it... I made it too grand. I was absolutely castrated in that place. That was because I had done it up so well and I hadn’t got the chaos.446

Michael Peppiatt observes that the studio at Roland Gardens “inhibited him from wiping brushes on the wall, letting paint drip and amassing various documents and tools underfoot.”447 It seems that the studio at 7 Reece Mews was conducive to Bacon’s practice in a manner that the artist came to rely upon. However, as Bacon’s anecdote demonstrates, it was not until the artist attempted to relocate to Roland Gardens that he became more fully aware of the Reece Mews studio’s contribution to his process.

It is clear that this studio held significance for Bacon. The artist described this significance as “an atmosphere,” although it might also be thought of as a form of agency. The studio’s condition as a conglomeration of elements (artist, architecture, furniture, materials, etc.) lends itself to the concept of the assemblage. In her book Vibrant Matter, political theorist Jane Bennett borrows the term from Deleuze and Guattari. She writes:

Assemblages are ad hoc groupings of diverse elements, of vibrant materials of all sorts. Assemblages are living, throbbing confederations that are able to function despite the persistent presence of energies that confound them from within... Each member and proto-

121 member of the assemblage has a certain vital force, but there is also an effectivity proper to the grouping as such: an agency of the assemblage.448

Bennett’s emphasis on agency evokes the French word agencement, the original term used by Deleuze and Guattari of which “assemblage” has become the most commonly accepted English language version.449 Cultural theorist Ian Buchanan argues that, while he does not regard the widely accepted translation as incorrect per se, its adoption has tended to cloud the concept,450 “shaped as much (if not more than) by a plain language understanding of the English word ‘assemblage’ as it has by any deep understanding of the work of Deleuze and Guattari.”451 For the same reason, sociologist John Law observes that “much has got lost along the way.”452 Buchanan’s preferred translation is “arrangement” due to its potential for a more nuanced interpretation that allows for an emphasis on “an ongoing process rather than a static situation.”453 He is critical of alternative translations such as “layout” and “ensemble” for being “too static,” and lacking Deleuze’s idea of “the contingency of arrangement, which can always fail.”454 In this sense, Buchanan indicates that the relations between elements within an assemblage are subject to chance. By contrast, he states that the individual elements themselves “are never contingent or purposeless,” and is therefore critical of Bennett’s description of a “contingent tableau” of five objects in a gutter.455 Offered by Bennett as an example of an assemblage, the assortment of objects is too arbitrary, as Buchanan argues. He points out that there is no apparent distinction to separate Bennett’s assemblage from “a heap of fragments.”456 As a demonstration of the significance of the assemblage to produce agency, the studio is a more compelling example.

However, of key interest in Bennett’s interpretation of the assemblage is material agency as a “counter to human exceptionalism.”457 It is this aspect of Bennett’s new materialist thinking I wish to adapt in relation to Bacon’s studio. Bennett asserts that within an assemblage, agency is “distributed across an ontologically heterogeneous field, rather than being a capacity localized in a human body or in a collective produced (only) by human efforts.”458 In contrast to an identification of the studio as being imbued with characteristics that reveal something about the artist-occupant, it is worth considering how materials in the studio might exert their own form of energy or efficacy. Of particular interest in Bennett’s definition of the assemblage is the “presence of energies that confound them [assemblages] from within,” which appears to correlate with Bacon’s notion of chaos resulting from the sheer volume of the studio’s contents.

Fittingly, Buchanan identifies what he refers to as a “clutter assemblage” in operation in Bacon’s studio, suggesting that the chaos is a necessary by-product of Bacon’s paintings.459 Furthermore, when Buchanan writes of Bacon’s “deliberate messiness,”460 he attributes the artist with intentionality in relation to the establishment of the assemblage. In contrast to the unfettered randomness of which he is critical in Bennett’s interpretation, Buchanan argues, “We cause our

122 assemblages to be the way they are inasmuch that if they were arranged differently we would not be able to endure them.”461 This accords with my view of Bacon’s role—consistent with his background as an interior designer—in shaping the conditions in his studio; conditions that ultimately superseded Bacon’s lone authorial presence. Bacon’s studio is described by Buchanan as a kind of “residue” or “midden mound, the product of an aesthetic abreaction displacing clutter from the canvas onto the floor and walls of the studio.”462 I would add to this description by making the point that Bacon’s paintings (and, I suggest, my own) are a product of the studio’s reciprocal effect. It is as though the studio’s haphazard aesthetic is purposively installed in order to stimulate an aleatory approach to painting.

Hoarding The accumulation of detritus, or “clutter,” in Bacon’s studio has led to the artist’s reputation as a hoarder. Writer A.R. Warwick observes, “The cacophony of papers, photographs and books in the photographs of Francis Bacon’s South Kensington studio resembles nothing as much as the room of a hoarder on reality television.”463 Similarly, Brian Clarke’s account of his experience visiting the Reece Mews studio after Bacon’s death describes “a frenzy of chaotic and indiscriminate hoarding.”464 While Cappock describes Bacon as “An inveterate hoarder of pictorial material,”465 she also points out that the hoarded material was confined to his studio. She states that Bacon’s “accommodation, aside from the studio, was clean,” and surmises that “Bacon was being rather disingenuous when he claimed, ‘I live in a dump.’”466 Cappock’s observations point to Bacon’s approach to hoarding as not so much a pathological compulsion as a strategic methodology that contributed toward the artist’s practice. Chare makes a similar point, observing that the disorder of Bacon’s studio “represents a kind of consciously cultivated chaos. Mess is purposefully privileged over method here, noise preferred to quietude.”467

Expressing his preference for a “chaotic atmosphere” due to its capacity for suggesting images,468 Bacon’s apparently constructive form of hoarding contrasts with the pathological behaviour featured in Hoarders, the television program that Bennett cites in her essay ‘Powers of the Hoard: Further Notes on Material Agency.’ Bennett’s concept of hoarding lies beyond a conventional, pathological understanding. She connects hoarding with her concept of vibrant matter, stating, “Hoarding is of interest to me because it is one site where the appearance of the call of things seems particularly insistent.”469 Bennett explains:

hoarders do affirm the existence of a material agency at work. They repeatedly say that ‘things just took over,’ got out of hand, and ‘overwhelmed’ them; they experience the hoard as having its own momentum or drive to persist and grow; they offer rich and impassioned descriptions of the insistent allure of objects in thrift shops and dumpsters—how the items demanded to be taken home.470

123 In her theorisation, Bennett proposes two maxims for thinking about hoarding, the first is to “put the people in the background” in order to focus on the “nonhuman bodies of the hoard.”471 The second is to “resist the frame of psychopathology” by regarding the hoarders “not as bearers of mental illness but as differently-abled bodies that might have special sensory access to the call of things.”472 The eulogising tone of Bennett’s proposition is difficult to resolve in the face of the detrimental impact of hoarding on the lives of hoarders and their families. However, it is less problematic in relation to the hoard in Francis Bacon’s studio, which has a far more productive impact than is typically associated with hoarding. The idea of putting people in the background resonates with the aims of Bacon, who frequently indicated his desire to suppress conscious will when working in the studio. It also calls to mind Bacon’s preference for working from photographs rather than live sitters.

Despite the vast accumulation of clutter so prominent in Bacon’s studio, Buchanan argues that the physical manifestation of an assemblage is not of central importance. Ultimately, assemblages “are constituted in particular kinds of relations; sometimes these relations require physical props as support, but the props are never in themselves essential.”473 Framed in terms of Bennett’s concept of vibrant matter, one could say that the matter itself is of less significance than the vibrations it produces. In a sense, this may seem incongruous with the mammoth effort undertaken in transferring the studio in its entirety to Dublin. However, in many ways, the reconstruction has proliferated the studio’s virtualisation. As stated earlier, not only is it removed from physical contact and sealed behind glass in its incarnation as a museum display, but many of the elements placed within the installation are props that have been copied from originals now housed in a separate archive. Furthermore, the process of archivisation extends to the comprehensive digital database of the studio’s contents. Overall, the posthumous transformation of the site as a museum artefact emphasises the nature of the assemblage as a “productive set of ideas.”474 The “beating heart”475 of the assemblage functions on this conceptual level, rather than in any elaborate installation of physical contents.

Distressed images The circulation of Bacon’s image sources, many of which were discovered during the excavation process undertaken by archaeologists in London, exemplifies how the posthumous incarnation of the studio operates expansively, distributing the studio beyond the singular, localised site it was imagined to be, and dispersing its elements via exhibitions, reproductions in catalogues, and various other media sources. An unprecedented level of scrutiny of material from Bacon’s studio has been enabled, and much has been written on Bacon’s photographic sources in the years since the reconstruction of his studio was first established.476 While the surface of the mirror in Bacon’s studio presumably became deteriorated independently of any direct influence from the artist, there are similar aesthetic tendencies in Bacon’s own practice, and comparisons between the mirror and

124 the mottled surface of many of Bacon’s source photographs reveal some striking similarities. The photographs that Bacon worked from while painting acquired surface effects produced through the resultant creasing and paint smears. As Cappock puts it, “By means of the cut and the tear the artist continued the photographic process of framing, editing and selection. In essence, destruction became another form of inquiry.”477

This antagonistic tendency in which discrete entities are beleaguered by corrupting forces is characteristic of Bacon’s studio as a whole. Chare writes, “Bacon’s studio, through its cultured incoherence, seems to disrupt signals and unsettle sense.”478 The distressed images evident in the photographic sources and mirror surface is likewise evident in Bacon’s paintings, such as Study

125 for Self Portrait (1964) (fig. 69). Describing Bacon’s technique of throwing paint at his canvases, Chare continues:

These hurls of paint wound. They hurt the I. They sound the depths of the self and reveal the underside, the disavowed beginning that perpetually threatens to unsettle us. It is fitting that many of the chance ejaculations of paint appear in portraits. The portrait as trait pour trait, as feature for feature, if it is to be honest, must acknowledge the blind spot that features in any account of oneself or another. This blind spot is the before of the self. It is the real. Bacon provides the fullest portraits because he incorporates this blind-spot.479

Bacon’s 1964 self-portrait is largely informed by a photograph of Lucian Freud sitting on a bed, shot by John Deakin at Bacon’s request (fig. 70). Replacing Freud’s face with his own portrait, Bacon is likely to have consulted the mirror in his studio. As he pointed out in an interview with David Sylvester, when painting a self- portrait, “I look at myself in the mirror and I look at photographs of myself as well.”480 The painting’s sources are a combination of two corrupted surfaces: the circular mirror and the crumpled photograph. The spatter of Figure 70: John Deakin, photograph of Lucian Freud, c.1964. Gelatin silver print with paper clips, 32.3 × 32.3 × 1.5 cm. black paint around the distorted face is Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane and the Estate of Francis Bacon. © The Estate of Francis Bacon. All rights reserved. reminiscent of the mirror’s blemished DACS/ Copyright Agency, 2019. surface, which may have been a direct influence. Likewise, the distortions to the body may have resulted from Bacon’s observations of the photographic image interrupted by its creased surface. The photograph was found among the materials in Bacon’s studio when the site was excavated, and its connection to the self-portrait has subsequently been underscored. For example, when the painting was offered for sale at auction in 2012, both images were reproduced alongside each other in the Christie’s catalogue. This in turn, led to a surprising body of work produced by Jasper Johns in 2014, all based on the damaged photograph which he tore from the auction catalogue.

The distribution of image sources from Bacon’s studio, and their utilisation by other artists, illustrates how the exhaustive process of excavation and archivisation of the site has produced an afterlife of the studio, whereby Bacon’s working space becomes an agent of influence. Having

126 assembled a collection of dozens of high resolution scans of crumpled photographs from Bacon’s studio courtesy of The Hugh Lane, I had them printed at the same scale as the originals. I tore them accordingly, taking a similar approach as conservators preparing replica items for display in Bacon’s studio reconstruction. Using these photographs, I created collages, forming images in which the human subject is shown to be integrated with and partially overwhelmed by the studio environment. This process aided the development of images for my paintings, as evidenced in Collage (2016) (fig. 71). The dilapidated state of the photograph remains a key feature of my painted interpretation. The painting exemplifies the image as anamorphosis, showing the subject to be a fragile construction precariously situated in an illusory world.

Figure 71: David Eastwood, Collage, 2016, oil and acrylic on polyester, 38 × 51 cm.

My project demonstrates that the afterlife of Bacon’s studio is not contained to the museum display in Dublin. The agency of the studio assemblage plays out in unanticipated ways, disseminated via reproductions of fragments from the archive. It is not possible to work among the physical manifestation of this assemblage as Bacon once did, but, as Buchanan argues, its “beating heart” is not to be found there in any case. Instead, it is augmented by and distributed among the multiple manifestations resulting from its museumisation and documentation.

127 The distributed studio My engagement with Bacon’s reconstructed studio involves a more comprehensive examination of the site in its current context as well as its history, and archival research in the Francis Bacon Studio Database (fig. 72). The material derived from the research serves as a provocation for rethinking the spatial and temporal boundaries of the studio, both Bacon’s and my own. Central to the research is the access granted to the site’s contents as a result of its reconstruction in Dublin, by which I mean not only the installation on display at the museum, but the studio’s comprehensive documentation within the digital database, and, by extension, the studies generated by the ongoing scholarly and curatorial interest in the site.

Figure 72: The author accessing the Francis Bacon Studio Database at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2016.

Related to this project is a recent tendency that art historian Mark Godfrey describes as “the artist as historian,” whereby the “practice starts with research in archives,” or involves “an archival form of research.”481 Godfrey echoes Foster’s identification of “an archival impulse” in contemporary art. This can be seen as part of a wider sociocultural preoccupation with archives, of which the posthumous museumisation of artists’ studios is symptomatic. Pierre Nora sums this up as follows:

No society has ever produced archives as deliberately as our own, not only by volume, not only by new technical means of reproduction and preservation, but also by its superstitious

128 esteem, by its veneration of the trace. Even as traditional memory disappears, we feel obliged assiduously to collect remains, testimonies, documents, images, speeches, any visible signs of what has been, as if this burgeoning dossier were to be called upon to furnish some proof to who knows what tribunal of history.482

For Foster, the archive is typified by equivocal states: “found yet constructed, factual yet fictive, public yet private.”483 Among the paradoxes characteristic of the archive is its status as both historical yet contemporary. As artist Matthew Buckingham asserts, historical research is not so much about retrieving past events as “restaging those events here and now in order to think about what’s happening here and now, to think about the present.”484 In examining archival material from the archive of Bacon’s studio, I am reflecting on the contemporary situation of studio practice as I experience it in the present, as much as any knowledge that can be gleaned about studio practice from the past.

The archival materials lend themselves to reinterpretation and reconfiguration. Techniques of simulating details in the studio such as the manipulation of high-resolution scans of photographic material, and my replica model of the mirror, are inspired by similar practices involved in the museological presentation of studios. These influences find expression in my practice in the broad context of painting. The sheer volume of materials found inside Bacon’s studio, and the comprehensive manner in which it has been documented and preserved, make 7 Reece Mews a rich source of content for further research. Indeed, the material posthumously found in the artist’s studio has become a pivotal context for scholarship on Bacon since the studio’s relocation to Dublin. Also of interest is the studio’s translation into a site with multiple incarnations: not only can the physical reconstruction be seen at The Hugh Lane, but the museum holds a separate archive of objects from the studio and a comprehensive digital database, along with other virtual incarnations such as the recent example at the Guggenheim Bilbao. Bacon’s early career as an interior designer establishes further implications for understanding the chaos of the studio as an orchestrated experience. And with regard to my own practice, Bacon presents a challenging provocation to negotiate a complex relationship between figuration and abstraction.

Studio (2016) (fig. 73) is a large painting that brings together many of the elements informing my approach to the interpretation of Bacon’s studio. Using multiple images from Deakin’s photo shoot with Dyer, a view of the studio is assembled, from which the figure is mostly erased, recalibrating the balance between human and non-human elements. In the virtual space of this painting, Bacon's studio intersects with mine. On the right-hand side, an arrangement of reproductions is visible on the studio wall, repeated in the reflection on the left hand side. The pictorial mise en abyme reflects the generative processes of exchange between studios. Beneath the visual clarity of the image are the unruly paint spatters that rupture the pictorial space,

129 signalling the productive friction of the studio assemblage. In the background, my studio appears reflected, a view observed via my replica of the blemished, circular mirror, and demonstrating the concept of the mirror as a portal, linking different spaces to form a composite, expansive studio.

Figure 73: David Eastwood, Studio, 2016, oil, enamel and acrylic on polyester, 152 × 198 cm. Photograph: Document Photography.

It is ironic that Bacon’s studio has undergone such an elaborate attempt by conservators to arrest the effects of time and prevent the decomposition of the materials housed within it, as the decay of matter was very much a motivating force at the centre of Bacon’s practice, evidenced by the degree to which the deterioration of many of the artist’s source materials was accelerated in his own hands. The museum resists the temporal flow of the studio’s decomposition, which, through climate control, the exclusion of outsiders, archiving, and a little theatrical trickery, may have been slowed down, but, as Bacon himself declared:

we’re on the compost of the earth. The world is just a dung heap. It’s made up of the compost of the millions and millions who have died and are blowing about. The dead are blowing in your nostrils every hour, every second you breathe in.485

The metaphor extends to Bacon’s studio, which, according to Brian O’Doherty, was “a cumulative, living collage, a ‘compost heap.’”486 He adds that even in the context of the museum, it still exudes “a whiff of presence” and “becomes emblematic, circulating a low-grade energy 130 among artist, persona, studio, and work, enough to sustain the myth it begot.”487 The studio as a material entity induces the conservator’s efforts to defer the onset of deterioration, ultimately producing circumstances in which change and renewal are generated, and breeding the afterlife of the studio.

131 Conclusion

In researching artists’ studios from history as resources for contemporary art practice, I court a paradox that involves simulating the past in order to reflect on the present. One of the primary risks of such an endeavour is to affirm the mythologisation of artists from a bygone era, as though the project were an exercise in simply perpetuating the cult of the artist as genius that became prevalent from the Romantic era onwards. However, it is precisely this dilemma that my project addresses: since the reputation of the modernist studio as an inner sanctum of heroic, solitary, masculine labour remains an influence on perceptions of the studio in the present, my research investigates a rethinking of “the function of the studio,” to phrase the issue in Daniel Buren’s terms.

Of central importance to my task is the phenomenon of the posthumous studio, which in many respects mirrors my project: the retrieval of defunct studios from history for reconsideration in the present. My practice-based research involves a process of retrieval and reactivation of historically and spatially remote studios by accessing and responding to these spaces and the artefacts preserved within them. The two case studies I investigate in my practice—Giorgio Morandi’s studio at first, and Francis Bacon’s studio as the project’s focus and culmination—are prominent examples of modernist studios closely associated with the respective oeuvres produced therein. The posthumous context of these sites presents an opportunity to shift the focus away from the former inhabitants and towards the studio itself as a site of ongoing potential. With the ambition of recalibrating the balance between the human and the non-human elements typically recognised in the modernist studio, the concept of the studio as an assemblage serves as a theoretical framework against which to test concepts of material agency and spatio-temporal mutability.

Throughout this thesis, “posthumous studio” is the term used to describe a deceased artist’s workspace presented within a museum context. As demonstrated in the first chapter, there has been limited analysis of the posthumous studio as a museological genre, with scholarship on the topic primarily focussed on Europe and North America. Therefore, an overview of this genre is established early in the thesis, indicating the extent of its global proliferation in order to contextualise the more detailed analysis of individual posthumous studios within the practice- based research.

I argue that the phenomenon of the posthumous studio creates opportunities for identifying an “afterlife” of the studio, a concept that underpins my project of reactivating such sites as resources for contemporary art practice. The afterlife to which I refer is a condition attributed to the material artefacts of the posthumous studio, variously recognised in this thesis by terms such as resonance,

132 vibrant matter, material agency, and assemblage. These terms are strategically employed with the intention of asserting a degree of independence from the original artists associated with the studios that I examine in detail, particularly Bacon’s. They are qualities that detach the posthumous studio from domination by human will. The significance of this conceptual manoeuvre lies in its ability to reorient the studio away from a strictly biographical relation to a modernist artist (and the associated trope of the isolated, male genius), and toward an approach that more fully accounts for the studio as a vibrant and agential phenomenon. Opposing the view of the studio as a fixed and enclosed world that enhances an illusion of a human subject’s mastery and control, I argue that the studio should be understood as a kind of portal, opening up possibilities of creative exploration, rather than closing them off. Like Stephen Greenblatt’s concept of the resonant object, the significance of the studio lies in its ability “to reach out beyond its formal boundaries to a larger world.”488

Aura, which Walter Benjamin characterises as a sense that objects return our gaze, is a related quality associated with the studio’s afterlife, but one that I separate from the terms mentioned above because there is a tendency for it to be attributed to the human trace and the cult of genius. Tacita Dean, for instance, associates the objects at Casa Morandi with an aura based on her recognition of them as represented in Morandi’s paintings, as noted in Chapter Three. In many ways, the posthumous museumisation of studios cultivates aura, enacting a form of sanctification that exemplifies and reiterates the mythologisation of modernist studios and, by extension, their inhabitants. Museums are often expected to preserve or generate a certain auratic mystique around the posthumous studio, as if to enable “some metonymic contact with the dead.”489 Conversely, the museum can also have the opposite effect of relegating the studio to history as a relic, remote from the present. A recurring theme encountered in my research is the critique of the museum as a cultural cemetery, as noted in remarks by Robert Harbison and Theodor Adorno cited in Chapter Three, and by Antoine Quatremère de Quincy in Chapter Five. This view is echoed by Buren’s criticisms of the corruption of artistic intentions by museum curators (among others), once a work of art exits the studio. In relation to the posthumous studio, such views can underscore perceptions like Michael Peppiatt’s withering assessment of Bacon’s reconstructed studio, summed up by his comment, “nothing is deader than the studio of a dead artist.”490

Looking beyond these museological constraints, my practice-based research reorients the posthumous studio. This phenomenon is revivified via the connection to a functioning studio (my own). By observing the studio from the position of an external onlooker, a perspective not ordinarily considered by artists is established. The body of work I have produced for this practice- based research is a coalescence of otherwise functionally distinct studio spaces. It results from a process of conceptual and methodological contagion, in which my own practice is expanded, and the deceased artists’ studios I investigate are activated as a source of material engagement.

133 Through my artworks, I shift the modernist studio from its rarefied status as a historical relic to a working environment. Rather than merely paying homage to the original inhabitant, this action is closer to a form of collaboration, albeit one not authorised by the deceased artist. In fact, the intentions of the original artist are subsidiary to my engagement with the posthumous studio as a collaborative agent.

In proposing the collaborative agent concept as a way of thinking about the studio, I am influenced by new materialist thinking, such as Jane Bennett’s description of the assemblage as a “confederation of human and nonhuman elements.”491 Also relevant in this context is Lambros Malafouris’ related theorisation of material agency as a reciprocal phenomenon between materials and the artist, or “between the crafted and the crafter.”492 Agency is not inherent within any particular entity within the studio, but produced by a process of “material engagement” between agents.493 By activating the agency of the posthumous studios of Morandi and Bacon, a process of translation takes place, in a reciprocal sense. Investigating these sites, I undertake a close examination and careful interpretation, translating what I find, and in turn, my own studio is translated as I accumulate replicated artefacts as props within my workspace.

The investigation of the posthumous studio undertaken for this research has involved processes of collecting detailed material evidence. Closely scrutinising this evidence, elements of the selected sites were fabricated as studio props for my own use, informed by similar practices of replication observed in some posthumous studios. In the case of Casa Morandi, the research was undertaken remotely, gathering visual data that amounted to a database comprehensive enough for the replication of the studio as a miniature model. As a tool for manipulating and observing views of Morandi’s studio, the model was rich in potential as a source of images for paintings. However, in some respects, this small, box-like model conformed to a conventional view of the modernist studio as a confined enclosure in which the artist’s mastery and control is affirmed.

As my practice progressed, my focus turned to the chaotic studio of Francis Bacon, which presented a challenge to the visual clarity evident in my interpretation of Morandi’s studio. Having observed the studio reconstruction in person in Dublin, the mirror in Bacon’s studio became the catalyst for the development of imagery consisting of a more complex and layered visual field. My extensive art historical research into Bacon’s studio has led to a comprehensive analysis of the site through my practice. The mirror, used as a key motif to think through the conceptual implications of the project, became a “portal” to engage with Bacon’s studio, and a device to experiment with strategies for distorting the human figure as a metaphor for dismantling the privileged subject associated with the modernist studio. My paintings draw together visual synergies between the blemished mirror and the distressed surfaces of photographs from Bacon’s studio.

134

The trajectory of this project has entailed an expansion in scale that has shifted my practice from the observation of a miniaturised model within my Sydney studio, to a video installation too large to be realised within my studio walls. Likewise, while the research into Casa Morandi brought together visual material assembled in Sydney, the investigation of Bacon’s studio involved a greater degree of fieldwork: directly observing the site in Dublin, taking photographs and recording video on location, and investigating the digital database, which is only accessible at The Hugh Lane. Moreover, my project begins with the premise that my studio is an expansive entity: it operates beyond its own four walls in the form of the posthumous studios I have studied and observed, and that conceptually inform my art making. The studios of Morandi and Bacon were enlisted as surrogate studios for this project.

While the studio is generally understood as analogous to the environmental conditions that encompass an artist’s working process, in my experience, these conditions are in a constant state of flux, and can expand and contract according to need. In this respect, the definition of the studio recently proposed by sociologists Ignacio Farías and Alex Wilkie is useful, in that it goes some way to describing the studio’s complexities:

the studio does not prescribe a homogeneous space that can be characterized by physical or organizational features, such as size, location, labour division, conflicts over status or institutional discourses. Studios have assumed very different forms, not just through the history of art, with some closer to factories and ateliers, others to offices and shops, as well as self-declared post-studios, but also in fields of practice beyond the visual arts.494

The above commentary describes the studio as a rich concept that can vary from case to case, but it does not necessarily reflect the complexity of each individual case. In fact, the authors follow this up by noting: “In all cases, though, the studio designates a more-or-less contained and bounded space shaped by, and shaping, distributed creation processes.”495 Within this statement there lies a tension between two paradoxical concepts: the nature of the studio as contained on the one hand, and dispersed on the other. For this project I have presented the boundaries of the studio as far more porous than contained. Although most of my art materials and equipment occupy a specific zone in my home, the studio spreads throughout the house and beyond: ideas and practice happen anywhere, and my studio props conceptually link me to spatially and temporally remote studios.

Curator Alex Gartenfeld refers to “the mutability of the studio as model and metaphor,” noting that the studio as an entity is increasingly complicated, “not only as a physical place, but also as an interface for the mediation of inside and outside, private and public, labor and identity, and the

135 sites of production, circulation, and display.”496 My research asserts that the post-studio condition that emerged in the late 1960s, dismissing the studio as an irrelevant modernist institution, has run its course. The view of the studio as a limiting frame serving to isolate the artist and constrain the expansion of what art practice can be, as asserted by much postmodernist discourse, does not correspond to how I have characterised the studio as an expansive and distributed assemblage. As Gartenfeld asserts, “the traditional subject in the studio—as the central site not only of artistic production, but also of the construction of the artist’s subjectivity—has utterly dissolved, because in a very real sense the studio is everywhere.”497

Art and design critic Alex Coles argues that the post-post-studio age has arrived, in which “there has been a total reinvigoration of the studio.”498 As I have argued, this apparent revival coincides with the proliferation of the museological phenomenon of the posthumous studio. This phenomenon exposes the modernist studio to renewed scrutiny, enabling us not to simply repeat critiques of the past, but to engage with the studio from a twenty-first century perspective. The post-post-studio does not represent a simple pendulum shift back to the conditions of and assumptions about the modernist studio. Rather, it reflects an engagement with the studio as a refigured entity. This distinction is apparent in curator Caitlin Jones’ comparison between the post-studio of the twentieth century and what she refers to as “post-studio practice in a contemporary sense.” The latter, in her words, “could be understood less as a reaction against established norms of production and distribution and more a reaction to expanded cultural platforms writ large.”499 This is a useful distinction, and is more explicitly demarcated by Coles whose concept of the “post-post-studio” signals a distinction from the original incarnation of the post-studio that emerged in the 1960s. While post-studio discourse spoke of the studio in pejorative terms, advocating its abandonment or even “extinction,”500 the post-post-studio applies the concept and language of the studio to the widest possible range of technologies and situations. If post-studio discourse viewed the concept of the artist’s studio as limiting and outdated, the post-post-studio represents an expanded notion of the studio as an open field of possibility.

The significance of the posthumous studio lies in its ambivalent signalling of continuity and rupture with the modernist studio. Continuity is evident through the tradition of the studio as an ever-evolving concept from the pre-modern era to the contemporary moment. Rupture occurs with a studio’s transition from functioning workspace to museum context, thus opening it up to new levels of scrutiny and different perspectives. I have found that to engage with the posthumous studio as a resource for contemporary art practice broadens the horizons of one’s own studio. My research culminates in a sustained investigation of one particular site: the reconstructed studio of Francis Bacon. During the course of the research, a more expansive engagement with multiple case studies was considered, but necessarily abandoned in favour of an intense focus on Bacon’s studio in order to honour the concept of a close reading. A broader study risked presenting a

136 cursory, touristic encounter with the phenomenon of the posthumous studio, thereby abandoning the commitment to close study of a specific case in which the potential for thinking and creating might be fully explored. Within the scope of this thesis I have tried to balance both perspectives— broad overview and close reading—by presenting a thorough background and study of the posthumous studio phenomenon overall alongside a deep engagement with and analysis of the specific cases of Morandi and Bacon. The widespread genre of the posthumous studio continues to proliferate, and, as I have demonstrated in this project, it offers a fertile field for further examination by contemporary artists and writers interested in rethinking the artist’s studio as both historical phenomenon and future concept.

137 Notes

1 The exhibition was Mondrian: Vom Abbild zum Bild [Mondrian: Depiction to Picture], Museum Ludwig, Cologne, 14 December 2007 – 30 March 2008. The replica of Mondrian’s studio was constructed by Dutch architect Frans Postma.

2 Brian O’Doherty, Studio and Cube: On the Relationship Between Where Art Is Made and Where Art Is Displayed, New York, Columbia University, A Buell Center/Forum Project Publication, 2007, 19.

3 Ibid, 20.

4 Rachel Esner, ‘Presence in Absence: The Empty Studio as Self-Portrait,’ Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und Allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft, vol. 56, no. 2, 2011, 241-262: 249.

5 Ibid, 262.

6 Caroline Jones, Machine in the Studio: Constructing the Postwar American Artist, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press, 1996, 1.

7 Ian Buchanan, ‘The “Clutter” Assemblage,’ in Ian Buchanan and Lorna Collins (eds.), Deleuze and the Schizoanalysis of Visual Art, London and New York, Bloomsbury, 2014, 21.

8 Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2010, 21.

9 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1987, 3-4.

10 Thomas Nail, ‘What is an Assemblage?’ SubStance, vol. 46, no. 1, 2017, 21-37: 24.

11 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas, Beacon Press, Boston, 1994, 14; cited in Kirsty Bell, The Artist’s House: From Workplace to Artwork, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2013, 12.

12 Kirsty Bell, The Artist's House: From Workplace to Artwork, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2013, 12.

13 Ibid.

14 Robert Smithson, ‘A Sedimentation of the Mind: Earth Projects’ (1968), in Jack D. Flam (ed.) Robert Smithson: The Collected Writings, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1996, 100-113: 107. Cited in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 2.

15 Allan Kaprow, Assemblage, Environments and Happenings, New York, Harry N. Abrams Inc., 1966, 183.

16 Daniel Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ in Mary Jane Jacob and Michelle Grabner (eds.), The Studio Reader, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press, 2010, 156-162: 162. Written in December 1970 - January 1971 and first published in English in trans. Thomas Repensek., October, no. 10, Fall 1979, 51-8.

17 Ibid, 158.

18 Hal Foster, ‘An Archival Impulse,’ October, vol. 110, Autumn 2004, 3-22: 5.

19 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 158.

20 “Qu’entend-on par atelier-musée? Il s’agit de la transformation de l’espace de travail de l’artiste en un lieu de conservation accessible au public. Il faut donc le distinguer des autres formes de musées monographiques ou des musées mémoriaux qui conservent les traces de la vie d’un artiste célèbre.” Laurier Lacroix, ‘L’atelier-musée, paradoxe de l’expérience totale de l’oeuvre d’art’ [‘The Studio- Museum: Paradox of the Total Experience of an Artwork’], Anthropologie et Sociétés, vol. 30, no. 3, 2006, 29-44: 35. 138

21 Rachel Esner, ‘Visiting Delaroche and Diaz with L'Illustration,’ Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide , Vol.11, No.2, Summer 2012, http://www.19thc-artworldwide.org/index.php/summer12/rachel- esner- visiting-delaroche-and-diaz-with-lillustration (accessed 18 November 2013); Rachel Esner, ‘In the Artist's Studio with L'Illustration,’ RIHA Journal, 69, 18 March 2013, http://www.riha- journal.org/articles/2013/2013-jan-mar/esner-lillustration (accessed 7 January 2014); and Rachel Esner, ‘“At Home”: Visiting the Artist’s Studio in the Nineteenth-Century French Illustrated Press,’ in Rachel Esner and Sandra Kisters (eds.), The Mediatization of the Artist, Palgrave MacMillan, Cham, Switzerland, 2018, 15-30. While Esner’s focus is on artistic celebrity in nineteenth-century French society, she cites related research examining similar phenomena in the United Kingdom and the United States (see Esner, “At Home,” 16, note 3).

22 Christina Ferando, ‘“Plasmati dalle sue mani”: Canova’s Touch and the Gipsoteca of Possagno,’ Andrew Graciano (ed.), Exhibiting Outside the Academy, Salon and Biennial, 1775-1999: Alternative Venues for Display, Burlington, VT, Ashgate, 2015, 111-131: 111.

23 Johannes Myssok, ‘The Gipsoteca of Possagno: From Artist's Studio to Museum,’ Christopher R. Marshall (ed.), Sculpture and the Museum, Ashgate, Farnham, UK, and Burlington, VT, 2011, 15-37: 23.

24 Bill Brown, Other Things, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press, 2015, 287.

25 Sandra Kisters, ‘Old and New Studio Topoi in the Nineteenth Century,’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters and Ann Sophie Lehmann (eds.), Hiding Making – Showing Creation. The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 15-30: 21.

26 Julia Behrens, ‘Der musealisierte Mythos: Zur Rekonstruktion und Konservierung des Künstlerateliers im 20. und 21. Jahrhundert’ [‘The Myth Museumised: On the Reconstruction and Conservation of the Artist’s Studio in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries’], in Ina Conzen (ed.), Mythos Atelier: Von Spitzweg bis Picasso, von Giacometti bis Nauman [Mythos Atelier: From Spitzweg to Picasso, from Giacometti to Nauman], exhibition catalogue, Munich, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart and Hirmer Verlag, 2012, 22-31: 24. I am grateful to Uta Daur and Mike Barnard for their assistance in translating this article.

27 ‘Albrecht Dürer’s House,’ press release, 26 October 2016, City of Nuremberg Municipal Museums. https://museums.nuernberg.de/fileadmin/mdsn/pdf/Dachseite/Presseinfos/english/2016_10_26_pr_albrec ht_duerers_house_en.pdf (accessed 16 June 2018).

28 Maarten Liefooghe, ‘Temple-Atelier-Musée Wiertz / Maison-Musée Gustave Moreau. A Critical Comparison,’ abstract for conference paper presented at “Du Sublime au ridicule, il n’y a qu’un pas,” Wiertz Revisited, Brussels, The Wiertzmuseum/Musée Wiertz, 7-8 January, 2018. https://biblio.ugent.be/publication/8544179/file/8544182.pdf (accessed 20 June 2018).

29 Giles Waterfield, ‘Studio Visits,’ Apollo, vol.179, no. 619, April 2014, 60-65: 65.

30 Alexander Liberman, The Artist in the Studio, New York, Viking Press, 1974, 11.

31 Ruth Butler, Hidden in the Shadow of the Master: The Model-wives of Cézanne, Monet, and Rodin, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2008, 87.

32 Bruno Ely, ‘The Studio in the Days of Marcel Provence,’ in Atelier Cézanne, 1902-2002: le centenaire, trans. A.F.J. Millar, Aix-en-Provence, Société Paul Cézanne, 2003, 78-117: 82.

33 Michel Fraisset, ‘Cézanne’s Studio Today,’ in Atelier Cézanne, 1902-2002: le centenaire, trans. A.F.J. Millar, Aix-en-Provence, Société Paul Cézanne, 2003, 182-191: 183.

34 Bruno Ely, ‘From Sanctuary to Cultural Tourism,’ in Atelier Cézanne, 1902-2002: le centenaire, trans. A.F.J. Millar, Aix-en-Provence, Société Paul Cézanne, 2003, 152-165: 154 & 156.

35 Jayne Warman, ‘A Dual Legacy: Cézanne - Rewald,’ in Atelier Cézanne, 1902-2002: le centenaire, trans. A.F.J. Millar, Aix-en-Provence, Société Paul Cézanne, 2003, 166-173: 169.

36 Behrens, ‘Der Musealisierte Mythos,’ 27.

139

37 Most notable in the context this research project is: Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London and New York, Merrell, 2005. See also Société Paul Cézanne, Atelier Cézanne, 1902-2002: le centenaire, trans. A.F.J. Millar, Aix-en-Provence, Société Paul Cézanne, 2003.

38 Harald Hendrix, ‘Writers’ Houses as Media of Expression and Remembrance: From Self-Fashioning to Cultural Memory,’ in Harald Hendrix (ed.), Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory, New York, Routledge, 2008, 2. Among the predominantly German texts cited by Hendrix (in chronological order) are: Christine Hoh-Slodczyk, Das Künstlerhaus im 19. Jahrhundert. Studien zu den Wohn-/Atelierstätten bildender Künstler [The artist's house in the 19th century: Studies on homes/ Studios of Visual Artists], Ph.D. diss., Munich, 1977; Nikia Spelakios Clark Leopold, Artists’ Homes in Sixteenth-Century Italy, 2 vols., Ann Arbor, University Microfilms International, 1981 (Ph.D. diss., Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University, 1980); Hans-Peter Schwarz, “...non visse da pittore ma da principe...” Künstlerhäuser im Spannungsfeld von Hof und Stadt. Versuch einer Typologie [“...he did not live as a painter but as a prince...” Artists' Houses in the Field of Conflict between the Court and the City. Attempt at a Typology], 2 vols., Ph.D. diss., Marburg, 1981; Christine Hoh-Slodczyk, Das Haus des Künstlers im 19. Jahrhundert. [The House of the Artist in the 19th Century], Munich, Prestel, 1985; Eduard Hüttinger, ed. Künstlerhäuser von der Renaissance bis zur Gegenwart. [Artist houses from the Renaissance to the present] Zürich, Waser, 1985; ‘Case d’artista. Compenetrare arte e vita: un ideale diffuso tra ne ’800 e inizio ’900’ [‘Artists’ houses. To Interpenetrate Art and Life: A Widespread Ideal Between the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth centuries], Ricerche di storia dell’arte 36, 1988, 4-67; Hans-Peter Schwarz, ed. Künstlerhäuser. Eine Architekturgeschichte des Privaten. [Artists' Houses. An Architectural History of the Private], Deutsches Architekturmuseum, Frankfurt am Main, 1989; Schwarz, Hans-Peter. Das Künstlerhaus. Anmerkungen zur Sozialgeschichte des Genies. [The Artist’s House. Notes on the Social History of Genius], Braunschweig, Vieweg, 1990.

39 Franz Rudolf Zankl, ‘Das Personalmuseum: Untersuchung zu einem Museumstypus’ [‘The Personalmuseum: Investigation into a Museum Type’], Museumskunde, Vol. 41, No. 1, 1972.

40 Dana Micucci’s Artists in Residence provides information for tourists on the French homes and studios of eight nineteenth-century artists: Rosa Bonheur; Gustave Courbet; Charles-François Daubigny; Eugène Delacroix; Vincent van Gogh; Jean-François Millet; Claude Monet; Gustave Moreau. See: Dana Micucci, Artists in Residence: A guide to the homes and studios of eight 19th-century artists in and around Paris, New York, The Little Bookroom, 2001. Covering similar ground but a little broader in scope is Gérard- Georges Lemaire’s Artists’ Houses, a richly illustrated volume on fourteen houses associated with mostly European artists: Vanessa Bell and her circle known as the Bloomsbury Group; František Bílek; Rosa Bonheur; Frederic Church (whose house is the only non-European site listed in the book); Giorgio De Chirico; André Derain; James Ensor; Alfred Kubin; Claude Monet; Gustave Moreau; William Morris; Alphonse Mucha; Gabriele Münter; and René Magritte (see Gérard-Georges Lemaire, Artists' Houses, trans. Barbara Mellor, New York, The Vendome Press, 2005). Additionally, an art market magazine published by the French auction house Drouot featured several studio museums in an issue from 2012: Gazette Drouot International, trans. 4T Traduction & Interprétariat, no.16, July/August 2012. In particular: Alexandre Crochet, ‘Some of Charming Artists’ Houses in France’ [sic], 96-99 (covering the house museums of André Derain, Léonard Foujita, Maurice Denis, Auguste Rodin, Jean Arp and Sophie Taeuber, and Jean Cocteau); Stéphanie Perris-Delmas, ‘…And in Roma, London, Ostende,’ 100-102 (covering the house museums of Giorgio de Chirico, John Soane, and James Ensor); and ‘Also Worth Discovering…’, 103 (the house museums of Rembrandt, Joaquín Sorolla, René Magritte, and Antoni Gaudí).

41 Andrzej Pienkos, The House of Art: Modern Residences of Artists as the Subject and Space of Creation, (trans. Klaudyna Michałowicz), New York, Peter Lang, 19.

42 Waterfield, ‘Studio Visits,’ 61.

43 Pienkos, The House of Art, 17. The various disciplines that at least have a tangential correspondence with the artist’s studio museum include interior design, architecture, archaeology, museology, curatorial studies, conservation, art history, and tourism.

44 Ibid, 16.

45 Maarten Liefooghe, De monografische factor: theoretische en architecturale aspecten van kunstenaarsmusea [The monographic factor: theoretical and architectural aspects of artists' museums], Ph.D. diss., Ghent, Ghent University, 2013. See also Maarten Liefooghe, ‘The Musealization of the Artist’s House as Architectural Project,’ originally in: Anita Guglielmetti, Gianna A. Mina and Sylvie 140

Wuhrmann (eds.), Quaderni del Museo Vincenzo Vela, Vol. 5: ‘Casa d'artisti: Tra universo privato e spazio public case di artisti adibite a museo/ Zwischen privatem Kosmos und öffentlichem Raum: Künstlerhaus-Museen’ [‘Between Private Universe and Public Space: Artist’s House Museums’], conference proceedings, Ligornetto, Museo Vincenzo Vela, 2011, 59-74. https://biblio.ugent.be/publication/2069893/file/6768832.pdf (accessed 15 April 2018).

46 Elizabeth Kennedy, Interpreting the Artist's Studio Memorial: An Exhibition Strategy of Museums of Western Art, Ph.D. diss., Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania, 2003 (a study of studio museums dedicated to American West genre art); Julia Behrens, ‘Der musealisierte Mythos: Zur Rekonstruktion und Konservierung des Künstlerateliers im 20. und 21. Jahrhundert’ [‘The Myth Museumised: On the Reconstruction and Conservation of the Artist’s Studio in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries’], in Ina Conzen (ed), Mythos Atelier: Von Spitzweg bis Picasso, von Giacometti bis Nauman [Mythos Atelier: From Spitzweg to Picasso, from Giacometti to Nauman], exhibition catalogue, Munich, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart and Hirmer Verlag, 2012, 22-31; Wanda M. Corn, ‘Artists' Homes and Studios: A Special Kind of Archive,’ American Art, Vol. 19, No. 1, Spring 2005, 2-11; Giles Waterfield, ‘Studio Visits,’ Apollo, vol.179, no. 619, April 2014, 60-65; Jon Wood, ‘The studio in the gallery?’ in Suzanne Macleod (ed.), Reshaping Museum Space: Architecture, Design, Exhibitions, London and New York, Routledge, 2005, 158-169; and Wouter Davidts and Jon Wood (eds), The Studio in the Gallery: Museums, Reconstructions, Exhibitions, yet to be published (this proposed publication, in development for several years but as yet unreleased, is a collection of essays on the individual studio museums of Frederic Leighton, Donald Judd, Frida Kahlo, Peter Blake, Antoine Wiertz, Constantin Brancusi, Francis Bacon, Eduardo Paolozzi, Piet Mondrian and Giorgio Morandi).

47 Kirsty Bell, The Artist's House: From Workplace to Artwork, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2013; Andrew Hardman, Studio Habits: Francis Bacon, Lee Krasner, Jackson Pollock and Agnes Martin, Ph.D. diss., Manchester, University of Manchester, 2014.

48 Margot Th. Brandlhuber and Michael Buhrs (eds.), In the Temple of the Self: The Artist's Residence as a Total Work of Art, exhibition catalogue, Munich, Villa Stuck, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2013; Laurier Lacroix, ‘L’atelier-musée, paradoxe de l’expérience totale de l’oeuvre d’art’ [‘The Studio-Museum: Paradox of the Total Experience of an Artwork], Anthropologie et Sociétés, vol. 30, no. 3, 2006, 29-44; Brigitte Léal, ‘Das Atelier als Kunstwerk: Kurt Schwitters, Piet Mondrian und Constantin Brancusi’ [‘The Studio as a Work of Art: Kurt Schwitters, Piet Mondrian and Constantin Brancusi’], in Ina Conzen (ed), Mythos Atelier: Von Spitzweg bis Picasso, von Giacometti bis Nauman, exhibition catalogue, Munich, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart and Hirmer Verlag, 2012, 158-171.

49 The Historic Artists’ Homes and Studios home page. https://artistshomes.org/ (accessed 20 January 2018).

50 ‘Directory,’ Historic Artists’ Homes and Studios, https://artistshomes.org/directory (accessed 8 June 2018).

51 “HAHS members agree to maintain, preserve and administer the historic place, protect and conserve the related collection in its ownership, possession or control in an appropriate manner, and demonstrate a commitment to education and interpretation. Each site interprets the historic place of an artist for a broad and diverse audience, in order to accurately and honestly convey the history of the site in the context of larger themes of American history and culture.” https://artistshomes.org/about-us/criteria-for-membership (accessed 20 January 2018).

52 Ibid.

53 Artist’s Studio Museum Network, http://artiststudiomuseum.org/about/ (accessed 20 January 2018).

54 These statistics are subject to change as the network takes on new members. The directory of museums can be found online at: http://artiststudiomuseum.org/studio-museums/ (accessed 7 June 2018).

55 Previously known as the Museo Estudio Diego Rivera, inaugurated in 1981 and opened to the public from 1986 until 1995. Following major restoration work, the museum reopened in 1997 under its current name. Jorge Tárrago Mingo, ‘Preserving Rivera and Kahlo: Photography and Reconstruction,’ Future Anterior: Journal of Historic Preservation, History, Theory, and Criticism, vol. 6, no. 1, Summer 2009, 50-67: 53. Frida Kahlo also resided at her family home in Coyoacán in Mexico City, known as the “Casa Azul,” where she also had a studio, and where she died in 1954. According to the instructions of Diego Rivera, who purchased the home, thus settling the debts left by Kahlo’s father, this site opened to the 141 public as the Museo Frida Kahlo in 1958. Hilda Trujillo, ‘The Blue House: Frida Kahlo’s Private Universe.’ http://www.museofridakahlo.org.mx/assets/files/page_files/document/36/The%20Blue%20House.pdf (accessed 14 June 2018).

56 See, for example, Diana Fuss, The Sense of an Interior: Four Writers and the Rooms that Shaped Them, New York and London, Routledge, 2004; Harald Hendrix (ed.), Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory, New York, Routledge, 2008; Nicola J. Watson (ed.), Literary Tourism and Nineteenth- Century Culture, Basingstoke, UK, and New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

57 Watson, Literary Tourism and Nineteenth-Century Culture, 3.

58 Hendrix, ‘Writers’ Houses as Media of Expression and Remembrance,’ 2.

59 Harald Hendrix, ‘Epilogue: The Appeal of Writers’ Houses,’ in Harald Hendrix (ed.), Writers’ Houses and the Making of Memory, New York, Routledge, 2008, 235-243: 239.

60 Ibid, 241-242.

61 Ibid, 239.

62 Hendrix, ‘Writers’ Houses as Media of Expression and Remembrance,’ 1.

63 Ibid, 5.

64 Laurier Lacroix, ‘L’atelier-musée, paradoxe de l’expérience totale de l’oeuvre d’art,’ 29-44.

65 Ibid, 38-39.

66 ‘The Artist’s House – House-Museum.’ http://en.musee-moreau.fr/artists-house-house-museum (accessed 11 May 2018).

67 Maarten Liefooghe, ‘14, rue de La Rochefoucauld. The Partial Eclipse of Gustave Moreau,’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters and Ann Sophie Lehmann (eds.), Hiding Making – Showing Creation. The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 86-105: 93.

68 Ibid, 104 (footnote 21).

69 Ibid, 102.

70 Andrew Hardman, ‘Making Visible Lee Krasner’s Occupation: Feminist Art Historiography and the Pollock-Krasner Studio,’ in Victoria Horne and Lara Perry (eds.), Feminism and Art History Now: Radical Critiques of Theory and Practice, London and New York, I.B. Tauris, 2017, 68-79: 76.

71 Paula Dredge, ‘Collections of paint colour charts, paint tins and paintings as a source for developing an understanding of paint making history,’ in Museums Australia National Conference 2010: Interesting Times: New Roles for Collections, Conference Papers, Canberra, Museums Australia Inc., 2011, 45-50: 46. Artists whose studio artefacts are represented in the AGNSW collection include Roy de Maistre, Sidney Nolan, Frank Hinder and Elwyn Lynn.

72 Roger Bevan, ‘Klimt’s studio opens its doors,’ The Art Newspaper, No. 239, October 2012. http://ec2- 79-125-124-178.eu-west-1.compute.amazonaws.com/articles/Klimts-studio-opens-its-doors/27227 (accessed 5 July 2018).

73 Waterfield, ‘Studio Visits,’ 64.

74 Zankl, ‘Das Personalmuseum,’ 58-59. “Es ist schon mehrmals darauf hingewiesen worden, daß der Wunsch, einen Werk-Nachlaß geschlossen zu bewahren, einer der Hauptbeweggründe für die Einrichtung von Personalmuseen war.” [“It has been pointed out many times that the desire to keep an artist’s estate united is one of the chief motives for establishing personal-museums.”]

75 Geneviève Taillade, ‘Derain Intime: Le Peintre et ses Demeures’ [‘Intimate Derain: The Painter and his Residences’], La Gazette des Amis de la Maison Fournaise, No. 10, 2014, 3-7: 6. 142

76 Sandra M. Shafernich, ‘On-site museums, open-air museums, museum villages and living history museums: Reconstructions and period rooms in the United States and the United Kingdom,’ Museum Management and Curatorship, Vol. 12, No. 1, March 1993, 43-61: 43.

77 Ralph H. Lewis, ‘Site Museums and National Parks,’ Curator: The Museum Journal, vol. 2, no. 2, 1959, 172-185: 172.

78 Hermanus Johannes Moolman, ‘Site Museums: Their Origins, Definition and Categorisation,’ Museum Management and Curatorship, vol. 15, no. 4, December 1996, 387-400: 396.

79 See, for example, Georgina Downey, ‘Maisons d'artistes: sympathetic frame and wandering aesthetic,’ in Mark Taylor, Gini Lee, Marissa Lindquist (eds.), Interior Spaces in Other Places, Conference proceedings, IDEA Symposium, Brisbane, Queensland University of Technology, 2010.

80 See, for example, Liefooghe, ‘The Musealization of the Artist’s House as Architectural Project.’

81 Rosanna Pavoni, “Towards a Definition and Typology of Historic House Museums” in Museum International Vol.53, No.2, Unesco Paris, 2001, 16-21: 18.

82 “DemHist” is an abbreviation of the committee’s French name, Demeures Historiques-musées.

83 The nine categories in the report are: “(i.) Personality houses (writers, artists, musicians, politicians, military heroes, etc); (ii.) Collection houses (the former home of a collector or a house now used to show a collection); (iii.) Houses of Beauty (where the primary reason for a museum is the house as work of art); (iv.) Historic Event houses (houses that commemorate an event that took place in/by the house); (v.) Local society houses ( house museums established by a local community usually seeking a social cultural facility that may reflect its own identity, rather than for an historic reason); (vi.) Ancestral homes (country houses and small castles open to the public); (vii.) Power houses (palaces and large castles open to the public); (viii.) Clergy houses (monasteries, abbots’ houses and other ecclesiastical buildings with a former or current residential use , open to the public); (ix.) Humble homes (vernacular buildings such as modest farms valued as reflecting a lost way of life and/or building construction).” Julius Bryant and Hetty Behrens, ‘The DemHist Categorisation Project For Historic House Museums,’ 2007. http://demhist.icom.museum/shop/data/container/CategorizationProject.pdf (accessed 22 May 2018).

84 Sherry Butcher-Younghans, Historic House Museums: A Practical Handbook for their Care, Preservation, and Management, New York, Oxford University Press, 1993, 184-186. A summary of Butcher-Younghans’ categories can also be found in Giovanni Pinna, ‘Introduction to historic house museums,’ Museum International, Vol. 53, No. 2, April 2001: 4-9: 8.

85 The Metropolitan Museum of Art website, https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/11970 (accessed 26 May 2018).

86 Butcher-Younghans, Historic House Museums, 186.

87 ‘Museum History,’ C.M. Russell Museum website, https://cmrussell.org/museum-history/ (accessed 26 May 2018).

88 For analysis of the concept of authenticity in tourism and an overview of literature on the topic, see Ning Wang, ‘Rethinking Authenticity in Tourism Experience,’ Annals of Tourism Research, Vol. 26, No. 2, 1999, 349-370. See also Yael Ram, Peter Björk, and Adi Weidenfeld, ‘Authenticity and place attachment of major visitor attractions,’ Tourism Management, vol. 52, 2016, 110-122.

89 Pinna, ‘Introduction to historic house museums,’ 8.

90 Ibid.

91 Richard Sharpley, Tourism, Tourists and Society, ELM, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, 1994, 130, quoted in: Ning Wang, ‘Rethinking Authenticity in Tourism Experience,’ 350-351.

92 Similar to Harald Hendrix’s distinction between remembrance and documentation at house museums, Moolman makes a distinction between categories that he calls “Conceptual Sites” and “Visual Sites” (along with a third category, “Non-visual Sites,” not relevant here). While he identifies the house museum 143 as a primarily Visual Site, he acknowledges that a site museum may correspond with more than one category. Moolman, ‘Site Museums,’ 398-399.

93 Liefooghe, ‘The Musealization of the Artist’s House as Architectural Project.’

94 Pinna, ‘Introduction to historic house museums,’ 4.

95 Liefooghe, ‘The Musealization of the Artist’s House as Architectural Project.’

96 Georgina Downey, ‘To dwell means to leave traces: Modernism, mastery, and meaning in the house museums of Gaudí and Le Corbusier,’ in Gregory Marinic (ed.), The Interior Architecture Theory Reader, London and New York, Routledge, 2018, 292. Downey adopts the term “sites of memory” from Pierre Nora’s “lieux de mémoire.” See Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,’ trans. Marc Roudebush, Representations, vol. 0, no. 26, Special Issue: Memory and Counter- Memory, Spring 1989, 7-24.

97 Visual Sites are proposed as one category of site museum by Moolman, who writes: “the primary significance of these sites is visible. Subcategories falling under this, are themes such as natural elements, ecological systems, natural elements of special historical or cultural significance, archaeological sites, residences (house museums), farms, towns and aesthetic sites.” Moolman, ‘Site Museums,’ 398.

98 Ellen G. Landau, ‘The Pollock-Krasner House and Study Center,’ American Art, Vol. 19, No. 1, Spring 2005, 28-31: 29.

99 Wall text in the barn-studio at Pollock-Krasner House (viewed 1 October 2014).

100 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 36.

101 Hardman, ‘Making Visible Lee Krasner’s Occupation,’ 75.

102 Helen A. Harrison, interviewed by the author, East Hampton, 1 October, 2014, unpublished.

103 Hardman, ‘Making Visible Lee Krasner’s Occupation.’

104 Ibid, 72; Jones, Machine in the Studio, 36.

105 ‘About The Cedars,’ http://www.hansheysen.com.au/about/about.html (accessed 14 June 2018).

106 ‘Nora Heysen’s Studio,’ http://www.hansheysen.com.au/nora%20studio/studio_nora.html (accessed 14 June 2018).

107 Allan Campbell (Curator, The Cedars, Hahndorf, SA), ‘Re: Enquiry’ [email to the author], 16 June 2018.

108 Behrens, ‘Der musealisierte Mythos,’ 26.

109 ‘FAQ,’ The Easton Foundation website. http://www.theeastonfoundation.org/faq (accessed 2 July 2018).

110 Ray Anne Lockard, ‘Klumpke, Anna Elizabeth (1856-1942),’ GLBTQ Encyclopedia, 2002. http://www.glbtqarchive.com/arts/klumpke_a_A.pdf (accessed 3 July 2018).

111 Federico Freschi, ‘A great seduction: The UCT Irma Stern Museum, Rosebank, Cape Town,’ de arte, vol. 46, no. 84, 2011, 92-101: 92.

112 ‘Dobell Home Open to Public,’ Sydney Morning Herald, Saturday, December 18, 1971, 8.

113 Helen Glad, ‘Norman Lindsay Gallery,’ Reflections: the National Trust Quarterly, May-July 2002, 17- 20: 19. See also Daniel Thomas, ‘Lindsay House Open Sunday,’ Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday, February 22, 1973.

144

114 Jeremy Aynsley, ‘The Modern Period Room — A Contradiction in Terms?’ in Penny Sparke, Brenda Martin, Trevor Keeble (eds.), The Modern Period Room: The construction of the exhibited interior 1870 to 1950, London and New York, Routledge, 2006, 8-30: 9.

115 Ibid, 14.

116 Bernard Vere, ‘Authentic the Second Time Around? Eduardo Paolozzi and Reconstructed Studios in a Museum Environment,’ in Megan Aldrich and Jos Hackforth-Jones (eds.), Art and Authenticity, Surrey, UK, Lund Humphries, 2012, 88-97: 93.

117 Ibid, 94.

118 Miriam Bratu Hansen, ‘Benjamin’s Aura,’ Critical Inquiry, vol. 34, no. 2, Winter 2008, 336-375: 340.

119 Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility,’ (Second Version), in Michael W. Jennings, Brigid Doherty, and Thomas Y. Levin (eds.), The Work of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility and Other Writings on Media, trans. Edmund Jephcott, Rodney Livingstone, Howard Eiland, et al., Cambridge and London, The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008, 23.

120 Hansen, ‘Benjamin’s Aura,’ 344.

121 Walter Benjamin, ‘On Some Motifs in Baudelaire,’ in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings. Volume 4: 1938-1940, Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings (eds.), trans. Edmund Jephcott et al., Cambridge and London, Harvard University Press, 2003, 313-355: 338. Also quoted in Miriam Bratu Hansen, ‘Benjamin’s Aura,’ Critical Inquiry, vol. 34, no. 2, Winter 2008, 336-375: 339.

122 Hansen, ‘Benjamin’s Aura,’ 345.

123 Benjamin, ‘On Some Motifs in Baudelaire,’ 338.

124 Vere, ‘Authentic the Second Time Around?’ 93.

125 Aynsley, ‘The Modern Period Room,’ 13.

126 The replacement of original artefacts in Bacon’s studio with facsimiles is discussed in Chapter Five.

127 Hansen, ‘Benjamin’s Aura,’ 345.

128 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, John Wild (ed.), trans. Alphonso Lingis, Evanston, IL, Northwestern University Press, 1968, 139.

129 Ibid.

130 Vere, ‘Authentic the Second Time Around?’ 93.

131 Ibid.

132 Fiona Pearson, ‘Eduardo Paolozzi 1924-2005,’ Sculpture Journal, vol.14, no. 1, 2005, 89-93: 92.

133 Vere, ‘Authentic the Second Time Around?’ 89.

134 Jon Wood, ‘From “vue d’atelier” to “vie d’atelier”: 46 rue Hippolyte-Maindron and the Beginnings of Giacometti,’ in Peter Read and Julia Kelly (eds.), Giacometti: Critical Essays, Farnham, UK, and Burlington, VT, Ashgate, 2009, 17-42: 19.

135 Susi Muddiman, interviewed by the author, Murwillumbah, 20 November, 2014, unpublished. See also: Susi Muddiman, ‘Researching the Art of Re-creation,’ Tweed Artifacts: Friends of the Tweed River Art Gallery Newsletter, Vol 13 No 2, June 2012.

136 Kirk Varnedoe, quoted in Victoria Newhouse, Art and the Power of Placement, New York, The Monacelli Press, 2005, 200.

145

137 Newhouse, Art and the Power of Placement, 202.

138 Ibid, 200.

139 Ibid, 200 and 202.

140 Karen Orchard, ‘Kurt Schwitters: Reconstructions of the Merzbau,’ in Tate Papers 8, 2007. http://www.tate.org.uk/research/publications/tate-papers/kurt-schwitters-reconstructions-merzbau (accessed 24 September 2014).

141 Elizabeth Burns Gamard, Kurt Schwitters’ Merzbau: The Cathedral of Erotic Misery, New York, Princeton Architectural Press, 2000, 87.

142 Karen Orchard, ‘Kurt Schwitters: Reconstructions of the Merzbau.’ Gwendolen Webster indicates a degree of uncertainty over the precise number of rooms into which the Hannover Merzbau extended. See Gwendolen Webster, Kurt Schwitters' Merzbau, Ph.D. diss., Milton Keynes, Open University, 2007, 72- 73.

143 Gwendolen Webster, Kurt Schwitters' Merzbau, Ph.D. diss., Milton Keynes, Open University, 2007, 81-82.

144 Peter Bissegger, ‘Kurt Schwitters' MERZ Building.’ http://www.merzbaureconstruction.com/ (accessed 24 September 2014).

145 Frans Postma, 26, Rue du Départ: Mondrian’s Studio in Paris, 1921-1936, Berlin, Ernst & Sohn, 1995, 32-33.

146 Frans Postma, interviewed by the author, Delft, 30 July 2014, unpublished.

147 Ibid.

148 Frans Postma, 26, Rue du Départ, 34-35.

149 In fact, none of the posthumous studio categories—historic site, off-site reconstruction, or replication—are immune to a tendency to augment the site with fabricated content to convey the artist’s presence. In the historic site studio museums of both Rosa Bonheur in France and Tarō Okamoto in Japan, effigies of the former inhabitants appear in the form of mannequins.

150 Frans Postma, e-mail correspondence with the author, 12 March 2015.

151 Michael White, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ in Francesco Manacorda and Michael White (eds.), Mondrian and his Studios: Colour in Space, exhibition catalogue, Tate Publishing, London, 2014, 87-95: 88.

152 Ibid, 90.

153 Pinna, ‘Introduction to historic house museums,’ 8.

154 Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok, The Shell and the Kernel: Renewals of Psychoanalysis, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1994, cited in Andrew Hardman, Studio Habits: Francis Bacon, Lee Krasner, Jackson Pollock and Agnes Martin, Ph.D. diss., Manchester, University of Manchester, 2014, 102-103.

155 Hardman, Studio Habits, 110.

156 Ibid, 229.

157 Ibid, 135.

158 Ibid, 34.

159 For example, see: Michael Cole and Mary Pardo (eds.), Inventions of the Studio: Renaissance to Romanticism, Chapel Hill and London, The University of North Carolina Press, 2005; Jens Hoffmann and 146

Christina Kennedy (eds.), The Studio, exhibition catalogue, Dublin, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2007; Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009; Giles Waterfield (ed.), The Artist's Studio, exhibition catalogue, London, Hogarth Arts and Compton Verney, 2009; Mary Jane Jacob and Michelle Grabner (eds.), The Studio Reader: On the Space of Artists, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press, 2010; Alex Coles, The Transdisciplinary Studio, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2012; Ina Conzen (ed.), Mythos Atelier: Von Spitzweg bis Picasso, von Giacometti bis Nauman [Mythos Atelier: From Spitzweg to Picasso, from Giacometti to Nauman], exhibition catalogue, Munich, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart and Hirmer Verlag, 2012; Jens Hoffmann (ed.), The Studio: Documents of Contemporary Art, London and Cambridge, Whitechapel Gallery and MIT Press, 2012; Kirsty Bell, The Artist’s House: From Workplace to Artwork, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2013; Graham Ellard and Jonathan Harvey (eds.), Studios for Artists: Concepts and Concrete, London, Black Dog Publishing, 2015; Glenn Adamson and Julia Bryan-Wilson, Art in the Making: Artists and Their Materials from the Studio to Crowdsourcing, 2016; Ignacio Farías and Alex Wilkie, Studio Studies: Operations, Topologies and Displacements, London and New York, Routledge, 2016; Alex Gartenfeld, Gean Moreno, Stephanie Seidel, The Everywhere Studio, exhibition catalogue, Miami, The Institute of Contemporary Art (Munich, Prestel), 2017.

160 See, for example: Hossein Amirsadeghi (ed.), Sanctuary: Britain’s Artists and their Studios, London and New York, Thames and Hudson, 2012; Hossein Amirsadeghi (ed.), Art Studio America: Contemporary Artist Spaces, London and New York, Thames and Hudson, 2013; John Elderfield and Peter Galassi, In the Studio, exhibition catalogue, New York, Gagosian Gallery, 2015; Thijs Demeulemeester, Artists at Home \ Work, Antwerp, Luster, 2016; Delphine Desveaux, Susana Gállego Cuesta, and Françoise Reynaud, Dans l’atelier: L’artiste photographié, d’Ingres à Jeff Koons [In the Studio: The Artist Photographed, from Ingres to Jeff Koons], exhibition catalogue, Paris, Petit Palais, 2016.

161 Esner, ‘Presence in Absence,’ 242.

162 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 27.

163 Mary Bergstein, ‘“The Artist in His Studio”: Photography, Art, and the Masculine Mystique,’ Oxford Art Journal, vol. 18, no. 2, 1995, 45-58: 45.

164 Ibid, 57.

165 Ibid, 45.

166 Ibid.

167 Carol Duncan, ‘Virility and Domination in Early Twentieth-Century Vanguard Painting,’ Art Forum, vol. 12, no. 4, December 1973, 30-39. Reprinted in Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard (eds.), Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany, New York, Harper and Row, 1982, 292-313.

168 Hardman, Studio Habits, 12.

169 Hardman, Studio Habits, 37.

170 Ibid, 17.

171 Esner, ‘Presence in Absence.’ Esner also cites Philippe Junod’s related article ‘L’atelier comme autoportrait’ [‘The Studio as Self-Portrait’], in Pascal Griener and Peter J. Schneemann (eds.), Künstlerbilder – Images de l'artiste. Colloque du Comité International d'Histoire de l'Art, Université de Lausanne, 9-12 juin 1994, Bern, Peter Lang, 1998, 83-100. The correspondence between the studio and the artist’s identity is also noted in: Alessandra Comini, ‘Vanished Studios Revisited, or The Atelier as Autobiography,’ Art Journal, Vol. 39, no. 4, 1980, 248-249; A.R. Warwick, ‘Stuff: Hoarding, Collecting and the Ontopology of the Artist’s Space,’ Artwrit, Spring 2011. http://www.artwrit.com/article/stuff/ (accessed 11 March 2015). This theme will be revisited in relation to Francis Bacon in Chapter Four.

172 Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), ‘Introduction,’ in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 1-20: 2.

173 Robert Smithson, ‘A Sedimentation of the Mind: Earth Projects’ (1968), in Jack D. Flam (ed.), Robert 147

Smithson: The Collected Writings, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1996, 100-113: 107. Cited in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 2.

174 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 156.

175 Ibid, 158.

176 Ibid, 159.

177 Ibid.

178 Ibid, 158.

179 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 210.

180 Ibid, 1.

181 Ibid., 2.

182 Ibid, 16.

183 Frank Reijnders, ‘The Studio as Mediator,’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters, and Ann-Sophie Lehmann, (eds.), Hiding Making - Showing Creation: The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 136-156: 156, note 10.

184 Louis Kaplan, ‘The Telephone Paintings: Hanging up Moholy,’ Leonardo, vol. 26, no. 2, 1993, 165- 168: 165.

185 Ibid, 167.

186 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 347.

187 Morgan Thomas, ‘Studio Vertigo: Mark Rothko,’ in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 23-41: 36.

188 Ibid, 34.

189 Ibid, 26.

190 Ibid, 35.

191 Michael Cole and Mary Pardo, ‘Origins of the Studio,’ in Michael Cole and Mary Pardo (eds), Inventions of the Studio: Renaissance to Romanticism, Chapel Hill and London, The University of North Carolina Press, 2005, 1-35: 20

192 Anthony Hughes, ‘The Cave and the Stithy: Artists’ Studios and Intellectual Property in Early Modern Europe,’ Oxford Art Journal, vol. 13, no. 1, 1990, 34-48: 38.

193 Ibid.

194 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 162.

195 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 156.

196 Ibid, 161.

197 (Wouter Davidts’ translation); Daniel Buren, ‘Das Atelier im Kopf. Ein Interview mit Daniel Buren von Isabelle Graw,’ Texte Zur Kunst, vol. 13, no. 49, 2003, 58-65: 63. Cited in Wouter Davidts, ‘“My 148 studio is the place where I am (working)”: Daniel Buren,’ in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 63-81: 80.

198 Davidts, ‘“My studio is the place where I am (working)”: Daniel Buren,’ 80.

199 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 161-162.

200 Ibid, 161.

201 Isabelle Graw, Vorwort [Foreword], ‘Atelier: Raum ohne Zeit’ [‘Studio: Space Without Time’], Texte Zur Kunst, no. 49, March 2003, 5-9. https://www.textezurkunst.de/49/vorwort-61/ (accessed 7 April 2018).

202 Albrecht Barthel, ‘The Paris Studio of Constantin Brancusi: A Critique of the Modern Period Room,’ Future Anterior, vol. 3, no. 2, 2006, 34-44: 37.

203 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 162, note 5.

204 Barthel, ‘The Paris Studio of Constantin Brancusi,’ 37.

205 Daniel Buren, ‘“The Function of the Studio” Revisited: Daniel Buren in Conversation,’ in Jens Hoffmann and Christina Kennedy (eds.), The Studio, exhibition catalogue, Dublin, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2007, 103-106: 106.

206 Barthel, ‘The Paris Studio of Constantin Brancusi,’ 37.

207 Ibid.

208 Svetlana Alpers, ‘The View from the Studio,’ in Mary Jane Jacob and Michelle Grabner (eds.), The Studio Reader: On the Space of Artists, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press, 2010, 126-149: 127.

209 Lane Relyea, ‘Studio Unbound,’ in Jens Hoffmann (ed.), The Studio: Documents of Contemporary Art, London and Cambridge, Whitechapel Gallery and MIT Press, 2012, 218-223: 219-220.

210 Frank Reijnders, ‘The Studio as Mediator,’ 139.

211 Behrens, ‘Der musealisierte Mythos,’ 28.

212 Tracey Emin Studio, ‘Exorcism of the Last Painting I Ever Made Christie’s Auction,’ http://www.traceyeminstudio.com/news/2015/02/exorcism-of-the-last-painting-i-ever-made-christies- auction/ (accessed 12 January 2016). Some sources indicate the exhibition took place over only two weeks, not three (see Reijnders, ‘The Studio as Mediator,’ 151-152).

213 Reijnders, ‘The Studio as Mediator,’ 152.

214 Rachel Esner, ‘Forms and Functions of the Studio from the Twentieth Century to Today,’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters, and Ann-Sophie Lehmann (eds.), Hiding Making - Showing Creation: The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 121-135: 130.

215 Julia Gelshorn, ‘Creation, Recreation, Procreation: Matthew Barney, Martin Kippenberger, Jason Rhoades and Paul McCarthy,’ in Wouter Davidts and Kim Paice (eds.), The Fall of the Studio: Artists at Work, Amsterdam, Valiz, 2009, 141-161: 160.

216 Judith Rodenbeck, ‘Studio Visit,’ in Mary Jane Jacob and Michelle Grabner (eds.), The Studio Reader: On the Space of Artists, Chicago, The University of Chicago Press, 2010, 336-340: 340.

217 Eric de Bruyn, ‘The Empty Studio: Bruce Nauman’s Studio Films,’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters, Sandra and Ann-Sophie Lehmann (eds.), Hiding Making - Showing Creation: The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 188-208: 203.

218 Rodenbeck, ‘Studio Visit,’ 339. 149

219 Robert Storr, ‘A Room of One’s Own, A Mind of One’s Own,’ in Mary Jane Jacob and Michelle Grabner (eds.), The Studio Reader: On the Space of Artists, Chicago, IL, The University of Chicago Press, 2010, 49-62: 53.

220 Beatrice von Bismarck, ‘Studio, Storage, Legend. The Work of Hiding in Tacita Dean’s Section Cinema (Homage to Marcel Broodthaers),’ in Rachel Esner, Sandra Kisters, Sandra and Ann-Sophie Lehmann (eds.), Hiding Making - Showing Creation: The Studio from Turner to Tacita Dean, Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press, 2013, 176-187: 182.

221 Philippe Dagen, ‘Christian Boltanski: “Je joue une partie contre le diable”’ [“I am playing a game against the devil”], Le Monde, 29 June 2009. http://www.lemonde.fr/culture/article/2009/07/29/christian- boltanski-je-joue-une-partie-contre-le-diable_1223806_3246.html (accessed 23 January 2016).

222 David Houston Jones, ‘All the Moments of our Lives: Self-archiving from Christian Boltanski to Lifelogging,’ Archives and Records, vol. 36, no. 1, 29-41, 2015.

223 Mireille Juchau, ‘Christian Boltanski’s Chance at Life,’ The Monthly, March 2014, https://www. themonthly.com.au/issue/2014/march/1393592400/mireille-juchau/christian-boltanski’s-chance-life (accessed 19 January 2016).

224 Gregory Minissale, Framing Consciousness in Art: Transcultural Perspectives, Amsterdam and New York, Rodopi, 2009, 48.

225 Angus Stevenson (ed.), Oxford English Dictionary, 3rd edn., Oxford University Press, 2010, 290.

226 Chaos is “an obsolete word for abyss.” Patrick Hanks (ed.), Collins Dictionary of the English Language, reprinted and updated, Sydney, Collins, 1985, 254.

227 de Bruyn, ‘The Empty Studio,’ 195.

228 Janet Abramowicz, Giorgio Morandi: The Art of Silence, New Haven, CT and London, Yale University Press, 2004, 180.

229 Ibid, 190.

230 “Morandi worked looking from a window or en plein air using binoculars or small ‘window frames,’ made with cardboard.” Stella Seitun, ‘Works,’ in Maria Christina Bandera (ed.), Giorgio Morandi: A Retrospective, exhibition catalogue, Brussels, BOZAR; Milan, Silvana Editoriale, 2013, 63-93: 70. Similarly, Simona Tosini Pizzetti reports: “Sometimes he made his observations with a telescope, which, permitting a close-up view, helped him to precisely define and isolate the part that would become ‘his landscape’, one that never anticipated the presence of man. For this same reason, in addition to the telescope he also used some small framing devices that he constructed himself, usually roundish in shape, which are now kept by Carlo Zucchini.” Simona Tosini Pizzetti, ‘The Workshop of Immortality: Themes and Techniques,’ in Maria Christina Bandera (ed.), Giorgio Morandi, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Silvana Editoriale, 2012, 215-241: 227.

231 Maria Christina Bandera (ed.), Giorgio Morandi, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Silvana Editoriale, 2012, 33.

232 Photographers of Morandi’s studio in Bologna since the artist’s death include Gianni Berengo Gardin; Luciano Calzolari; Tacita Dean; Paolo Ferrari; Jean-Michel Folon; Luigi Ghirri; Leo Lionni; Antonio Masotti; Joel Meyerowitz; Duane Michals; Paolo Monti; Brigitte March Niedermair; Roberto Serra; Lamberto Vitali; and Catherine Wagner.

233 Esner, ‘Presence in Absence,’ 241-262.

234 O’Doherty, Studio and Cube, 25. Lorenz Eitner identifies the open window (frequently the studio window in particular) as a significant theme in paintings of the Romantic era, a theme taken up in the exhibition Rooms with a View: The Open Window in the 19th Century held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2011. See: Lorenz Eitner, ‘The Open Window and the Storm-Tossed Boat: An Essay in the Iconography of Romanticism,’ The Art Bulletin, Vol. 37, No. 4, Dec., 1955, 281-290; and Sabine Rewald, 150

Rooms with a View: The Open Window in the 19th Century, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2011.

235 O’Doherty, Studio and Cube, 27.

236 The Museo Morandi was initiated by the artist’s last surviving sister, Maria Teresa Morandi, who made a large donation of Giorgio Morandi’s works to the municipality of Bologna. Carlo Zucchini, a friend of Morandi’s and guarantor of Maria Teresa’s gift to Bologna, donated Morandi’s original objects for the reconstructed studio. Simona Tosini Pizzetti, ‘The Workshop of Immortality: Themes and Techniques,’ in Bandera (ed.), Giorgio Morandi, 221. In 2009, the studio was reinstated at Casa Morandi, and in 2012, following an earthquake that caused damage to the Palazzo d’Accursio, the Museo Morandi was transferred to the Museo d’Arte Moderna di Bologna (MAMbo).

237 Peter Weiermair et al., Museo Morandi: Catalogo Generale/ Complete Illustrated Catalogue, Milan, Silvana Editoriale, 2004, 472.

238 Jennifer Barrett and Jacqueline Millner, Australian Artists in the Contemporary Museum, Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT, Ashgate, 2014, 14.

239 Kynaston McShine, The Museum as Muse: Artists Reflect, exhibition catalogue, New York, The Museum of Modern Art, 1999, 12.

240 Ibid, 13.

241 Barrett and Millner, Australian Artists in the Contemporary Museum, 1.

242 Ibid, 125.

243 Stephen Greenblatt, ‘Resonance and Wonder,’ in Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine (eds.), Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display, Washington and London, Smithsonian Institution, 1991, 42-56: 42; quoted in Barrett and Millner, Australian Artists in the Contemporary Museum, 126.

244 Greenblatt, ‘Resonance and Wonder,’ 42.

245 Ibid, 43.

246 Ibid, 44.

247 Ibid.

248 Ibid, 43.

249 Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 3.

250 Robert Harbison, Eccentric Spaces, Cambridge and London, MIT Press, 2000, 140.

251 Theodor W. Adorno, ‘Valéry Proust Museum,’ in Theodor W. Adorno, Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber, Cambridge, MIT Press, 1983, 173-185: 175.

252 Amelia Groom, ‘Permanent Collection: Time and the Politics of Preservation at the Ōtsuka Museum of Art,’ E-Flux Journal, no. 78, December 2016. https://www.e-flux.com/journal/78/82883/permanent- collection/ (accessed 31 July 2018). I am grateful to Chelsea Lehmann for drawing my attention to this article.

253 Ibid.

254 Ibid.

255 Barrett and Millner, Australian Artists in the Contemporary Museum, 1.

256 A Painter’s House (Margaret Olley Art Centre, Tweed Regional Gallery, 31 March – 7 October 2018) was curated by Ingrid Hedgcock and, in addition to the work of Margaret Olley, featured recent paintings by John Honeywill, Guy Maestri, Lewis Miller, and Monica Rohan. 151

257 Ross Gibson, quoted in Barrett and Millner, Australian Artists in the Contemporary Museum, 5.

258 Ibid.

259 Angela Rosenberg, ‘Cleaning Up the Studio: Christian Jankowski in conversation with Angela Rosenberg,’ in Exhibition: Game of Thrones/ Symposium: Remembering as a Constructive Act—Artistic Concepts for Museum Collections, Berlin, Humboldt Lab Dahlem, 2013, 28-31: 28.

260 Getting out of the (traditional) studio, [online video], moderator Raimar Stange, with Carey Young, Philip Ursprung, Christian Jankowski, and Wouter Davidts, Universität Salzburg, Salzburg, 8 August 2012, 01:02:45. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwRYBawNQmM (accessed 20 September 2013).

261 Rosenberg, ‘Cleaning Up the Studio,’ 28.

262 Ibid.

263 Ibid.

264 Ibid, 29.

265 Ibid, 28.

266 For a description and photographic documentation of First Snow, see Panya Clark Espinal’s website. http://www.panya.ca/works_first_snow.php (accessed 14 June 2018).

267 Sherrill Grace, Inventing Tom Thomson: From Biographical Fictions to Fictional Autobiographies and Reproductions, Montreal and Kingston, McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004, 166. According to Grace, Clark Espinal’s installation “reminds the gallery visitor and viewer of the basic physicality of the original art object at the very moment when that originality is undermined by representation and simulacra. In First Snow […] she stages the Thomson shack, located on the McMichael grounds, as filled with the painter’s absence; we can still peer through a window to see his belongings and Northern River (or what looks like this familiar canvas) on an easel, with everything covered in a layer of snow and no painter in the cold abandoned space.”

268 Andrew Waldron, ‘The Studio Building, 25 Severn Street, Toronto, Ontario,’ Journal of the Society for the Study of Architecture in Canada, Vol. 31, No. 1, 2006, 65-80: 74.

269 Sherrill Grace, Inventing Tom Thomson, note 18, 211-212.

270 Andrew Waldron, ‘The Studio Building, 25 Severn Street, Toronto, Ontario,’ 77.

271 My description alludes to Giovanni Pinna’s observation regarding views on the authenticity of historic houses, cited earlier. Pinna states, “the most intransigent museologists warn us against the reconstructions of artefacts from old houses. They maintain that the transition from the mere reconstruction of furnishings to a kind of Disneyland reconstruction of medieval castles is all too easy, so manipulating history for commercial purposes.” Pinna, ‘Introduction to historic house museums,’ 8.

272 Griselda Pollock, ‘Killing Men and Dying Women,’ in Fred Orton and Griselda Pollock, Avant- Gardes and Partisans Reviewed, Manchester and New York, Manchester University Press, 1996, 241- 242.

273 Hardman, Studio Habits, 217.

274 Thomas Demand, ‘Thomas Demand on Matisse,’ Tate Etc., no. 31, Summer 2014. https://www.tate.org.uk/context-comment/articles/thomas-demand-on-matisse (accessed 5 March 2015).

275 Thomas Demand, quoted in Jens Hoffmann and Christina Kennedy (eds.), The Studio, exhibition catalogue, Dublin, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2007, 71.

276 Demand, ‘Thomas Demand on Matisse.’

277 Tacita Dean in ‘Artist Questionnaire: 21 Responses,’ October, no. 100, Spring 2002, 26. 152

278 Among those who have been the focus of other works by Dean are Robert Smithson, Mario Merz, Marcel Broodthaers, Joseph Beuys, Merce Cunningham, Cy Twombly, and Claes Oldenburg. Ed Krčma, ‘Tacita Dean and Still Life,’ Art History, vol. 37, no. 5, November 2014, 960-977: 961. See also: Tamara Trodd, ‘Fathers and Feminism in the work of Tacita Dean.’ https://www.henry- moore.org/assets/research/online-papers/tamara-trodd/tamara-trodd.pdf (accessed 23 November 2017).

279 “Mario Merz, Michael Hamburger, Merce Cunningham, Cy Twombly and Leo Steinberg all died shortly after having been filmed by the artist.” Ed Krčma, ‘Tacita Dean and Still Life,’ 968.

280 For example, see: Hal Foster, ‘An Archival Impulse,’ October, vol. 110, Autumn 2004, 3-22; Mark Godfrey, ‘The Artist as Historian,’ October, vol. 120, Spring 2007, 140-172.

281 Tacita Dean, ‘The Studio of Giorgio Morandi,’ in Gianfranco Maraniello, Tacita Dean. The Studio of Giorgio Morandi, exhibition pamphlet, Bologna, MAMbo – Museo d’Arte Moderna di Bologna, 2013, unpaginated.

282 Massimiliano Gioni, Tacita Dean, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Fondazione Nicola Trussardi, 2009, 5- 6.

283 Lorenza Selleri (Curator, Museo Morandi, Bologna), ‘Re: Casa Morandi’ [email to the author], 23 August 2018.

284 Krzysztof Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities: Paris and Venice, 1500-1800, trans. Elizabeth Wiles- Porter, Polity Press, 1990, 30.

285 Dean, ‘The Studio of Giorgio Morandi,’ unpaginated.

286 Michael Newman, ‘Drawing Time: Tacita Dean’s Narratives of Inscription,’ Enclave Review, no. 7, Spring 2013, 5-9: 7. Quoted in Ed Krčma, ‘Tacita Dean and Still Life,’ Art History, vol. 37, no. 5, November 2014, 960-977: 966.

287 Ed Krčma, ‘Tacita Dean and Still Life,’ Art History, vol. 37, no. 5, November 2014, 960-977: 973.

288 Krčma, ‘Tacita Dean and Still Life,’ 963-964.

289 Dean, ‘The Studio of Giorgio Morandi,’ unpaginated.

290 Gianfranco Maraniello, Tacita Dean. The Studio of Giorgio Morandi, exhibition pamphlet, Bologna, MAMbo – Museo d’Arte Moderna di Bologna, 2013.

291 Ernst-Gerhard Güse and Franz Armin Morat, Giorgio Morandi, Munich, Prestel, 1999, 163; Abramowicz, Giorgio Morandi, 3.

292 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 1.

293 Groom, ‘Permanent Collection.’

294 For an overview of the role of the scale model as a studio aid for painters, see my essay: David Eastwood, ‘Artist and Model,’ A Working Model of the World, website, published in conjunction with the exhibition ‘A Working Model of the World,’ UNSW Galleries, Sydney, and the Sheila C Johnson Design Centre, New York, 2017, http://workingmodeloftheworld.com/Artist-and-Model (accessed 4 September 2017).

295 Margaret Morrison, ‘Models as Autonomous Agents,’ in Margaret Morrison and Mary S. Morgan (Eds.), Models as Mediators: Perspectives on Natural and Social Science, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999, 38-65.

296 Morrison and Morgan, Models as Mediators, 10-11.

297 Recent exhibitions of models include Otherworldly: Optical Delusions and Small Realities, curated by David Revere McFadden (Museum of Arts and Design, New York, 2011), and Dioramas (Palais de 153

Tokyo, Paris, 2017), both of which focused on artists’ engagement with dioramas. Exploring related territory were What Models Can Do: A Short History of the Architectural Model in Contemporary Art (Museum für Gegenwartskunst Siegen, Germany, 2014); The Model, curated by Gordon Brennan and Neil Lebeter (Edinburgh College of Art, 2013); and Model, curated by Ladislav Kesner (Galerie Rudolfinum, Prague, 2015). In Australia, corresponding approaches to art making have been contextualised in exhibitions such as Model Pictures, which featured paintings by Melbourne artists James Lynch, Moya McKenna, Amanda Marburg and Rob McHaffie, all of whom work from handmade models (curated by Bala Starr for the Ian Potter Museum of Art at the University of Melbourne, 2011). Similarly, my own curatorial undertaking, Speculative Spaces (Robin Gibson Gallery, Sydney, 2013), examined practices in which miniature models constructed by artists informed or complemented their imaging practices.

298 Lizzie Muller, ‘The World of the Model,’ A Working Model of the World, website, published in conjunction with the exhibition ‘A Working Model of the World,’ UNSW Galleries, Sydney, and the Sheila C Johnson Design Centre, New York, 2017, http://workingmodeloftheworld.com/World-of-the- Model (accessed 4 September 2017).

299 Jones, Machine in the Studio, 210.

300 Chris Weedon, Identity and Culture, Berkshire, UK, McGraw-Hill Education, 2004, 5.

301 Margarita Cappock, ‘Francis Bacon’s Studio’ in Anthony Bond (ed.), Francis Bacon: Five Decades, exhibition catalogue, Sydney, Art Gallery of New South Wales, 2012, 45.

302 Ibid. During my research of the Francis Bacon Studio’s digital database at The Hugh Lane in July 2016, I noted that it contained 7,333 entries, some of which document clusters of detritus rather than individual items.

303 Barbara Dawson, ed., Hugh Lane: Founder of a Gallery of Modern Art for Ireland, London, Scala Publishers, 2008, 13.

304 See, for example, the following publications that pay significant attention to the material discovered in Bacon’s studio: Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London and New York, Merrell, 2005; Martin Harrison, In Camera: Francis Bacon. Photography, Film and the Practice of Painting, London, Thames & Hudson, 2005; Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: Incunabula, London, Thames & Hudson, 2008; Katharina Günther, Francis Bacon: Metamorphoses, London, The Estate of Francis Bacon, 2011. Furthermore, as a context for interpreting his paintings, several major exhibitions of Bacon’s work have featured items from the studio archive housed at Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. These include Francis Bacon and the Tradition of Art (Kunsthistorische Museum, Vienna, 2003, and Fondation Beyeler, Riehen/Basel, 2004); Francis Bacon (Tate Britain, London, 2008); Bacon (Palazzo Reale, Milan, 2008), Francis Bacon: A Terrible Beauty (Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, Dublin, 2009); Francis Bacon: Five Decades (Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney, 2012); Francis Bacon: Invisible Rooms (Tate Liverpool, 2014).

305 Martin Harrison, In Camera: Francis Bacon. Photography, Film and the Practice of Painting, London, Thames & Hudson, 2005, 83.

306 Katharina Günther, ‘Interview: Perry Ogden on Documenting Reece Mews,’ Supermassiveblackhole, Issue 18, 2014, unpaginated. http://www.smbhmag.com/issues/SMBHmag18.pdf (accessed 15 March 2015).

307 Barbara Dawson, ‘Francis Bacon: A Terrible Beauty,’ in Barbara Dawson and Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: A Terrible Beauty, Dublin, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2009, 51. There were two photographs of Bacon’s collected images lying flat in his studio, originally published to accompany the article by Sam Hunter, ‘Francis Bacon: The Anatomy of Horror,’ Magazine of Art, vol. 45, no. 1, January 1952, 11-15.

308 ‘Francis Bacon,’ interview, BBC Television for Sunday Night (also released as Francis Bacon: Fragments of a Portrait), dir. Michael Gill, 1966.

309 Martin Harrison, ‘Latent Images,’ in Barbara Dawson and Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: A Terrible Beauty, Dublin, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, 2009, 78.

154

310 For example, the catalogue for the exhibition Francis Bacon: Paintings (Marlborough Fine Art, London, 1985) features a 1974 photograph of the Reece Mews studio by John Beard. Likewise, a 1971 photograph of the studio by Henri Cartier-Bresson is reproduced in the catalogue for Francis Bacon: Paintings of the Eighties, New York, Marlborough Gallery, 1987. Other examples of Bacon’s exhibition catalogues that featured images of the artist’s studio published during his lifetime include Michel Leiris, Francis Bacon, exhibition catalogue, Paris, Grand Palais, 1971; and Henry Geldzahler, Francis Bacon: Recent Paintings 1968-1974, exhibition catalogue, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1975.

311 Michel Archimbaud, Francis Bacon: In Conversation with Michel Archimbaud, London and New York, Phaidon, 1993, 163.

312 Francis Bacon, ‘Remarks from an Interview with Peter Beard,’ in Henry Geldzahler, Francis Bacon: Recent Paintings 1968-1974, exhibition catalogue, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1975, 15-16. Partially quoted in Harrison, In Camera, 113.

313 For an overview of literature on the conflation of home and self, see Rosemary Marangoly George, The Politics of Home: Postcolonial Relocations and Twentieth-Century Fiction, Cambridge, UK, Cambridge University Press, 1996, 19-21.

314 Georgina Downey, ‘Introduction,’ in Georgina Downey (ed.), Domestic Interiors: Representing Homes from the Victorians to the Moderns, London and New York, Bloomsbury, 2013, 2.

315 Penny Sparke, The Modern Interior, London, Reaktion Books, 2008, 74.

316 Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, vol. IV, London, The Estate of Francis Bacon, 2016, 1122.

317 See, for instance, Jill Lloyd and Michael Peppiatt, ‘Catalogue,’ in Rudy Chiappini, Francis Bacon, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Museo d’Arte Moderna Città di Lugano, Electa, 1993, 159; Dennis Farr, Francis Bacon: A Retrospective, exhibition catalogue, New York, Harry N. Abrams, 1999, 174; Nicholas Chare, After Francis Bacon: Synaesthesia and Sex in Paint, Surrey, UK and Burlington, USA, Ashgate, 2012, 45-46; Martin Harrison, Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, vol. IV, London, The Estate of Francis Bacon, 2016, 1122. An alternative interpretation is offered by Margarita Cappock, focusing on the left-hand panel which she sees in terms of a memento mori for George Dyer, who had died six years earlier and whose clothes are visible in the image even though Dyer himself has been cut out. Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London and New York, Merrell, 2005, 39-40.

318 Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London and New York, Merrell, 2005, 39. Martin Harrison contradicts Cappock, claiming the source images for the left and middle panels are photographs by Peter Stark (Harrison, Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, vol. IV, 1122). However, the close correspondence with Deakin’s photograph indicates that, at least in the case of the left panel, Harrison is incorrect.

319 Harrison, In Camera, 113. Bacon’s statement appears in David Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact: Interviews with Francis Bacon, 3rd edn., enlarged, London, Thames and Hudson, 1987, 189.

320 ‘Francis Bacon,’ The South Bank Show, [television documentary], dir. by David Hinton, London Weekend Television, 1985.

321 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 16-17.

322 Ibid, 17.

323 Ibid, 140.

324 Ibid, 105.

325 A list of relevant texts on this topic is available in footnote 2 of Dario Gamboni’s article ‘“Fabrication of Accidents”: Factura and Chance in Nineteenth-Century Art,’ RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, No. 36, Factura (Autumn, 1999), 205.

326 Dario Gamboni, ‘“Fabrication of Accidents”: Factura and Chance in Nineteenth-Century Art,’ RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, No. 36, Factura (Autumn, 1999), 205-225. 155

327 Ibid, 220.

328 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 107.

329 Gamboni, “Fabrication of Accidents,” 220.

330 For example, see John Richardson, ‘Bacon Agonistes,’ The New York Review of Books (vol.56, no.20, 17 December 2009), 38-45. Also, Parveen Adams refers to “Bacon’s contrived accidents” in Parveen Adams, The Emptiness of the Image: Psychoanalysis and Sexual Difference, London, Routledge, 1996, 110.

331 Margaret Iversen, ‘Analogue: On Zoe Leonard and Tacita Dean,’ Critical Inquiry, vol. 38, no. 4, Summer 2012, 796-818: 803.

332 Anthony Bond, ‘Francis Bacon: Five Decades,’ in Anthony Bond (ed.), Francis Bacon: Five Decades, exhibition catalogue, Sydney, Art Gallery of New South Wales, 2012, 17-30: 18.

333 Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, trans. Daniel W. Smith, London and New York, Continuum, 2003, 94.

334 Ibid, 95.

335 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 136.

336 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 100.

337 Yeoryia Manolopoulou, Architectures of Chance, Ashgate, Surrey, UK and Burlington, VT, 2013, 126.

338 The photograph is reproduced in Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, London and New York, Merrell, 2005, 18, and in Rudy Chiappini (ed.), Bacon, exhibition catalogue, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Skira, 2008, 179.

339 Gernot Böhme, ‘The Space of Bodily Presence and Space as a Medium of Representation,’ in Ulrik Ekman (ed.), Throughout: Art and Culture Emerging with Ubiquitous Computing, Cambridge, MIT Press, 2013, 457-463: 461.

340 Gernot Böhme, ‘The Art of the Stage Set as a Paradigm for an Aesthetics of Atmospheres,’ Ambiances, 2013, 3. http://ambiances.revues.org/315 (accessed 20 March 2017).

341 Margarita Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, 2005, 108-111. See also Margarita Cappock, ‘Francis Bacon’s Studio,’ 2012, 45-62: 59; Katharina Günther, Francis Bacon: Metamorphoses, London, The Estate of Francis Bacon, 2011, 15; and Harrison, In Camera, 2005.

342 Harrison, In Camera, 204.

343 According to Hardman, Harrison made the comment at the conference Bacon's Books: Francis Bacon's library and its role in his art, a conference held in Dublin on 19 and 20 October 2012. Hardman, Studio Habits, 96, footnote 68.

344 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 22.

345 Ibid, 12.

346 Francis Bacon, ‘Remarks From An Interview With Peter Beard,’ in Henry Geldzahler, Francis Bacon Recent Paintings 1968 - 1974, 20 March – 29 June, 1975, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1975, 18.

347 Nicholas Chare, ‘Passages to Paint: Francis Bacon's Studio Practice,’ Parallax, vol. 12, no. 4, 2006, 83-98: 84.

348 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 190. 156

349 Cappock, ‘Francis Bacon’s Studio,’ 2012, 45.

350 Derek Bayes photographed Bacon on 30 May 1962. This makes it the earliest photographic record of the Reece Mews studio I have encountered, taken less than a year from when the artist first moved in. Bacon happened to wear what appears to be the same shirt when Bayes again undertook a photo shoot of the artist in his studio on 22 October 1963, although on that second occasion his sleeves were not rolled up. Daria Wallace (picture researcher at Lebrecht Music and Arts Photo Library, London), ‘Re: Contact us form posted on Lebrecht.co.uk’ [email to the author], 16 May 2017.

351 Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, 2005, 17.

352 Bacon told Melvyn Bragg, “I believe in a deeply ordered chaos in my work.” ‘Francis Bacon,’ The South Bank Show, [television documentary], dir. by David Hinton, London Weekend Television, 1985.

353 Martin Harrison and Rebecca Daniels, ‘Australian Connections,’ in Anthony Bond (ed.), Francis Bacon: Five Decades, exhibition catalogue, Sydney, Art Gallery of New South Wales, 2012, 33-43: 34.

354 Harrison, In Camera, 23.

355 Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, 2005, 165.

356 Dennis Farr, ‘Francis Bacon in Context,’ in Francis Bacon: A Retrospective,’ exhibition catalogue, New York, Harry N. Abrams, 1999, 19.

357 Sylvester, Francis Bacon, 68. See also Harrison, In Camera, 23.

358 Harrison, In Camera, 114-5.

359 Christopher Turner, ‘Bacon Dust,’ Cabinet, 35, Fall 2009. http://cabinetmagazine.org/issues/35/turner.php (accessed 15 March 2015).

360 Christie’s, Lot 76 of Sale 1115: 20th Century Decorative Art & Design,1 May 2013, London, King Street. http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/Lot/francis-bacon-1909-1992-rare-and-important-5674479- details.aspx (accessed 3 April 2017).

361 John G. Hatch, ‘Seeing and Seen: Acts of the Voyeur in the Works of Francis Bacon,’ in Rina Arya, (ed.), Francis Bacon: Critical and Theoretical Perspectives, Bern, Peter Lang, 2012, 35-47: 35.

362 Nicholas Chare observes that the peepholes in the Bacon studio reconstruction are “particularly noteworthy. There is something surreptitious about the act of peering through these apertures. They impose a specific identity upon the visitor to the studio, that of the voyeur. In the scenario staged by The Hugh Lane, the space takes on the character of an unwilling victim subject to covert surveillance.” Chare, After Francis Bacon, 43-44.

363 Bacon was disheartened by the poor critical response to his 1934 exhibition of seven paintings and two drawings (Harrison, Francis Bacon: Catalogue Raisonné, vol. I, 80). Further discouragement came when his work was rejected from the ‘International Surrealist Exhibition’ in London in 1936 for being “insufficiently surreal.” (ibid, 81).

364 Harrison, In Camera, 24.

365 Harrison and Daniels, ‘Australian Connections,’ 34.

366 Harrison, In Camera, 24.

367 Ibid.

368 Brian Clarke, ‘Detritus,’ The Official Website of the Estate of Francis Bacon, http://www.francis- bacon.com/content/detritus (accessed 22 August 2018).

369 James Norton, ‘Bacon’s Beginnings,’ The Burlington Magazine, January 2016, vol. CLVIII, no. 1354, 19-25: 25. 157

370 Lewinski’s photograph appears to have been captioned with an erroneous date of 1966 in Wilfried Seipel, Barbara Steffen, Christoph Vitali (eds.), Francis Bacon and the Tradition of Art, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Skira, 2003, 340 (cat. no. 151). The Bridgeman Images website dates the photograph to 1963. https://www.bridgemanimages.com/en-GB/asset/1147621 (accessed 6 April 2017).

371 Barbara Steffen, ‘Mirrors and Reflections,’ in Wilfried Seipel, Barbara Steffen, Christoph Vitali (eds.), Francis Bacon and the Tradition of Art, exhibition catalogue, Milan, Skira, 2003, 279-281: 279-280. Steffen misattributes Lewinski’s photograph to Michael Pergolani.

372 Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, 2005.

373 Ibid, 165.

374 Turner, ‘Bacon Dust.’

375 ‘Mirror,’ Francis Bacon Studio website, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane, http://www.hughlane.ie/furniture/mirror (accessed 15 March 2015).

376 Michel Foucault, The Order of Things, New York, Vintage Books, 1994, 7.

377 Leonardo da Vinci, Notebooks, Thereza Wells (ed.), Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2008, 208-209.

378 ‘Mirror,’ http://www.hughlane.ie/furniture/mirror (accessed 15 March 2015).

379 Ernst van Alphen, Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self, London, Reaktion Books, 1992, 59.

380 Ernst van Alphen, ‘Making Sense of Affect,’ in Anthony Bond (ed.), Francis Bacon: Five Decades, exhibition catalogue, Sydney, Art Gallery of New South Wales, 2012, 65-73: 68.

381 van Alphen, Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self, 75.

382 van Alphen, ‘Making Sense of Affect,’ 73.

383 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 18.

384 Ibid.

385 Umberto Eco, ‘Mirrors,’ in Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language, Bloomington, IN, Indiana University Press, 1986, 202-226.

386 Ibid, 208.

387 Ibid.

388 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 18.

389 Ibid.

390 Milan Kundera, ‘The Painter’s Brutal Gesture,’ trans. Linda Asher, in France Borel, Bacon: Portraits and Self-Portraits, trans. Ruth Taylor, Thames and Hudson, London and New York, 1996, 8-18: 12.

391 Ibid.

392 Steffen, ‘Mirrors and Reflections,’ 281.

393 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 18.

394 Ibid, 31.

395 Rodolphe Gasché, The Tain of the Mirror: Derrida and the Philosophy of Reflection, Cambridge and London, Harvard University Press, 1986, 13.

158

396 Ibid, 14.

397 Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1981, 314.

398 Gasché, The Tain of the Mirror, 6.

399 Derrida, Dissemination, 314.

400 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 160.

401 Ibid.

402 Translator’s note in Jean-François Lyotard, Discourse, Figure, trans. Antony Hudek and Mary Lydon, Minneapolis and London, University of Minnesota Press, 2011, 398.

403 Kiff Bamford, ‘Desire, Absence and Art in Deleuze and Lyotard,’ Parrhesia: A Journal of Critical Philosophy, no. 16, 2013, 48-60: 50.

404 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 34.

405 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 12.

406 Darren Tofts, ‘Interiors,’ Pornotopias: Image, Apocalypse, Desire, Louis Armand, Jane Lewty, Andrew Mitchell (eds.), Prague, Litteraria Pragensia Books, 2008, 4-22: 18.

407 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 54.

408 Ibid, 18.

409 Margaret Iversen, Beyond Pleasure: Freud, Lacan, Barthes, University Park, The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007, 6.

410 Jacques Lacan, ‘The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience,’ Ecrits, Trans. Alan Sheridan, New York and London, W. W. Norton & Company, 1977, 2.

411 Iversen, Beyond Pleasure, 9.

412 Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book XI: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho- Analysis, Jacques Alain-Miller (ed.), trans. Alan Sheridan, New York and London, W.W. Norton & Company, 1978, 88-89.

413 Iversen, Beyond Pleasure, 6.

414 Ibid, 11.

415 Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts, 88.

416 Jacques Lacan, ‘Some Reflections on the Ego,’ International Journal of Psychoanalysis, no. 34, 1953, 15. Cited in Iversen, Beyond Pleasure, 8.

417 Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book II: The Ego in Freud’s Theory and in the Technique of Psychoanalysis, Jacques Alain-Miller (ed.), trans. Sylvana Tomaselli, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988, 57. Cited in Iversen, Beyond Pleasure, 10.

418 Iversen, Beyond Pleasure, 10.

419 Michael Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, revised edition, London, Constable, 2008, 405.

420 Jean-Paul Martinon, ‘Museums and Temporality,’ in Hugh H. Genoways (ed.), Museum Philosophy for the Twenty-first Century, Lanham, MD, Altamira Press, 2006, 59-68: 61.

159

421 Ibid.

422 Didier Maleuvre, Museum Memories: History, Technology, Art, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1999, 32.

423 Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, 405.

424 Jon Wood, ‘The studio in the gallery?’ in Suzanne Macleod (ed.), Reshaping Museum Space: Architecture, Design, Exhibitions, London and New York, Routledge, 2005, 158-169: 164.

425 Margarita Cappock, interviewed by the author, Dublin, 12 September, 2014, unpublished.

426 Ibid.

427 Martinon, ‘Museums and Temporality,’ 61-62.

428 Francis Bacon: From Picasso to Velázquez, Guggenheim Bilbao, 30 September 2016 - 8 January 2017. https://www.artsy.net/show/guggenheim-museum-bilbao-francis-bacon-from-picasso-to-velazquez (accessed 2 Jan 2017).

429 Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not at All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art, London and New York, Verso, 2013, 17.

430 Martinon, ‘Museums and Temporality,’ 66.

431 Susan Felleman, ‘Two-Way Mirror: Francis Bacon and the Deformation of Film,’ in Angela Dalle Vacche (ed.), Film, Art, New Media: Museum Without Walls? Basingstoke, UK, Palgrave Macmillan, 2012, 221-238: 222.

432 Foster, ‘An Archival Impulse,’ 15.

433 Karen Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2007, 33.

434 Diana Coole and Samantha Frost, ‘Introducing the New Materialisms,’ in Diana Coole and Samantha Frost (eds.), New Materialisms: Ontology, Agency, and Politics, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2010, 1-43: 9.

435 Barbara Bolt, ‘Introduction: Toward a “New Materialism” Through the Arts,’ in Barbara Bolt and Estelle Barrett (eds.), Carnal Knowledge: Towards a ‘New Materialism’ Through the Arts, London and New York, I.B. Taurus, 2013, 1-13: 6.

436 Chris Salter, Alien Agency: Experimental Encounters with Art in the Making, Cambridge and London, MIT Press, 2015, 5.

437 For a disambiguation of agency and intentionality, see Lambros Malafouris, ‘At the Potter’s Wheel: An Argument for Material Agency,’ in Carl Knappett and Lambros Malafouris (eds.), Material Agency: Towards a Non-Anthropocentric Approach, New York, Springer, 2008, 19-36.

438 Ibid, 22.

439 Ibid.

440 Ibid, 23.

441 Ibid, 34.

442 Ibid. Also cited in Salter, Alien Agency, 257, note 37.

443 Salter, Alien Agency, 40.

160

444 Chare, After Francis Bacon, 53.

445 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 190.

446 Ibid, 190-191.

447 Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, 312.

448 Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 23-24.

449 Several scholars note that “assemblage” is a problematic but commonly accepted English translation of agencement, including John Law, After Method: Mess in Social Science Research, London, Routledge, 2004, 41; John Phillips, ‘Agencement/Assemblage,’ Theory, Culture & Society, vol. 23, no. 2-3, 2006, 108-109: 108; Ian Buchanan, ‘Assemblage Theory and Its Discontents,’ Deleuze Studies, vol. 9, no. 3, 2015, 382-92: 383; Thomas Nail, ‘What is an Assemblage?’ SubStance, vol. 46, no. 1, 2017, 21-37: 22.

450 Ian Buchanan, ‘Assemblage Theory and Its Discontents,’ Deleuze Studies, vol. 9, no. 3, 2015, 382-92: 383.

451 Ian Buchanan, ‘Assemblage Theory, or, the Future of an Illusion,’ Deleuze Studies, vol. 11, no. 3, 2017, 457-474: 458.

452 John Law, After Method: Mess in Social Science Research, London, Routledge, 2004, 41.

453 Buchanan, ‘Assemblage Theory and Its Discontents,’ 383.

454 Ibid.

455 Ian Buchanan, ‘What Must We Do about Rubbish?’ Drain Magazine, vol. 13, no. 1, 2016. http://drainmag.com/what-must-we-do-about-rubbish/ (accessed 23 July 2018). Bennett’s anecdote appears in Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 4-6.

456 Ibid.

457 Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 34.

458 Ibid, 23.

459 Buchanan, ‘The “Clutter” Assemblage,’ 21.

460 Ibid.

461 Ian Buchanan, ‘What Must We Do about Rubbish?’

462 Buchanan, ‘The “Clutter” Assemblage,’ 20.

463 A.R. Warwick, ‘Stuff: Hoarding, Collecting and the Ontopology of the Artist’s Space,’ Artwrit, Spring 2011. http://www.artwrit.com/article/stuff/ (accessed 11 March 2015).

464 Brian Clarke, ‘Detritus.’

465 Cappock, ‘Francis Bacon’s Studio,’ 2012, 45.

466 Ibid, 12.

467 Chare, ‘Passages to Paint,’ 84-5.

468 Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 190.

469 Jane Bennett, ‘Powers of the Hoard: Further Notes on Material Agency,’ in Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (ed.), Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects, Washington, Oliphaunt Books, 2012, 237-269: 267.

161

470 Ibid, 252.

471 Ibid., 244.

472 Ibid.

473 Buchanan, ‘The “Clutter” Assemblage,’ 22.

474 Ibid, 15.

475 Ibid.

476 See note 304.

477 Cappock, Francis Bacon’s Studio, 2005, 39.

478 Chare, ‘Passages to Paint,’ 85.

479 Ibid, 95.

480 “[When painting self-portraits] I look at myself in the mirror and I look at photographs of myself as well.” Sylvester, The Brutality of Fact, 142.

481 Mark Godfrey, ‘The Artist as Historian,’ October, vol. 120, Spring 2007, 140-172: 142-143.

482 Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire,’ trans. Marc Roudebush, Representations, vol. 0, no. 26, Special Issue: Memory and Counter-Memory, Spring 1989, 7-24: 13-14.

483 Foster, ‘An Archival Impulse,’ 5.

484 Matthew Buckingham, quoted in Mark Godfrey, ‘The Artist as Historian,’ 147.

485 Joshua Gilder, ‘I Think about Death Every Day,’ Flash Art, May 1983, no. 112, 17-21: 18.

486 O’Doherty, Studio and Cube, 20.

487 Ibid, 21.

488 Greenblatt, ‘Resonance and Wonder,’ 126.

489 Brown, Other Things, 287.

490 Peppiatt, Francis Bacon: Anatomy of an Enigma, 405.

491 Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 21.

492 Malafouris, ‘At the Potter’s Wheel,’ 20.

493 Ibid, 22.

494 Ignacio Farías and Alex Wilkie ‘Studio Studies: Notes for a Research Programme,’ in Ignacio Farías and Alex Wilkie (eds.), Studio Studies: Operations, Topologies and Displacements, London and New York, Routledge, 2016, 1-21: 7.

495 Ibid.

496 Alex Gartenfeld, ‘Introduction,’ in Alex Gartenfeld, Gean Moreno, Stephanie Seidel, The Everywhere Studio, exhibition catalogue, The Institute of Contemporary Art, Miami, Prestel, 13-20: 15.

497 Ibid.

498 Alex Coles, The Transdisciplinary Studio, Berlin, Sternberg Press, 2012, 309.

162

499 Caitlin Jones, ‘The Function of the Studio (When the Studio is a Laptop),’ in The Studio, Jens Hoffmann (ed.), London, Whitechapel Gallery and Cambridge, MA, The MIT Press, 2012, 116-121: 121. Originally published in Artlies, no. 67, Fall/Winter 2010.

500 Buren, ‘The Function of the Studio,’ 162.

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185 Appendix

Documentation of the Ph.D. Exhibition

David Eastwood: The Posthumous Studio 29 September - 3 November 2018, UNSW Galleries, Sydney David Eastwood creatively re-imagines the London-based studio of late painter Francis Bacon, now on permanent display in Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane. Through first-hand analysis and the reconstruction of selected elements from the site, Eastwood interprets the posthumous studio as an open source for contemporary art practice.

The exhibition features a video installation constructed at 1:1 scale to match Bacon’s workspace, accompanied by a series of paintings. The mirror used in the installation is a replica of Bacon’s own, and has been utilised as a prop in Eastwood’s studio, with the reflections observed in its blemished surface informing the paintings in this exhibition. Using the mirror as a portal, the exhibition facilitates a dialogue between two studios, Bacon’s and Eastwood’s, via the posthumous studio reconstruction in Dublin. The modernist studio—typically mythologised as the private domain of a solitary genius—is re-examined, opening the site to alternative views and investigating the agency of the studio’s abundant materiality.

Figure 74: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries.

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Figure 78: David Eastwood, The Posthumous Studio, 29 September - 3 November 2018, installation view, UNSW Galleries, Sydney. Photograph: Silversalt Photography. Courtesy: UNSW Galleries.

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