Dorothea Rockburne: Intersection*

ANNA LOVATT

In March 1972, Dorothea Rockburne described Intersection (1971) as part of a ten-page feature on her work in Artforum. Here is her full account of the piece: “The work is the intersection of Group and Disjunction. I synthesized the parts of Group and the remaining parts of Disjunction to form Intersection. I had always used a level line in my work and I decided to make it apparent as an autonomous ele- ment.”1 As Mel Bochner explained a few pages earlier, Rockburne “has found that rigorous algebra of thought, Set Theory, to be an intellectually unifying premise for determining the diversity of her operations.”2 In set theory, the term “intersec- tion” denotes the area of commonality between two overlapping sets: that which is both A and B. Rockburne’s piece used the elements shared by two previous works, Group (1971) and Disjunction (1970).3 The result was a sheet of plastic attached to the wall at a level line and rolled down onto the gallery floor, where a piece of paper and a smaller rectangle of cardboard were placed on top of it. These had been covered with a measured quantity of crude oil and another sheet of plastic, which was rolled around the paper at each end, causing the dark, viscous oil to cling to the plastic and sink into the paper. When Intersection was shown at the Katonah Gallery the previous year, Robert Pincus-Witten observed that it was “even more intellectually stringent” than Rockburne’s earlier work, “impressive and sober.”4 Through her use of set theory, Rockburne’s practice was aligned with

* I would like to thank Dorothea Rockburne for her continued support, and everyone at Rockburne’s studio for their assistance. Thanks also to Mignon Nixon and Yve-Alain Bois for their feedback on the text. A Henry Moore Foundation Postdoctoral Fellowship enabled me to develop this article from my doctoral thesis, “Seriality and Systematic Thought in Drawing, 1966–76” (on Ruth Vollmer, Mel Bochner, Eva Hesse, Sol LeWitt, and Rockburne), completed in 2005 and funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Board. 1. Dorothea Rockburne, “Works and Statements,” Artforum 10, no. 7 (March 1972), p. 33. 2. Mel Bochner, “A Note on Dorothea Rockburne,” Artforum 10, no. 7 (March 1972), p. 28. 3. Rockburne, “Works and Statements,” p. 32. 4. Robert Pincus-Witten, “Reviews,” Artforum 9, no. 10 ( June 1971), p. 80.

OCTOBER 122, Fall 2007, pp. 31–52. © 2007 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

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Dorothea Rockburne. Intersection. 1971. All works courtesy the artist. © Dorothea Rockburne/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 2007.

the Conceptual art of her contemporaries Bochner and Sol LeWitt, and couched in a similar vocabulary of stringency, rigor, intellectualism, and difficulty.5 But there was a discrepancy in Pincus-Witten’s account. Because while he was clearly aware of the conceptual operations behind the work, and its intended abstractness, he could not help commenting that Intersection bore “a coincidental similarity to a flat bed at the corner of the floor with paper cylinders at the head and foot, ‘made-up’ in the room.”6 Pincus-Witten subsequently dropped this refer- ence for a detailed description of Rockburne’s actual materials. Yet looking back on Intersection twenty-four years later, Rockburne recalled the image of the bed, locating the work within an entirely different tradition to the set theory pieces produced by her peers in the early 1970s. “Bob [Rauschenberg] began the artist’s modern dialogue with the bed. [Claes] Oldenburg did a bed and I did a bed in 1972 [sic] using Set Theory, that is a bed of oil. It’s called Intersection.”7 Rockburne’s bed of oil—which is only a bed in the most abstract sense of a layered horizontal field—appears to be the odd fellow in this trio: a mathematical set aligned with an encrusted, splattered assemblage and a skewed, hallucinatory vision of a bedroom interior. Yet like Bochner and LeWitt, Rauschenberg and Oldenburg shared aspects of Rockburne’s artistic formation, which began not in

5. In September 1970, Pincus-Witten remarked approvingly that “Dorothea Rockburne’s work is much more interesting and difficult,” in “Reviews,” Artforum 9, no. 1 (September 1970), p. 76. 6. Pincus-Witten, “Reviews” Artforum ( June 1971), p. 80. 7. Dorothea Rockburne, “Excerpts from a Conversation with Chuck Close and Dorothea Rockburne,” in Dorothea Rockburne: The Transcendent Light of Geometry, exh. cat. (East Hampton, N.Y.: Guild Hall Museum, 1995), n.p.

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post-Minimalist New York but at Black Mountain College, North Carolina, in the early 1950s. In what follows I will consider the location of Rockburne’s practice at the intersection of these two art-historical groupings, where it remains resistant to the categorizations and historicizations that have structured subsequent accounts of this period. In particular, I want to consider how subjective memory and tactile experience—vivid in the work of Oldenburg and Rauschenberg but systematically evacuated from that of Bochner and LeWitt—were rethought abstractly in Rockburne’s early work via the manipulation, stratification, and inscription of sheets of material. Finally, I will argue that this topological play of surfaces is indica- tive of a moment in the early 1970s when the incipient phenomenon of installation art coincided with a renewed interest in drawing, and when “modernism” and “postmodernism” had as many points of commonality as of differentiation.

Beds

Rockburne met Rauschenberg at Black Mountain College, where she was a student for three years, beginning in 1950. She was married at Black Mountain, and her daughter Christine was born in 1952 (she and her husband separated in 1956). Rockburne majored in painting, which she studied with Jack Tworkov, Esteban Vicente, Franz Kline, and Philip Guston; but the diverse intellectual com- munity at Black Mountain meant she also took classes in philosophy with Albert William Levi, linguistics with Flola Shepard, poetry with Charles Olson, music with John Cage, dance with Merce Cunningham, and mathematics with Max Dehn. Dehn’s lectures on group theory and topology introduced Rockburne to the con- cepts of set membership and surface mapping she would investigate in her artistic practice of the early 1970s. But the other students at Black Mountain were just as influential as the faculty. Rockburne’s classmates included Cy Twombly, John Chamberlain, and Rauschenberg, with whom she remained friends after moving to New York in 1955. She also became close friends with Rauschenberg’s former wife Susan Weil, and from 1963 to 1968 worked as his studio assistant with Brice Marden. While at Black Mountain, Rauschenberg borrowed an old patchwork quilt from Rockburne, which she had used herself for several years. Although some accounts say the quilt was a gift, Rockburne recalls that he took it without asking, perhaps challenging the often cited story that it just happened to be on hand when he had no materials to paint on.8 Whatever the case, in 1955 Rauschenberg stapled the quilt to a stretcher, added a pillow and part of a sheet, and splattered the upper half with paint, scratching over the pillow with pencil. The result was Bed, one of his most controversial works, now in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

8. Ibid.

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In the March 1972 issue of Artforum, a few pages after the feature on Rockburne, Leo Steinberg discussed Rauschenberg’s Bed in “Reflections on the State of Criticism,” the essay later revised as “Other Criteria.” With other works by Rauschenberg, Bed was seen to represent the characteristic pictorial surface of the 1960s: a surface Steinberg called the “flatbed picture plane.” Borrowing its name from a horizontal printing press, Steinberg proposed that this new pictorial sur- face negated the anthropomorphism of the vertically oriented canvas, substituting for it the arrangement of information on an opaque, horizontal plane. Yet the flattening of this illusionistic cavity did not produce the decorative, allover surface described by Clement Greenberg in “The Crisis of the Easel Picture”—rather, it opened the picture up to the “noise” of the world, rendering it a site for the map- ping and processing of cultural data. Steinberg’s argument is well known, but I want to highlight the way in which he associates pictorial flatness with the openness of cognition, and thus with a kind of conceptual depth. He suggests that this new work surface might be under- stood literally—as a lateral spread of materials—and metaphorically, as a “symbol

Robert Rauschenberg. Bed. 1955. © DACS, London/VAGA, New York 2007.

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of the mind as a running transformer of the external world, constantly ingesting incoming unprocessed data to be mapped in an overcharged field.”9 Rosalind Krauss took up a similar argument two years later in “Rauschenberg and the Materialized Image,” explicitly likening the surface of his combines to the field of memory, “where things may be synchronously stored but temporally re-experienced.”10 For Krauss, Rauschenberg’s work constituted a radically new, “materialized” image, produced by physically transferring objects rather than translating them from three dimensions into two. This indexical process is most apparent in the transfer draw- ings Rauschenberg made throughout the 1960s, when Rockburne was his studio assistant. But Bed, with its accumulation of found materials, also testifies to the insistence that “it is the stuff of experience—the things one bumps into as one moves through the world—that forms experience.”11 In what follows I want to suggest that a similar belief conditioned Rockburne’s early work, and that her dialogue with Rauschenberg moved beyond the shared image of the bed to encompass this conception of the recording surface as a mnemonic palimpsest of past, corporeal events. For Rockburne, the mnemonic associations of Rauschenberg’s combines are compounded by more specific memories of Bed’s pre-history as a domestic object. She used the quilt throughout her time at Black Mountain, a period of rapid tran- sition during which she arrived as a single student and left married, with a young daughter: “I know that quilt very well. When Christine was born and she came home she was on that quilt. I know that quilt.”12 When the quilt became part of Bed, it engendered another narrative, one Rockburne would later enter into with her own piece Intersection: “This great tradition that Bob started really of the bed, as an issue. In that work the bed was so vibrant, it loomed so big, when I first saw that bed it was as though it were six feet wide and twelve feet high.”13 Rockburne’s memory-image of Bed is inseparable from this first encounter, when she perceived it as an origin-point, the beginning of a tradition. This scene refuses to tally with the sight of the work in its current condition, an aging masterpiece ensconced in the Museum of Modern Art since 1989: “Now when I go to the Museum of Modern Art I’m looking at an antique. . . . The quilt is all brown now, it’s a different arti- fact from the one I know in my head.”14 If Rauschenberg’s Bed conflates art and the everyday, the juxtaposition is particularly resonant for Rockburne. Bed marks the convergence of Rockburne’s personal history and her conception of an artis- tic tradition—one that she would subsequently enter into with Intersection.

9. Leo Steinberg, “Other Criteria” (1972), reprinted in Charles Harrison and Paul Wood, eds., Art in Theory 1900–1990: An Anthology of Changing Ideas (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), p. 950. 10. Rosalind Krauss, “Rauschenberg and the Materialized Image,” Artforum 14, no. 4 (December 1974), p. 43. 11. Ibid. 12. Rockburne, “Excerpts from a Conversation with Chuck Close and Dorothea Rockburne,” n.p. 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid.

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Like Rauschenberg’s Bed, Oldenburg’s Bedroom Ensemble (1963) is, in his own words, “sticky with associations.”15 Based on his memories of a Malibu hotel room (which he could no longer find when he later searched for it), it is a three- dimensional representation of a two-dimensional, perspectival image (an image that is itself a representation of three-dimensional space). It thus offers the spec- tator an encounter with three-dimensionality twice removed, rolled through two dimensions and stretched incompetently back into three, like some infinitely malleable cartoon interior. For the perspective of the room to appear “natural,” the viewer must adopt a fixed position: bodily movement warps the image and ren- ders it nonsensical. The effect is similar to anamorphosis, which Hubert Damisch suggests “turns the perspective order against itself,” using its principles for “hallucinatory or disconcerting purposes.”16 Damisch explains that while “natural” perspective leaves the spectator some freedom of movement, anamorphosis restricts vision to a single point, forcing the observer to adopt a particular posi- tion or to look through a hole in order to see the image.17 With Bedroom Ensemble, Oldenburg pits this disembodied mode of viewing against the kind of phenome- nological experience contemporaneously associated with Minimal art. Inside the room, bodily engagement seems to be invited by the turned-down bed and the coat on the chair: showroom contrivances stalled by the realization that both are impenetrable, sewn tightly shut. The organic elements in the room—animal skins, water, leather—are frozen into a range of synthetic materials whose tacky surfaces emphasize their artificiality. There is the sense that the whole Ensemble is an elaborately constructed illusion, which might collapse at the slightest touch. A silver chain cordons off the room, prohibiting physical contact by hitting the viewer just below the knee—a reminder of her corporality when surveying this scene petrified by pictorial conventions. If the living body was conspicuously absent in Oldenburg’s Bedroom Ensemble, it was foregrounded in the Happenings he organized at the Judson Dance Theater and elsewhere in New York in the early 1960s. Rockburne became involved with Judson in 1963—at a time when she was dissatisfied with her work as a painter— and appeared in many of Oldenburg’s Happenings, including Washes of May 1965. Washes was a scripted performance in ten parts, which took place in the swimming pool of Al Roon’s Health Club at the Riverside Plaza Hotel. After four rehearsals it was performed four times, each time with additional alterations. Oldenburg’s script for “Part Three” reads:

15. Claes Oldenburg, notes on Bedroom Ensemble (1976), in Claes Oldenburg: An Anthology (New York: Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, 1995), p. 204. 16. Hubert Damisch, A Theory of /Cloud/: Toward a History of Painting, trans. Janet Lloyd (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), pp. 134 and 133. Thanks to Yve-Alain Bois for pointing me toward Damisch’s text. 17. Ibid., p. 136.

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Claes Oldenburg. Bedroom Ensemble. 1963. Photo: National Gallery of Canada. © Oldenburg van Bruggen Foundation, New York 2007.

Dorothea and Max enter. Max launches the two oil drums, throwing them in the water with a great splash. Dorothea takes the folded giant American flag, walks to the center edge and there slips into the water with the flag. She wears gold gloves. Max composes a percussion piece slamming the barrels together with a variety of resonant sounds. Dorothea spreads the giant flag in the water. After a while the wet flag is draped over both barrels in a funereal effect. When the part ends, Max and Dorothea remove the flag and let it sink to the pool bottom.18 The deadpan script provides an amusing counterpoint to later accounts of Rockburne’s sober and stringent practice. Yet her participation in Washes formed part of a sustained engagement with performance and dance, which had inter- ested her since childhood. During her time at Judson, she participated in performances by Robert Morris, Steve Paxton, Rauschenberg, and Robert Whitman. Over a decade earlier, in 1952, she had been part of Cage’s Untitled Event at Black Mountain College—retrospectively described as the first multi- media Happening. Like Rauschenberg, Rockburne had been drawn to Merce

18. Claes Oldenburg, Washes, in Happenings and Other Acts, ed. Mariellen R. Sandford (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 111–18.

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Cunningham’s dance classes at Black Mountain, but it was only in the late 1960s that she began to consider her experiences as a dancer in relation to her studio practice, regarding the floor as a gridded surface and the body’s movements as a series of folds. Having rethought Rockburne’s work outside the post-Minimalist milieu—in the context of Black Mountain College in the early 1950s and the Judson Dance Theater in the early ’60s—we might begin to understand more fully how she could think of Intersection as a kind of bed, entering into a tradition started by Rauschenberg and continued in Oldenburg’s Bedroom Ensemble. The physical processes involved in the making of Intersection come closer to “making” a bed than they do to making a sculpture, painting, or drawing, concerned as they are with pulling one sheet over another to produce a layered horizontal field. These repeti- tive, bodily actions relate to the background in performance Rockburne shared with Rauschenberg and Oldenburg, and Intersection also highlights the sensory and phenomenological experience of the spectator, like Bed and Bedroom Ensemble. The lowest, plastic stratum curls up like a protective skin in the seam between the wall and floor of the gallery, drawing attention to this architectural shell as a container for the work and for the body. And although Rockburne’s installation could hardly be described as a picture plane, her efforts to translate the complex conceptual operations involved in set theory into “layers of correspondence through the work” resonate with Steinberg’s contemporaneous account of the “flatbed picture plane” as a layered recording surface that allegorizes the mind.19

Sheets

In 1966, a year after performing in Washes, Rockburne met a group of people whose concerns were markedly different than those of her friends at Black Mountain, and even more distinct from those of the Abstract Expressionist painters and Beat poets with whom she had been friends when she first moved to New York. They included Bochner, Dan Graham, Eva Hesse, LeWitt, Lucy Lippard, and Smithson: artists and critics who were more or less deeply immersed in the nonreferential, noncompositional, anti-expressionistic ethos of Minimalism. When Rockburne returned to the studio that year it was primarily to painting, but to painting entirely divested of painterly affect. She began making works in spray paint on aluminium or pig iron, drying the paint with heat lamps that caused it to wrinkle against the resistant metal support. The paintings were named after the commercial colors of the spray paint, so that their apparently allusive titles rebound onto their blunt materiality. In Tropical Tan (1967–68), four panels of pig iron were scored diagonally to produce actual variations in light and shade, emphasizing the physical properties of the materials rather than creating painterly

19. Jennifer Licht, “An Interview with Dorothea Rockburne,” Artforum 12, no. 6 (March 1972), p. 36.

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Rockburne. Tropical Tan. 1967–68.

illusions.20 What initially appear to be bands of gray paint at the top and bottom of the support are in fact strips of bare iron that were protected with masking tape from the tan-colored spray, producing sharp ridges where paint meets metal. Rockburne describes making these pieces as “literally pulling a skin over a skin”— equating the once-liquid paint and the rigid iron as two-dimensional sheets of different tensile strength.21 The creases in the iron of Tropical Tan produce pale ridges in the overlying paint, pulling its wrinkled surface a little tauter and threat- ening to rupture its fragile integrity. They form a linear scar on the “skin” of Rockburne’s painting, a kind of drawing produced by damaging the surface rather than applying a pigment to it. When making paintings like Tropical Tan, Rockburne used brown paper to line her spray booth. One day she picked up a sheet of this material and attached it to her studio wall, contemplating it for some time. She remembers: “Paper began to assume terrific importance to me. . . . I came to realize that a piece of

20. Pig iron is iron in its raw form, which is too brittle for general use and is usually remelted to produce cast iron or steel. 21. Dorothea Rockburne, interview with Marcia Tucker, in Early Work by Five Contemporary Artists: Ron Gorchov, Elizabeth Murray, Dennis Oppenheim, Dorothea Rockburne, and Joel Shapiro, exh. cat. (New York: The New Museum, 1977), n.p.

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paper is a metaphysical object. You write on it, you draw on it, you fold it.”22 The versatility of paper, its ability to span a range of forms and functions, was investi- gated in most of Rockburne’s work for the following decade. In her set theory pieces from 1969 to 1972, paper was combined with units of chipboard and crude oil, which Rockburne regarded as “a sheet, but not with tensile strength, it was a permeating sheet.”23 These sheets were subjected to predetermined operations (soaking, hanging, rolling, layering), in order to draw out the physical properties of the elements and the similarities and differences between them. In Sign (1970), paper formed slings supporting three pieces of chipboard, one allowed to rest on the floor while the others were suspended on either side. The paper was fixed to the top of the wall with nails, and the differing weights of the chipboard caused it to tear at these pressure points. Intact, the thin rolls of paper could support the weight of the boards, but as soon as their surfaces were ruptured—even at a single point—this tensile strength was compromised. The jagged, linear tears in Sign produced an involuntary diagram of the forces of gravity: another kind of drawing- as-rupture.24 Rockburne’s inquiry into the nature of drawing was developed in a series of works she began in 1971, collectively entitled Drawing Which Makes Itself. In April 1974 she published the accompanying “Notes to Myself on Drawing” in Flash Art: 1. How could drawing be of itself and not about something else?

2. Construct an investigation of drawing which is based on information contained within the paper and not on any other information.

3. Thought acts upon itself.

4. It seems reasonable that paper acting upon itself through subject imposed translations could become a subject-object.25 Rockburne had been studying various drawings for some time and found that they usually had an illustrative function. Continuing the concerns of paintings like Tropical Tan and installations like Intersection—where variations in color, light, and form were produced by the physical properties of the materials—Rockburne

22. Dorothea Rockburne, quoted in John Gruen, “Dorothea Rockburne,” in The Artist Observed: 28 Interviews with Contemporary Artists (Chicago: A Cappella Books, 1991), p. 311. 23. Dorothea Rockburne, interview with the author, New York, July 7, 2004. 24. Rockburne claims that her understanding of drawing was informed by skiing through fresh snow as a child, when she regarded the lines cut by her skis as a type of drawing produced by the entire body. This recollection not only stages drawing as a fully corporeal act, it also casts the drawn mark as a crease or trough—a fault line in a surface that otherwise remains intact. Dorothea Rockburne in con- versation with Rolf Sinclair and Amy Sandback, in Dorothea Rockburne: Ten Years of Astronomy Drawings, exh. cat. (New York: Lawrence Rubin/Greenberg Van Doren Fine Art, 1999), p. 7. 25. Dorothea Rockburne, “Notes to Myself on Drawing,” Flash Art (April 1974), p. 66.

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Rockburne. Sign. 1970.

sought to develop a type of drawing that was entirely self-referential. The earliest examples of the Drawing Which Makes Itself were thirty- by forty-inch sheets of white paper folded in on themselves, marked in pencil or ink along the edge of the paper, and unfolded, so that the displacement of the paper’s edge was recorded on its own surface. As several critics noted, the traditionally passive surface of the paper thus acted upon the customarily active pencil, producing the line, which it then received.26 The circularity of this process prompted Rockburne to suggest that the drawing “made itself,” a rhetorical strategy that collapsed the self-referentiality of the modernist medium into a postmodernist disavowal of authorial control. The fantasy of an automated art was common among several of Rockburne’s contemporaries, with LeWitt proposing, “the idea becomes a machine which makes the art,”27 and Mel Bochner hoping that “self-generating procedures . . . may be the means of achieving Flaubert’s dream of the annihilation of the author.”28 The title Drawing Which Makes Itself taps into this fantasy, conjuring an image of a truly “automatic” drawing that generates itself without any intervention

26. See, for example, Bruce Boice, “Dorothea Rockburne’s New Work,” in Dorothea Rockburne, exh. cat. (Hartford, Conn.: Hartford Art School, 1973), p. 7; and John Yau, “Light and Dark,” in Dorothea Rockburne, New Work: Cut-Ins, exh. cat. (New York: André Emmerich Gallery, 1989), n.p. 27. Sol LeWitt, “Paragraphs on Conceptual Art,” Artforum 5, no. 10 ( June 1967), p. 80. 28. Mel Bochner, quoted in James Meyer, “The Second Degree: Working Drawings and Other Visible Things on Paper Not Necessarily Meant to Be Viewed as Art,” in Mel Bochner: Thought Made Visible 1966–1973, ed. Richard Field, exh. cat. (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press), p. 97.

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by the artist. But that image fails to correspond with other statements by Rock- burne, in which she emphasized the subjective nature of her work and claimed, “I’m interested in the ways that I can experience myself, and my work is really about making myself.”29 Rather than deploying self-generating procedures to elim- inate subjective impulses, Rockburne regarded their reflexive structure as a metaphor for the formation of the subject. What is at stake in Drawing Which Makes Itself is not so much the mechanization of the artistic process as an investi- gation of selfhood through a series of reflexive, nonreferential procedures. Like Tropical Tan—the surface of which was lined with edges, creases, and ruptures—there are three types of line in Drawing Which Makes Itself: pencil marks, creases, and the edges of the paper, the first being indexically related to the last. Each fold leaves a pulpy ridge across the surface of the page, which Rockburne occasionally follows with her pencil, tracing its jagged edge. Again, drawing is con- ceived of as a kind of damage: a series of wounds inflicted on the paper and preserved in the scars that mark its surface. These epidermal procedures become more intricate as the series develops. In one example from 1974, the folds are scored deep into the paper but only at the far ends of each line, so that the center of the sheet remains unscathed. But the sharp incisions tug on the paper from both sides, pulling its surface into an undulating field of peaks and troughs. Through such topographical modifications, the surface of the paper is systemati- cally destroyed as the transparent carrier of an image and offered up instead to direct, tactile experience. Like Tropical Tan, Drawing Which Makes Itself treats the two-dimensional recording surface as a sheet or skin that can be layered over other surfaces and cut, folded, or inscribed. In a 1972 variation on Drawing Which Makes Itself, Series Carta Carbone, a sheet of carbon paper was placed on top of a piece of white paper and marked with lines, which were reproduced on the paper underneath. The carbon paper was

29. Licht, “An Interview with Dorothea Rockburne,” p. 34.

Rockburne. Drawing Which Makes Itself. 1972.

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then subjected to a series of displacements, so that the twinned lines—produced at the same time by the same stroke of the pencil—were separated, linked only by their identical length. These lines memorialized moments of contact between the two sheets, when the inky residue of the carbon paper was deposited on the clean white page. The changing relations between the two surfaces were thus mapped through the marks transferred from one sheet to the other. Although a pencil was used to produce the lines, the graphite deposit it made on the carbon paper was auxiliary to its pointed tip, which functioned to press the layers together, facilitat- ing the transfer of the carbon residue. While the folded and scored Drawing Which Makes Itself conceptualized drawing as the deformation of a single surface, Series Carta Carbone traced moments of contact between two surfaces, the carbon sheet adhering to the white paper in sticky, linear joints before being gently peeled away. Rockburne’s use of carbon paper was prompted by a personal memory. In the late 1950s, recently divorced from her husband and trying to develop her artistic practice while financially supporting herself and her daughter, she worked as a waitress in downtown New York. When she and her daughter traveled by train, Rockburne would bring an assortment of toys, one of the most successful being a waitress’s pad that alternated sheets of ordinary paper with layers of carbon paper. Christine would pretend to take orders for food and was fascinated by the way the carbon paper would generate a copy of each inscription, retaining the order after the original had been removed. At the time Rockburne was frustrated with her work as a painter and would soon abandon the studio altogether in order to devote herself to dance and performance at the Judson Dance Theater. The car- bon paper was temporarily forgotten, or as Rockburne puts it, it “went into the file and didn’t come up for many years.”30 When it did, it became part of Series Carta Carbone, which deals abstractly with exactly the kind of mnemonic impressions left on Rockburne by the waitress’s carbon pad.

30. Rockburne, interview with the author, July 7, 2004.

Rockburne. Drawing Which Makes Itself. 1974.

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Rockburne. Drawing Which Makes Itself. 1973.

Rockburne’s carbon paper series has a remarkably similar genesis to Freud’s account of the mnemonic apparatus in “A Note Upon the Mystic Writing-Pad.” In this short text published in 1925, Freud describes the eponymous toy, which con- sists of a slab of wax covered with a sheet of waxed paper and another of celluloid, both of which are fixed to the slab at one end. A pointed stylus is used to write on the protective top layer, causing the waxed sheet to adhere to the slab in shallow indentations, which register as a dark writing on the whitish-gray surface of the celluloid. This writing can be removed by lifting the top sheets, thus breaking their contact with the wax slab. However, if the slab is viewed in certain lights the permanent trace of all the inscriptions made upon it can be seen across its sur- face. Freud acknowledges the limitations of the device, but nevertheless proposes it as an analogy for the perceptual apparatus: It is true that once the writing has been erased, the Mystic Pad cannot “reproduce” it from within; it would be a mystic pad indeed if, like our memory, it could accomplish that. Nonetheless, I do not think it is too far-fetched to compare the celluloid and waxed paper cover with the system Pcpt.-Cs. and its protective shield, the wax slab with the uncon- scious behind them, and the appearance and disappearance of the writing with the flickering-up and passing-away of consciousness in the process of perception.31

31. Sigmund Freud, “A Note Upon the Mystic Writing-Pad” (1925), in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1953–74), vol. 19, pp. 230–31. Freud’s essay is also mentioned in Jeff Perrone, “Working Through, Fold by Fold,” Artforum 17, no. 5 ( January 1979), pp. 44–50.

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Clearly there are differences between the “Wunderblock” described by Freud and the waitress’s pad remembered by Rockburne. The waitress’s pad does not record all the impressions made upon it on a single surface; instead a layer of card is inserted between the leaves so that each order generates a copy on a sepa- rate page, while the lower sheets are left untouched. Yet like the Mystic Pad, the waitress’s pad is a memory aid, which retains a copy of the marks made upon it even after the top sheet has been removed. Both devices constitute a writing sur- face, but one on which marks are made indirectly, through points of contact between overlaid strata. And like the Mystic Pad, the waitress’s pad requires two distinct physical operations—writing on the pad and lifting its sheets—which Freud attributes to two hands operating the device. This tactile engagement— downplayed in Freud’s account of the perceptual apparatus—is made visible by the carbon paper, which leaves its inky trace upon the skin.

Skin

In 1974, contemporaneous with Drawing Which Makes Itself, the psychoanalyst Didier Anzieu published an article entitled “The Skin Ego,” which he would later develop into a book of the same name. In the introduction to the book, Anzieu states his aim: to elaborate upon the structure of the psychical apparatus intuited by Freud in “A Note on the Mystic Writing-Pad,” while providing a more strictly topographical view of the ego, “which relates to the spatial organization of both the bodily Ego and the psychical Ego.”32 Anzieu’s essay appropriates the epidermal layering described by Freud and anchors it to the body. For him, the stylus mov- ing over the celluloid sheet does not just produce a visual signifier, it exerts pressure on a cutaneous surface, making a tactile impression. Touch functions mnemonically in Anzieu’s account, so that the infant’s earliest tactile experience permanently shapes the topography of the ego, just as writing on Freud’s “Mystic Pad” molds the wax slab underneath. Anzieu’s account of the Skin Ego as a mnemonic palimpsest is analogous to Rockburne’s concept of “one’s life [as] a series of influences which leave an impression on you,” which she sought to explore in the carbon paper work.33 Rockburne asks us to read her drawings both on a conceptual level, as a closed system of transformations, and at the level of tac- tile experience, as bodies formed and deformed, skins scarred and cut. In the same way that Rockburne suggests “thought acts upon itself,” Anzieu’s model of thought is reflexive: The child who touches the parts of its body with its finger is testing out the two complementary sensations, of being a piece of skin that touches

32. Didier Anzieu, The Skin Ego, trans. Chris Turner (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 10. 33. Rockburne, “Excerpts from a Conversation with Chuck Close and Dorothea Rockburne,” n.p.

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at the same time as being a piece of skin that is touched. It is on the model of tactile reflexivity that the other sensory reflexivities (hearing oneself make sounds, smelling one’s own odor, looking at oneself in the mirror), and subsequently the reflexivity of thinking, are constructed.34 Throughout his text, Anzieu equates the skin of the body—which can be scratched, cut, marked, or creased with age—with the imaginary surface of the Skin Ego, the boundary that distinguishes “self” from “other.” The skin is pre- sented as a recording surface, a mnemonic receptor that registers each trauma wrought upon it in the form of a mark or scar. Anzieu describes these inscriptions, proleptically, as a “pre-verbal writing,” but they might be better conceptualized as a kind of drawing, at once played out on the surfaces of the body and imprinted on the topography of the ego.35 As well as encompassing the themes of memory and tactility central to Drawing Which Makes Itself, Anzieu’s account of the Skin Ego is primarily a model of subjectivity, one that gives primacy to the skin as a physical and psychological container. In its most extreme form this sense of containment results in what Anzieu describes as an “autistic envelope,” a pathology of the Skin Ego through which the subject becomes shut off from the external world.36 Anzieu suggests that this pathology “seems to offer the possibility of importing into psychoanalysis the principle popularized by systems theorists of the self-regulation of open sys- tems confronted with noise.”37 Discussing the use of series and systems in art of the late 1960s, Bochner compared these self-generating procedures to the psycho- logical model of solipsism, in which the subject refuses to believe in the existence of anything outside the confines of her own mind.38 In many ways this association is surprising, given the systematic, antisubjective mode of production Bochner is describing. But like solipsism, he argues, serial art is “self-contained and nonrefer- ential,” a system that functions according to its own internal logic.39 For Bochner as for Anzieu, the self-regulating system suggests a pathological model of subjectiv- ity, a connection emphasized by Krauss when she compared LeWitt’s serial processes to the obsessive games played by Samuel Beckett’s Molloy.40 Yet just as the fingerprints traversing the surface of Drawing Which Makes Itself reveal the fal- lacy of that title, so, too, are Rockburne’s systems somehow more contingent,

34. Ibid., p. 61 (italics mine). 35. Anzieu’s text has been discussed previously in relation to the drawings of Giuseppi Penone, which deal explicitly with the skin. See Briony Fer, “Pressure Points: Penone’s Tactile Vernacular” and Michael Newman, “Sticking to the World—Drawing as Contact,” in Giuseppi Penone: The Imprint of Drawing, ed. Catherine de Zegher, exh. cat. (New York: The Drawing Center, 2004). 36. Anzieu, The Skin Ego, p. 5. 37. Ibid. 38. Mel Bochner, “Serial Art, Systems, Solipsism,” Arts Magazine (Summer 1967), reprinted in Minimal Art: A Critical Anthology, ed. Gregory Battcock (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1968), p. 100. 39. Ibid. 40. Rosalind Krauss, “LeWitt in Progress” (1978), reprinted in The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1996), pp. 245–59.

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more open to the vagaries of her materials. Like Anzieu’s model of thought, Drawing Which Makes Itself is “a matter of relations between surfaces,” memorializing points of contact with itself, and between itself and the outside world.41 This physical contact was made explicit in two installations of Drawing Which Makes Itself shown at the Bykert Gallery in 1973. The series were shown in separate rooms, both painted in brilliant white paint that covered the walls and floor. In the first room, eight thirty- by forty-inch sheets of paper had been folded, marked, unfolded, and attached to the walls, which were a shade whiter than the paper. Although some critics found the white paint overly distracting and theatrical, its purpose became clear in the second room, where four carbon paper works were displayed. The sheets were the same size as the white paper of the first room, but the marks made upon them had transferred to the gallery walls, where they served as tracks along which the paper was flipped and maneuvered. Unlike the white paper works, which seemed to float in an indeterminate space, the carbon paper and black lines drew attention to the limits of the room as a flat, two-dimensional surface for drawing. Rockburne’s interest in mapping this surface was borne partly out of her studies in topology with Dehn at Black Mountain College. Topology— or “rubber sheet” geometry—consists in the mapping of continuous surfaces, which remain the same topologically when folded or stretched, but not when punctured or cut. When installing the Bykert Gallery work, Rockburne claims: “I wanted to describe the floor, the walls, and the ceiling not as being floors and walls and ceiling but almost as a flat continuous surface that happened to have three dimensions.”42 Like the white paper works, the lines of the carbon paper pieces traced moments of contact, although instead of describing the points at which the paper had touched itself, they marked the interface of the carbon sur- face and the bright white planes of the architectural container. These tracks invited the viewer to mentally reconstruct the path of the paper through space: folding and unfolding, covering and uncovering, flipping in one direction and then the next. This bodily engagement was no doubt encouraged by the large size of the carbon paper. A contact sheet of photographs from the installation shows Rockburne and her assistant folding the paper between them like a bed-sheet and maneuvering it at arm’s length, stretching up and kneeling down against the wall. In order for one person to mark the carbon, the other had to hold it in place, an operation that required the full physical engagement of both people. Rockburne is also captured pacing back and forth to view the carbon from a distance as her assistant positions it on the wall. Despite what Bruce Boice described as the “immaterial whiteness” of Rockburne’s installation, traces of this physical engagement were visible in the fin- ished piece.43 On the walls and floor around the carbon paper were fingerprints

41. Anzieu, The Skin Ego, p. 10. 42. Rockburne, interview with the author, July 7, 2004. 43. Boice, “Dorothea Rockburne’s New Work,” p. 5.

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produced by its black residue, which clung to the skin of those installing the draw- ings and transferred to the surfaces of the room. Although not visible in the photographs, the fingerprints were apparent in the final installation, and Rockburne considered them to be “part of the discussion of this continuous sur- face.”44 They are more obvious in the working drawings Rockburne made for the same series, in which the carbon sheet is maneuvered across a piece of white paper, its surface gradually sullied by a network of smudges tracing the path of the artist’s hands. The fugitive carbon residue indexically references Rockburne’s hands where they have touched the surface of the paper (in the working draw- ings) or the walls and floor (in the final installations). These imprints anchor the drawings to a human presence just as they “fasten down” the surfaces of the room, underscoring the concrete, physical structure the luminescent white paint func- tions optically to obscure.45 Rockburne’s use of the floor as a drawing surface in the Bykert installation encouraged another kind of bodily drawing, which accumulated gradually follow- ing the opening of the exhibition to the public. The white paint on the floor became marked and scuffed by the visitors’ footprints, tracing their movement around the drawings and producing a different kind of mark on the same surface. Just as the carbon residue would adhere unnoticed to Rockburne and her assis- tant—tracking their movements over the walls and floor—so the visitors’ shoes carried microscopic particles of debris from the streets of New York into the pris- tine white space of the gallery. Rockburne allowed these marks to accumulate during the course of the exhibition, describing them as “a kind of drawing in itself. Another left mark.”46 The gallery’s spotless interior served simultaneously as a container—conditioning the phenomenological experience of the visitor—and as a receptive surface on which that experience could be serially imprinted.

Surface

In an essay published in Art History in March 2000, David Joselit sketches a “genealogy of flatness” running through postwar American art, linking supposedly “modernist” practices to the “postmodernist” practices so often staged against them.47 Joselit cites Jasper Johns’s Skin drawings, in which the artist pressed his oiled body against sheets of drafting paper, before dusting the imprints with

44. Rockburne, interview with the author, July 7, 2004. 45. Describing the installation, Bruce Boice wrote: “the floor is clearly ‘fastened down’ and material in the room of the carbon works by the existence of some of the works on the floor, but the experience of this situation is equally disorientating, only in a different way.” Boice, “Dorothea Rockburne’s New Work,” p. 5. 46. Rockburne, “Excerpts from a Conversation with Chuck Close and Dorothea Rockburne,” n.p. 47. David Joselit, “Notes on Surface: Toward a Genealogy of Flatness,” Art History 23, no. 1 (March 2000), reprinted in Theory in Contemporary Art Since 1985, ed. Zoya Kocur and Simon Leung (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), pp. 292–359.

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powdered graphite to render them visible. As Joselit points out, this process is the converse of Freud’s “Mystic Writing-Pad,” on which (visible) perception leaves an (invisible) unconscious trace. The “unconscious” image of Johns’s drawing is recu- perated through the application of a pigment. What is crucial, however, is the use of a flat recording surface to serve as a metaphor for perceptual and mnemonic processes. “Like Pollock,” Joselit writes, Johns “invented an art of surfaces in which the body and its unconscious are articulated in a distinctively disciplinary fashion. In both artists’ works traces of the body are generated through performative processes which allegorize the mind.”48 The sense of imprisonment that pervades Johns’s drawing is read as an explicit manifestation of this Foucauldian bodily dis- cipline, which remains implicit in the repetitive beat of Pollock’s drip paintings. In Joselit’s account this “genealogy of flatness” extends to the body prints made by David Hammons during the mid-1970s and the silhouettes produced by Kara Walker in the 1990s. But while in Greenbergian modernism “optical flatness is vali- dated by psychological depth,” Joselit argues that in these “postmodernist” practices psychological depth is also deflated, until “identity manifests itself as a culturally conditioned play of stereotype.”49 A slippage occurs in Joselit’s account between works that reference the body indexically, such as Pollock’s drip paintings, Johns’s Skin series, and Hammons’s Spade; and the return to figuration that occurred in the work of Walker and many of her contemporaries during the 1990s. Building upon the work begun in “Rauschenberg and the Materialized Image,” Rosalind Krauss has noted the

48. Ibid., p. 300. 49. Joselit argues that “[a]ccording to Greenbergian modernism, the expression of psychological depth requires the sublimation of optical depth. If, in Pollock’s eyes, abstraction was a technique for performing an emotional need, in Greenberg’s formulation the converse is true: optical modernism is legitimated by the painter’s emotions. It is only those emotions which the painter ‘can vouch for with complete certainty’ which transform apocalyptic wallpaper into some of the greatest painting of the twentieth century.” Joselit, “Notes on Surface,” p. 295.

Rockburne. Working drawing for Drawing Which Makes Itself. 1973.

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prevalence of the index in art of the 1970s, highlighting “the way that it operates to substitute the registration of sheer physical presence for the more highly articu- lated language of aesthetic conventions (and the kind of history which they encode).”50 Although Walker’s silhouettes produce an illusion of physical presence via their (iconographic) resemblance to (indexical) shadows, her work hinges upon the appropriation of aesthetic conventions and their encoded histories. Rather than physically transferring the body onto a flat surface, Walker exposes the violent transformations often implicit in pictorial representation. In this sense, Rockburne’s practice could be understood to extend the “genealogy of flatness” sketched by Joselit in an alternative direction to the one he describes. In her work, as in that of Pollock and Johns, the body remains largely unmarked in terms of gender or race, but Rockburne is absolutely concerned with the indexical articulation of subjectivity within a rigorous formal system. This is what distinguishes her early practice from that of Bochner and LeWitt, who used predetermined operations to evacuate subjective impulses from their work.51 The struggle to locate subjectivity within a disciplinary system extends, in Rockburne’s work, to the practice of installation, where the body of the artist and that of the spectator are mapped across a gridded field, which contains them and conditions their movements. Although the term “installation” suggests a spatial environment through which the spectator is invited to move, much of the work described in this way during the early 1970s was essentially two-dimensional. Writing in 1971, Lucy Lippard observed: “What has happened since [1967] is that the pictorial impetus in sculpture has been dematerialized and has often taken the form of drawing, either literally, on surfaces, in space, or on the ‘ground.’ The question is, and I can’t answer it, whether such drawing or pictorial effects in real space are essentially bad, dishonest, untrue to the internal necessities of something called sculpture.”52 The notion of “dematerialization” has since received sustained critical attention, but the role of drawing in sculpture’s undoing—and in the development of installa- tion art—has been largely ignored in subsequent accounts of this period. For Robert Morris, the turn to two-dimensionality in art of the early 1970s was prompted by the systematic structure of much of the new work. In “Aligned with Nazca” (1975), Morris suggested that while Minimal objects had been able to medi- ate between the concerns of objects and basic notational systems, post-Minimal work had tended ever more toward two dimensions. For Morris, the Minimal object ulti- mately imploded under the sheer weight of information it was forced to bear: “It

50. Rosalind Krauss, “Notes on the Index: Part 1” (1976), reprinted in The Originality of the Avant- Garde and Other Modernist Myths, p. 209. 51. In “Paragraphs on Conceptual Art,” LeWitt wrote: “To work with a plan that is pre-set is one way of avoiding subjectivity.” The same year, Bochner claimed that in serial art, “the idea is carried out to its logical conclusion, which, without adjustments based on taste or chance, is the work.” LeWitt, “Paragraphs on Conceptual Art,” p. 80; and Bochner, “Serial Art, Systems, Solipsism,” p. 100. 52. Lucy Lippard, “Eva Hesse: The Circle,” Art in America 59, no. 3 (May–June 1971), reprinted in From the Center: Feminist Essays on Women’s Art (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1976), p. 166.

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seems that the physical density and autonomy of objects becomes compromised when ordered by more than the simplest of systems.”53 But despite their flatness, installational practices of the early 1970s inherited from Minimalism what Bochner had previously described as “an acute awareness of the phenomenology of rooms.”54 Morris had promoted this awareness in “Notes on Sculpture Part 2,” where he advocated work in which “the space of the room itself is a structuring factor.”55 For Morris, this contextual emphasis made the new work “in some way more reflexive, because one’s awareness of oneself existing in the same space as the work is stronger than in previous work, with its many internal relation- ships.”56 The reflexivity of modernist painting was expanded in Minimal art in order to articulate the material and spatial conditions of the work’s existence. Many post-Minimal installations inherited this self-awareness, incorporating and emphasizing the surfaces of the gallery as a literal support and pictorial “ground” for the work. In the Drawing Which Makes Itself, the same surfaces served to record the movements of the artist and spectator, producing a temporary archive of the work’s production and reception. While Morris claimed that the “flat art” that suc- ceeded Minimalism negated spatial experience, Rockburne’s installation used the two-dimensional surfaces of the gallery to render such experience visible.57 In discussing Rockburne’s early practice I have located it at the intersection of two art-historical narratives: one involved with assemblage and performance, the other a conceptual art based on systems. Although the latter emerged some- what later than the former, it was in many ways more “modernist” in its reflexive structure. Describing Rauschenberg’s combines of the late 1950s, Steinberg argued that the flatbed picture plane was open to the noise of the world. By con- trast, Bochner suggested that serial art was solipsistic in its refusal to engage with anything outside its own self-contained system of production. But where in the work of Bochner and LeWitt this structure of refusal was designed to divest art of the subjective impulses of the author, Rockburne’s early practice was concerned with the articulation of subjectivity within a rigorous formal framework. By trans- ferring that reflexive structure onto the architectural container of the gallery space, Rockburne not only managed to mediate between a phenomenological awareness inherited from Minimalism and a post-Minimalist interest in informa- tional systems—circumventing the exchangeable art object in the process—she also forced that space to surrender its own status as a self-regulating system.

53. Robert Morris, “Aligned with Nazca,” Artforum 14, no. 2 (October 1975), reprinted in Continuous Project Altered Daily: The Writings of Robert Morris (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1993), pp. 160–62. 54. Bochner, “Serial Art, Systems, Solipsism,” p. 99. 55. Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture Part 2” (1966), reprinted in Continuous Project Altered Daily, p. 16. 56. Ibid., p. 15. 57. Morris wrote: “Orders and logics are basically operations. As such they exist in time, not space. As communicated, they exist in one of two ways: written or spoken. The only ‘space’ in which they can exist is aural.” Morris, “Aligned with Nazca,” p. 160.

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