The art fair as cultural event is pretty well established now. It makes sense to use the pretext of the weird art supermarket that forms the body of the fair as an excuse for a wider programme; it adds interest and tempers the slightly distasteful frenzy that makes it so difficult to actually see the art everyone's here for.

As part of this year's Frieze New York we have the opportunity to attend a reading and Q&A session with Lydia Davis. For those of you who aren't familiar with her, as well as being a well respected translator, she's also a writer of short, often tiny, stories that, despite their brevity, still manage to capture a very particular moment in the world or the web of interaction between people. She seems like a great choice for this event because, in the way her stories expand beyond themselves and seem to draw the world into their own space, it seems possible to draw parallels between her work and some of the best contemporary art. There is something artistic about her work.

However in the comparison between visual art and literature we're entering into a very murky world. The question I originally wanted to pose in this short article is how do we separate one from the other? What are the characteristics that make them different? It quickly became clear that this is too big a subject, and to be honest I should've known better having spent a couple of years studying this relationship. There are, however, a few observations worth making.

People quite often ask, in my capacity as a critic, what it is that for me makes good art? And outside of personal tastes the best I can do to answer this question is that I look for something that operates, something that on a particular level performs a function, a movement, very similar to what we see in Lydia Davis' stories; they make a space in which a world can exist. Then we have the problem, that, if their goals are the same, what are the differences between the two fields? The obvious answer is medium; art is visual, literature bound to the written word. But inevitably this attempt at separation is spoilt by all those figures who muddy the waters: Lawrence Weiner, Christopher Wool, Miranda July, to name but a few; and then writers like Mark Z Danielewski, or George Perec whose work possesses a sculptural or visual element; and this is to ignore illustrated books, the book as object, or illuminated manuscripts etc. And of course a ton of poetry that plays with visual layout.

Alexander Gutke, Subtraktion Nr4, 2007; Galerija Gregor Podnar, Stand D7, Frieze NY.

At a certain point literature can start to look like a very systematised, very condensed derivative of visual art, or perhaps, seeing how literature is tied to language, and this is the basis of all communication including the non-verbal, we can reverse our original idea. The problem being compounded by that function of language whereby it invades and inserts itself between ourselves and all our experience of the world, including that of art.

But somehow there's still a need to assert a difference; they aren't the same thing. Curiously enough, perhaps one of the ways we can do this is by looking at the element upon which the art fair rests its foundation. Literature embraces the idea of reproducibility: books are primarily distributed in their thousands; a successful book is one everyone owns, while art prefers the singularity, the one off. It is a well recognised phenomenon whereby a work of art that becomes endlessly reproduced, la Giaconda for example, in a certain way disappears; people fail to see the actual thing as it is, instead they see la Giaconda. The same can't be said of a book; in its length and the process required to experience it they defeat this mechanism, showing, perhaps, a true difference.  

Liam Gillick, ‘Ovningskorning (Driving Practice Parts 1-30)’, 2004; Maureen Paley, Stand B55, Frieze NY.

Another observation we can make from this characteristic is the commercial effect it has had on each medium in our times of effortless mass-production. The art world, that of the singular, is flourishing, as will be witnessed throughout Frieze New York, while publishing is fairly well on its knees under digital pressure. It seems curious that such kindred spirits should fare so differently through this characteristic of theirs. Either way I recommend attending Lydia Davis's reading; she is, like most of the best artists, a wonderful story-teller.

—James Thompson

(Image on top: Slavs and Tatars, Mystical Protest , 2011; The Third Line, Stand D11, Frieze NY.)

Haroon Mirza has made his reputation as an artist of the remix. He structures the unglamorous beeps and buzzes of antiquated audio technology into beats and melodies. But he also appreciates those machines for their sculptural qualities, synchronizing their sounds with lights and moving pieces – as if Kraftwerk were building a Rube Goldberg machine. Part music, part sculpture, part architectural intervention, Mirza remixes not just sounds but the spaces they inhabit.

For his Frieze Sounds commission, Mirza will be using the fair’s visitors as his medium. Realtime Binaural Envelope will be made up of a column of microphones that pick up the conversations and movements of passersby, to which Mirza will add beats and distortion. The sounds will be played into headphones which become progressively louder until they are silenced completely. The project is inspired by John Cage’s famous use of the audience to fill silences; as Mirza puts it, “all I'm doing with this work is composing or adding rhythmic structure to ambient noise.” Unlike the energetic, hermetic installations he has become known for in the past few years, the piece is equally at home in quiet or loud environments, and relies on audience activation.

Haroon Mirza, Footsteps, 2005; Courtesy of the artist.

Mirza’s New York solo debut at the New Museum last year darkened the ground floor space at 231 Bowery, illuminated only by pulsating strips of LED lights purchased from the nearby shops on the Bowery; foam sound dampeners lined the walls, and malfunctioning televisions produced fuzzy beats. Gary Carrion-Murayari, the New Museum curator who organized the exhibition, cites Mirza’s “radical sensitivity towards architectural space” – entering the space from the bustling Bowery, one was immersed in a sound and light environment just as jarring but wholly different from the street. Like some post-human dance club, the storefront pulsed to the dictates of the machines, not the visitor’s musical expectations.

The Frieze project shows Mirza’s interests in words and eavesdropping. For his 2005 work Footsteps, Mirza embedded speakers into a room’s floorboards, playing a sequence of footstep sounds moving across the room. His 2002 Installation view was made up of speakers and his signature foam dampeners; the speakers played a recording of two people critiquing the installation, calling it a "shit job" and commenting on the ugliness of the foam pieces.

Haroon Mirza, Installation view, 2002; Courtesy of the artist.

Mirza’s Frieze project, like those earlier works, suggests voyeurism but with a twist. The microphone stand and headphones dislocate and disorient both the listener and the overheard. Because of distortions and added sound, one won’t be able to listen in on conversations, hearing them instead as beats and pulses. Mirza shows us that we take for granted the noises that surround us, and instead finds music there.

Haroon Mirza's new project goes live May 15th: http://www.o-o-o-o.co.uk/

—Ryan Wong

(Image on top: Haroon Mirza, Preoccupied Waveforms, 2012-13; Courtesy of the New Museum / Photo by Jesse Untracht-Oakner.)

This year’s Frieze New York fair sees the Projects portion of its programming celebrating FOOD, the historic restaurant-artwork hybrid most associated with artist Gordon Matta-Clark. While the Projects’ inaugural theme was turning Randall’s Island into a “fantasy world,” according to curator Cecilia Alemani, its second year focuses on “basic actions such as eating, drinking, speaking and praying… [engaging] the ritualistic dimension of the fair and the unique landscape of the island.” FOOD fits rather nicely in such a curatorial context, and is accordingly receiving this year’s tribute to local artist-run spaces and initiatives.

Cofounded by Matta-Clark with artist Carol Goodden in 1971, FOOD was a seminal piece of New York art. It occupied the corner of Prince and Wooster Streets, neighboring 112 Greene Street, the influential and prototypical art space extant today as the gallery White Columns. It’s easiest to describe FOOD as a restaurant run by artists, yet that definition elides the project’s many functions. It was as much a community center as a business. And though the business aspect was a great deal of its appeal, as a restaurant run by artists it was considerably more sympathetic to the caprices of an employee’s schedule. The food itself was as much an artistic medium as a form of nutrition. Exemplary of FOOD’s approach was Matta-Clark’s "bone" dinner: marrow and oxtail soup, the remains cleaned at the meal’s end and strung as jewelry for the diners, which mostly comprised fellow artists, musicians, and dancers from the downtown scene.

Frieze has enlisted a number of artists for its celebration, entitled “FOOD 1971/2013.” Founders Carol Goodden and Tina Girouard as well as artists Matthew Day Jackson and Jonathan Horowitz comprise the chefs. Goodden and Girouard both do a bit of historical reenactment, with Goodden serving soups from FOOD and Girouard recreating Matta-Clark’s pig roast, originally staged in 1971 under Brooklyn Bridge. Horowitz, who once had an exhibit entitled “Go Vegan!” in a former butchery, will serve a vegan menu, while Jackson will focus on preserved foods intended for times of hardship and nomadic existence.

FOOD, Prince Street at Wooster Street, New York , 1971; Courtesy of David Zwirner, NY and the Estate of Gordon Matta-Clark.

FOOD was remarkably prescient in many aspects. It oversaw the communal meal as art before Rirkrit Tiravanija’s curries, and served tasting menus and locally sourced ingredients before bone marrow was considered a delectable. It also fomented a certain artistic spirit and image that was arguably a harbinger of the "creative class"-driven economy that has now saturated New York, even though it’s doubtful that the founders intended FOOD as a prototype of the artist-as-forerunner model of gentrification. In this sense Frieze’s tribute to FOOD is perhaps apt in more ways than envisioned, the changes in the art world wrought by the fair economy echoing the urban overhaul undergone in New York...

It’s hard to begrudge paying FOOD some due, especially considering Goodden and Girouard’s involvement at the fair. Still, given the quasi-anarchic and communal quality of the original FOOD, there’s something potentially souring in Frieze’s tribute. Does FOOD lose too much of its meaning in such a rarefied environment or is the art fair the most ideal setting for this kind of reenactment? To take Matta-Clark’s own words on his work: “I have chosen not isolation from the social conditions, but to deal directly with social conditions whether by physical implication, as in most of my building works, or through more direct community involvement, which is how I want to see the work develop in the future.” Will the spirit of Matta-Clark’s pioneering effort be degraded or renewed by the corporation that is behind it? One will have to wait to see. Fortunately, such opinions can be made with a mouthful of food.

—Matthew Shen Goodman 

(Image on top: FOOD, promotional poster; photo by Richard Landry, altered by Gordon Matta-Clark / Pictured: Tinna Girouard, Carol Goodden and Gordon Matta-Clark.)

I remembered my desire to meditate more often when I visited “Cui Fei: Tracing the Origin” at Chambers Fine Art. The moment I ducked into the gallery I was overcome with a sense of quietude. I muttered aloud to myself: what is the Chinese equivalent to the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi? As I scanned the twisted metal and vine that makes up much of the work of this young Chinese artist, I remembered that the origins of “Wabi” (despondence) and “Sabi” (solitude) are distinctly Chinese.

Cui Fei graduated from the Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts in Hangzhou, the capital and largest city of this Eastern China province. After moving to the U.S. nearly twenty years ago for graduate school, she eventually settled in New York City, a similarly bustling and congested metropolis that might have reminded her of home. While her sculptural installations utilizing natural materials—and more recently man-made ones—retain a debt to traditional Chinese culture and philosophy, they also embrace the plurality of modern life.

Cui Fei, Tracing IX I i,  2012, Gelatin silver photogram,  24 x 16 in.;  Courtesy Chambers Fine Art

Fei has been creating work that draws on the relationship between natural materials and calligraphy—“beautiful writing,” the highest art form in ancient Chinese culture—for more than a decade. Calligraphy in China has an ancient history; it ranks it alongside poetry as the definitive means of self-expression. How one wrote—one’s style—was as important as the content of the writing itself. Fei has a background in ink painting though none of the works on view from either series (“Manuscript of Nature” and “Tracing the Origin”) use bamboo brushes or lampblack cakes. Instead, Fei employs the bend of fronds, copper and steel stereo wire, as well as thorns and seeds which she arranges into meticulously regimented rows. The torqued and twisted shapes in works like Manuscript of Nature V_003 (2012), a framed installation of tendrils pinned to board, or Tracing the Origin IX_I_i (2012), a gelatin silver photogram of their imprint, hearken back to Chinese running script, a fluid and dynamic form of writing that was only used by the elite and highly educated prior to Mao Zedong’s reign. Moving away from natural materials, Fei considers how manmade objects can be inspired by nature in Tracing the Origin XV_001 and Tracing the Origin XVI_001 (both 2013). Rendered in elegantly fashioned copper and steel wire, these works suggest a calligraphic text that appears to float on the wall. Only on close inspection do the pins that hold the “characters” in place become visible.

Cui Fei, Manuscript of Nature V_005, 2013, Tendrils and pins on panel, 57 x 170 in.; Courtesy Chambers Fine Art.

It’s naive to think of calligraphy as something relegated to the olden days; this art form permeates Chinese life to this day. Brush calligraphy can still be seen on temple name plaques and shop signs. Its legacy as a marker of the cultural elite remains firmly entrenched in society. Fei’s work honors the cultural authority of such “beautiful writing” in material and feel, while simultaneously refusing it. The sculptures and installations in “Tracing the Origin” do not translate as literal, coherent text, or proper Chinese calligraphy for that matter. Fei’s forms cannot be read. Instead one might consider the individual elements that comprise these works as meditations on the interconnectedness of human beings, the beauty in perfection, or the order in chaos. Fei’s artistic manipulations suggest a broad conversation in which nature is both a human fabrication and a generator of its own reality.

—Lee Ann Norman

(Image on top: Cui Fei, Tracing the Origin XV_001, 2013, Copper wires, pins, 36 x 48 in; Courtesy Chambers Fine Art.)

As New York wilts under May’s overripe humidity, Simon Preston Gallery’s latest show carries an appropriately strong whiff of decay. A solo exhibition by Josh Tonsfeldt, the eponymous show is split between Simon Preston and GalerieVidalCuglietta, in Brussels. The two spaces are united by a process of architectural superimposition; Tonfeldt’s multifaceted installation strews both spaces with structural elements and material ephemera, all of which originated from an abandoned Iowan farm home, now burnt down. The home seems to haunt the spaces in Tonsfeldt’s partial reconstructions, as he’s erected skeletal, half-done walls of wood and plaster that divide the galleries, built along lines mirroring the house’s original floor plans. The sensation is bolstered by the smattering of found objects scattered about, like talismans of the structure’s rematerialization. At Simon Preston, a yellow long bow hugs one wall, unstrung and tufted with what resembles an over-used feather duster. Elsewhere, a copy of Reader’s Digest Practical Problem Solver lies askew on the floor, covered with grime.

Tonsfeldt applies his architectural two-step of accrual and careful subtraction to some of the smaller individual details as well, with two pieces of furniture in the show’s central room marvelously evidencing that particular logic. Half of a formica table stands perfectly against the wall, stacked with warped panels of fiberglass and wood; diagonally across from the table is a metal chair, also halved. Hovering impossibly at an angle, the chair seems as if it should be falling through the floor. The furniture salvaged from the Iowan site, their remaining halves lie in the GalerieVidalCuglietta,drawing the two galleries closer in the farm’s odd afterlife.

Josh Tonsfeldt, Installation view; Courtesy Simon Preston Gallery.

To the viewer preoccupied with the iconography of digital media this might resemble a ruin loading. It’s a testament to Tonsfeldt’s abilities that, in the recent glut of net art and the New Aesthetic, he’s able to subtly evoke some of the unworldly possibilities of digital imagery—namely, the infinite overlap of graphics editing and modeling software—with nary a pixel in sight.

The rest of the show at Simon Preston takes place in the gallery’s rear section, cordoned off by those partial walls. Tonsfeldt lined frames with archival paper, smudging them with pits of pigment and text. Some come glorious close to being detritus. An especially scuzzy piece is adorned with a spray-painted spider’s web, knotted and clumpy, clinging to the frame’s corner. At times, Tonsfeldt lends more aesthetically standard moments of visual clarity by placing found photography in the works, but they mainly document equally slovenly scenes. One features pigs rooting about, another an undecipherable mess of twisted metal and plant life.

Josh Tonsfeldt, Installation view; Courtesy Simon Preston Gallery.

All in all, it’s unclear what draws Tonsfeldt to the house in Iowa, but there’s something compelling in the show’s seemingly contingent nature. The lack of apparent motive gives it the feel of a naturally occurring event—as if one day the structural elements suddenly manifested in the space, accompanied by those bits of grit and debris. Though perhaps a bit reticent, it’s a pleasantly enigmatic sort of blossoming, perfectly in time with spring.

—Matthew Shen Goodman

(Image on top: Josh Tonsfeldt, Untitled, 2013, pigment inks on reverse of Fuji crystal archive paper, envelope and pigment prints in artist's frame, overall: 40 x 40 in.; Courtesy of the artist & Simon Preston Gallery.)