“Warhol is transparency. Absolute transparency. Warhol is opacity. Infinite opacity. Rirkrit Tiravanija asked himself one day, “How the hell am I going to be an artist when all paths remain open?” He wasn’t thinking about the pseudo-legislation of Duchamp when he asked himself this; he was thinking about Warhol, the gatekeeper, the lord of the innumerable scales, the silver emperor of nought, the prophet ever rescinded, he who divines the absolute limit of all evenings. Warhol, the wizard who died to become one, while the gatekeeper played cards and read cards and confiscated cards of card carriers—blithely we think, but maliciously too, or greedily. The wizard floats through the air and leaves droppings on the ground, many droppings.
Rirkrit asks himself about the world he lives in. He asks himself how to speak about what he feels he might believe in. He encounters a vessel and attempts to naturalize himself to it. But the vessel only allows him the rites of false transparency, or phantoms and a parade of faces he hates not remembering. He asks himself, “Where do we come from? Who am I? Where are we going?”
In the future everything will be chrome. The last thought on the last day before the day that haunts—that day of awakenings, indefinitely postponed, eluded, kept away. Together we celebrate and our celebrations mummify and become things we don’t have anymore— intractable phantoms, thoughts whose candor has no tread, no place. In the future everything will be chrome so that we can sleep and be unable to sleep. The torture chamber on a sea of niceties and the zephyrs that can’t cool the bed of coals.
The gatekeeper has requested an apprentice. Rirkrit pauses and wants to say yes. But he can’t. The chrome is too grand, too easy. (The tides compound their own and make them all clap their hands until the signs are dim and no more, or murderous, ubiquitous.) Fear eats the soul.”
March 5th – April 23rd
Gavin Brown’s Enterprise
620 Greenwich Street, New York, NY 10014