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The promise of two ends meeting, of connection, of art's ability to represent; art's promise to conjure the thing itself. The stupidity of this promise. The sorrow so present in Celmin's work is breakdown guilt of this, which all we are left with instead is brushwork, the skin of thing over an "armature on which I hang my marks and make my art." The artists and the electrical torture of the sign.
See too: On Kawara at the Guggenheim, Lutz Bacher at 356 Mission, James Lee Byars at VeneKlasen/Werner