Catalogue essay for "We Care About You" at Lisa Cooley Fine Art, May 9 through June 27, 2010

Found objects. Some had bulbs.

It is one of art history’s great origin myths: in 1912 Marcel Duchamp and Constantin Brancusi go to an exhibition of motorized vehicles in Paris, and Duchamp, spying a sleek new propellor, turns to Brancusi and says, “Painting is over. Who could do better than this propellor? Tell me, could you do that?” The two artists developed radically different responses to this conundrum. Eleven years later, Brancusi made Bird in Space, his sinuous, elegant sculpture, as though in direct retort to Duchamp’s challenge. And Duchamp, as we all know, eventually ceased making objects altogether, turning instead to readymades.

This story has often been used to illustrate a turning point in Western art—industry overtakes handmade craft, modernity becomes an indisputable force artists must reckon with. It has also been rattling around the back of my brain as I consider the work of Andy Coolquitt, which is inspired equally by the supple forms of modernism as evinced in art by Brancusi, among others, and Duchamp’s shattering of puritanical aesthetic ideals. Coolquitt aims to reconcile these seemingly contradictory legacies with a body of work that is both ad hoc and premeditated, that relies on chance encounters while simultaneously combining an impressive knowledge of fabrication techniques with an innate sense of color and composition. The words “Found objects. Some had bulbs” were among my notes taken during a studio visit with Coolquitt, and although I can’t remember if they were a direct quote (I’m pretty sure they weren’t) they still seem like an oddly appropriate (and succinct) summary of a practice that is imaginative and exploratory.

Here’s an expanded description: Coolquitt assembles his sculptures from materials found on the street and often pries into the darker corners of society for inspiration. As a result, his sculptures have a satisfyingly gritty patina. Cardboard boxes, wood two-by-fours, paper bags, plastic straws—all of these items and more have been incorporated into the artist’s unique style of bricolage. If his sculptures look like sculptures that have lived in the world, that is because they have.

Over the past four years many of these works have taken the form of lamps. Pipes of varying color and size are fitted together into long poles or angular forms to which lightbulbs are attached, and these assemblages are then either hung gracefully from the ceiling or leaned casually against the wall. The work is playful but considered: often the pieces correspond to the artist’s own height or otherwise reference the body. A piece titled Manut Bol, for example, which is composed of three different types of polyester in various shades of brown wrapped around a narrow stretcher, does manage to successfully evoke the famously tall (7’ 7”) and wiry Sudanese basketball player.

Coolquitt’s work has also grown out of the artist’s deep-set scavenger impulse, his need to explore his environs and collect random detritus. Among the countless objects in his collection are colorful plastic lighters, and in seeking these out he soon learned that the best places to find a lot of lighters all at once are wherever people smoke crack. (When asked how he has learned to identify these sites, which tend to be in abandoned lots, Coolquitt says: “They look like a secret space, kind of like what a little boy might want to escape to.”) In Austin, TX and New York City, the two cities between which the artist divides his time, and wherever else he happens to be, Coolquitt locates these spaces and adds more lighters to his ever-growing collection. These lighters have often been modified for optimal crack smoking: the fuel valve has been removed to allow for a stronger flame. At some point during his exploring, he realized that these de facto outdoor spaces resembled living rooms. Cardboard boxes acted as sofas, chainlink fences became storage for clothes and other things. He began to photograph the spaces in which he found the lighters, but it is important to note that these photographs are not meant to be exhibited. Instead, the photos serve as a private archive documenting the patterns of a unique social space.

Coolquitt’s interest in the way people respond to their physical environment began while he was studying art in the MFA program at UCLA in 1989. One of his teachers, Paul McCarthy, turned him on to the work of Franz West, whose adaptive sculptures later became a pivotal influence. Coolquitt also paid close attention to Blinky Palermo and Joseph Beuys. But his main influence was Allan Kaprow, whose work and writing he studied and read avidly. He was particularly affected by Kaprow’s essay, “The Real Experiment,” in which Kaprow argues that any activity can be considered art, and that art is more meaningful if it takes place in the social realm, and, moreover, that it is even more meaningful if the artist humbly refuses to accept credit for the work of art. Unfortunately, Coolquitt’s admiration for Kaprow had an alarming effect: essentially he talked himself out of being an artist. He decided, as he put it, that the “best way to deal with the social was to do social work.”

Coolquitt moved back to his homestate of Texas, settled in Austin, and began working at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired. There he taught “life skills,” which basically meant helping the students learn how to take care of themselves in order to ensure that they would eventually get into a decent group home. The underlying goal of the institution was, of course, to “normalize” the young charges. But this was during the height of Austin’s punk scene, and Coolquitt and many of his fellow teachers considered themselves freaks and were in no hurry to impose authoritarian societal norms to which they themselves were allergic. Instead, Coolquitt and his colleagues encouraged the kids’ natural creativity, and were in turn inspired by it.

During that time, Coolquitt slowly crept back into his studio. His social work made him appreciate the challenges of how people relate to architecture, particularly the handicapped, whose spatial sense is more heightened. Students at the school who couldn’t use their hands very well, for example, simply strapped a fork onto their arm in order to eat their food. At this point, he started to synthesize his experience as a social worker with that of non-artists such as legendary decorator Elsie de Wolf and scientist Temple Grandin. These non-art practitioners shared the same quietly interventionist approach endorsed by Kaprow and appreciated by Coolquitt. De Wolf suggested a novel method for arranging living-room furniture: host a party and see how the tables, chairs, and sofas end up and then leave them that way because this organization best facilitates social interaction. Observing another species, Grandin noticed that cattle relax when their bodies are tightly squeezed—as an autistic, she empathized with the need to experience physical pressure—and as a result she famously developed a humane system for slaughtering cows. Coolquitt began to apply these concepts to his own work, and built an L-shaped shelf that could be mounted in a corner at elbow-leaning height. The shelf was upholstered with cotton and cheap velour for additional comfort. On building this object (which he thinks of more as an experiment than an art work), Coolquitt writes, “I wasn’t thinking of retarded kids, I was thinking of myself and how socially retarded I felt and how an object might help me relate to people in a more constructive way. I later thought of this object as a ‘nice soft place for meeting people.’” Coolquitt envisioned his work as furniture, because furniture has none of the baggage generally associated with aesthetic objects—in other words, people interact with furniture without inhibitions. He aspired to make sculpture that wasn’t precious or pristine, but instead became a framework that encouraged connection and sociability.

This idea is best illustrated by the work of another artist who has influenced Coolquitt: Blinky Palermo. Known for his minimal paintings and sculpture, Palermo played with the idea of being a “decorator” as much as an artist. Beuys once commented that for Palermo, who was his student, “the main thing . . . was the habitat of men.”(1) Palermo too used found materials, and reveled in their flaws and irregularities. He made narrow staffs (as did Beuys), usually out of wood wrapped in fabric, and made site-specific wall drawings that responded directly to architectural space, often using his own body as a form of measurement rather than the metric system. About Palermo’s wall paintings and drawings, Christine Mehring writes: “By destabilizing the viewer’s perceptual and bodily orientation, they encouraged reflection about our dependence on space and its relevance to our understanding of the world.”(2)

Coolquitt’s delicate lightbulb sculptures strike viewers similarly, toeing the line between decoration or design and art, and capitalizing on the warm, enveloping glow of electric light to assume a subtle but assertive position in relation to the surrounding architecture. Like Palermo and Bruce Nauman, who also used his own body as a mode of artmaking (in explaining his early fiberglass pieces Nauman maintained that using parts of his body as a mold—shoulders, knees, or the place defined by armpits—“gave them reason enough for their existence”[3]), Coolquitt’s work frequently evinces empathy for the human body and its often awkward maneuverings through the world. St Ides, 2008, consists of a 40-ounce bottle of beer placed on the floor from whose bottleneck emerges a long straw (composed in the same manner as the pipe pieces, by fitting together straws of increasing diameter), reaching to about the height of an average-size person’s mouth, thus freeing the hands of the supposed drinker. The work is humorous, of course, but its ungainly, fragile quality also makes it touching.

Such empathy for people and the ability to see what they might need to function better (i.e., easy access to a beer) reaches back to an ongoing project Coolquitt started several years ago. While enrolled in 1993 in the MFA program at University of Texas, Austin, where he studied with performance artist Linda Montano, Coolquitt had a quiet breakthrough. He wanted to expand previous experiments with socially interactive furniture-sculpture, and investigate Montano's interest in adopting various personae, while returning to the idea of life-like art. To realize these goals, he decided to build a house. He bought a plot of land that included only a small, rundown shack, and began building a house from scratch with the help of his friends. The house, which has been featured in the New York Times and Nest magazine, is a compound consisting of nine different structures comprising living and working spaces, and a communal kitchen in the center of the property. Coolquitt rented some of the rooms and hosted countless dinners and parties, and the place became the fulcrum of an energetic network of artists, writers, and musicians. After studying with Montano, he treated his role as landlord differently, viewing his superintendent duties as a kind of performance in keeping with Kaprow’s philosophy that “art is a weaving of meaning-making activity with any or all parts of our lives.”(4)

Martin Kippenberger once stated: “Simply to hang a painting on the wall and say that it’s art is dreadful. The whole network is important! Even spaghettini....When you say art, then everything possible belongs to it. In a gallery that is also the floor, the architecture, the color of the walls.” (5) Motivated in part by his success with the house, Coolquitt began thinking about presenting art differently. In 2002, after being asked to contribute work to an artist-run temporary space in Brooklyn, Coolquitt brought nothing with him, choosing instead to collect materials and build the installation on site. This method of scavenging became a mainstay of his practice. He staged similar shows in Portland, OR, Norwich, Great Britain, and Austin; the last took place in 2004 at the Fresh Up Club, a now-defunct alternative space, and was called “Can We Take Dumps in Your Hotel?” The scatalogical title referred to a moment when Dave Bryant, who ran the Fresh Up Club, impulsively asked the question of a friend who was staying in a swanky hotel in Marfa, TX while Bryant, Coolquitt, and some others were camping nearby. (The artist later said that the statement “seemed to illustrate the idea of our psychic constipation in unfamiliar surroundings,” and “I also thought it was funny that he asked for all of us.”[6]) These installations—which involved a tremendous amount of labor—became destinations for hanging out and getting high. Although comparisons to the relational aesthetics movement are inevitable, Coolquitt’s installations are more closely aligned with Kaprow’s idea of art “environments” that filled “entire containing areas, nearly obliterating the ruled definition of the rooms,” incorporating the spectator as an “important physical component.”(7)

Whether viewing Coolquitt’s site-specific installations or taking in an exhibition of his individual works, which are installed in such a way that they seem less like discrete objects than a suite whose overall effect is all-encompassing, viewers have the sense of being in a space liberated from the usual architectural constraints. If Coolquitt’s work, such as his lamps, can sometimes be defined as design, it is because of an inherent generosity and empathy—qualities possessed by only the best-designed objects. Yet, as Duchamp and Brancusi both exemplify, however differently, it is possible to absorb important lessons from design and then surpass them by virtue of a type of engagement to which design rarely aspires. That is, an engagement of the mind in relation to surrounding space, the consideration of built space and its ensuing control of human behavior. Coolquitt takes the transgressive energy of Duchamp (by making work about “psychic constipation”) and marries it to the beautifully worn aesthetic of a Brancusi. The resulting works serve to loosen architecture’s grip, giving viewers an opportunity to take in their world a little differently for once. With Coolquitt, that means looking at the world with humor and being able to accept our place in it, however awkward that place may feel.

Notes

1 Quoted in Angel Gonzalez Garcia, “How to Show Pictures to a Dead Artist,” Blinky Palermo, Barcelona: Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona, ACTAR, 2003, 105.
2 Christine Mehring, Blinky Palermo: Abstraction of an Era, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008, 51.
3 Quoted in Jane Livingston, “Bruce Nauman,” in Bruce Nauman, Las Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, December 19, 1972–February 18, 1973, 11.
4 Allan Kaprow, “The Real Experiment,” Essays on the Blurring of Art and Life (1983), ed. Jeff Kelley, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 216.
5 Quoted in David Joselit, “Painting Beside Itself,” October, Fall 2009, No. 130., 125.
6 Quoted in Rachel Koper, “The Site is the Studio,” Austin Chronicle, August 6, 2004. Retrieved from http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid%3A223070 on January 27, 2010.
7 Kaprow, “The Shape of the Art Environment,” (1968), 92–93.

Catalogue essay for "We Care About You" at Lisa Cooley Fine Art, May 9 through June 27, 2010

Found objects. Some had bulbs.

It is one of art history’s great origin myths: in 1912 Marcel Duchamp and Constantin Brancusi go to an exhibition of motorized vehicles in Paris, and Duchamp, spying a sleek new propellor, turns to Brancusi and says, “Painting is over. Who could do better than this propellor? Tell me, could you do that?” The two artists developed radically different responses to this conundrum. Eleven years later, Brancusi made Bird in Space, his sinuous, elegant sculpture, as though in direct retort to Duchamp’s challenge. And Duchamp, as we all know, eventually ceased making objects altogether, turning instead to readymades.

This story has often been used to illustrate a turning point in Western art—industry overtakes handmade craft, modernity becomes an indisputable force artists must reckon with. It has also been rattling around the back of my brain as I consider the work of Andy Coolquitt, which is inspired equally by the supple forms of modernism as evinced in art by Brancusi, among others, and Duchamp’s shattering of puritanical aesthetic ideals. Coolquitt aims to reconcile these seemingly contradictory legacies with a body of work that is both ad hoc and premeditated, that relies on chance encounters while simultaneously combining an impressive knowledge of fabrication techniques with an innate sense of color and composition. The words “Found objects. Some had bulbs” were among my notes taken during a studio visit with Coolquitt, and although I can’t remember if they were a direct quote (I’m pretty sure they weren’t) they still seem like an oddly appropriate (and succinct) summary of a practice that is imaginative and exploratory.

Here’s an expanded description: Coolquitt assembles his sculptures from materials found on the street and often pries into the darker corners of society for inspiration. As a result, his sculptures have a satisfyingly gritty patina. Cardboard boxes, wood two-by-fours, paper bags, plastic straws—all of these items and more have been incorporated into the artist’s unique style of bricolage. If his sculptures look like sculptures that have lived in the world, that is because they have.

Over the past four years many of these works have taken the form of lamps. Pipes of varying color and size are fitted together into long poles or angular forms to which lightbulbs are attached, and these assemblages are then either hung gracefully from the ceiling or leaned casually against the wall. The work is playful but considered: often the pieces correspond to the artist’s own height or otherwise reference the body. A piece titled Manut Bol, for example, which is composed of three different types of polyester in various shades of brown wrapped around a narrow stretcher, does manage to successfully evoke the famously tall (7’ 7”) and wiry Sudanese basketball player.

Coolquitt’s work has also grown out of the artist’s deep-set scavenger impulse, his need to explore his environs and collect random detritus. Among the countless objects in his collection are colorful plastic lighters, and in seeking these out he soon learned that the best places to find a lot of lighters all at once are wherever people smoke crack. (When asked how he has learned to identify these sites, which tend to be in abandoned lots, Coolquitt says: “They look like a secret space, kind of like what a little boy might want to escape to.”) In Austin, TX and New York City, the two cities between which the artist divides his time, and wherever else he happens to be, Coolquitt locates these spaces and adds more lighters to his ever-growing collection. These lighters have often been modified for optimal crack smoking: the fuel valve has been removed to allow for a stronger flame. At some point during his exploring, he realized that these de facto outdoor spaces resembled living rooms. Cardboard boxes acted as sofas, chainlink fences became storage for clothes and other things. He began to photograph the spaces in which he found the lighters, but it is important to note that these photographs are not meant to be exhibited. Instead, the photos serve as a private archive documenting the patterns of a unique social space.

Coolquitt’s interest in the way people respond to their physical environment began while he was studying art in the MFA program at UCLA in 1989. One of his teachers, Paul McCarthy, turned him on to the work of Franz West, whose adaptive sculptures later became a pivotal influence. Coolquitt also paid close attention to Blinky Palermo and Joseph Beuys. But his main influence was Allan Kaprow, whose work and writing he studied and read avidly. He was particularly affected by Kaprow’s essay, “The Real Experiment,” in which Kaprow argues that any activity can be considered art, and that art is more meaningful if it takes place in the social realm, and, moreover, that it is even more meaningful if the artist humbly refuses to accept credit for the work of art. Unfortunately, Coolquitt’s admiration for Kaprow had an alarming effect: essentially he talked himself out of being an artist. He decided, as he put it, that the “best way to deal with the social was to do social work.”

Coolquitt moved back to his homestate of Texas, settled in Austin, and began working at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired. There he taught “life skills,” which basically meant helping the students learn how to take care of themselves in order to ensure that they would eventually get into a decent group home. The underlying goal of the institution was, of course, to “normalize” the young charges. But this was during the height of Austin’s punk scene, and Coolquitt and many of his fellow teachers considered themselves freaks and were in no hurry to impose authoritarian societal norms to which they themselves were allergic. Instead, Coolquitt and his colleagues encouraged the kids’ natural creativity, and were in turn inspired by it.

During that time, Coolquitt slowly crept back into his studio. His social work made him appreciate the challenges of how people relate to architecture, particularly the handicapped, whose spatial sense is more heightened. Students at the school who couldn’t use their hands very well, for example, simply strapped a fork onto their arm in order to eat their food. At this point, he started to synthesize his experience as a social worker with that of non-artists such as legendary decorator Elsie de Wolf and scientist Temple Grandin. These non-art practitioners shared the same quietly interventionist approach endorsed by Kaprow and appreciated by Coolquitt. De Wolf suggested a novel method for arranging living-room furniture: host a party and see how the tables, chairs, and sofas end up and then leave them that way because this organization best facilitates social interaction. Observing another species, Grandin noticed that cattle relax when their bodies are tightly squeezed—as an autistic, she empathized with the need to experience physical pressure—and as a result she famously developed a humane system for slaughtering cows. Coolquitt began to apply these concepts to his own work, and built an L-shaped shelf that could be mounted in a corner at elbow-leaning height. The shelf was upholstered with cotton and cheap velour for additional comfort. On building this object (which he thinks of more as an experiment than an art work), Coolquitt writes, “I wasn’t thinking of retarded kids, I was thinking of myself and how socially retarded I felt and how an object might help me relate to people in a more constructive way. I later thought of this object as a ‘nice soft place for meeting people.’” Coolquitt envisioned his work as furniture, because furniture has none of the baggage generally associated with aesthetic objects—in other words, people interact with furniture without inhibitions. He aspired to make sculpture that wasn’t precious or pristine, but instead became a framework that encouraged connection and sociability.

This idea is best illustrated by the work of another artist who has influenced Coolquitt: Blinky Palermo. Known for his minimal paintings and sculpture, Palermo played with the idea of being a “decorator” as much as an artist. Beuys once commented that for Palermo, who was his student, “the main thing . . . was the habitat of men.”(1) Palermo too used found materials, and reveled in their flaws and irregularities. He made narrow staffs (as did Beuys), usually out of wood wrapped in fabric, and made site-specific wall drawings that responded directly to architectural space, often using his own body as a form of measurement rather than the metric system. About Palermo’s wall paintings and drawings, Christine Mehring writes: “By destabilizing the viewer’s perceptual and bodily orientation, they encouraged reflection about our dependence on space and its relevance to our understanding of the world.”(2)

Coolquitt’s delicate lightbulb sculptures strike viewers similarly, toeing the line between decoration or design and art, and capitalizing on the warm, enveloping glow of electric light to assume a subtle but assertive position in relation to the surrounding architecture. Like Palermo and Bruce Nauman, who also used his own body as a mode of artmaking (in explaining his early fiberglass pieces Nauman maintained that using parts of his body as a mold—shoulders, knees, or the place defined by armpits—“gave them reason enough for their existence”[3]), Coolquitt’s work frequently evinces empathy for the human body and its often awkward maneuverings through the world. St Ides, 2008, consists of a 40-ounce bottle of beer placed on the floor from whose bottleneck emerges a long straw (composed in the same manner as the pipe pieces, by fitting together straws of increasing diameter), reaching to about the height of an average-size person’s mouth, thus freeing the hands of the supposed drinker. The work is humorous, of course, but its ungainly, fragile quality also makes it touching.

Such empathy for people and the ability to see what they might need to function better (i.e., easy access to a beer) reaches back to an ongoing project Coolquitt started several years ago. While enrolled in 1993 in the MFA program at University of Texas, Austin, where he studied with performance artist Linda Montano, Coolquitt had a quiet breakthrough. He wanted to expand previous experiments with socially interactive furniture-sculpture, and investigate Montano's interest in adopting various personae, while returning to the idea of life-like art. To realize these goals, he decided to build a house. He bought a plot of land that included only a small, rundown shack, and began building a house from scratch with the help of his friends. The house, which has been featured in the New York Times and Nest magazine, is a compound consisting of nine different structures comprising living and working spaces, and a communal kitchen in the center of the property. Coolquitt rented some of the rooms and hosted countless dinners and parties, and the place became the fulcrum of an energetic network of artists, writers, and musicians. After studying with Montano, he treated his role as landlord differently, viewing his superintendent duties as a kind of performance in keeping with Kaprow’s philosophy that “art is a weaving of meaning-making activity with any or all parts of our lives.”(4)

Martin Kippenberger once stated: “Simply to hang a painting on the wall and say that it’s art is dreadful. The whole network is important! Even spaghettini....When you say art, then everything possible belongs to it. In a gallery that is also the floor, the architecture, the color of the walls.” (5) Motivated in part by his success with the house, Coolquitt began thinking about presenting art differently. In 2002, after being asked to contribute work to an artist-run temporary space in Brooklyn, Coolquitt brought nothing with him, choosing instead to collect materials and build the installation on site. This method of scavenging became a mainstay of his practice. He staged similar shows in Portland, OR, Norwich, Great Britain, and Austin; the last took place in 2004 at the Fresh Up Club, a now-defunct alternative space, and was called “Can We Take Dumps in Your Hotel?” The scatalogical title referred to a moment when Dave Bryant, who ran the Fresh Up Club, impulsively asked the question of a friend who was staying in a swanky hotel in Marfa, TX while Bryant, Coolquitt, and some others were camping nearby. (The artist later said that the statement “seemed to illustrate the idea of our psychic constipation in unfamiliar surroundings,” and “I also thought it was funny that he asked for all of us.”[6]) These installations—which involved a tremendous amount of labor—became destinations for hanging out and getting high. Although comparisons to the relational aesthetics movement are inevitable, Coolquitt’s installations are more closely aligned with Kaprow’s idea of art “environments” that filled “entire containing areas, nearly obliterating the ruled definition of the rooms,” incorporating the spectator as an “important physical component.”(7)

Whether viewing Coolquitt’s site-specific installations or taking in an exhibition of his individual works, which are installed in such a way that they seem less like discrete objects than a suite whose overall effect is all-encompassing, viewers have the sense of being in a space liberated from the usual architectural constraints. If Coolquitt’s work, such as his lamps, can sometimes be defined as design, it is because of an inherent generosity and empathy—qualities possessed by only the best-designed objects. Yet, as Duchamp and Brancusi both exemplify, however differently, it is possible to absorb important lessons from design and then surpass them by virtue of a type of engagement to which design rarely aspires. That is, an engagement of the mind in relation to surrounding space, the consideration of built space and its ensuing control of human behavior. Coolquitt takes the transgressive energy of Duchamp (by making work about “psychic constipation”) and marries it to the beautifully worn aesthetic of a Brancusi. The resulting works serve to loosen architecture’s grip, giving viewers an opportunity to take in their world a little differently for once. With Coolquitt, that means looking at the world with humor and being able to accept our place in it, however awkward that place may feel.

Notes

1 Quoted in Angel Gonzalez Garcia, “How to Show Pictures to a Dead Artist,” Blinky Palermo, Barcelona: Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona, ACTAR, 2003, 105.
2 Christine Mehring, Blinky Palermo: Abstraction of an Era, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008, 51.
3 Quoted in Jane Livingston, “Bruce Nauman,” in Bruce Nauman, Las Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, December 19, 1972–February 18, 1973, 11.
4 Allan Kaprow, “The Real Experiment,” Essays on the Blurring of Art and Life (1983), ed. Jeff Kelley, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 216.
5 Quoted in David Joselit, “Painting Beside Itself,” October, Fall 2009, No. 130., 125.
6 Quoted in Rachel Koper, “The Site is the Studio,” Austin Chronicle, August 6, 2004. Retrieved from http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid%3A223070 on January 27, 2010.
7 Kaprow, “The Shape of the Art Environment,” (1968), 92–93.

Andy Coolquitt, second souffle, 2010