![]() Rather like Erwin Wurm's 'One Minute Sculptures', West's prosthetics (in this show an awkward plaster mitten wielded in a pathetically slapstick fashion by 'actors' on an accompanying monitor) are designed to push the human body into poses and postures that aim to set up an absurd interdependent relationship between participation and observation. Whether sat on one of his Bauhaus-style arse-cripplers or a rather elegant Jungendstil couch, sitting is intended to become an act of completion - these objects demand to be used, employing a kind of creativity which is reliant on audience participation. ![]() It's all about that point where one body completes another, or two separate objects are needed in order to create a phenomenological event. ![]() West's work reminds me of those timeless logical puzzles beloved of campfire stoners and solipsistic undergraduate philosophers alike: 'If there is a scream in a forest, but there is no one around to hear it, then did the scream actually occur?' or perhaps the old Buddhist exhortation to imagine the sound of one hand clapping. Neither does Franz West, although the premium set by the artist extends beyond simple repose.įor his recent show at Gagosian, West presented new configurations of his ongoing series of 'Adaptives' which range from odd, amorphous plaster lumps to pieces of furniture, collages and a small grouping of collaborative pieces. Not that there's anything sloth-like about writers, but I just don't see that there's much wrong with shifting the weight off your feet in order to contemplate art. ![]() Writing differs from making art in that it's a largely sedentary pursuit, and as such, any opportunity to sit down when visiting a gallery speaks directly to the sloth inside me. ![]()
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