a contribution to White Space, a publication by April Greiman
Dear white … cube, noise, paper, space, wall … -ness,
Well, white-, here we are. We can ignore it no longer. Your term as arbiter of sight and setup has reached a limit. You have gone unquestioned for too long, claiming authority, containing our creativity.
You bleached our pages and washed our walls, convincing us of your neutrality, your purity, your universality. We mistook your artifice for nature. You smoothed over our differences, blanketed our marks and textures. We lost our nakedness, our identity, in your mask. We accepted your exclusions as inclusions, your voids as openings. You convinced us that a place for none was a place for all.
“What has to be concealed is the fact that the white is a layer. After all, the stripping off of old clothes, advertised by the original promoters of modern architecture and by its contemporary dealers, is not simply a stripping of all clothing. Although everyone seems to be everywhere concerned with the beauty and purity of the naked body of industrialized structures, modern architecture is not naked. From the beginning it is painted white. And this white layer that proclaims that the architecture it covers is naked has a very ambiguous role. Supposedly, it is inserted into the space once occupied by clothing, without being clothing as such. But the enigmatic nature of that insertion cannot be addressed so the white surface is almost completely ignored. The highly professionalized and regulated discourse is blind to it, or blinded by it. What cannot be seen is the obvious. No matter how thin the coat of paint is, it is still a coat. It is not simply inserted into the space vacated by clothing. It is itself a very particular form of clothing. And by sustaining a logic of clothing, modern architecture participates in many of the economies from which it so loudly announces its detachment.”
Mark Wigley, White Walls, Designer Dresses (1995)
You isolated our art, our imagery, our words, our things, our selves in your infinite space, your homeless field. We embraced that you distinguished us, presented us as if unique. We confused the separation with elevation, the offset with comfort and breath. You, with your impossible lightness, whispered of spirit, but obscured depth. We were drawn to the mystery, to the shine, at the expense of the meaning.
“A gallery is constructed along laws as rigorous as those for building a medieval church. The outside world must not come in, so windows are usually sealed off. Walls are painted white. The ceiling becomes the source of light. The wooden floor is polished so that you click along clinically, or carpeted so that you pad soundlessly, resting the feet while the eyes have at the wall. The art is free, as the saying used to go, “to take on its own life.” The discreet desk may be the only piece of furniture. In this context a standing ashtray becomes almost a sacred object, just as the firehose in a modern museum looks not like a firehose but an esthetic conundrum. Modernism’s transposition of perception from life to formal values is complete.”
Brian O’Doherty, Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space (1976)
You ordered us according to your logics of alignment and distance. You made a certain sense, gave us a reason. Or, at least, a rationale. Through you, we knew what to do, what worked and what did not. We found purpose in following your way. We were lazy, overwhelmed by what it would take to construct alternate systems, scared of diverse truths. You called us to edit, to discern. And, we learned those lessons. But, now, we struggle to include and accept.
“’This is the new austerity… Flavorless packaging. It appeals to me. I feel I’m not only saving money but contributing to some kind of spiritual consensus. It’s like World War III. Everything is white. They’ll take our bright colors away and use them in the war effort.’”
***
“’How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise.’
‘What if death is nothing but sound?’
‘Electrical noise.’
‘You hear it forever. Sound all around. How awful.’
‘Uniform, white.’”
Don DeLillo, White Noise (1984)
White-, we are waking up. We cannot unsee the spectrum of color that you have absorbed. We cannot unhear the monotone of your call. And, we want out. We want other. This relationship must end, certainly in its exclusive form. We are leaving you for more. From here on, you will find us making new room, exploring a world of multiples and possibles. We hope, someday, that you will come to complement our efforts. But, you may no longer cover it all.
Sincerely.