Tobi Haslett

  • The Otolith Group, Nervus Rerum, 2008, HD video, color, sound, 32 minutes.


    LAST SEPTEMBER, six Palestinian militants escaped from Gilboa Prison, a maximum-security facility off Route 71 in northern Israel. Five were from Islamic Jihad; the sixth was from Fatah. All had passed through a tunnel scraped for months with plates and spoons so the men could drop through a bathroom floor to crawl more than seventy feet through the dark. Just beyond Gilboa’s walls—and in shocking view of a prison watchtower—the fugitives sprang from a hole in the dirt before melting into the night.

    It was a humiliation. Shin Bet agents fanned out into the countryside and raked through the Occupied

  • Photo: Brian Green

    Yvonne Rainer's Work 1961–73

    A big black-and-white book, first published in 1973 and prettily reissued by Primary Information, Work 1961–73 collects screenplays, photographs, flyers, and essays, which comprise an odd monument to thirteen years of scrupulous, self-inflicted, paradoxically rebellious discipline that took the form, for Yvonne Rainer, of dances and films. Devotees will find much to relish: Loaded with documentation and reflections, the book gives a sinuous and often funny account of the first stirrings of Judson Dance Theater, breathing life into an avant-garde now hardened into history. But it’s also a tour

  • Central Americans try to avoid teargas deployed by US border police agents during an attempt to cross the border between Mexico and the US during the first minutes of January 1, 2019, in Tijuana, Mexico. Photo: Josebeth Terriquez/EFE/Alamy Live News.
    slant July 17, 2019

    The Tear Gas Biennial

    WARREN B. KANDERS DIDN’T EARN HIS PLACE as vice chair of the board at the Whitney Museum of American Art through his good taste alone. He has also used some of his estimated $700 million fortune to make tax-deductible donations to support exhibitions at the museum. What successful enterprise has made this generosity possible? Thanks to the collective, years-long effort of activists, students, and reporters to bring everyday brutality to light, we could tell you quite a lot about Kanders’s company Safariland, which does a brisk trade supplying batons, handcuffs, holsters, and body armor to police


    Curated by Susan Cross

    “The fragile, the forgotten, the flawed, the fugitive”—with this alliterative litany, Cauleen Smith announces the themes and preoccupations of her work. This summer, Smith will fill MASS MoCA’s first-floor galleries with video, textiles, a written manifesto, works on paper, and a selection from her “In the Wake” series of hand-stitched banners that dotted the infamous 2017 Whitney Biennial. At the heart of this swirl of mediums and messages will be an immersive installation composed of projections and still lifes—furniture, statuettes, foliage—that summon the appalling


    MELANCHOLIA IS BORING. No matter how violent the anguish or extravagant the sense of loss, to be melancholy is to be locked in a single, insistent, freezing feeling. The melancholic is obsessive; obsession stalls the self. Torpor, irritation, and relentless self-reproach are the only moves available to the gloom-addicted psyche. But that gloom is crossed with pleasure—a cynical relief. Walter Benjamin lambasted the poet Erich Kästner for his luxurious devastation, that air of “left-wing melancholy” that saps the political will. Catastrophe didn’t galvanize Kästner so much as feed his princely


    WE CANNOT LIKE HER—her greed, her pomp, her fraudulence; her repulsive servility and inflated pride. There she is on The Apprentice in 2004, playing the villain. There she is on Frontline in September 2016, going for a kind of luxurious sadism. Her words are rich and theatrical as they come rolling out of her mouth: “Every critic, every detractor,” she says with relish, “will have to bow down to President Trump.” Frontline cuts to close-up as she breaks into a smile: “It’s everyone who’s ever doubted Donald, whoever disagreed, whoever challenged him. It is the ultimate revenge to become

  • Mark E. Smith

    YOU CAN TELL how a trombone sounds by looking at its shape—just as you could see, in the scowl and bitter rictus of Mark E. Smith, the slashing vocal intensity that came pouring out of that face. Years of listening have nailed his words into my head: brittle consonants and yowled vowels, a spray of polysyllabic elocution cut abruptly short by something funny, something wounding, and thus moving, bristling, ragged with need.

  • Cauleen Smith, I’m So Black That I Blind You, 2017, satin, poly-satin, wool felt, wool velvet, indigo-dyed silk-rayon velvet, indigo-dyed silk satin, embroidery floss, acrylic fabric paint, polyester fringe, poly-silk tassels, sequins, 67 × 50". From the series “In The Wake,” 2017. Installation view, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, 2017. Photo: Chandra Glick.

    Tobi Haslett

    AIMLESSNESS IS A HAZARD OF BIENNIALS. The Whitney’s current edition is so twitching and distractible that it risks flattening itself into a vast, paratactic prairie. Time, in the art world, advances in mincing two-year increments, furnishing us with new batches of objects but seldom a new idea. Curators, then, saddled with the absurd task of “capturing the moment,” resort to the eclectic. But in the right hands, eclecticism can itself be spun into an expedient little point.

    “This Biennial,” proclaims the opening wall text, “arrives at a time rife with racial tensions, economic inequities, and

  • Arthur Jafa, Love Is the Message, the Message Is Death, 2016, video, color and black-and-white, sound, 7 minutes 30 seconds. Martin Luther King, Jr.
    film December 09, 2016

    Object Lessons

    “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” is the rhetorical equivalent of tear gas—a bit of blinding toxin to spray at the livid crowd. But behind the flash and menace of Trump himself, his advisors have begun to undertake other, subtler operations on our shared language, delivering, in their interviews and slogans, more insidious tweaks to speech. Steve Bannon, chief strategist and cofounder of alt-right Breitbart News, has proclaimed that he’s no racist, but an “economic nationalist” whose princely sympathies reach beyond the white working class to the minority poor. So his rapacious political project has

  • Adam Curtis, HyperNormalisation, 2016, video, color, sound, 166 minutes. Jane Fonda.
    film November 01, 2016

    What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

    OFFICIAL LANGUAGE acts upon politics the way gangrene shrivels a foot: It freezes while it poisons. Take “constructive ambiguity.” Behind the bland opacity of Kissinger’s phrase—with its haughty procession of Latinate syllables—is the childish wish to stop the world. It was in the name of “constructive ambiguity” that in 1975 Kissinger lied to Syria’s Hafez al-Assad (father of Bashar) about a peace agreement between Israel and Egypt, shattering the alliances within the Arab world that threatened American power. A devious tactic, yes, but in the service of a facile belief: that it’s actually

  • Emile de Antonio, America Is Hard to See, 1970, 16 mm, black-and-white, sound, 90 minutes.
    film July 19, 2016

    Primary Colors

    THIS YEAR, the People (poor things) shall choose a new president. The attendant Grand Guignol will entail the usual insults to our collective intelligence. Now is the time for brayed assurances, spurious commiserations, mawkish appeals, winking threats, plagiarized bromides—a whole sloppy revue of cheap, bullying speech. And the stakes have been raised especially high this time, as Nixon’s “silent majority” finds its mouthpiece in a billionaire chauvinist who grasps—with an acuity that eludes the liberal elite—the sense of bitter abandonment that churns within the white working class. So this

  • Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Henri Roger, British Sounds, 1969, 35 mm, color, sound, 54 minutes.
    film March 24, 2016

    Sound and Vision

    GODARD HAS ALWAYS made an art of his petulance. For as long as anyone can remember he’s been the stroppy malcontent, spitting rebuttals to Hollywood and the state, to the middling film industry and its slack-jawed forms. Hence his late-1960s dalliance with Maoism, his retreat into agitprop, and his decision (shocking at the time) to shirk the mantle of “auteur” and cofound the Dziga Vertov Group, a collective that, from 1968 to 1972, would inflict upon us the most ruthless works of his career.

    The editing got brutal; the politics, caustic. Italian militants belt out pledges and manifestos;