• Janet Malcolm, New York, 1981. Photo: Nancy Crampton.

    JANET MALCOLM (1934–2021)

    ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO Janet Malcolm published a profile of me in the New Yorker that became something of a touchstone of art journalism. It served as the title essay of one of her collections, and has been reprinted several times. I’m told it’s often assigned in classes on art writing, on the assumption that it sheds some light on that murky enterprise.

    It’s uncommon for the subject of a profile to warmly remember the profiler, and my friendship with Janet struck some people as odd. For some, it would be hard, or so they imagined, to get past the discomforts of so much self-exposure, and

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  • Peter Rehberg, 2020. Photo: Kali Malone.

    Peter Rehberg (1968–2021)

    IN 1995, I received a fax from Peter Rehberg stating that Mego, the label he co-ran, wanted to work with me. It was the start of a twenty-six-year relationship that ended with the album I released this year. To reflect on the late artist, who performed as Pita, one might start with his work there. Mego’s first release, General Magic and Pita’s 1995 “Fridge Trax,” is a twelve-inch record that features four pieces constructed using recordings of refrigerators. For decades of avant-gardists, utilizing found sounds evoked musique concrète, but in nonacademic electronic music, at the intersection of

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  • A candlelight vigil for Danish Siddiqui, who was killed in Afghanistan during clashes between Afghan and Taliban forces. Photo: Muzamil Mattoo/Getty Images.

    Danish Siddiqui (1983–2021)

    THIS APRIL, Danish Siddiqui flew a drone over New Delhi’s Seemapuri neighborhood. A second wave of Covid-19 was sweeping through India, and the capital had emerged as the epicenter. At first, the available information was sparse, the scale of devastation unknown. This was until Siddiqui’s drone footage flashed across social media, showing hundreds of makeshift pyres burning in an empty plot of land. Later, when the central government denied—in parliament and court—that the country was facing a lethal shortage of oxygen, Siddiqui’s photographs from hospital wings and parking lots demonstrated

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  • Denzil Hurley, 2013. Photo: Zhi Lin.

    Denzil Hurley (1949–2021)

    TWO YEARS AGO, at the Milton Resnick/ Pat Pasloff Foundation, I mounted a group show of work by abstract painters who were generally below the art world’s radar but who’d caught my eye and about whom I thought frequently. They had awakened something in me that wouldn’t let go. Borrowed from a Broadway musical about Annie Oakley, the title was “Doing What Comes Naturally.” It was intended to bait critics because I am of the firm conviction that art is by definition artificial and therefore unnatural, making me skeptical of the assertion that what seems compelling in a given artist’s work is that

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  • From left to right: Carl, Jennifer, Susan Shultz, Kathleen Stewart, and Lauren Berlant.

    Lauren Berlant (1957–2021)


    All she ever wanted was company in that. 

    In the end, she said it was work that killed her. 

    Her truth, hard-won, was a searing empathy for all human fuck ups.

    She insisted on that with the bare ferocity of a seer. 

    She learned she had an inhabitable endurance. Fuck leiomyosarcoma. 

    She got realer and realer as a sentient mind, an infrastructure of imperatives and spinning potentials.

    She got wide open and ready for it.

    She was writing her “poison poems” with a new frankness honed to a point. “At the same time as my friends grow all emotions and abstractions, I sit in the

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  • Frederic Rzewski. Photo: Michael Wilson.

    Frederic Rzewski (1938–2021)

    “MUSIC PROBABLY CANNOT CHANGE THE WORLD,” wrote composer Frederic Rzewski. “But it is a good idea to act as if it could.” Born to parents of Polish descent in Westfield, Massachusetts, he studied music in a series of elite institutions, from the Phillips Academy to Harvard and Princeton. Attending the Darmstadt Summer School in 1956, Rzewski was exposed to serial composition, as well as the more anarchic work of composer-performers John Cage, David Tudor, and Christian Wolff. Studying with Luigi Dallapicolla in Italy (1960–61) and Elliott Carter in Berlin (1963–65), he established an early

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  • Judith Godwin at the opening of her solo exhibition “Judith Godwin: An Act of Freedom” at Berry Campbell, New York, 2019. Photo: George Sierzputowski.

    Judith Godwin (1930–2021)

    WHEN THE ARTIST Judith Godwin died on May 29 in her ninety-second year, the art world lost the last living member of a generation of women Abstract Expressionists, a group of artists largely overlooked in favor of their male peers. I lost a dear friend. 

    My connection with Judith came about through our mutual friend Julie Lawson, a London art-world personality and assistant to Sir Roland Penrose, one of the founders of the city’s Institute of Contemporary Arts. Years later, when I was living in New York, Julie introduced me to Judith, who struck me as a delightful and irreverent Southern lady.

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  • Barry Le Va, Minneapolis Institute of Art, 1968.

    Barry Le Va (1941–2021)

    BARRY LE VA came into my life in fall 2002, my first semester of grad school, when I chose a large drawing by him as the subject for my lengthy final paper in Bruce Hainley’s art-criticism seminar. The drawing in question had been recently acquired by the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, where it hung alongside works by On Kawara, Adrian Piper, Ree Morton, and Lecia Dole-Recio. I remember this because I had never spent so much time looking at a single work in a museum. Its title—Separates: Centers, Sections, and Segments: Joined and Overlaid, Separated and Exchanged in Place 1974—was

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  • Jean Dupuy, Cone Pyramid (Heart Beats Dust) (detail), 1968, stethoscope, spotlight, amplifier, wood, glass, red pigment, 64 1⁄8 × 17 1⁄8 × 18 7⁄8". © ADAGP, Paris.

    Jean Dupuy (1925–2021)

    AS A YOUNG PAINTER in postwar Paris, Jean Dupuy witnessed the rise of musique concrète and electronic music while showing regularly and frequenting new galleries such as Denise René, Iris Clert, etc. By 1960, his close friendships were less with painters than with sound poets and performance-oriented artists—some from Nouveau Réalisme, others, then unclassifiable, soon to join Fluxus—including François Dufrêne, Brion Gysin, Bernard Heidsieck, and Robert Filliou. Dupuy persevered ambivalently with painting into the 1960s before creating a breakout series of ironic abstractions verging on Pop.

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  • Karl Wirsum. Photo: Derek Eller Gallery.

    Karl Wirsum (1939–2021)

    FOR A BOOKLET published on the occasion of the third Hairy Who exhibition in Chicago, in 1968, Karl Wirsum drew a woman whose head has been replaced by a mandala—not a groovy meditative symbol but a pulsating, agitated, electrified pattern vibrating in red, blue, yellow, and green. This must have been what the inside of Wirsum’s mind looked like: protean and always switched on. For sixty years—from his graduation from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 1961, through his association with the Hairy Who in the mid to late ’60s, and right up to his death on May 6—Wirsum produced a legion

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  • Julião Sarmento. Photo: Paulo Pires.

    Julião Sarmento (1948–2021)

    IT COULD BE SAID that Julião Sarmento’s major theme was desire. In his work, we are repeatedly faced with opposing points of view—subject and object, voyeurism and blindness, dream and reality—that repudiate the male gaze by undoing the rote equivalencies between possession and existence. The Lisbon-born artist’s evocations of bodies, often partially or completely erased, demonstrate nothing so much as the impossibility of reaching a final representation of anything; his unsettled forms cling to the illusion, nearly disintegrated today, of an unattainable, secret image.

    Beginning in the 1960s,

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  • William T. Wiley, 1966. Photographer unknown.

    William T. Wiley (1937–2021)

    LOVING WHATEVER IT IS that you clutch to your chest and call “art” means taking some care of the culture around that word and its objects. It’s a positive gesture to some kind of eternity. It means you love the making of things, and you do not fear those things, nor fear or resent the artist who makes the things you don’t understand. You care for the artist who passively refuses to take part in whatever culture he deems damaging to his mind or spiritual well-being. These are the ways I want to love and the ways I believe in William T. Wiley, who died on April 25. I first met Bill Wiley in early

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