TABLE OF CONTENTS

PRINT October 1972

“Reality”: Ideology at D5

DOCUMENTA, UNLIKE THE VENICE Biennale, has always been a centralized organization, not as some Americans suppose because of a Teutonic rage for order but because this is the only way to control the mid-century abundance of art when sampled on a large scale. It is also the only way to control the plurality of interest groups, at ministerial, mercantile, and independent levels activated by an exhibition of this magnitude. This year, to the fact of centralization, was added a decision that the show be thematic. In the past it was unnecessary to do so: the second Documenta in 1949, like the Biennale at the time, was filling in gaps in European knowledge of the recent past, especially in the American section (roughly Pollock to Rauschenberg). The third Documenta, due mainly to Werner Haftmann, was a kind of homage to the human spirit, a compilation of great thoughts and high feeling embodied in recent art, painterly and existential. The assumption he made was far-reaching but of sufficient generality to pass unnoticed; it would still have enjoyed the consensual goodwill that bound together men like Carl Sandburg, Sir Herbert Read, and Alfred Barr. The fourth was American-oriented to the present moment exclusively, Rauschenberg’s Soundings and after: it demonstrated the power of the Leo Castelli - Virginia Dwan - Heiner Friedrich - Konrad Fischer coalition of dealers. (These dealers’ artists were seen together again, on a smaller scale, in New York at the Guggenheim International Exhibition in 1971.) Fischer is responsible for a part of the new Documenta, but the interesting decisions are those of Harald Szeemann and Jean-Christophe Ammann who form with Arnold Bode, the working group of organizers. Another source for Documenta 5 is “Konzeption/Conception,” an exhibition at the Stadtischen Museum, Leverkusen in 1969, which Fischer had coarranged. Eighteen of the artists in his section were in the earlier show. (Incidentally it does not represent a conflict of interest to use a dealer in a show of contemporary art; on the contrary, it probably facilitates cooperation with artists and collectors and is well within the tolerances of mid-century role-taking in the art world.)

The systematic program and the catalogue are clearly traceable to Szeemann whose earlier catalogues presented information in dossier format, though not on the scale of Documenta 5’s monumental document. In addition, many of the artists were present in his earlier shows: 38 of them in “Live in Your Head” (Kunsthalle, Bern, 1969)and eight in“Happenings and Fluxus”(Kuns-tverein, Cologne, 1970). These exhibitions, one dealing with Conceptual art more thoroughly and earlier than anything in the United States, the other dealing lavishly with performance art, reveal interests that are strongly represented at Kassel.

The theme is: “Inquiry into Reality—Today’s Imagery” and “reality has to be considered as the sum of all images—artistic and non-artistic.” It should be noted that the organizers, owing to their theme, are to an extent in opposition to the dealers and to some of the artists: the dealers because they are not interested in “nonartistic images” and the artists because their work is being set into a theoryapart from their intentions. The profit motive and the defense of esthetic autonomy are aligned against the ambitious thematic control of the organizers. In the 19th century, art dealing took the place of state employment or aristocratic patronage as the support of artists. Capitalist promotion and distribution of art could, of course, support more artists and more styles than the earlier systems. In this respect art dealing performed a role similar to publishing in the industrialization of culture. Despite artists’ complaints against galleries their freedom has derived ambiguously from their merchants.

There is some reason to think that Szeemann, for all his thematic planning, misjudged New York artists socially. He antagonized women artists as a group to whom he first paid almost no attention and then, after a complaint, contacted a number of them: Cecile Abish, Alice Adams, Alice Aycock, Cynthia Carlson, Agnes Denes, Laurace James, Brenda Miller, Mary Miss, Paula Tavins, and Jackie Winsor. Having discharged this obligation, he perfunctorily rejected them all.

The following is the text of a manifesto which appeared in Artforum, June, 1972, and elsewhere:

The undersigned affirm the following points, prompted primarily in response to Documenta 5, but pertaining to all exhibition conditions.

1. It is the right of an artist to determine whether his art will be exhibited. It is the right of an artist to determine what and where he exhibits.

2. A work of art should not be exhibited in a classification without the artist’s consent.

3. An artist must have the right to do what he wants without censorship in the space allotted in the catalogue.

4. A complete, itemized budget of all institutional expenses—including allocations to participants, transportation, curatorial fees, etc.—should be made public immediately after the exhibition. Carl Andre, Hans Haacke, Don Judd, Sol LeWitt, Barry Le Va, Robert Morris, Dorothea Rockburne, Fred Sandback, Richard Serra, Robert Smithson.

Of the signatories Andre, Judd, Morris, Sandback, and Smithson withdrew, but Haacke, LeWitt, Le Va, Rockburne, and Serra did not find their declaration incompatible with showing work; Smithson is in the catalogue with a text against museums, but not in the exhibition. Morris published an open letter in Flash Art, May–June, 1972, which includes: “I do not want to have my work used to illustrate misguided sociological principles or outmoded art historical categories. I do not want to participate in international exhibitions which do not consult with me as to which work I might want to show. Finally I condemn the showing of work of mine which has been borrowed from collectors without my having been advised.” The latter point is a recurrent problem: Giorgio de Chirico sued the Venice Biennale in 1951 for showing his early Metaphysical paintings without his consent (the Court found for de Chirico but a Court of Appeals upheld collectors’ rights). The first three points of the manifesto are an application of the Artists Reserved Rights Transfer and Sale Agreement which is obligingly reprinted in German, French, and English in the Documenta catalogue, but it is also a statement of artistic autonomy. The notion of absolute control of the work commits an artist to endless curating of his work, a temptation that comes to everybody when their work is sufficiently in demand to provide leverage. As such the manifesto is unlikely to command much support from new artists and the signatories will, as occurred immediately in the case of six of them with Documenta, make their own deals on the basis of strength. One sympathizes with artists wanting to curb reckless interpretation of their art but, on the other hand, I don’t think that artists exhaust the meaning of their own work or determine all its interest; once done works of art have a public as well as a personal function. I don’t see what abuses the final demand for public disclosure of financing is supposed to put an end to; it seems a reflex of the institutional distrust that accompanies the assumption of autonomy.

A central feature of the exhibition, at least in intention, is Realism, organized by Ammann. As it stands this area is dominated by American photographic Realism but Ammann’s original aim was to compare this group with Socialist realism. (Until recently there seemed to be every chance of achieving this, though Soviet cooperation, once again, failed finally to materialize.) The American paintings are all recent, shining new, and with the compact look of a movement that has not yet been analyzed into its components. In fact, it is clear that Ammann chose not so much realist painters in America as paintings that typified an iconography of American life. (In one gallery Bechtle, Eddy, Goings, Salt, and Staiger are all represented by automobile subjects.) The pictures are chosen programmatically to constitute a legible unit in the enormous exhibition. We can see the high finish, the polish, that absorbs the American painters and speculate on the extent to which the random play of ancient trompe I’oeil (“strewn floor” mosaics, for example) reappears in the chance configurations of photographs. However, a comparison as intended would have clarified the way in which Russian genre is related to history painting whereas American genre appears as arrested moments, the former historically significant, the latter statistically familiar.

The Russian paintings were not chosen from the present but ranged between 1933 and 1967.1 This was the only way to get a comparablerange of hard, clear, emphatic images, as recent Soviet painting is less grittily iconic and more arty in handling than it used to be. The intended contrast of East and West realisms was missed not only because of the limits of photographic Realism, but because the contrast would have been a paradigm of the show as a whole. Communism and capitalism would have been clearly stated to be standing behind these paintings; the pictures would have corresponded to forms of society. The ideological basis of the pairing is fundamental to the organizers’ thinking. The assumption that ideas function for social interests underlies their planning; their “tendency to look behind every meaning and understand it in terms of its genesis”2 is, in effect, a rejection of the concreteness of art recently exaggerated into self-sufficiency.

Aside from the curtailment of the USA/USSR comparison there were other changes in the initial scenario. The approach to kitsch changed in the course of preparation: the first plan called for an analytical view of the subject that would have lead to a synthetic view, perhaps on the theme of Christmas. Problems of traffic and presentation caused a modification of this pedagogic intention to the continuous sample of objects, a display that can be entered from either end, that we see now. Pornography as a subject was dropped owing to the problems in displaying it, and participatory sculpture, such as Tinguely’s, was largely abandoned, cut back to a single work by Piotr Kowalski. There was to have been a more ambitious film program than in fact occurred and the experimental theater was eliminated completely. A “visitors’ school” was planned, a multi-screen indoctrination program, with summaries spaced around the exhibition, but shortage of funds reduced this to a single “audio-visual forward” near the entrance to the Museum Fridericianiurn. Thus the intended dialectic of action and didactic areas was weakened, but the contours of the “Inquiry into Reality” remained clear and faithfully represents the organizers’ intentions.

The ideological approach is not applied equally in each of the exhibition’s sections. It is most conspicuous in sections 3 - 9: Trivialrealism and Trivialemblematics, World of Images and Piety, Two Examples of Social Iconography, Advertising, Political Propaganda, Science Fiction—Today from Yesterday’s Viewpoint, Utopia—Tomorrow from Today’s Viewpoint. All these parts of the “Everyday World and Its Image Systems” are presented in the catalogue as “parallel image worlds” to the “image world of art.” This part of the exhibition, in which the organizers have moved beyond the usual content of big art exhibitions, is exceptionally interesting. To quote the Documenta prospectus: “reality defined as objectively determined nature has been widely replaced by the results of social life. It has become nature of the second order.” In other words, man’s environment of artifacts and symbols, culture in the anthropological sense, is the subject. It is a recognition of everyday sign systems and their interconnections in human perception.

The quotidian is what is humble and solid, what is taken for granted and that of which all the parts follow in such a regular succession that those concerned have no call to question their sequence; thus it is undated and (apparently) insignificant; though it occupies and preoccupies it is practically untellable, and it is the ethics underlying routine and the esthetics of familiar settings.3

To Lefebvre’s eulogy of the everyday can be added my formulation of a “fine art-pop art continuum” which was proposed to contain both fugitive and long-term esthetic experiences without premature ranking.

Documenta conveys an exceptional sense of the simultaneity of culture. Displays include such objects as garden dwarfs, ornate beer tankards, J.F.K. busts in assorted sizes, a goldplated putto as surfer, and mass produced miniatures of classic sculptures, as well as an historical section of political posters and a sample of current ads of girls as drinkers; in addition, there are objects tracing the perpetuation of folk traditions of piety. All this material is openly ideological in nature, with group interests ranging from German sovereignty and commercial profit to enhancement of the church’s power. As P. L. Berger and T. Luckman observe: “the reality of everyday life appears already objectified, that is, constituted by an order of objects that have been designated as objects before my appearance on the scene.”4 It is precisely by their willingness to tackle “already objectified” sign systems and set them into a context of relationship with other signs, including those of art, that the organizers have made their most interesting contribution to the present state of the art of big exhibitions.

Acceptance of popular culture is a recurrent though neglected theme of 20th-century art which includes artists and writers who do not belong in any single movement, e.g., Fernand Leger, Andre Breton, and Asger Jorn, a representative of “machine” classicism, the theorist of Surrealism, and a later expressionist painter respectively. In their capacity to see beyond the autographic touch and the unique object as sole criteria of value, they cut across the divisions of conventional art history. Compared to their openness toward a nonhierarchic view of culture, most 20th-century artists, once the dated slogans of newness have settled, reside securely in narrowly elitist views of art and culture. The point is worth making because these three precedents suggest that the organizers are working within limits already given by artists, even as they confer a new copiousness on the evidence. Here is Léger: “If it were not for the prejudiced conception of a hierarchy in art, I would easily imagine that theaters would empty and disappear, and that people would spend their time outside.”5 “The street has become a permanent exhibition of ever growing importance,” states Léger, apropos of “the art of window-dressing which in the last few years has assumed such importance.”6 Breton incorporated public advertising in a typical reverie in Nadja: “she enjoyed imagining herself as a butterfly whose body consisted of a Mazda (Nadja) bulb toward which rose a charmed snake ( and now I am invariably disturbed when I pass the luminous Mazda sign on the main boulevards.”7 Asger Jorn: “There are many anonymous banalities of topical interest that have been passed on through the consciousness which far surpass any achievement of genius by our so-called great personalities.”8 Also: “A beer glass is architecture.”9 Léger’s admiration for a new form of display, Breton’s subjectivization of advertisements, and Jorn’s defense of the solidity of the banal are all components in the acceptance of the sign systems of daily life manifested in Documenta.

Combining the parallel worlds of images in a unified display did present problems; these were compounded by the fact that the organizers of different sections started from different points in time and sometimes neglected the later aspects of their fields. The organizers of Trivial-realism ranged over the 19th and 20th centuries, perhaps with too much emphasis on the established charms of old Kitschpostkarten at the expense of later manifestations. The section on Piety included 18th-century material, but this is legitimate as the point was to demonstrate the continuing use of iconographical forms. Political Propaganda showed posters from 1918 to 1972, but Advertising concentrated on 1968–1971. The Science Fiction section included 19th-century Imageri d’Epinal and artists of the last century such as Robida. I have a suspicion that the word kitsch may be responsible for the nostalgic bias of these sections. The term is so associated with rundown German romanticism, both Rhinish and Biedermeier, that it propels its users into nostalgic stances, whereas terms like popular culture or mass media, though lacking the time-binding facility of kitsch, are free of funny precedents.10

Some equalizing strategy was needed to make objects of different origin, use, and destination compatible. The difficulty can be explained by Arthur Kubler’s term systematic age, by which an item’s place in its form-class can be described in terms of “its beginning, middle, and end.”11 Objects, therefore, are defined by their “position in the duration of the class” and it is often hard to compare subjects of different systematic age such as easel paintings and science fiction illustrations.

The parallel worlds, in other words popular culture, are of two sorts, either 1) folkloric, naive, and unconscious of itself as style or, 2) adaptive, sophisticated, and style-conscious. It is the difference between a garden dwarf and a leather jacket, the difference between German mythology and the industrialized city as image sources. The Science Fiction section suffers from the organizer’s failure to distinguish between these two kinds of reference. The illustrations are too strongly connected to the 19th-century tradition of “wonders” and not enough to the 20th-century standard of topicality in image-making. Thus instead of showing, as could have been done, the development of man-computer imagery as early as the 1950s, or tracing such themes as cultural contact and contrasting technologies (both richly investigated by cover artists in collaboration with their editors), the organizer, Pierre Versins, presents a bunch of ironic jokes about human art, aliens, and robots which represents an uncharacteristic part of the field. Lefebvre’s remark about the quotidian as undated is accepted by Versins to mean that science fiction art can be treated as if there were no artists (the fallacy of primitive art). At this point in media research it is inadequate to treat science fiction illustration as a bank of anonymous marvels.12 I suspect that Versins takes fine art to be the mode of individuality and pop culture as a random field of beguiling images without the analyzable pattern of individuals, torn between innovation and influence, that characterizes pop culture no less than fine art.

At a couple of points the organizers hesitated between ideas of Americanization and industrialization. What is often called the Americanization of Europe is often more correctly its industrialization, though since the United States emerged after World War I as the prime example of an industrialized nation, the terms are sometimes exchanged. In the study of industrialized pop culture it is necessary to be clear which one is studying. Twice the organizers weakened the exhibition by avoiding American models or examples where they were clearly required. The section of Advertising concentrating on an imagery of girls drinking wetly, suffers from being exclusively and narrowly German. This local emphasis overwhelms the general case for posters as an art and presents instead only a provincial variant. As an example of social iconography visitors are invited to vote for the covers of Spiegel that they like best, a put-on commercial version of Hans Haacke’s old questionnaire from the Museum of Modern Art which turned up again at Kassel. At any rate Spiegel was barely integrated into the rest of the display. Again, American sources and influences tended to be dissolved in local or nostalgic cases (such as the early French rather than the late American stress in science fiction illustration).

There is a section on museums by artists, beginning, of course, with Duchamp’s Box in a Valise, a miniature compendium of the artist’s oeuvre, and including Ben Vautier’s L’Armoire, Herbert Distel’s Museum, and Oldenburg’s Mouse Museum. These works are all subsystems in the system of Documenta with the function of exposing the arbitrary nature of acts of order. ing, unmasking the ideology of classification. Vautier’s untidy cupboard, with little objects and scrawled messages, is a lame piece of Flux-tat, but it does equate museum ordering with a low level of domestic arrangement, which Szeemann probably wanted. Distel’s Museum is a tall white cabinet with neatly compartmented drawers for art samples, like classified items in a laboratory. Far and away the best of these “games with wholes” is the Mouse Museum, an elaborate installation of objects accumulated by Oldenburg for years. According to Kasper König, Oldenburg put an early collection in a bookcase inscribed “museum of popular art n.y.c.” There are found objects, interpreted found objects, and newly made objects by the artist, displayed in continuous cases inside a building within the Neue Galerie. It has a ground plan in the shape of a geometric mouse, whose tongue is a welcome mat. The interplay of toy guns, false dog bones, dessert displays, rubber daggers, and chocolate pencils with Oldenburg’s own sketches and models sets up in miniature the life and art parallels sought elsewhere in the exhibition. It brilliantly exemplifies Oldenburg’s ability to handle tiny objects in profusion so that the lumpy becomes legible and the minute distinct. There is a play of metamorphosis without subjectivity: the quantity of manufactured objects is now so great that, especially in the area of toys and household goods and novelties, morphological links are generated between the replicas of objects that originally were unlike.

The material of the parallel worlds is not Pop art (which is an art style) but pop culture (which is the sum of the arts designed for simultaneous consumption by a numerically large audience).

Pop art, of course, used pop culture as a source of iconography, but the fact that there is no Pop art in this Documenta (unless John Wesley is counted here) is not a failure to link art with its parallel worlds. What is present is photographic Realism and the matching that takes place here is not between the painted surface and a site but between the painted surface and a photograph of a site. The site is mediated by the photograph whose technical characteristics of gloss, focus, and what have you are simulated in the painting. The camera and photographic reproduction are as much a part of pop culture as comic books. The point is important because by extension it means that Conceptual art also has its connections to pop culture, though not to Pop art. It is clear that the parallel worlds and the areas devoted to Conceptual art had something in common, partly because of the documentary nature of much of the material which reserves its status as evidence; it is a channel art rather than a source art, to use Max Bense’s distinction. Conceptual art is only possible in relation to the transmission of the messages, signals, lists, diagrams, proposals, schedules, programs that define the everyday life of us all. It could not be circulated in a society that did not have a communication system capable of the duplication of messages or that lacked users of great expertise in reading visual and verbal signs. Conceptual art, like performance art, is archival, as dependent on the techniques of transmitting information in a bureaucratic society as Pop art was on the existent products for a source of reference.

It is not my purpose to discuss individual works of art and artists in any detail (see Lizzie Borden and Carter Ratcliff in this magazine for that) but it should be noted that art, straight art without problems, is concentrated in two main sections: one, selected by Szeemann, Individual Mythologies; and another, selected by Fischer, Idea and Idea +Light. (The Idea+Light section can be dismissed as merely an attempt to beef up a feeble group of pictures from Los Angeles; the prestige of the West Coast lingers in Europe, seemingly able to survive an endless series of no-shows.) Idea consists of the standard group of artists using documentary and propositional form, bulging out mildly to include a few unobtrusive (hence, sort of conceptual?) abstractions. The section is a regular sample of low-energy art, that is to say, works of art that are neither formally compact nor emotionally evocative, but occur as episodically in the containing environment with sophisticated modesty. Humbleness is a perennial resource of avant-garde artists in upstaging similar others. The choice of abstract painting is worth remarking: Agnes Martin (definitely an “individual mythology”), Tuttle (an idiosyncratic beneficiary of her lyricism), Ryman (who again refuses to do what he does best, that is work on the site in improvisatory blindness), Marden, Mangold, and two LeWitt wall drawings, admirable and customary. Documenta, however, is basically oriented toward mimetic, performance, and Conceptual art and by comparison to these firmly established reference points in the exhibition, it is amazing how easily the staple style of the four preceding Documentas fades away. It is not that good work is not being produced by abstract painters, it is rather that it is familiar and well learned, the standard operating procedures are conclusive.

Individual Mythologies seems conceived as a tribute to the errant creativity that is not honored by the other classifications. The category suggests a coordination of human uniqueness and general mythical value, possibly to compensate for the instrumental use of art elsewhere. However, Szeemann and his team do reveal a weakness for the visionary. This is betrayed, for example, by the inclusion of a large group of (marvelous) works by Wolfli, the classic schizophrenic artist. Why is he present in a show devoted to “Today’s Imagery”? The fact is that therapy has changed and no longer encourages copious art production, and the coalition of craft tradition and Art Nouveau, which supported his and other schizophrenics’ style, is no longer viable. Thus the work must be present because it is taken as a visionary gift, welcomed by a notion of art as intense, mysterious, and unquenchable. Szeemann has a taste for compulsive artists (Her-bin, Jensen, Samaras), for revelatory body art (Brus, Nitsch, Schwarzkogler), and for Fluxus (Brecht, Filliou, Vautier, Watts). The anti-art activity of Fluxus artists has succeeded to the point of expunging their own work which exists now in a zone of withdrawn authenticity. A row of Cornell boxes adjoins a row of Brecht’s and the derivation by Brecht is self-destructive and ultimately mournful.

The Fluxus group (c. 1959–1966) is missing from histories of the past decade and, as the works show, there is some reason that this is so. However, it was never intended to add to the already well-stocked inventory of art objects and much of the group’s work was anticipatory of later activity (and made more interesting by feedback now). It assimilated and mingled such scattered elements as junk culture, indeterminism, readymades, concept art (Henry Flint’s term, 1961), and vaudeville, developments and extensions of which abound at Documenta. Duchamp’s presence, already mentioned, is also significant given the fact of his priority in these areas. The show, in fact, is the largest public acknowledgment of the rehabilitation of the complex of neglected esthetic options that have been contained, and somewhat suppressed, under the term Dada. This was achieved by the combination of thematic control, discussed above, and generous financing (though it still was not sufficient). The 2,000,000 D.M. (more than $666,660.00) budget made it possible to work on a huge scale, with 700,000 D.M. from the Government, 600,000 D.M. each from the province of Hessen and the city of Kassel, and 100,000 D.M. from industrial sponsors (with an estimated 900,000 D. M. [$300,000.00] from entrance fees). The result: something beween a supermarket and a wunderkammer, providing access to a high density population of objects, messages, and cognitions.

—————————

NOTES

1. The ideal list proposed by Ammann (October 29, 1971) reads as follows with 1–15 drawn from the Tretjakow Gallery and 16–19 from the Leningrad Museum:

1) Nesterow (1862–1942), Portrait of the Sculptress Muchinoi, 1940; 2) Korin (1892–1967), Three Artists “Kukriniksi,” 1950; 3) Deineka (1899–1969), Pilots of the Future, 1938; 4) Deineka, Suburb of Moscow, 1941; 5) Utschikow (1902– ), Kirghiz Girls with Books, 1948; Pimenow (1903– ), In Moscow, 1937; 7) Pimenow, Marriage in the New Street, 1962; 8) Nisski (1903– ), Near Moscow, 1947; 9) Reschetnikow (1906– ), “Paix,” 1950; 10) Laskionow (1910– ), The Military Letter, 1947; 11) Laskionow, Portrait of Officer Komarow, 1967; 12) Serow, B. A. (1910– ), Soldiers in the Winterpalace, 1954; 13) Nemenski (1922– ), The Mother, 1945; 14) Kosmin (1875– ), Portrait of H. K. Krupskoi, 1933; 15) Samochwalow (1894–1971), Kugelstosserin (Female Athlete), 1933; 16) Weselowa, N.L. (1922–1960), Portrait of the Head of a Collective Farm, 1959; 17) Plastow, A.A. (1893– ), Potato Harvest, 1956; 18) Gerassimow (1881–1963), Portrait of a Sculptor; 19) Korschow (1925– ), Motorcyclists at Rest, 1959.

2. Karl Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, New York, 1936, p. 24.

3. Henri Lefebvre, Everyday Lite in the Modern World, trans. by Sacha Rabinovitch, New York, 1971, p. 24.

4. Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckman, The Social Construction of Reality, Garden City, 1967, p. 4.

5. Fernand Léger, “The Machine Aesthetic, the Manufactured Object, the Artisan, and the Artist,” Léger and Proust Paris, Tate Gallery, London, 1970, p. 90.

6. Fernand Léger, “The Esthetics of the Machine, Manufactured Objects, Artisan, and Artist,” The Little Review, Paris, Spring, 1923, p. 48.

7. André Breton, Nadja, trans. by Richard Howard, New York, 1960, p. 129, Illus. p. 134.

8. Asger Jorn, “Banalities,” Helhesten, trans. by Lillemor Engberg, I, II, c. 1942, pp. 33–39.

9. Ibid.

10. George Kubler, The Shape of Time, New Haven, 1962, pp. 55–57.

11. For a clear survey of this aspect of popular culture, see Gert Richter, Kitsch-Lexicon von A biz Z, Bertelsmann Lexicon-Verlag, 1970.

12. Versin’ indifference to individuals within the genre is indicated by the fact that Vergil Finlay is represented only by late work and Emsh only by covers for Startling Stories and Thrilling Wonder Stories. Dold is missing, though he was better than Paul who is shown, and Kelly Freas is only perfunctorily selected. Szeemann who staged a science fiction exhibition at the Kunsthalle, Bern in 1967 should have controlled this section better.