PRINT October 1975

Aligned with Nazca

“I am not of the big world, I am of the little world,” was an old refrain with Murphy, and a conviction, two convictions, the negative first.
—Samuel Beckett, Murphy

PERU. COASTAL DESERT, MOUNTAINS, JUNGLE. West to east in that order. Military junta of the left. Communized haciendas, nationalized utilities. Attempting to avoid Allende’s unworkable democracy. In six years Pizarro got it all with 200 men and 80 horses. Half the population still Indian. Languages dying out unrecorded. One road, the Panamerican highway, south from Lima through the sand. Here and there an oasis. Where the culture began. Paracas weaving. How many knots to the square inch? Six million under the Incas at the height of the empire. But only three inventions: the foot plow, the plumb bob and mortarless masonry. Administrators who knew of, but forbade writing. Sand blows across the road constantly. South from Lima. Glasslike sea on the right. Andes to the left. White and black mountains. Unstable glaciers hanging off the Cordillera Blanca. Six thousand obliterated when the glacier fell on Huascaran in 1962. Spaniards “liberated” Nazca leaving no one to speak of the “lines.” Lowlanders made the inventions. Empires came from the mountains. The cold heights of stubbornness. The Urus of Lake Titicaca, thinking themselves subhuman, refused to assimilate. Last Uru dead in 1955. Here it is hot. Sensuality of the first oasis, Canete (km. 147 south of Lima). Erotic pottery. Ripe and rotting fruit. Bought avocados. Skeleton water pots with erections in the Rafael Larco Herrera Museum. The desert slides down from the mountains to the sea. Or is it a huge beach going the other direction? Wind blows constantly, drifting sand over the road, rocking the car, opening up patches of sun in the glaring coastal fog. Eyes fatigued, taste of sand in the mouth. Highlanders different. Incas with barrel chests, two more quarts of blood. For the altitude. The cold heights of administration where walls were built, order recorded in quipu knots, Quechua imposed. Here below, mud and the oasis. Soft wet earth for growing, making pots, adobe houses. Glistening brown nude boys in the irrigation ditches. Remembering the female mummy in the Herrera Museum. Still beautiful, full set of perfect teeth and the fine eyebrows still intact. Twinges of necrophilia in the groin. Mud pots with erections. She was from Paracas. The mummy. About three thousand years ago. The road leaves the turn off to Paracas at km. 234 and veers inland. South from Lima, only sand. The dunes become larger. Miles to the right two small whirlwinds chase one another leaving a whitish wake in the dark desert surface. Eyes ache from the glare. Just past Ica (km. 306) the tiny figure of a woman carrying a large bundle and moving through unmarked sand toward the mountains. Her red scarf the only dot of color in the landscape. A dessicated Corot. On across the desolate Pampa de Huayuri eating dust behind a tank truck for eight kilometers. Finally the oasis of Palpa. Hand cut peeling an avocado. Ripe and dark fruit. Women staring. Different standards of beauty before. Heads bound into long, round shapes, short or high in Chavin times. Herrera female mummy. Perfect set of teeth. Hand sticky with blood and soft avocado. Trepanned skulls in the archeology museum. Sixty percent survived the operations. Gold plate replaced the removed bone. Long climb up to the Pampa Colorado. Five hundred square kilometers of tablelands where they drew the lines. Bounded by Palpa and Nazca. Two oases. Mud and ripe fruit. Wet earth equals life. Water pots with erections for spouts. Impregnating the desert. Long lines of irrigation slits and trenches. Glistening nude boys bathing. Brown erections in the muddy water. Ditches moving off in lines. Searching for different lines here. Artificial, dry and on an uninhabitable plateau. The Nazca lines somewhere on the Pampa. Light fading now. Sand still blowing over the road. Five p.m. six kilometers outside Nazca. No lines. Missed them completely in the fading light. Try tomorrow.

AT 7:30 THE NEXT MORNING I returned to the Pampa Colorado in search of the lines I had missed the day before. I drove northwest from the town of Nazca through the ever-present thin morning fog. A pale sun was coming up over the eastern mountains. The Panamerican road moves across the plain within a few miles of the first ranges of mountains to the northeast. Further to the north are other ranges. The desert stretches away uninterrupted to the southwest where it eventually drops into a valley.

In the early morning light, about 20 kilometers out of Nazca, I saw to the left a faint geometric rectangle stretching along an east-west axis. It was barely distinguishable in the flat, pebbly desert surface. I got out of the car and walked toward this shape for about a quarter of an hour. I seemed to approach no closer and realized the deceptiveness of distances in the immense space stretching away to the southwest. It was possible, however, to see that the shape was trapezoidal; its narrowing in the western direction seemed too extreme to be a result of perspective. It was one of the types of markings I had expected to find, the others being the narrower straight lines and the figures of animals and geometric forms.

About two-thirds of the way back to Palpa two yellow signs I had completely missed the day before announced the site as an archeological area and cautioned against disturbing it. From these signs a secondary service road ran perpendicular to the highway in a southwestern direction. The surface of this road was a fine, light ocher sand approaching dust. On both sides of the road the ground was darker, nearly sienna with black mixed into it. The surface of the desert was covered with small stones of this color. The land was not absolutely flat but undulated out in all directions and rose slightly in elevation to the southwest. I began to see “lines” which the road cut through. Some of these were no more than a foot wide. Others varied from two to six feet in width. The lines had been made by removing the stones along a straight axis and placing these along the desired width of the line as a kind of irregular curbing. The ground itself appeared to have been excavated slightly. That is, the lines were not just drawn by clearing a path through the stones, but were actual depressions or shallow incisions in the surface of the earth.

Maria Reiche speculates that the lines were made with brooms, the small stones and the darker oxidized top layer of sand being swept from side to side along the line’s axis. Dr. Reiche also has an explanation for the durability of the markings:

It seems almost incredible that ground-drawings made by superficially scratching the surface could have withstood the ravages of time and weather over such long periods. The climate is one of the driest of the globe. One could say that it rains for half an hour every two years. And although strong winds carry great quantities of sand, not encountering any obstacles on the vast tablelands open towards north and south, they take it further north, where at seventy miles’ distance one can see huge dunes on both sides of the highway. Moreover close to the ground the air is becalmed considerably. Owing to their dark color, the surface stones absorb much heat, causing a cushion of warm air to protect the surface from strong winds. An additional factor contributing to the ground remaining undisturbed for hundreds of years is that the soil contains a certain amount of gypsum which, moistened by daily morning dew, slightly affixes every stone to its base . . .1

Generally, the wider the line, the greater build-up of an “edge.” Where the secondary road crossed the larger plains or trapezoidal shapes the edges were quite pronounced. Some of these areas were so wide that if one were not at a great distance from them the two edges could not be seen at once—one saw only a single ridge or curbing stretching away into the distance.

I have described the two different colors of the top and under layer of desert earth. Yet the lines do not contrast greatly in color from their surroundings. It is more the absence of stones on the pathways and the slight alignment of stones along the edges that give, at close range, the suggestion of regularity. Standing within a line and looking down at one’s feet, the line hardly “reads.” There are seldom enough stones at the edge to mark a distinct curb or defining edge, and the cleared area is never flat and free of stones. At close range the lines simply do not reveal themselves. It is only by positioning oneself within a line so that it stretches away to the horizon that they have any clarity. And their definition or emergence as distinct geometric figures occurs only with a mid- or long-range view, where the effect of perspective then compresses the length and foreshortening reinforces the edges. Since the lines are seldom perfectly straight within any local segment, it is only by looking out rather than down that, by virtue of their great length, the irregularities fade and the gestalt of linearity emerges. All this happens when one stands within a line and sees it meet the horizon perpendicularly. At that vantage point, the greatest foreshortening and compression occurs and the line is revealed with the greatest clarity.

Yet walking across the desert the lines come into view at various diagonals before one actually reaches them. As one approaches the line it swings more into a 90° relation to the horizon, reaching maximum definition as one crosses it. As one leaves it and this definition fades, its relation to the horizon becomes more acute. Lines of all widths, some forming trapezoids, cross one another constantly and move toward all points on the compass. The crossings have a particular character. The curbings have been carefully removed at all intersections so that no one line interrupts the linearity of another. When one looks down a line it is never blocked, even though it may be crossed by innumerable others. This would seem to imply either that the lines were all made at the same time (unlikely) or that previous lines were always respected.

After an hour or so of walking and observing, one becomes very aware of how one’s behavior as an observer affects the visibility and definition of the lines. Greatest definition is obtained not only by the body’s positioning itself so that the line stretches out 90° to the horizon, but by focusing on the line at some distance. For this definition, one looks out, away, across, not close up or at. When one stands on a flat plane that stretches away as far as one can see, the horizon line is always at eye level. This is true at Nazca in every direction except the northeast where the mountains rise. One looks out over a relatively featureless landscape of desert and realizes that exactly half of what is within one’s vision is land and half sky.

Unlike urban spaces, the ground plane is not confined to a brief flatness constantly interrupted by verticals. In a landscape like that of Nazca the ground plane does not remain merely horizontal, for it extends up into one’s vision to the height of one’s eyes at the distant horizon. The opposition of street and building, floor and wall, of close-up urban seeing, is nonexistent. One sees instead always at a distance, the known flatness of the ground also becomes visible “elevation” at the horizon. The lines inscribed on the plain become visible only by virtue of the extension of that plain—literally from under one’s feet up to the level of one’s eyesight. The horizontal becomes vertical through extension. The lines become visible by the “tilt” of the ground plane and subsequent compression of foreshortening. The further down the line one looks the greater its definition. Yet the greater the distance the less definition of detail. The lines are both more general and more distinct as lines in direct proportion to the distance focused by the eye. The gestalt becomes stronger as the detail becomes weaker.

It is no wonder that everyone I spoke to in Peru advised me to contact the nearby naval air field and see the lines from the air. Comments such as “there is nothing to see from the ground,” or “you are going to fly over them, aren’t you?” were common from people in the U.S. who had seen them as well as the Peruvians. And various books speak of the “near invisibility” of the lines from the ground. Aerial photography returns us to our expected viewpoint. Looking down, the earth becomes a wall at 90° to our vision. We see them in that familiar elevation which reveals to us every cultural artifact from buildings to artworks to photographs to the print on this page.

And he wondered what the artist had intended to represent (Watt knew nothing about painting), a circle and its centre in search of each other, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, in boundless space, in endless time (Watt knew nothing about physics). . . .
—Samuel Beckett, Watt

WHAT ONE SEES ON THE ground at Nazca has little to do with seeing objects. For if in the urban context space is merely the absence of objects, at Nazca space as distance is rendered visible by the lines and, conversely, the lines become visible only as a function of distance. If one sees here by looking down, across, through, do the lines perhaps also point to something in that distance?

There have been various speculations as to the purposes or intentions of these lines. All assume that the lines pointed to something. The Nazca culture, equally famous for its intricate polychrome ceramics and textiles, flourished between 800 and 300 B.C. By the mid-16th century, the Spaniards had “liberated” the Nazca area at the cost of killing every last Indian. None survived to report on what purposes the lines may have served. The Spanish chronicler Cieza de Leon reported in 1548 that in the desert north of Nazca were “signs pointing out the way” to travelers. But after experiencing the multi-directionality of the lines one wonders which way. The lines were “rediscovered” in 1927 by Joribio Mexia Xesspe who suggested in 1939 that the lines were of a ceremonial nature. One wonders what he thought about for 12 years before coming to that astonishing conclusion. Paul Kosok studied the area in 1941 on foot and with the aid of aerial photography. He theorized an astronomical-calendrical function for the markings. By 1947, Dr. Hans Horkheimer had suggested that the markings represented kinship lines connecting graves of members of various local clans. Since 1941, Dr. Maria Reiche has been studying the lines and figures. She accepts the theory of their functioning as astronomical sight lines for sun, moon, and perhaps particular stars or constellations. Subsequent computerized correlations have thrown doubt on the speculations. The resemblance of some of the trapezoidal areas to landing strips has fired the imaginations of those who believe spaceships visited the planet centuries ago.

The ancient ceramic work of the region reveals that the early oasis cultures had an interest in depicting all forms of everyday life. On these polychrome pots, various diseases are catalogued, as are manners and costumes of all classes. Architectural forms, all possible sexual attitudes and combinations, modes of war and dance, musical instruments,ways of hunting, etc., are to be seen. The oasis cultures built with adobe. Unlike the highland Incas they erected no stone fortifications or monuments. Mud was their forte, whether it was fashioned into a pot or a house. Water was their life source, existing as they did by careful irrigation of the oasis. No doubt that is the reason for their obsession with the ithyphallic water pots which pour by ejecting a stream of water from the erect penis. Some of these pottery figures take the form of a dead man or skeleton with an erection. Water was life, its absence death. With water the desert is made fertile, moistened for molding artifacts as well as for growing food. For the Nazcans, all things concerning life were to be found at the surface of the earth or just below it: the irrigation ditch, the crop, the adobe for building, the clay for utensils.

One can speculate that the lines in the desert were spiritual irrigation systems connecting certain places of power in the surrounding sierra to the lower plains. Many of the lines point to peaks along the northeast border of the Pampa Colorado and many of the trapezoidal ways converge on notches between peaks. It is possible to imagine that the Nazcans, with their specially devised long-handled brooms (good for sighting as well as sweeping),2 made a trek into the crystalline highlands to attempt a record long line toward one of the peaks invested with special powers.

Whatever the intentions of these forms on the desert, they are morphically related to certain arts we see today. If Nazcan purposes were lost in the past, they can nevertheless throw our present art context into a helpful relief. Western art is an art of objects requiring different spatial settings as well as perceptions. Impressionism, for example, had no more to do with seeing into deep space than, say, the sfumato technique of Da Vinci. Both were concerned with representing space on a vertical plane which was seen at close range. All twentieth-century art seems compelled by a type of Cartesian projection which will net every visual experience by a vertical plane interposed between the viewer and the world. We expect to encounter objects which will block our vision at a relatively close range. Seeing is directed straight out, 90° to the wall or at an object never far from a wall. The pervasive spatial context is one of room space with its strongly accentuated divisions between vertical and horizontal and the subsequent emphasis on orientations of plumb and level. Within such a context for vision, the seemingly phenomenological dichotomy between flat and three-dimensional, marking and making, painting and sculpture,has been nurtured. Recalling for a moment the nature of the lines and their context, these sharp distinctions cannot be made.

The lines are both markings and constructed excavations which nominally occupy the horizontal but are located within a perceptual vertical as well. Much recent Western history of the plastic arts can be read only within the context of the confining rectilinear room, where space is either an illusion or limited to a few feet, and where the details of the work are never out of focus. The Cartesian grid of rectilinear room space involves a mental as well as a perceptual focus which implies simultaneous presentness of all parts.

The lines of Nazca were created for as yet unknown reasons by a culture unacquainted with the enclosing visual grid of urban space. Long before the cyclopean stone walls of the Incan Cuzco or the adobe enclosures of Chan Chan, with their high walls and gridded plan, the oasis Indians around Nazca were sighting and sweeping lines across the Pampa Colorado. Yet common to this ancient drawing and certain recent work is an obsession with space as a palpable emptiness: for the Indians an indeterminate exterior, and in the 1970s, an interior, a bounded void, a recaptured absence.

For nearly a decade work succeeding Minimalism has been built around one form or another of rationalistic information as content. This has been a basically analytic strategy for art-making. Analysis as strategy was present in earlier Minimal work in its reliance on simple systems. But if that work was an art of wholes with underlying, understated structures of information, later object art became an art of parts which visible, underlined structures of information bound together. Such work, while object-bound, moved toward diminishing the density of the physical until a point was reached where physical manifestations merely illustrated the information structure. Hanging art on order structures, algebraic classifications, topological geometries, etc., became a faintly academic exercise. But the internal analytic mode of such work mirrored the external analytic modes of general art strategy throughout the last ten years. The rationalization of art which began with Johns in the mid-’50s has continued to broaden to become a kind of episteme for the object-type of our time. If early ’70s object-type art located itself within that space of basic, rationalized information systems, another type of art has been emerging more recently whose mode is not that of the logical icon. Rather, it is the space of the self which the latter work explores.

Roughly two types of basically noninformational, nonobject work can be located. On the one hand a cool, environmental work engages both interior and exterior space, sometimes articulated by sound or light as well as physical enclosures. Such work, always attentive to the contingencies of its setting, appears rigidly formal in comparison to the second type which is also environmental by morphology, but much more focused on psychological phenomena. These are polarities rather than categories and one can locate many works now being done on an axis running between these poles where spaces for the physical or psychological self are marked out. Both modes have in common an environmental approach, a strong relation to their site or place. Both frequently have a temporal as well as a spatial dimension. Both are concerned with creating allusive contexts which refer to the self rather than generating sets of homeless objects.

The art in question substitutes the solipsistic, even autistic, discovery in its construction of either a psychological landscape or a physical enclosure for the self. One sees in the latter category a number of works being constructed outdoors. Usually on an intimate scale and often making use of small enclosures, these are works that can be, if not handmade, at least free of the kind of bankrolling required by earlier monumental-Minimal desert Earthworks. Again these are spaces for the self—the self in relation to an enclosure and the expanse of the surrounding site.

The obsession with the self as subject is as old as self-portraiture. Previous explorations in this area, however, assumed that self’s space as continuous with the world. The glooms Beckett hollowed out for himself in the post-World War II years are spaces discontinuous with the rest of the world. In those spaces a Murphy, a Malone, or a Watt endlessly and precisely permuted his limited store of ideas and meager belongings. Here counting and farting inside a greatcoat stuffed with the Times Literary Supplement was a world in itself. Beckett must surely be seen as the first instance of the artist fashioning out space itself as an extension of the self. But the spaces of and for the self now being built in the plastic arts have little to do with the dust, the grimness, or even the humor of Beckett. For if these spaces imply aloneness they indicate none of the anxieties of isolation. An undefiant separateness and even a kind of self-confidence in the autistic permeates them.

Orders and logics are basically operations. As such they exist in time, not space. As communicated, they exist in one of two ways: written or spoken. The only “space” in which they can exist is aural. In both cases the communication is a function of time, of tracing or working through the operation. It is not surprising that the epistemological side of early ’70s work finds its home in flat art where all operations can be “held” in sequences of one form or another. Work which projects complex operations and information systems is invariably flat, surface-bound. Whether it is on the wall or floor it is basically “plan view,” diagrammatic. The “objects” employed in such work are reduced and function as markers or slightly thickened symbols. The most abstract mental operations are best represented on flat surfaces. Logic does not exist in the physical world but within notational systems. Flatness is the domain of order. Space is basically incomprehensible, an absence of things, a nothingness which obliterates order.

The insistence on the rational placement of units in Minimal art as linear or grid extensions was borrowed from painting’s ordering. Minimal art’s diagrammatic aspect was derived from plans generated by drawings on flat pages. Most Minimal art was an art of flat surfaces in space. At best an object can be permuted in its positions or parts and as such it can be rotated on its own dense axis.

It makes sense that the type of spatial work under consideration here dispenses with systems and orders derived from notations whose home is flatness. Such work ventures into the irrationality of actual space, limiting it by enclosures, not systematic marker-notations. Our encounter with objects in space forces us to reflect on our selves, which can never become “other,” which can never become objects for our external examination. In the domain of real space the subject-object dilemma can never be resolved. The problems of solipsism and autism hang in the air. Here the labyrinth form is perhaps a metonym of the search for the self, for it demands a continuous wandering, a relinquishing of the knowledge of where one is. A labyrinth is comprehensible only when seen from above, in plan view, when it has been reduced to flatness and we are outside its spatial coil. But such reductions are as foreign to the spatial experience as photographs of ourselves are to our experience of our selves.

The perception of things in depth returns us to our consciousness of our own subjectivity, which, like space itself, has no clear demarcation, no visible bounding limit. Yet neither space nor consciousness is a medium in which objects or thought are constituted. For we know space by the objects in it as we know consciousness by the relationships of our thoughts. The illusion of space as a medium of physical absence, or consciousness as an endless mental space, is engendered by the continuousness of experience itself. Memory is a kind of temporal metonym of depth, as ever-present as it is ever-changing in a way similar to an object’s appearance. An object has no stable perceptual place or size or relation to other objects. For these are a function of our own positions as perceivers. Fixity is a function of notational systems and notational systems exist in the flat world of surfaces. Systems of notation are used by us at the distance which makes them intelligible; they are extra-spatial. At a point in time the highway sign for a curve is “seen.” The subsequent curve is negotiated; lived through from beginning to end. The physical world divides for us between the flat, where notational information exists perceptually outside of space, and the spatial, where perceptual relativity is the constant.

If the physical world divides for us between surfaces and depth, it is not a natural but a cultural division, the origins of which are bound up with those of writing. If Marshak’s theory is correct, the origins of writing arose from the impulse to fix the periodicity of nature—that is, to objectify particular memories as artifacts, as tools for predictability. The past had to become object in order that the future might be controlled. The act of counting invented time. The periodic recurrences of an object in space (the moon) were fixed by marks on a surface. Thus notation began its long march through the history of humankind, functioning not only to record and control but to shut out the physical world. A second world was invented: the world of flat surfaces where notations reigned. The differences between art that is flat and that which exists in space begin to take on more than a formal distinction, more than a convenient descriptive value. The very selection of one or the other is bound up with orientations which are as deep as culture itself.

Perhaps the most compelling aspect of Minimalism was that it was the only art of objects (aside from the obvious example of architecture) which ever attempted to mediate between the notational knowledge of flat concerns (systems, the diagrammatic, the logically constructed and placed, the preconceived) and the concerns of objects (the relativity of perception in depth). But mediation is a delicate and frequently brief state of affairs. Work succeeding the Minimal which had an increased involvement with information and logical orderings moved ever more into the flat modes—whether on the wall or floor. It seems that the physical density and autonomy of objects becomes compromised when ordered by more than the simplest of systems.

The tendency of later work involved with enclosed spaces for the self has a complex relation to Minimalist esthetics in that it accentuates certain attitudes about reflexiveness and the conditions of perception which were only acknowledged by the earlier work. There is now little relation to the stylistic look or systematic rationales of Minimalism. However, certain environmental concerns such as relation to site, negative spaces, and shaped enclosures are to be found in Earthworks and interior spaces fashioned in the ’60s.

In the light of these remarks on the nature of the surface and the spatial, the lines of Nazca take on a deeper meaning. For here, as in Minimalism, the flat and spatial are mediated. At least in relation to my proposed theory of their functions, the lines work toward this mediation. This implies that we are willing to include in the perception of the enterprise the totality of the landscape. The mountains as well as the lines must be considered. Assuming that the lines point to power points in the Sierra (as well as the literal sources of water) we then have both terms: the flat and the spatial, line and mountain, the abstract figure and the concrete object, the notational abstraction and the concrete existent. Here the artifact-symbol functions to channel the powers of nature into human design. Nature’s power flows through the artist’s marks. His linear symbol acts as a conduit of spiritual power, it flows down to him along the lines. Analogically the actual life-giving substance, water, flows through the erect penis of the Checan water pot which has further analogy to the biological function of the life force of male-conceived sexuality. The site at Nazca can be seen as an instance of large-scale public art, whose claim to monumentality has to do with a unique cooperation with its site. This makes it different from other ancient monumental art which confronted and dominated people by one form or another of gigantic verticality imposed on the flatness of the earth. In spite of the distances involved in the lines at Nazca, there is something intimate and unimposing, even off-hand, about the work. The lines were constructed by a process of removal. They do not impress by indicating superhuman efforts or staggering feats of engineering. Rather it is the maker’s care and economy and insight into the nature of a particular landscape that impresses.

The art of the ’60s was, by and large, open and had an impulse for public scale, was informed by a logic in its structure, sustained by a faith in the significance of abstract art and a belief in an historical unfolding of formal modes which was very close to a belief in progress. The art of that decade was one of dialogue: the power of the individual artist to contribute to public, relatively stable formats which critical strategies, until late in the decade, did not crumble. Mid-way into the ’70s one energetic part of the art horizon has a completely different profile. Here the private replaces the public impulse. Space itself has come to have another meaning. Before it was centrifugal and tough, capable of absorbing monumental impulses. Today it is centripetal and intimate, demanding demarcation and enclosure. Deeply skeptical of experiences beyond the reach of the body, the more formal aspect of the work in question provides a place in which the perceiving self might take measure of certain aspects of its own physical existence. Equally skeptical of participating in any public art enterprise, its other side exposes a single individual’s limit in examining, testing, and ultimately shaping the interior space of the self.

Robert Morris, the American sculptor, has frequently contributed articles to Artforum on problems of contemporary art.



1. Maria Reiche, Mystery on the Desert, Stuttgart-Vaihingen, 1968, p. 44.

2. None has been found.