New York

Richard Tuttle

Betty Parsons Gallery and Susan Caldwell Gallery

Eight narrow, vertical strips of 1/4-inch plywood, each unobtrusively nailed more or less in the middle of a wall. Elongated rectangles truncated at varying angles with different side edges painted white. Such a physical description of Richard Tuttle’s new work seems totally inadequate to the occasion. One does not see Tuttle’s pieces as self-contained objects, as hermetic repositories of meaning. In fact, one doesn’t merely “see” Tuttle’s works; one experiences them through one’s body. Visual awareness becomes inextricable from body perception. This is not to imply that one actively projects one’s body into the object in order to comprehend dynamic relationships. No, Tuttle’s pieces are more like markers, indices by which one measures rather than enacts one’s situational space, one’s being in the world.

Because each of the plywood shapes is on a separate wall, one tends to orient oneself

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