Teju Cole


Teju Cole, Brazzaville, February 2013, 2017, archival pigment print, 20 x 24".

Teju Cole is a novelist, photographer, art historian, and critic whose work often addresses the disjunctures between what is seen and what is known. His latest book, Blind Spot (Random House, 2017), weds the fragmentary essay form with photography, incorporating history, myth, and memoir to limn the connections and contradictions within images made during years of global travel. As discussed here, selections from the book, along with a second project begun in response to the recent US presidential election, will appear in the exhibition “Blind Spot and Black Paper” at Steven Kasher Gallery, Cole’s first New York solo show, which opens June 15 and runs until August 11, 2017.

BLACK IS A DIFFICULT COLOR TO WORK WITH. A lot of artists avoid it. I remember being so impressed when I realized how subtly and effectively Henri Matisse used black in his work, how he simply treated it like any other color. I’m interested in the idea that blackness is not empty, that it is profound and full of information.

Although I initially included images by Kazimir Malevich, Julie Mehretu, and other artists in my early conception of Black Paper, an ongoing work, I ultimately decided to use only my own photographs. Black Paper is not only a response to the last six months, but a highly individual response; I was not only playing with the chromatic presence of black in photographs, but also doing it from the point of view of a black person.

I first conceived Blind Spot for an exhibition in Italy entitled “Punto d’ombra,” or “Shadow Point.” I had to find a form that would work equally well in both the gallery exhibition and the accompanying book. I have always been interested in the complications that ensue when images and texts meet. What work do I want images and words to do in my practice? Blind Spot is, in some sense, the most direct approach to this question I’ve taken so far. On one page you have text, on the other a photograph. I did not want to make a photobook that was simply, “Here are my travels.” In the course of the six years I worked on the project, I asked myself what I wanted to say about the terrain and history of each place I encountered. At some point in the journey I found this form for it, this alternating form, in which I would place an implied voice-over on each image.

A big part of the sensibility that went into Blind Spot came from film, specifically documentary films like Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil. This is why I use the term voice-over: it seems to sit a little better than simply caption. A caption is a standard thing that’s supposed to do a fairly predictable job of elucidation. A voice-over suggests something a little bit more digressive, something weighted with a certain intent, but an intent that isn’t always simple to pin down. Although there are twenty-five different countries represented in the book, there is a kind of uniformity of line in it—and a uniformity of palette. This palette comes from shooting with 35-mm film: I recognized that film served the project best because of how it forces a certain slowness and a way of looking at things meditatively. On the other hand, most of the shooting for Black Paper was done with a digital camera because of its reliability in low light and at nighttime. I let each given project suggest its own best tools; I try not to be doctrinaire about it.

Instagram had a profound influence on the eventual outcome of both of these projects. The length of the text in Blind Spot was partly shaped by writing on Instagram. One feature of the application I’ve made use of is the possibility of switching off comments. I don’t really want to know what people think of a work that is still being formed. Rather, I want Instagram to take me through the process of seeing the work being seen. The mere fact of having shown a particular picture to someone else helps me figure out my own critical response to that image. Of the photographs I have taken since November and tagged #blackpaper, I used maybe half in the printed, physical iteration of the work. It now exists as a massive multipart image on a wall, about seven feet long and four feet wide. Instagram helped me figure out which pictures were strong enough, and which I needed to discard.

There is always tremendous activity that leads to the formation of a landscape. In the aftermath of violence, things take on a placid appearance. I’m interested in the oblique ways in which we have to respond to atrocity, since the violence isn’t always apparent. How does what we know relate to what we can see? Black Paper is a project I started in response to the US election, but also in the wake of having finished a book. The photographs in Blind Spot are bright. There is daylight. The complication—the darkness—is in the voice-over. The photographs themselves are legible and fairly artless in this kind of “photographing democratically” tradition that comes from William Eggleston.

When I started to do Black Paper, the photographs became dark, moodier. They were less conceptual. Black Paper is actually more purely visual as a project: What I want you to see is in it, you just have to really look at it. The shadows are active. The pictures themselves contain a lot of information. I started out by including a lot of text, almost like a continuation of this technique from Blind Spot. And I’m going to use texts for future iterations of the piece, but for this first stage of the work, I wanted to just have a cluster of images speaking in that shadowed and emotional way. Later, I might add elements like projection, performance, sound recording, and video. We’ll see. What I’ll say for now is that I want Black Paper to be the general rubric under which I consider my own personal response to this ongoing apocalypse. I continue to gather images for the project. The crisis is ongoing, and therefore so is the responsive work.

— As told to Zack Hatfield

Georgia Sagri, Soma in orgasm; as leg, as hand, as brain, as ear, as heart, as breast, as sex, 2017, aluminum, acrylic spraypaint, various metallic parts, plastic, fabric, dimensions variable. Photo: Angelos Giotopoulos.

Georgia Sagri is an artist based in Athens and in New York. Here, she discusses Dynamis, 2017, her piece for Documenta 14, which entangles twenty-eight sculptures of organs, ten breathing scores, and six days of “demonstration / performance simultaneously and in continuum” with a chorus—featuring Nora Barbier, Sophia Djitli, Ioannis Karounis, Clara Marie Müller, Angela Stiegler, and Fernanda Valdivieso, Marianna Feher, Emma Howes, Lo-Yi Lee, Jaqueline Lisboa Silva, Hannah Peinemann, Deva Schule, and Catherine Woywod—and will take place from June 7 through June 12, 2017, in Athens and Kassel. The departure points on June 7 are Tositsa 5 in Athens at noon and the Glass Pavilions on Kurt-Schumacher-Straße in Kassel, also at noon. A public discussion on the work will take place on June 12 at 8 PM at the Papier Café in the School of Fine Arts in Kassel.

MY WORKS ARE DECLARATIONS, CLAIMS, AND ANNOUNCEMENTS. They are ghosts—appearances that eventually take shape materially and then disappear. My Dynamis / Invitation was emailed to a lot of people—friends, friends of friends. I sent it to so many people because I hope they will in turn send it to their friends and make the invitation open up even more. In that sense materiality is not simply what it is made and finalized. I’m more interested in the tactics that the piece proposes, in terms of how it defines and claims the time and how it is produced.

The invitation is a call for something to take place and a confirmation that it will try to make its declaration possible. It is a text, it has a design, it is distributed in many different ways and it can be utilized by everyone—like a poster on the wall, a message on a flyer that it is handed out to passersby—my works could happen if the realm, the moment, factors and agents allow it to be received and make its reason exist.

Production is defined not only by an already existing frame—such as institutions, language, and the specific decisions I have made about the work materially—but by the moment when the work is able to autonomously shift its fate as a piece of art, as something that makes everyone feel responsible to have a claim in its production. My work hinges on this. That’s why the up-front language in the invitation—“We need to continue to stay in trouble”—is written the way it is: I want the receivers to respond and to create a purpose, the ground of the work. The invitation itself is not the piece. The piece is made when the text is read, when the message is received, and when curiosity and excitement come. The receivers are all different; I thought it was really beautiful that you wrote to me to ask what is this all about and you wanted to know more about it. The invitation is also, symbolically, a return of Documenta’s institutional invitation back to where it belongs—to everyone.

Clearly over the past decade we have been experiencing the decisive development of fascism through the dictating assumption that capitalism is the only way for all of us to organize our lives and deaths. Creative producers under such economic and social pressure can turn into unquestioning automatons of production, working just for the sake of acquiring the authorship stamp made in art.*

The piece Δύναμη / Dynamis is taking place at the same time in two cities, and it acts as a reminder that the social exists. The orgasm is the work’s structural methodology. Sexual encounter for all living creatures demands four stages: excitement, plateau, peak (orgasm), and resolution. The sculptures involved in the work evoke organs, and when they go out in the public, on the streets, that’s the moment of the orgasm, and that’s why the sculptures are called Soma in orgasm; as leg, as hand, as brain, as ear, as heart, as breast, as sex. The excitement in the piece is the emotional shaping, and the shape of the training, the breathing patterns, and the shape of the sculptures, the shape of the work. The plateau is the moment when this shape makes a trajectory with other trainings, with different forms and others, and of course when this takes place the orgasm happens and the organs go out. The resolution is when, after six days of demonstration and performance, we will all gather to talk and to recall.

Performance—an exhausted term—has the capacity to return an invitation, to distribute power and to let go of representation. It allows for the manipulation of an existing framework. The very fact that its core is nongraspable but at the same time so common accounts for its impossibility as a medium and makes it uncontrolled. One of the dynamic elements of performance is time. Everyone talks about the here and now of performance, the presence of the artist, and that performance is ephemeral. For me, what takes place in performance has already been formed before, meaning that it was already. As the material has taken place before, it is a heritage of shadows you carry. Performance is crystal-image. It is projection. It is visual affect. And it has the materiality of a dream.

*made in art © Georgia Sagri.

Georgia Sagri, Dynamis / Invitation, 2017, C-print.

— As told to Lauren O’Neill-Butler

Amy O’Neill, Zoo Revolution and The Well Fed Wolf, 2017, 16 mm transfer to HD video, color, sound, 8 minutes 6 seconds.

Amy O’Neill is a New York–based artist known for her works that sift through the ruins of Americana. Her latest exhibition, “Convex Cornea,” which she discusses here, features a new video installation, drawings, and the wall-based “Bean-Bag Flats” series. The show is on view at Kristina Kite Gallery in Los Angeles from June 3 through July 15, 2017.

MY FATHER ONCE TOLD ME A STORY about a rumor that spread throughout his high school in western Pennsylvania. To commemorate the assassinated president, school officials had asked for the face of John F. Kennedy to be grafted onto the head of their mascot, the Indian Chief Monacatootha, which appeared on a giant mural adorning the school’s entrance. I was born and raised in that area, where things tend to get muddier than anywhere else in the US. It’s a place to which my work keeps returning.

Zoo Revolution and the Well Fed Wolf is a 16-mm film retrofitted to play in my parents’ 1970s television console. Over a death-metal soundtrack by the band Orphan, the film brings together an abandoned petting zoo and a storybook forest I visited as a child. Today the original snack bar, rusted cages, and the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe house are invaded by wild brambles and on the verge of disappearance. Footage from two children’s films—a cartoon and an educational PSA on good eating habits—have been injected throughout the piece. I can’t remember precisely when I first saw those shorts, but I like to imagine digesting them during my first grade class’s “slow” period, in a cool and darkened classroom after lunch.

A lot of what I do takes many years to evolve. Deconstructing 13 Stripes and a Rectangle continues a work I began about a decade ago, around the time I first shot the petting zoo and the storybook forest. I asked a flag manufacturer to sew a batch of US flags minus the stars, and then I proceeded to hollow out the flag, excising the plain blue field and the stripes, leaving only the structural seams. This action was less about desecrating a flag than about physically opening up conversations about the continued casualties of war taking place worlds away, in Afghanistan and Iraq. An ongoing drawing series takes those stripped flags as subjects; for these I’ve applied a wax transfer technique to paper, which is a gentler approach for expressing my fears about the tattered condition of the United States political landscape. I draw like I think: piecemeal, over time. It’s kind of like surveying land, a job I assisted my father on—which I liked to think of as stories morphing into horizons, and then into lines.

A similar process occurred for my “Bean-Bag Flats” series. For these, fabric panels from the much-coveted 1970s chairs have been deconstructed at their seams, flattened, and pinned to the wall. Their outlines resemble torsos—in the style of Weebles, egg-shaped toys from my youth. Screen-printed jelly bean patterns run throughout the fabric, which is also littered with T-shirt iron-ons of slogans such as SIT ON IT!, all from the ’70s and pressed onto the flats.

I’m not nostalgic for a past that I only remember tangentially. These works aim at questioning how childhood souvenirs bring us to our current Trumpian juggernaut of telling tales. Or, as the cognitive psychologist Ulric Neisser once said about memory: “Out of a few stored bone chips we remember a dinosaur.”

— As told to Lauren O’Neill-Butler

David Gordon


David Gordon, Live Archiveography, 2017. Performance view, Vincent Astor Gallery, New York, March 30, 2017. Photo: Paula Court.

David Gordon—longtime director, choreographer, actor, playwright, and cofounder of the Judson Dance Theater and the improvisational dance company Grand Union—is preparing to present Live Archiveography, 2017, a performative extension of “ARCHIVEOGRAPHY – Under Construction,” his massive retrospective that was recently presented at the Vincent Astor Gallery at the New York Public Library, as he discusses here. Live Archiveography runs from June 1 to June 3, 2017, at the Kitchen in New York as a part of the LUMBERYARD in the City Festival.

WHEN I WENT TO TALK WITH THE PEOPLE AT THE NYPL about them having my archive, they asked me if I would, at some point, want to do a public Q&A for it. I said no thank you. They asked why, and I said that I’d been to some of those events and that they weren’t very interesting. I said that if I were going to do something like that, I would want to, in some way, make it matter as a live performative situation, versus rehashing some events from a pile of press clippings. Well, the NYPL said they were interested, so I began trying to invent some way that an archival circumstance could be performative while, yes, answering some questions. And what we ended up doing was very well received, so we did two different versions of it. And then ODC/Dance in San Francisco wanted a version of it, and then the opportunity to develop it through the LUMBERYARD presented itself. So Live Archiveography is a collage happening in real time of things from different eras of my creative history. I’m making old new work. Or new old work.

Everything I did as an artist—or whatever you want to call me—surprised me as I was going through my archive. For the first three or so years of my career, I kept nothing . . . at all. It didn’t occur to me that it was important to do. It seemed foolish to keep bad reviews and it seemed immodest to keep great reviews. I just threw everything away. One afternoon at the Judson many years ago, Simone Forti was there, talking to somebody in the bleachers. And when the man she was chatting with left, she pulled a pad out of her pocket and began writing. I asked her what she was doing and she said, “I’m writing down what I just said. Someday, somebody’s going to want to know.” And I considered that and thought, Well, maybe I shouldn’t throw everything away. So I bought a used file cabinet and just started putting things into the drawers, with no rhyme or reason for what went where. I only started organizing it during the last three or four years, when people started talking to me about my archive.

David Gordon, Panel, 1986, video, color, sound, 4 minutes 25 seconds.

It’s interesting—I thought I had spent my life working to make each new concert very different from the last. But as I began to look at everything I did, I saw that I was making one concert, with many different parts, for fifty years. As I was going through the archive, I’d see a piece of material, or the subject of a piece of material, and then it would show up five or ten years later. I’d find something and think, “Wait a minute—that’s that, again!” It’s something I can’t get away from. I discovered early in my career that I was not an abstract artist. I’m a storyteller. I make things happen that are about something. It could be a clear narrative, it could be a disrupted narrative. But narrative supports everything I do. I never thought about all this until I began to go through my archive. There was continuity, even though I had tried very hard to avoid continuity. My archive also makes clear that I was working in the world among other artists. And all the television and movies I watched, the literature and headlines I read—those things, too, affected the kind of art I wanted to make. I don’t make things in some private “inspirational” world. My work is a reaction to the world. I’m always paying attention. Everything’s connected.

That sort of continuity has to do with my relationships, my family. My mother had four sisters—they all raised me. Their men were all working or in the army, so I was around a lot of women. And they referred to themselves with some frequency as my “other mothers.” And my grandmother, their mother, was never farther away than next door. And if you mouthed off to one of them, another one of them would say, “Don’t talk to her like that!” That was my life. There is something about those women and my grandmother and the stories that my grandmother told—I think it’s how I learned to hear stories. Somebody always had a story about something, frequently terrifying.

My life is full of many different families. My son was born two days before my first performance at the Judson! I remember being at the hospital, visiting my wife, the dancer Valda Setterfield, and our new baby. One evening I get up and say, “I’m sorry, I have to go because it’s the first night of the Judson.” And I take a taxi down to the Judson and walk in and say, “Okay, when do I go on?” And they say, “Now.” So I take off my shoes and walk on stage and do the first of the Judson solos. But I had just come from the hospital and held my tiny son in my arms and kissed Valda goodbye—all of that feels so inextricably linked. The Dunn Workshop, which spawned the Judson Dance Theater, which turned into the Yvonne Rainer Company, which then turned into the Grand Union—all are my family. And then there are all the presenters who brought my work to parts of the United States I had never been to before, who worked with me for years—they are my family too. And because of them, I have more families in Minneapolis through the Guthrie Theater and the Walker Art Center. So everywhere I go, everyone I work closely with, I develop a new family. But one of the things about getting to this age, and it’s really peculiar, is seeing an awful lot of your family die. Trisha Brown, who got me into the home I’ve had for many decades now, is gone. My family is disappearing, but I’m still sitting here, watching them go.

Extending the life of the archive into performances is a way of working against the idea of an archive being this stifling, overdetermining thing. My son, Ain, who is also an artist, says that history is quite often a single person’s estimation of what has happened, as opposed to another single person’s estimation of what happened, as opposed to somebody who lived through what happened, as opposed to what actually happened. I wanted to have a say in what I thought my history was. But, as I said to somebody once, in a so-called advisory or mentorship situation, half of what I say to you now I might not believe tomorrow. And I want the archive and everything inspired by it to say, “This happened. I thought it was happening for this reason. But I think now that it may have happened for this reason. And I may be wrong about both of those things.”

— As told to Alex Jovanovich

Martine Syms


Martine Syms, Incense Sweaters & Ice, 2017, HD video, color, sound, 70 minutes.

Martine Syms is a self-described “conceptual entrepreneur” based in Los Angeles. Her artistic practice spans publishing, performance, sculpture, photography, film, and more. Here Syms discusses the politics of migration, surveillance, and presentation as they appear in “Projects 106: Martine Syms,” her first solo museum exhibition in the US, which is organized by Jocelyn Miller and on view at the Museum of Modern Art in New York from May 27 through July 16, 2017.

THE CENTERPIECE OF THIS SHOW is my first feature-length film, Incense Sweaters & Ice. The title refers to goods that were originally manufactured in Altadena, a neighborhood in northeast Los Angeles, which is where I’m from and also where one of the main characters, Girl, is from. She is a traveling nurse, and is basically making a reverse migration from the one that older women in her family made—she’s going from Los Angeles to Saint Louis to Clarksdale, Mississippi—to do a contract job, while voices narrate their own migrations in the other direction.

The idea of the Great Migration and its psychogeographies is of considerable interest to me. For a lot of blacks, that migration, which often involved their families’ migration into cities, changed the way that they presented and fashioned themselves. Two books have really informed my thinking: One is Migrating to the Movies: Cinema and Black Urban Modernity by Jacqueline Stewart, in which she unpacks the parallel between the migration of blacks from the rural South to the urban North and their migration into the film industry, both behind and in front of the camera. They have similar time lines, which is roughly 1915 to 1970; by 1970 you start to see more of a black presence. The other is Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration, which pairs narratives of individual migrations with contemporaneous developments in photography and motion pictures. I’m interested in how that’s continued to happen, how your sense of self and the way you present yourself are forms of performance, and how this is tied to a knowledge of being seen or unseen.

Excerpt from Martine Syms’s interview for 500 Words.

For me, it’s hard to consider the imaging of black people outside of film’s ethnographic roots and its relationship to surveillance and cataloguing. Some of the earliest images of people of color were used for those purposes, and I see a lot of similarities between these earlier cinematic forms and present-day Web contexts, for instance. What if you were to assume that you’re being constantly recorded, which in our contemporary moment of widespread surveillance is more or less true? You could say that there’s just a giant film production happening at all times. What happens to you and your being or identity within that reality? How are we performing or acting in this context? There’s a link between the production of self or one’s identity and the mediated production of images, and I’m trying to tie them together both formally and conceptually. A primary reference for me is this idea I’ve been calling “ambient cinema”: ambient in the sense of expanded and environmental, that it’s always happening.

I wanted the exhibition to look like a set and to have elements from a film production. The space is monochromatic to hint at or conjure this, and there is a large wall painting with the word girl spelled different ways to convey inflection. There’s also a suite of twelve photographs printed on film posters targeted toward African American audiences, creating a double exposure of seeing the original poster as well as the image. And there is an augmented-reality iOS app [WYD RN] built in collaboration with Brent David Freaney and designed specifically for the exhibition, which, when held over these images, triggers another interactive video that uses facial-recognition technology to play audio and video through the app. I’m interested in using augmented reality to further connect the project to digital realms and bring this kind of simultaneity into the exhibition space itself.

My insistence on making my exhibition spaces also resemble sites of production is connected to two things: First is the idea that I don’t really think of things as ever being done, and so visually, I want it to be a space where something happens. Second, it connects to this idea of everyone’s ability to record everything, so the exhibition is already a space of production. People are going to be taking pictures and recording videos in there, and through the iOS app itself they can also produce images. What does this feedback loop do to the viewing experience? People are making images at the same time that they’re viewing them and feeling ambivalent about being in them; I’m invested in containing that ambivalence within the project itself and in my own imagemaking. 

— As told to Alex Fialho

Nazım Can Cihan and Aslıhan Demirtaş with Kaide (Plinth), 2016, at collectorspace, Istanbul. Photo: Ali Taptık.

Aslıhan Demirtaş is an Istanbul- and New York–based architect and designer whose practice often takes on unexpected, research-based projects. In Taksim Square, she is currently showing Kaide (Plinth), 2016: one and a half tons of earth rammed into a sixty-by-forty-inch rectangular prism, the dimensions of which are based on endangered, traditional urban gardening modules in the Yedikule neighborhood of Istanbul. A farmer, a composer, artists, and collectors have all been invited to contribute to Kaide for one week a piece in order to reflect on soil, memory, and displacement, as well as on the main premises of collecting. The show is on view at collectorspace through May 31, 2017.

THE WORK WAS BORN IN TURKEY, and its title, Kaide, has multiple meanings in the language: rules, ground, foundation, as well as a pedestal or a plinth. Pedestal has a Latin root that has to do with the foot, footing—it’s pie di stallo, “foot of a stall.” But when I looked up the Greek word for plinth, it was a pleasant surprise, because plinth means a piece of earth that has been baked. It’s a brick, so it felt appropriate given the physicality of the work to name it Plinth rather than Pedestal.

My collaborators and I debated about getting the soil from Yedikule Urban Gardens, which would involve dealing with bureaucracy and paperwork, since it’s a historic preservation site. And we did actually start this project by talking with the authorities. They were surprised and asked many questions about our planned excavation—where we’d want to take the soil, the shape of the excavation, and they basically required the submission of a drawing detailing the excavation. But we stopped there and did not take soil from the neighborhood, because, fortunately early on, I realized that we as activists in Yedikule have been fighting for a certain kind of conservation of the neighborhood: conserving by giving it a future.

Let me back up a bit and explain this. The Yedikule Urban Gardens have existed for sixteen hundred years. They date back to the Byzantine emperor Theodosius, who built the last land walls by the gardens. He was the one who originally bestowed basement spaces to the farmers. Over the centuries, there have been Greek farmers, Armenian farmers, and Albanian farmers; now, there are Black Sea farmers working there. The people change, but the soil remains, adapting itself to the different produce people want to grow. The activism around Yedikule is not geared toward freezing the gardens in time against the threat of real estate speculation. We do not want to keep the urban gardens as they are, as if they are artifacts from a bygone era. We want them to be free, and basically living. So if I take soil from Yedikule Gardens and put it in a gallery, I’ll be making it a nonliving art piece. That conflicted with our axis of activism and conservation.

With the framework of migration or leaving one’s homeland in mind, I asked myself this question: What is it to feel like a refugee in your own land, without having been displaced? The urban gardens have existed in Yedikule for hundreds of years; however, bulldozers are now waiting in front of them in anticipation of clearing space for mass housing projects or parks. Urban farming has a long tradition in Istanbul, but the city actually disowns that tradition now and is about to deport it as if it were an illegal alien. What if everything else changes around you—how do you become a refugee without even moving an inch? And I think this can be applied to anyone, not just to the bostans (urban gardens) but to any individual living in Turkey.

I think the exhibition at collectorspace is a refreshing gesture in terms of questioning what the word “collection” means, what a collector is, why people collect, and this issue as well: If something is in a collection, why does this make it more important than any other thing that is not in the collection? In my mind, it also underlines the artificially made distinction between the urban and the rural, since we place the Plinth at the heart of urban Istanbul, in Taksim. I’d like to say there is no urban without the rural, and there’s no rural without the urban. They coexist, which makes the loop back to the Yedikule Urban Gardens: If there’s no distinction between the rural and the urban, why would you not farm in the city?

Özge Ersoy of collectorspace and I have devised the program in an evolving scheme. We have left the programming flexible. We didn’t finalize who was going to be contributing at the beginning. We invited people, listened to them, and kept thinking about their gestures. So, in a way, like farming, it’s dependent on the seasons. There are cycles, and the climate changes. You could say it’s a way of cultivating collaborations, meanings, thoughts, and, most important, questions. Robert Smithson once said something like, “The city gives the impression that earth doesn’t exist.” Plinth is basically founded on this profound sentence. And this sentence always echoes in my mind.

— As told to Gökcan Demirkazik