In an earlier review of her work we are told that to make this type of drawing Dove Bradshaw takes a sheet of carbon paper and lays it over “a clear adhesive sheet that has been exposed to dust. By rubbing the paper, carbon is removed from every place except where the dust lies, and the resulting carbon paper reveals dust’s impression.”¹ What we have here, then, is a careful manipulation of two elements that “fly”: carbon and dust.

A sheet of carbon paper appears to be a perfectly reconciled and indivisible object. When we look at it we are captivated both by the glossy perfection of the surface and by its apparent immutability. The idea of separating the carbon from the surface seems impertinent.

But not to Bradshaw. It is precisely her willingness to insert a catalyst that precipitates unforeseeable consequences that makes her work of a kind not seen before. Here, while removing the carbon from the paper that carries it, she complicates the process further by dispersing dust on the receiving surface, affecting both the distribution of the carbon and its volume. The dust, while acting as a barrier between the carbon and the adhesive, subtly marks the surface by leaving its own imprint: it adds volume and tone to the drawing. One unanticipated consequence of this ingenious combination is that, when held to the light, a variety of colors—until then hidden—appear on the drawing, as if alerted by the added and transitory illumination to make a brief appearance.

The surface on which the carbon and the dust finally mix is transparent and gives the impression of being very thin. At the top, where the sheet has been fastened to the framing board, it buckles slightly. The thinness of the supporting paper suggests that the work lacks physical strength.

The fragility inherent in the materials and in the surface that restrains them makes Bradshaw’s intervention all the more daring. The fact that she prefers to work with dust and carbon, both volatile materials that are then further attenuated by her manipulation, offers us the immense satisfaction of participating, through observation, in the creation of a work of art that was clearly supported by careful forethought. Here, we are witnessing Bradshaw’s resolute determination to further extend the possibilities of a material that, to all appearances, seemed to have reached its final destination.

1. Mark Swed, Dove Bradshaw /Jan Henle (Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 1998) p.10.

Dance is propelled by the foot, and this choreographer has fearlessly walked the exterior wall of a building, ‘drawing’ a line with her feet straight down its face. No physical record was left of that performance. But in other works by Brown that I looked at while mulling over this drawing, such as It’s a Draw (2002), the choreographer sits, lies, kneels and writhes on a body-sized sheet of paper, leaving a record of the work’s progress made with large sticks of black charcoal. After making Eleven Incidents (2007), Brown commented, “It felt like having tar on my foot.” Did the ‘incidents’ happen naturally while she was trying to clean her foot? About the wall walk, Trisha says that the task itself indicates:

1. when to start
2. where to go, and
3. where to finish

This tight concept seems to apply to these works on paper as well.

Was the other aluminum?

Did each plate weigh 180 pounds? These were my thoughts as I looked at this print, not being familiar with the work.

Wynn suggested that I ask my questions directly, so I called up Joseph Zito. He told me that in the late 1980s and early 1990s he was making work about his physical being. In May 1991, the date of this work, he weighed 180 pounds, and he said that most of this work was based on that number.

Zito added: “I welded a steel form in the shape of an elongated triangle about twenty-four inches long, like the tip of a spear. I then cast eleven copper pieces, which equaled 180 pounds, and thirty-three aluminum pieces, also equaling 180 pounds. The thirty-three aluminum pieces were suspended from the ceiling, and the eleven copper pieces were on the floor below. I always liked how Bruce Nauman’s titles usually described his sculptures, so I had an aluminum plate engraved with the title to hang near the finished piece. One day I decided to make a print of the plate and used whatever I had available, which was roofing tar,” which Zito told me he was using on his roof that day. “Basically, I printed the plate twice on the same sheet of paper so I would have less crap to clean off when I was finished.”

Zito printed this piece himself, without regard to the inverted writing, and the double printing of the single plate accounts for the different densities of the imprints. The immediate, elemental energy of that day comes through abstractly, while everything is accounted for in the tight tradition of conceptual works.