Sometimes I sits and thinks
Sometimes I just sits

by Eva Meyer-Hermann, 2004

It was a surprise to find a seat of any kind in this out of the way place. The exhausted hiker sinks down onto the old, decaying wooden bench. She spots a weathered inscription scratched into the seat-back. For a moment she quite forgets the view out over the lake, the strange humps of the distant mountains and the cold slowly creeping up from the sandy shoreline. No-one else far and wide in this lonely place - yet someone had clearly been here a long time ago. Almost illegible letters - spindly and uncertain - have been cut into the wood, now covered with a fine coat of moss: SOMETIMES I SITS AND THINKS / SOMETIMES I JUST SITS. Wonderingly the hiker deciphers the words. No, she's not mistaken, there really is a small "S" on the verb. How could it be that the first person speaker was functioning in the third person? Did the writer know no better, or is this - more likely - an archaic dialect form?

While these thoughts are still spinning around, the grand panorama once again catches her senses unawares. The mountain-cold water of the lake lies still and leaden like pitch black oil, reflecting the precipitous mountainsides. The ridge of the Wicklow Mountains calls to mind vertebrae pressing up under the smooth pelt on an animal's back. How far away the path just traveled suddenly seems, leading out from the foundations of a medieval monastery, past an ancient keep and semi-ruined chapels in the wood. Although the November weather is gray and overcast, the air is pure and clear. This second and last lake at the far end of the Glendalough Valley has no deeper historical or spiritual significance. All that remains is the dialogue between nature and an individual ego as they merge, each losing itself in the other.
From Dublin it's only two hours with the country bus to Glen-dalough. You don't have to book a long haul flight to get right away from everything, to be all alone with yourself in the open air. The restlessness of the twenty-first century is behind you, no sign here of flashing advertisements, brightly colored video screens, suggestive publicity campaigns. Nor is there the daily mayhem of the rush hour, with different modes of transport clogging the roads, emitting carbon dioxide and blaring their horns. Forgotten the hectic bustle of the people jostling each other in dense clusters along the sidewalk, through department stores and into subway entrances. They are now no more than a dim memory, the rapid footsteps of living creatures hurrying close past each other - astonishingly rarely brushing against some other body.

The journey from Zurich to the solitude of the mountains, to Glarus, doesn't even take as long as the trip from Dublin to Glen-dalough. And yet it seems as though one were days away from the city. It almost induces a feeling of nostalgia the first time you see the rich meadows in the valleys with old farms dotted here and there.
The phrase "feet on the ground" comes to mind. Here people live with and in nature, grateful for every ray of the sparse sunlight that only puts in an appearance between the high mountain peaks for just a few short hours each day. Having escaped the insistently penetrating ground bass of city life, people adjust to a much slower rhythm. People here have time.

On the outskirts of Glarus, a little way up the mountain, is the old villa of the Galerie Tschudi. The gleaming parquet floor creaks with every step. You find yourself imagining what it would be like to live in one of those picturesque little rooms, and you use both hands to open the oriel window with its white-painted wooden frame, letting in fresh, cool Alpine air and breathing in deeply. No, there's no-one behind you, urging you to hurry up. You just stand there. Perhaps you hear steps in another room, pausing now and again. Voices float upwards from the garden. People are leaning against low, mossy sandstone walls. It's too cold to sit on them. It seems that works of art are growing amongst old pergolas, hedges, flowerbeds and mean-dering, enchanted rose bushes. They share the time and the place with a number of tortoises who slowly make their way across the grass or quietly nibble pieces off a piece of greenery. Never before has there been such a natural setting for works by Richard Long, Mario Merz, Ulrich Rückriem, Sol LeWitt or Carl Andre. The pleasing symbiosis of material, form and surroundings reduces to dry theory art historians' up-to-the-minute awareness of the latest label for this art, be it Minimal Art, Concept Art or Arte Povera.

Ever since 1993, Carl Andre has visited Glarus frequently and gladly. He loves the Swiss materials finished according to the highest of standards of manufacturing and craftsmanship. He was taken above all by the copper, but also by the lead and aluminum. When the villa or the newly built exhibition hall facing it are empty, it's not impossible that the artist will hide away there with his latest delivery for hours or days on end. It seems that no single piece of wood, metal or stone is too large or too heavy for him to lift - although the sum total of the weight of these individually lifted and moved items cannot be far short of the limits of his capacity. And then it is the incipient exhaustion that encourages the process of decision making. These works are not calculated in advance; in the truest sense of the word, the artist physically "works for" these.
A broken old bench with a strange inscription in Ireland, a very special place for art in the Swiss Alps and an American artist in Europe - what links these three? What is the connection between what is made in Glarus and the place where it is made? What is the relationship between these works and the natural surroundings?

Is there any such relationship at all? Carl Andre's works are always closely connected with the place of their making, which lingers on as an adjunct to the titles of his sculptures. Yet the place is mainly an attribute; the connections are neither direct nor indispensable. The sense of place is less intellectual or spiritual than primarily material and physical. The solitude of the place also means that there is time - the necessary time - to escape from external influences and intellectual reflection and to fully open one's senses to the particularities of that situation.
Carl Andre was born in Quincy, Massachusetts, in 1935; in art-historical terms his work is part of that movement which has been known since the 1960s as Minimal Art. The name comes from one of the many terms used to describe the stereometric, serial, literally elementary, plain forms and structures starting to appear in art at that time. In Minimal Art, the object is neither a representation of the world nor is it a reflection of the inner workings of the human psyche. It is perceived as a form in space by dint of the active participation of the viewer. The supposedly "simple" forms - which set in motion highly complex mechanisms of perception - ultimately convey a multi-faceted message. The intuitive genesis of the work is matched on the viewer's side by an often unconscious move towards appropriation which is only later matched by conscious delibera-tions. Consequently the ideal viewers as far as the artist is concerned are children and dogs: their response to the works is playful, and completely in keeping with the way that they normally investigate the visible world. Carl Andre is an American artist with a long history in Europe.

In 1967 Konrad Fischer opened his gallery in Düsseldorf with 5 × 20 Altstadt Rectangle, which took up almost the entire space. Despite this, some bewildered visitors were still found searching for the sculp-ture. Generally this went on until they were told, "But you're standing on it!" As it happened the 100 identical square steel tiles laid like a carpet on the floor were only five millimeters thick, so it was hardly surprising that in the milling crowds at the vernissage the work was barely noticed in the vehicle entrance-way now converted into a gallery space.

Today this event has already entered the annals of art history and, as this American artist's first exhibition in Europe, also marks the moment when his by now legendary definition of "sculpture as place" first fully came into its own. The sculpture in Düsseldorf was not only
"as flat as water" as the artist had stipulated for the presentation of 8 Equivalents in the Tibor de Nagy Gallery, New York, the year before, this one was also intended for visitors to walk on. The work neither clamored for attention nor attempted to dominate the space. Also in 1966, Carl Andre had already placed three man-sized sculptures, styrofoam beams - Crib, Coin and Compound - in a gallery space, not merely to fill it up but to add a counter-measure, in order to "seize and hold the space". Even if the works appear restrained, never forcing themselves on the space or the viewer, at the same time they are demanding and expect from viewers - accustomed to the passive consumption of art - a not inconsiderable degree of active participation and reflection on what they perceive in the space.

In Carl Andre's work materials and configuration are of central importance and have not infrequently led to misunderstandings and misinterpretations. The configuration of a work derives from the form and material of the individual unit and the number of elements.
While the mathematical basis of any configuration is intended to promote rational cognition, relativized by the viewer's perception, the material (one or more substances) is primarily aimed at the viewer's sense perceptions, which can have a rational ingredient in the shape of preknowledge and experience. Over the last forty years Andre's œuvre has covered a wide typological range of highly diverse configu-rations. Different configurations and variants on these neither adhere to any chronological order nor are they developed according to any strictly systematic sequence. The decision as to which configuration and which material when, depends entirely on the place and purpose of each new work.

In 1967 visitors were faced with 5 x 20 steel plates, arranged to cover almost the entire floor of the gallery space, forcing them to walk on the sculpture. As visitors moved across it, the configuration became clear: 5 plates reached almost the full width of the space, 20 plates extended almost the full length of the original entrance way. However, the geometrical figure in one's mind's eye of a narrow rectangle is not replicated in reality because one sees a trapezium, due to perspectival foreshortening. By virtue of what we have learnt in the past and already know, we are able to interpret a reality objectively perceived to be something quite different. Our response to the steel is quite the opposite: we cannot know the exact thickness or (hence) the actual weight of the material. All we can do is listen to the sound of our footsteps and feel the unyielding resistance under our feet. Perhaps we also see the special way that the light falls on the material, how it reflects off it, softly modulating or being entirely absorbed. We have to rely on ad hoc experience to make anything of the essence of the material. Perhaps at some later date, glancing at a book or a periodic table, we may find confirmation of our subjective response. Or one day in a museum, in a gallery or private collection we may come across a similar piece, maybe made from aluminum or copper. Then we will notice the difference and better see its individuality.
Carl Andre doesn't work according to a carefully calculated con-cept; his sculptures are not first created in his mind's eye or on paper before being realized as the whim takes him and in different variants.

Since the mid-1960s he has adhered to a principle that still serves him unchanged today. He plays out different configurations in keeping with their mathematical time signatures: prime numbers, pairs, square numbers, multiple division factors and equivalences combine with the particular sound colors of the chosen material to create highly individual compositions. Within any one composition, the egalitarian nature of the elements prevents any kind of hierarchy forming.

The place of the work constrains the even juxtaposition of the ele-ments, preventing it from turning into the basically infinite "allover" of a pattern of elements and materials. The sites of Andre's works are less specific in terms of history or anecdote; it's more their general character that inspires certain configurations. A large public hall (as in an industrial building or a museum) requires a different work to the private individual's living room. And as little as Carl Andre's works are conceptually preconceived, they equally cannot be altered once they exist as such. If a work has already taken its place in the world, with this or that configuration and this or that material, there is no way that it can subsequently be changed.

The structural formula "Form > Structure > Place" was coined by Carl Andre to describe the development of sculptural art, taking as his example the changing responses by artists to the American Statue of Liberty. The "Form" is the sculpture by Bartholdy, the "Structure" is the internal framework by Eiffel and the "Place" is Bedloe's Island. Every work by Carl Andre carries within it all three of these components, at the same time as ultimately striving for a fourth category, which the artist describes as "matter".? "Matter" is the linchpin of his approach to the work. By introducing this additional criterion, he relativizes the concrete connection to a place or nature. Although the place is one of the factors that feed into a work, it is secondary to the material. It would be rash to attribute Carl Andre's abundant creativity during his trips to Switzerland simply to the fact of being cut off from the world or to the unique character of the nature all around him. His relationship to nature is more a matter of "naturalness", in the sense of the highest possible purity and authenticity of his materials.

Carl Andre's materials are only shaped or treated to the minimum extent required for the production of the individual units. These different modules are not "natural" by virtue of their original morphology (a branch, a tree trunk, a lump of stone for instance), but as a state which ensures that the material is manipulated as little as possible.

Added to which, Carl Andre also uses industrial materials such as metal alloys or building bricks made from concrete or fired clay. In his view, every material is no more and no less than itself: "wood as wood and steel as steel, aluminum as aluminum, a bale of hay as a bale of hay" - neither useful wooden choir stalls, nor inhabitable architecture or a freely created image. In his eyes, material is natural, albeit without imitating or idealizing nature. He even regards it in a democratic sense as "popular", because everyone knows it and can recognize it in this simple, elementary form. Amongst Carl Andre's early childhood memories are playing in a deserted quarry and visits to his father who worked in a shipyard.
How impressive the vast quantities of semi-finished steel needed for shipbuilding, the mighty curved plates, the tanks and massive steel supports! Like the huge, roughly hewn blocks of stone, they conveyed a sense of the density and weight of the material, more effectively than any physics book could do with scientific theories. And of course these places were nothing to do with pure nature, but already a kind of "second nature". Material was seen not in its original state, as it formed, but in an intermediate stage - already touched by human hand although not yet with the sophisticated refinement of a consumer article.

Another key episode for the young artist was his employment with the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. As a freight brakeman hegained experience of the physical behavior of matter. Although it wasn't the enormous masses or the sequential processes that made such a lasting impression on the artist. Unlike some of his fellow artists Carl Andre has never been interested in producing his works on a monumental scale. He is fascinated instead by the specific qualities of matter, which make a formal and sensual impact, even in the case of the tiniest element. Produced at almost exactly the same time as he was working for the railroad company, the constructions made from small metal blocks point to his preoccupation with specific weights and forms that result from the inertia and gravity of the material: a T, a reversed T, a U and a reversed U, two elements lying one behind the other like a train. Not long afterwards these studies led to the recurrent Element Series, which to this day determine the fund of forms and the configurations of the works in wood. More than almost any other achievement of early industrializa-tion, the railroad is equated with the settlement of the United States. It encapsulates the myth of the progressive conquest and occupation of land. The seemingly endless, die-straight tracks have been an intrinsic part of the American landscape ever since the days of the pioneers. Especially the monumental landscape paintings from the 19th century typically reflect this horizontality. By the same token Carl Andre's floor pieces refer to the horizontal as the locus for human activity; they reckon with a human being walking on them or along by them, taking in the world and appropriating it in the process. The passive viewer - facing the ideal, upright figure - has become an active participant, whose own bodily actions ultimately make sense of the work.

The time span and the history that separate 19th-century American landscape painting and the Minimal Art of the 1960s extend for over 100 years. Far be it, however, for this text to seek to trace a line from one to the other. That would be as fruitless and ill-advised as trying to make a direct connection between Carl Andre's productive creativity in Glarus (Switzerland) and the isolation of the Alpine land-scape. Yet these comparisons and cursory references are of course made not entirely without an ulterior motive. Consideration of the circumstances of the genesis of the work and the possibility of connections to nature and the landscape might at least serve to help clarify what Carl Andre calls "matter". The place of the landscape has an indirect effect, whereas matter - even created by human hand - has the most immediate connection with nature.

As far as references to landscape in this connection are concerned, Carl Andre's European experiences (which he frequently cites) are highly significant. On his first visit to Great Britain in the 1950s he was greatly struck by the view from the airplane of the patchwork of agricultural land covering parts of the country. And the cult site of Stonehenge, which he visited, is reflected in almost literal formal analogies in his Element Series. The upturned U is not just an expression of physical power but also an open gateway or a solidly supported architrave. Later on Carl Andre absorbed more impressions of a landscape formed by human activity on his many visits to the Lower Rhine, a pleasant by-product of the exhibitions of his work put on by Konrad Fischer in Düsseldorf. Since these seminal experiences, Carl Andre feels closer to things European than American; many of his works recall by their titles or appearance elemental forms drawn from the European landscape.

It's as dangerous to ascribe - too hastily - national attributes to an artistic approach as it is revealing to inquire after its specifically national characteristics. We look for possible evidence of national identity not in order to tick off a particular phenomenon all the more quickly so that we can put the work into a pigeonhole, but because we are interested in the artist's diversity, because we are not only interested in influences and we believe that such a phenomenon, with all its many facets, can teach us something about the foundations of his existence, his personal context and origins.

In the 19th century there was an intense dialog between artists in the United States and Europe, particularly Great Britain, Italy and Germany. In the visual arts in the United States - as in literature and music too - attitudes to landscape developed a genuinely American approach, influenced in its principles and ideals by European philosophy and art but soon no longer exclusively oriented towards Europe.

Nature became the real theme of art. Beliefs and morals metaphorically followed the lead of nature, which served as both symbol and mentor for an emergent nation seeking its own identity.

In Ralph Waldo Emerson's (1803-1882) essay "Nature" (1836), the human being is confronted with unyielding nature; the human soul corresponds to nature, with its spiritual import and a divine "Over-Soul". The sacred landscape of the wilderness is the visible expression of a "Manifest Destiny", which is not made by human hand but a divine gift.

In the introduction to his text, Emerson talks of nature and art, and of their relationship to the universe:
Philosophically considered, the universe is composed of Nature and the Soul. Strictly speaking, therefore, all that is separate from us, all which Philosophy distinguishes as the NOT ME, that is, both nature and art, all other men and my own body, must be ranked under this name, NATURE. In enumerating the values of nature and casting up their sum, I shall use the word in both senses - in its common and in its philosophical import. In inquiries so general as our present one, the inaccuracy is not material; no confusion of thought will occur. Nature, in the common sense, refers to essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf. Art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, as in a house, a canal, a statue, a picture. But his operations taken together are so insignificant, a little chipping, baking, patching, and washing, that in an impression so grand as that of the world on the human mind, they do not vary the result.

He follows this in the first chapter with a description of nature and its effect on human beings:
The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood. [...]
The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.

Even if Emerson's language is shot through with a deep religiosity, which certainly has little to do with Andre's pragmatic "I want wood as wood...", nevertheless they both set great store by the sensual, material phenomena of the world. It is the thing in itself that allows us to fully perceive the world.

For Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), just a little younger than Emerson, nature is more than something simply to be revered; in a playful, subconscious way it becomes a mentor for life, as described - with its ethical and moral foundations - in Walden (first published in 1854). To write this book Thoreau retreated for two years to the lonely Walden Pond, a few miles away from his (and Emerson's) native town of Concord, New England.

If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets. When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence, - that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality. This is always exhilarating and sub-lime. By closing the eyes and slumbering, and consenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their daily life of routine and habit every where, which still is built on purely illusory foundations. Children, who play life, discern its true law and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experi-ence, that is, by failure.

From the facts of nature, as he describes it here, Thoreau deduces ethical responsibility. His language is less pictorial than Emerson's. The guidelines for human behavior that he extrapolates from his experience of nature range from concrete to provocative.

His text "On the Duty of Civil Disobedience" still exerted an influence well into the 20th century (Martin Luther King Jr., Mahatma Gandhi).15 Besides some practical advice from Thoreau, it is the "childlike" aspect of his writing - that innate, unconscious discernment that links him with Carl Andre. Intuition is given precedence over empirical experience.

Unlike the more conservative writing of Emerson and Thoreau, Walt Whitman's (1819-1892) language has a very independent, free, American feel. He is the first to deploy language in its own right as artistic matter. His verses are not didactic like the texts of his predecessors; his poems become an art form in their own right alongside the phenomena of the landscape and nature. In many ways, his poetic œuvre is shaped by music. Walt Whitman was very interested in music and also worked as a music critic. A lot of his poems revolve around the image of song and are so melodic in the sound of their language that many were set to music already during his lifetime. Carl Andre's connection with music is also through rhythm, which manifests itself in sculptural configurations of motifs, rows and variations, that are in a sense equivalent to the meter of poetic writing.

Over a 100 years after Walt Whitman died, Carl Andre created a concrete text piece, 16 which can take its place - as a "kindred spirit" - alongside the 19th-century texts.

N
O T
O N L
Y D O T
H E S P H
E R E S M A
K E M U S I C
T H E S P H E R
E S T H E M S E L
V E S A R E M A D E
O F M U S I C A L S O

This word piece is more than a short poem. It consists of words and a progression of two statements. In addition, the external form of a triangle suggests a number of layers of meaning. As in the sculp-tures, there is no hierarchical compositional schema. Reading and perceiving are the viewer's sole responsibility. The language is the material configured in a particular manner by the artist. The language is like a musical instrument, establishing a meter for individual tones, a phenomenon that is both intellectual and acoustic. In the case of the 19th-century American poets insightful cognition is metaphorically embedded in the sensual experience of nature.

Through his unconventional use of language, Walt Whitman freed himself from the metaphorical flights of his predecessors and established his own artistic approach. In that sense he is similar to Andre, for whom the muses and the arts not only define the cosmos but only come into being through the cosmos. Bearing in mind the "nat-uralness" of the materials, it could be said that matter exists like musical tones, with their origins in the cosmos and ultimately flowing back to It.

One work from the mid-1990s includes in its title (besides the place of its making and the material used) the astronomical term "galaxy", as an allusion to the spiraling form. So does this work represent some particular reality? Is it a likeness of an existing heavenly phenomenon? Glarus Copper Galaxy, Glarus 1995, consists of a bright strip of cold-drawn sheet copper, 20 cm wide and 0.055 cm thick. The copper is rolled up from its short edge and stands on its long edge. Due to the innate twist in the coiled copper, we see before us on the floor not some neatly spooled mass of material but an unevenly sprawling spiral of approximately 225 cm in diameter with irregular distances between its curves. This is how a roll of thin copper with the above dimensions behaves when you place it on the floor and forcibly unwind it. How it came to be in this position can be deduced from the state of the copper. The beholder's senses register the element of tension between the material, the forces impinging on it and its position in the space. It's no more than it is - a rolled strip of copper, set down and unwound. But the visible outcome is much more: the copper on the floor glitters as the viewer gazes at it, it reflects the light mysteriously in its softly shimmering surface.

The smooth parquet floor beneath it invites the material to dance. The gleaming varnish of the wood flirts with the soft glow of the copper. Something is turning here that can't be turning. Or is it turning in such a way that we - with our limited human senses - are unable to register it as turning? Isn't it like a human being searching and feeling for the right place, the place where the world makes sense? With its simplicity- albeit in a complicated state - the sculpture calls to mind a well known Shaker song? from the 19th century:

SIMPLE GIFTS
'Tis the gift to be simple,
'Tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down
Where you ought to be.
And when we find ourselves
In the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley
Of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained
To bow and to bend
We shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
'Till by turning, turning
We come round right.

Many of Andre's works are notable for their almost Puritanical modesty. In this instance, matter - for one brief moment in the volatility of existence - has found a place entirely in keeping with its own capacity. An alert eye and a perceptive spirit are required to recognize this fact. The reward for doing so is considerable and yet so simple: love and joy. These works are there to be loved; they are never importunate, never aggressive, sometimes they even hide away and can be overlooked. At the same time they are always free and optimistic, with a positive role to play in this world.

A series of works made from small 10-centimeter lead cubes includes the piece 9Pb Linone, Glarus 1995. The visitor entering the building almost didn't notice it - and yet its mysteri-ous, attractive density and dull gray surface caught her eye. There, next to the door, in a narrow, pocket-shaped niche, just under the overhang of the roof giving it protection from the rain: a short line of 9 cubes placed one behind the other. Normally this is the spot where visitors would leave their dirty snow boots before entering the building, or where the garbage bag might be put outside. But now the space is occupied by this snaking piece, like a demarcation line.

Without even needing to touch it the visitor can see that it is small but no lightweight. It looks heavy and seems to cut deeply into this cramped, somewhat disproportioned space. A force to be reckoned with. It lies there for all the world as though it were big and strong. It makes us laugh momentarily - although we would certainly not dare to get too close to it.

Every sculpture seems to invite an off-the-cuff narrative. They stand or lie in the space as simple, material, physical facts; they generate zones of the most intense concentration and most powerful feelings or zones of immense expansion and bubblingly joyful light-ness. They spark off new ideas yet always remain true to themselves: matter in space. Loners that call out to us human beings and - if we open ourselves to them - sing an ancient song of the individual within the whole, of the human being in this world. They occupy the same place as us, the viewer, and hence the same realm of activity. They are not You (singular, familiar), but I and It in one. They are neither a revered ideal nor an internalized I, they are neither a romantic vision nor a poetic symbol. They are what they are: pure material in the space that we share.

ONE'S-SELF / SING
One's-self | sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe / sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.(Walt Whitman, Inscriptions)

Published by Galerie Tschudi, Carl Andre – Glarus 1994-2004