Published by Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press (MIT Press)
Online ISSN: 1536-013X
Print ISSN: 0162-2870
Budget without sediment control measures.
The optimization model distributes grazing according to forage availability.
The USLE within the optimization model estimates soil detachment as affected by cover.
The cost to the rancher of reducing erosion.
Sediment is an important pollutant in the United States. Attempts to control sediment are under consideration for water bodies where sediment-affected water does not support designated uses. To be economically efficient, policies to control sediment should achieve required reductions in sediment at least cost. On rangelands, quantifying the scope of sediment reduction available through land management is problematic given the difficulty in quantifying sediment detachment, transport and deposition processes, and watershed runoff and sediment yield. As many ranches are economically stressed, imposing additional costs to reduce sediment could drive some ranchers out of business. A constrained optimization model was built that simulates the effect of imposing a constraint to reduce watershed sediment yield. The model calculates a rancher's net return subject to technology and soil detachment and sediment yield constraints. By varying the sediment constraints and solving the model multiple times, an abatement cost curve can be estimated. A case study of the Walnut Gulch Experimental Watershed is examined in which the entire watershed is modeled as a single ranch. Results indicate little scope to reduce erosion without reducing the income of an already economically stressed enterprise.
History of Art and Architecture Visual and Environmental Studies
Photographer Jim Welling presents a series of chemigrams made by applying Kodak Dektol powder (developer) and Kodak powdered fixer to chromogenic paper (Kodak Endura Metallic) in room light. The prints were then fixed for the normal time and washed. © 2016 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
The first time you hear a patient's unconscious, I mean really hear it in all of its immediacy and intimacy, there's a shock-no matter how much Freud you've read, how much analysis you've had, how prepared you think you are. My first patient was an eleven-year-old boy. We met two or three times a week at his school, a middle school for bright children from poor, mostly black and brown families. There we were in one of our sessions, which were held in the principal's office, the closest thing the overcrowded school had to a private space. I was listening to him explain how, in different countries, there are different gestures for "fuck you." He was pretty clearly enjoying the opportunity to use the forbidden word and make the forbidden gesture in my presence. In the United States it's the middle finger, he told me; then showed me. In China, it's the index and pinkie fingers. He paused for a moment over this gesture, which had triggered an association: Spider-Man. My patient then began to spin one of those vivid, violent daydreams that took up most of our sessions for the year and a half we worked together: Spider-Man is in China, he tries to shoot his web, but the people think he's gesturing "fuck you" at them. So they cut off his fingers. He tries to shoot the web from his mouth, so they cut off his mouth. He tries to shoot it from his butt-by now the patient was laughing hard-they cut off his butt. Defeated, Spider-Man returns home to find his mother. He gets into bed with her. She gets pregnant and has a baby. When Spider-Man realizes what's happened, somebody-it's not clear who-cuts out his eyes. Spider-Man dies. © 2018 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Paul Chan's speech, first delivered on the occasion of Engage More Now! A Symposium on Artists, Museums, and Publics at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles (November 2015), proposes that artistic experiences be understood as forms that vividly emblematizes the relationship between cunning and reasoning. It considers the ways in which this relationship echoes within the broadest arenas of social life and how such an outlook could upend what have become standard and increasingly tedious debates about aesthetics, politics, and social engagement in art. Chan also delivers a brief attack against the xenophobic and racist 2016 G.O.P presidential candidates, in particular Donald Trump.
Rosalind E. Krauss and Malcolm Turvey honor critic and film historian Annette Michelson, co-founder of October, who died in September 2018 at the age of ninety-five. They detail Michelson's contributions to the journal in essays, translations, and the editing of special issues, and announce a forthcoming issue dedicated to her scholarship.
In 1978, in its seventh issue, October published the travel diaries written by Alfred H. Barr, Jr., who would go on to become the founding director of the Museum of Modern Art, during his two-month sojourn in Russia in 1927–28. They were accompanied by a note from Barr's wife, Margaret Scolari Barr, who had made the documents available, and an introduction written by Jere Abbott, an art historian and former director of the Smith College Museum of Art who had returned to his family's textile business in Maine. Abbott and Barr had made the journey together, traveling from London in October 1927 to Holland and Germany (including a four-day visit to the Bauhaus) and then, on Christmas Day 1927, over the border into Soviet Russia. Abbott, as Margaret Barr had noted, kept his own journal on the trip. Abbott's, if anything, was more detailed and expansive in documenting its author's observations and perceptions of Soviet cultural life at this pivotal moment; and his perspective offers both a complement and counterpoint to Barr's. Russia after the revolution was largely uncharted territory for Anglophone cultural commentary: This, in combination with the two men's deep interest in and knowledge of contemporary art, makes their journals rare documents of the Soviet cultural terrain in the late 1920s. We present Abbott's diaries here, thirty-five years after the publication of Barr's, with thanks to the generous cooperation of the Smith College Museum of Art, where they are now held.
Founded by a group of international artists and writers in 1927, the journal i 10 supplied a remarkable selection of historical documents from the late 1920s. Reporting on the occasion of a reedition of the journal, Lucia Moholy, who was a part of the group, discusses the circumstances of its founding and its importance to the interwar European avant-garde.
In the spring of 1927, Picasso produced a large painting known as The Painter and His Model, now in Tehran. Perhaps because of its current location, the work has, until recently, gone largely unremarked in the literature on the artist. Nonetheless, it stands as his most arresting single canv as of the late 1920s—perhaps the strangest period of the artist's production—and indeed as one of the supreme achievements of his career. In ways we have yet to grasp fully, the late ′20s marked a crucial turning point for Picasso: a moment of crisis, which seemed to require a tot al reexamination of his means. Over the course of 1927 in part icular, his work took on a troubled, almost desperate air as Picasso reengaged wit h Cubism's most difficult lessons, and const ant ly courted—at times even willed—aesthet ic failure. At no t ime had the art ist worked against himself with such intensit y, or with such bewildering results.
This text, a series of reflections on the life and work of Robert Morris, draws from Jeffrey Weiss's long working relationship with the artist, which includes their collaboration on an intensive study project at the Guggenheim Museum. He gives chief consideration to two bodies of work: the Minimalist objects, conceived during the 1960s and refabricated throughout his life; and the Blind Time drawings, produced between 1973 and 2015. Weiss's account is based on a close consideration of material and technical concerns, which motivate speculations about the medium of time. Temporality is expressed in three ways: through strategic replication, which characterized the on-going production of “early” works; through the process of making, which is foregrounded in the drawings; and through the role of memory, a recurring thematic device in the practice overall.
A documentary photograph from the exhibition 15 Years of Artists of the RSFSR (Khudozhniki RSFSR za 15 let) that opened in Moscow in June 1933 shows the extent to which contemporaries perceived this show as a watershed, a moment when the last remnants of the bourgeois culture of prerevolutionary Russia definitively gave way to the proletarian culture of the rapidly modernizing Soviet Union. A clean-cut and athletic Soviet youth looks straight into the eyes of the refined symbolist poet, playwright, critic, and translator Mikhail Kuz'min as painted in 1926 by a fellow member of the artistic group World of Art (Mir Iskusstva), Nikolai Radlov. In this confrontation, Kuz'min seems to embody everything the Soviet Union had done away with. The height of his fame as a Symbolist poet was the 1900s and 1910s; in the early 1930s, he was still writing poetry, but was unable to publish and increasingly marginalized. In the painting's background, a mythic landscape set within an arched window typical of Renaissance portraits ties him to the Western humanist tradition. Kuz'min's bodily posture invites contact: Seated close to the picture plane with open arms, he appears to look out. Yet the poet also seems reserved and distant, perhaps because of his formal dress, and introspective: The lit cigarette at the level of his mouth and his semi-open book signal that he is preoccupied with a subject other than his interlocutor. The youth, on the other hand, has the confident, even somewhat condescending look of a master of the universe (khoziain zhizni), with folded arms and a slightly skeptical glance. Wearing a fashionable sports shirt on his fit body, he represents the ideal of the times: a healthy, physically strong, and ideologically prepared builder of a socialist society who, both literally and figuratively, embodies the Soviet future. Such an ideal is exemplified by Aleksandr Samokhvalov's contemporaneous painting Girl in a Soccer Jersey (Devushka v futbolke), which was displayed in the same exhibition and quickly became an iconic symbol of Soviet athletic youth. This seemingly antagonistic encounter between representatives of the Soviet past and future simultaneously reflects the change in the official rhetoric. By 1933 it was conciliatory in tone, having firmly replaced the open class conflict of the preceding years, and bourgeois specialists were not only welcomed back into the fold of Soviet society, they were offered privileges if they worked for the new state. © 2014 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
As a genre of cultural production, where iconic (painterly or photographic), sculptural, and architectural conventions intersect to represent the uniquely specific and current conditions of experience in public social space, exhibition design by artists has only recently emerged as a category of art-historical study. While earlier discussions of El Lissitzky's design of the Pressa exhibition in Cologne in 1928, an exhibition that likely had the widest-ranging impact and is the central example of such an emerging genre in the twentieth century, might have served as a point of departure,¹ Romy Golan's important, relatively recent book Muralnomad²—primarily concerned with the history of mural painting and its various transitions into exhibition design—has to be considered for the time being the most cohesive account of the development of these heretofore overlooked practices. Yet, paradoxically, two of the most notorious cases of the historical development of exhibition design after Lissitzky are absent from her study: the infamous Degenerate Art exhibition that opened in Munich on July 19, 1937 (two days after the opening of Nazi Fascism's first major propaganda building, Paul Ludwig Troost's Haus der Deutschen Kunst, and its presentation of German Fascist art in the Grosse Deutsche Kunstausstellung),³ and the Exposition internationale du Surréalisme in Paris, which was installed by André Breton and Marcel Duchamp six months later and 427 miles to the west, on January 17, 1938, at Georges Wildenstein's Beaux Arts Galleries in Paris.⁴
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