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Garrett-Petts, W.F. “Exhibiting Writing: On Viewing Artists’ Statements as Art.” Artists’ Statements and the Nature of Artistic Inquiry. Ed. Rachel Nash and W.F. Garrett-Petts. Spec. Issue of Open Letter 13.4 (Fall 2007). 64-78. Print.

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“Exhibiting Writing: On Viewing Artists’ Statements as Art ”
Typescript of Chapter: Garrett-Petts, W.F. “Exhibiting Writing: On Viewing Artists’
Statements as Art.” Artists’ Statements and the Nature of Artistic Inquiry. Ed. Rachel Nash and
W.F. Garrett-Petts. Spec. Issue of Open Letter 13.4 (Fall 2007). 64-78. Print.
W.F. Garrett-Petts
Thompson Rivers University
I want to reflect on the occasion of yet another panel presentation, on the rhetorical
situation of co-presenting with an artist whose photographic work is the topic of
discussion: The scene was a panel at The Photograph, An International Interdisciplinary
Conference sponsored by the journal Mosaic and held at the University of Manitoba,
March 11, 2004. There, along with Donald Lawrence, I presented a talk on the work of
contemporary artist Fred Douglas with Fred Douglas present as part of the panel.
There’s a famous sequence in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall where Alvy and Annie are
standing in line for the movies and a man behind them is speaking loudly, showing off
his knowledge of contemporary cultural theory:
MAN IN LINE: (Loudly to his companion right behind Alvy and Annie) We saw
the Fellini film last Tuesday. It is not one of his best. It lacks a cohesive structure.
You know, you get the feeling that he's not absolutely sure what it is he wants to
say.
When the man switches the subject to Marshall McLuhan, Alvy, visibly irritated,
steps forward, waving his hands in frustration, and stands facing the camera. Sighing and
addressing the audience, Alvy says, “What do you do when you get stuck in a movie line
with a guy like this behind you?” The man walks over to speak to the camera in his
defense, and Alvie tells him, “the funny part of it is, M—Marshall McLuhan, you don't
know anything about Marshall McLuhan's...work!”
When the man continues arguing, Alvy pulls Marshall McLuhan out from behind
a playbill:
MCLUHAN: I hear—I heard what you were saying. You—you know nothing of
my work. . . . How you ever got to teach a course in anything is totally amazing.
“If only life were like this,” says Alvy directly to the camera.
This Photograph Conference was something like that: While giving my paper I
was acutely aware that in 20 minutes or so, I’d be cast as either Alvy or the man in the
line faced with the subject of discussion speaking in first person, available, that is, to
confirm or contradict. From Alvy’s perspective (one shared, I think, by the viewer),
McLuhan’s presence puts the academic (who, we are told, teaches a class in “‘TV Media
and Culture’ at Columbia”) in his place: the man in the line protests, “I think that my
insights into Mr. McLuhan--well, have a great deal of validity”; for Alvy, questions of
validity in interpretation are trumped by the fantasy of resolving a dispute by enlisting
McLuhan himself.
I first saw Annie Hall while still an undergraduate in English at the University of
Victoria, and I remember the sense of satisfaction and justice I felt in seeing a professor
so publicly corrected. Today I might argue that the power of McLuhan’s ad hominum
attack, his authority in the scene, is based upon a naive appeal to a rhetoric of
authenticity: as viewers we are encouraged in the commonsense belief that the author of
Understanding Media understands and thus speaks about his theories better than any
university prof in a movie line-up. But wherever we might stand on questions of authorial
intention, authority, and hermeneutics generally, few would argue that McLuhan’s
presence in the scene doesn’t make a difference.
Fred Douglas’ presence at the conference made a difference, too. It made us a
little more self-conscious; more importantly, it provided an opportunity to rehearse a
novel model of critical inquiry, one that works in public dialogue with the artist as co-
researcher.
When artist-critic Donald Lawrence and I first proposed the panel, we
summarized our initial critical position on Douglas’ work—and on what we saw as
Douglas’ place in the photo conceptual landscape of the Vancouver art scene. Here’s our
original wording, wording rehearsed as a proposed abstract for the official conference
program:
Original Abstract: Though an active and influential member of Vancouver’s arts
community since the 1960s, Fred Douglas has worked against the grain of
Vancouver’s photoconceptual practice. He has begun to speak out against what he
sees as an exhausted, overly self-conscious, overly settled, “over-coded” artistic
practice. Two recent works, Crossfade and Flutter, represent Douglas’ efforts to
find an unsettled, moving space for his pictures and stories, one that fades across
vernacular forms of personal and commercial expression. For Douglas, “The
writing is . . . an un-containing of things—a fluttering, a dispersal, a profusion.”
Finding and revitalizing the “fluttering presence” languishing dormant in the
everyday means confronting the neglect or indifference or misreading that
everyday objects suffer. This panel presentation provides an occasion for a
dialogue on the issues of memory, melancholia, narrative, and photographic
representation that Douglas’ work raises.
In preparation for the panel, Douglas asked us to reconsider the wording of our abstract,
viewing it not solely as a convenient program summary, but as a variation of a genre
more closely aligned with the visual arts: the artist’s statement:
Don and Will, I felt uncomfortable with parts of the statement. While it is true, I
have seen many pictures done in the photo conceptual mode that I would describe
as the result of working listlessly in an exhausted area, but I can’t say this about
all such work. I’ve seen just as much work that excites and interests me in this
area as I have in any other area of art. More importantly, I would be horrified to
find myself embroiled in a discourse revolving around work that I have little
regard for—and I would rather spend no time at all combating such work. So I’ve
modified the statement a bit. If you find parts of the modification acceptable make
whatever changes you think will improve it. Thanks Fred. (italics added)
With characteristic generosity, Douglas provided two alternative statements, one a
revised version of our original abstract, and one a more conventional artist’s statement.
Preferred Statement: Although an active and influential member of Vancouver’s
arts community since the 1960s, Fred Douglas has worked separately from the
community, but not entirely against the grain of its dominant ambitions. He does
not see his work as the resolution of a set of problems, but rather as ways of
moving through experiences. His work does not address problems as much as it
floats around problems, attempting to see in their shadow and hear in their echoes
a world that it might seem possible to orient to. Crossfade and Flutter represent
Douglas’ efforts to find a space in or perhaps a fog from which pictures and
stories might appear. It is a space that fades across vernacular forms of personal
and commercial expression. For Douglas the writing is an uncontaining of things.
It is a flutter, a dispersal, a profusion. His work sustains an order on the verge of a
chaos that is not turbulent but is undependable. There is a kind of passivity that
the work emerges from. It is an attempt to let the near visible glimmers and
almost inaudible sighs and groans tumble together to form a universe. Taking a
work further than this seems to him to render it into delifed objects that inhabit a
vacant space in an authoritative way and tends to form a closure that is too
definite to allow him to keep operating. This panel presentation provides an
occasion for a dialogue on the issues of memory, melancholia, narrative and
photographic representation that Douglas’s work raises.
Alternative Statement: I’m interested in the way discrete and opposite bits of
experience can be combined to form a story or picture. I try to retain the separate
identity of each piece within the narrative blend so the structures are tentative,
precarious and exist on the edge of chaos. Montage, collage and colportage are
basic to my operation, but not as its final forms; rather, there’s always a
movement toward a picture or story. I think of it as a picture or story fomenting in
the unions between the pieces. It is not resting in the parts, waiting to be
discovered. It is a catastrophe that occurs from the irritation between the pieces.
The form of the piece, I suppose, comes from my limitations, that is, since I’m not
capable of knowing and understanding everything, what I do understand has the
qualities of its own limitations. The van was such an attempt, but for a long time
now I’ve been making such combinations in the form of picture and story books.
I take Douglas’ intervention to be more than a critical corrective: the impulse to
complement visual representation (or conference presentation) through multiple verbal
essais (tries or statements) has been a constant element of his artistic practice. While
eschewing the didactic, Douglas seeks to refashion the artist’s statement, positioning it as
a form of vernacular theory integral to his art making. In general, artists’ statements
present an intriguing, if problematic, example of what Milan Dimic calls “literatures of
lesser diffusion,” ostensibly minor works of prose poetry or criticism that, lacking either
the status or formal dissemination of more canonical writing, have gone unnoticed or
become hidden from public view. Artists’ statements take the form of short comments—
miniature essays—that usually introduce an actual or proposed exhibition. Like prefaces,
forewords, prologues, and introductions in literary works, the artist’s statement performs
a vital if complex rhetorical role: when included in an exhibition proposal, a slide
application package, and sent to a curator, the artist’s statement must provide content,
context, technical specifications, establish the artist’s ethos and persuade the reader of the
artwork’s value; when hung on a gallery wall, the statement (or “didactic”) becomes both
invitation and explanation, and in some measure an element of the installation itself. Less
formally, artists’ interviews, journals, albums, sketchbooks, and all manner of private
correspondence can, when made public, create meta-narratives that speak to and about
the work.
[INSERT IMAGE OF ENVELOPES FROM FRED DOUGLAS ABOUT HERE:
PLEASE DO NOT INSERT CUT LINE.’
Not all artists and curators are comfortable with the public foregrounding of
private aesthetics, written typically, as Derrida reminds us, “in view of their own self-
effacement”; yet the visual arts community nonetheless employs artists’ statements as
key liminal documents, as writing that both directs the viewer’s gaze and indirectly
announces or affirms the artist’s rite of passage. Artists’ statements call attention not only
to the artworks they introduce but to themselves—and, I would argue, to “the artist” as
creative and critical agent. Artists’ statements are palimpsests, presenting, in words, a
narrative or argument apparent beneath (or overlaying) each principal visual
representation.
Fred Douglas’ Flutter, the subject of my Photograph Conference presentation, is
an artist’s book in progress, a work complicating our understanding of artists’ statements,
making it difficult to distinguish artwork from statement. Douglas does more in his
bookwork than play image against text: Flutter asks us to reconceptualize the role of the
statement, denying it full authority while letting it wander, emerge and linger as a gesture
of partial understanding. In Flutter, artist’s statement becomes art.
Douglas’ bookwork, fashioned as a series of maquettes, suggests a prototype, a
kind of invented magazine drawing from existing forms but not trying to duplicate them.
The magazine, what Douglas calls “intrinsically a public gesture,” provides a mass
culture foil for the artist’s exploration of form. “Flutter is a magazine,” it says in the
introductory section, where Douglas installs a brief artist’s statement in place of the usual
front matter of editors’ names, place of publication, circulation details, and so on.
Douglas’ text states:
Flutter is a magazine
inasmuch as it’s a not
entirely consecutive
collection of items. The
ads and other apparent
references to outside
itself are mostly self-
referential. Its stories and pictures vary in relation to the extent of their fiction. (6)
Below this we read, “It’s no use writing a letter to the editor if you have a concern, for
it’s not open to this kind of response.” It is evidently the reader, not the magazine, that
must be open to respond.
Images of Flutter reproduced courtesy of Fred Douglas and his estate.
A more extensive artist’s statement, a foreword to the main narrative, is split between
pages 12 and 90. Felicitously entitled “Forward,” the statement attributes Douglas’ long-
held aesthetic positions on artistic creation and audience response to a fictitious
sociologist, Mac Mowhard. Here Mowhard/Douglas details four categories of creative
action and response (each inflected by but not nostalgic for 1950s terminology):
(1) the generative, those who initiate a new style yet to be named; (2) the hip,
those who share an innate understanding of and enthusiasm for the new; (3) the
chic, those who keep their eyes on the hip, and thus do not relate to the new
experience in the same way; (4) the squares, those who require the new to be
spelled out and thoroughly explained.
Anticipating phrasing used in the alternative statement prepared for the conference
presentation, Douglas points to the squares as “the ones who must have the thing
completely stilled before it appears to them. It is at this point that the thing becomes more
or less de-lifed” (12; italics added).
Douglas shows greater affinity for the generative and the hip than the chic and the
square, but he recognizes that these states too are in flux: “I don’t believe that any of us is
constantly generative, hip, chic, or square. We pass from one state to another depending
upon the context we find ourselves in” (90). Conventional artists’ statements, we might
assume, appeal to the square in all of us. They explain and thus, to some extent, “still” the
life of the artwork. In contrast, Douglas wants his artists’ statements to flutter, to play
hide and seek with the audience: such a statement opens up a field of possibilities; it
moves us from statement to state, elaborating us into a new context, an undifferentiated
space where we are encouraged to linger.
Flutter, if I’m interpreting the bookwork correctly, comes closer than any
previous work to simultaneously articulating and enacting Douglas’ theory of art and art-
making. Elsewhere, Donald Lawrence and I have written about Douglas’ version of the
vernacular as a form of catachresis, a “naming out of difference” (“Between Vernaculars”
188): at root, vernacular means a local or indigenous form of expression, one tied to the
ordinary or everyday. The dictionary defines the vernacular as “a slave language,” as
removed from the so-called dominant discourse. What interested us in PhotoGraphic
Encounters—and what still interests me—is how the vernacular emerges accidentally or
whimsically in relation to (often in opposition to) sites of cultural power. It emerges
most often as a sign of loss, a nostalgic or melancholic token. Ironically, the vernacular
is, by definition, that which is least “at home” in popular, mass, and high art cultural
expression—and yet one senses that these other forms of expression could not exist
without traces of the vernacular. So, while the vernacular may embody the local, the
affective, the past, it becomes visible or readable out of difference.
The vernacular involves a sense that one’s personally-experienced past (often
hidden or buried) can be recovered, even redeemed, in the present moment—specifically
at the point of contact where artist and audience meet. When vernacular art moves us, it
does so not because of its originality or its illustrative function, but because it strikes us
as authentic, authentic, that is, to the moments of production and contact. Fred Douglas’
artist’s statements focus on these moments.
My thinking here has been influenced by the work of E.D. Blodgett and Henry
Sayre. Following Henri Gobard's tetralinguistic model of language systems—his focus on
the vernacular (a language affective and local, linked to region or territory), the vehicular
(the lingua franca of commercial exchange), the referential (the language of education
and culture), and the mythic (the sacred language of belief and community consensus)—
Blodgett sees the vernacular functioning as a deferred memory, a “sign of loss,” or as a
mythic hope of recoverable communion situated somewhere among mass, popular, and
high art cultures. Logically, to be recognized as vernacular, the words and images must
remain apart from, and thus subordinate to, the dominant discourse: “For the poet,” says
Blodgett, “the vernacular is not a viable option in itself, but can only be articulated as a
code among others. It is the basis for the movement toward the mythic, the discourse in
which the vernacular is sublated in a process of figurative reterritorialization”
(“Towards” 627). 1
The vernacular must remain in motion, in process, unstable, for once it is pinned
down or legitimized as a fixed genre, it changes; it becomes conventional, easily
subsumable within the prevailing discourses (especially those of mass and popular
culture). Henry Sayre sees artistic fascination with the vernacular as a matter of hope—a
matter of “pursuing authenticity,” of searching out “the vernacular moment” as an
alternative to the arrested moment of high modernist art. Sayre sees the vernacular
moment in terms of performance and storytelling—terms that have much in common
with Douglas’ use of the artist’s statement: performance situates the vernacular between
“creativity and commerce,” a particular junction that makes notions of authenticity
problematic. The sense of absence or questionable authenticity, though, acts positively as
an invitation to narrative, as a trigger for storytelling. By focusing on the vernacular
moment, Sayre offers an alternative, perhaps an anodyne, to postmodern cynicism and
the seemingly endless cycle of ironies that treat “authenticity” as a naive, antiquated idea.
Authenticity can be documented (especially via photography, says Sayre), and the
authentic vernacular impulse can be recovered, even shared (via narrative), by a ready
audience.
Sayre rehearses the story of Lee Quinones, a New York graffiti artist, who
“bombed” a ten-car train with Merry Christmas murals twelve feet high and five hundred
feet long. Quinones is quoted from a personal narrative where he describes in vivid detail
the immediacy of the creative moment, the sense of being there. This story, as Sayre
presents it, is something of a cautionary tale, for soon after the graffiti event, Quinones’
authentic impulse and talent (his generative potential) is co-opted by commercial
interests, which, seeing a market for Quinones’ work, begin wide-scale promotion. His
work enters mainstream culture and begins to circulate in chic “graffiti boutiques.”
At first, such a story seems little more than a thinly disguised parable told by
someone nostalgic for lost origins, what Michael Jarrett has described as part of the
“rhetoric of degeneration” (190), a familiar script charting how authentic expression
(frequently coded as “ethnic”) “constitutes an initial raw material which is then
appropriated and reduced in cultural force and meaning by contact with a white industry”
(191-92). Jarrett rejects this colonization model, arguing that “it cannot account for
innovation”; it fails to explain how “authenticity” arises. Similarly—and this is what
makes his contribution important to this present discussion—Sayre situates authenticity
not in the work but in the work’s performance, its “left over” narrative: “The act of
creation, of personal expression, is no longer an originary [or, in Douglas’ terms, a
generative] act—that is, a first instance; it is, rather, exemplaryworth saving, worth
repeating. It has the authority of evidence. It is, finally, in the full sense of the word,
telling” (158).
The vernacular, then, is not something contained by a work or object; it is, rather,
a shared moment where the narrative performance is variously released, rehabilitated,
recirculated and/or recreated. As Sayre explains it, “the authenticity that we discover at
the vernacular moment” exists temporally in the making or hearing or reading or viewing
of narrative, “when the aura of originality is supplanted by the aura of the authentic, the
exemplary” (159). Sayre’s notion of narrative performance provides an apt description of
Douglas’ artist’s statements at work.
For Douglas, the vernacular moment occurs when a fossilized history
(temporarily stilled or “de-lifed” as an object of representation) enters or re-enters the
world. Narrative performance (enacted through the embedded traces of the work’s own
making and through an interplay of theory and story) keeps the resolution of Douglas’
work into any particular form always provisional—remaining as much a question as an
answer to his investigation. Taken as a whole, his works provide a model of a creative
endeavour not driven by any overriding notion of aesthetic form but, rather, as a culling
together of many artistic and vernacular forms both within and across the conventions of
the visual and literary arts, including film, street art, commercial design, advertising,
posters and billboards, craft, decoration, and architecture. As Douglas writes in his
alternative statement proffered for his Photograph Conference presentation,
I’m interested in the way discrete and opposite bits of experience can be
combined to form a story or picture. I try to retain the separate identity of each
piece within the narrative blend so the structures are tentative, precarious and
exist on the edge of chaos. Montage, collage and colportage are basic to my
operation. But not as final forms; rather, there’s always a movement toward
picture or story. I think of it as a picture or story fomenting in the unions between
the pieces. It arises from the process and is not inherent in any of the pieces. It is
not resting in the parts, waiting to be discovered.
In this context, the artist’s statement works against explanation. Douglas is not interested
in text as caption: “The writing is not an envelope to put things in, nor is it a layering of
things. It doesn’t contain anything, but things emerge from it. It is an un-containing of
things--a fluttering, a dispersal, a profusion. It is an inter-tidal zone” (qtd. in Davison
“Ruminating” 11). The ideal artist’s statement helps un-contain that which has been
constrained by prejudice, bias, taste, cultural inertia or fashion. Un-containing means
resituating the objects of attention in an “inter-tidal zone” of imaginative exchange,
giving the object new life by reinserting it into the ebb and flow of multiple and
intersecting narratives. Artists’ statements are a crucial part of this narrative mix,
encouraging, as Donald Kuspit has said of collage, a feeling of incompleteness, a “sense
of the perpetual becoming that animates it . . .” (43).2
I want to conclude by looking back at a curatorial statement Douglas wrote in the
mid-seventies for a catalogue on Eleven Early British Columbian Photographers, an
exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery. Writing in reference to the work of Phillip
Timms, Mattie Gunerman, Leonard Frank, and Claire Downing, Douglas articulates a
kind of gloss on his own work. He distinguishes between photographic explorers and
settlers:
The explorer comes in search of the exotic and dramatic and it is part of his plan
to return home again. His vision is sweeping and expansive . . . . The settler on the
other hand has left home forever, with all that implies. He has come to a strange
place and his main interest is to establish it as home. This consists of sensing how
old conventions fit into the new place, and of inventing new conventions for
experiences that have no correlation with the old life--a process that results in a
more intimate experience of a place. (7)
Douglas sees the art of the photographers he admires as a matter of settling in, not
moving through. “In looking at their work it’s possible to get a sense of a place taking
form,” he says. I would argue that understanding how space takes form is crucial to
appreciating Flutter as well.
Douglas says of his bookwork, “it has become an obsession for me. In a sense I
don’t really like it.” Like the settler artist, the process of making something new leaves
him temporarily displaced. As he explains, “Working on the book, this has happened to
me: making this book has intensified isolation to the point where I worry about it”
(personal interview). Traces of this obsession can be found in the form of the prototypes,
in the overly profuse collages and layering. The maquettes detail an extensive record of
experimentation, both technical and artistic. Here the artist’s presence can be felt, the
false starts and the revisions charting Douglas’ course back to the vernacular. The work
has a sense of time, “it unfolds itself giving a sense of pace . . . If you are not sensitive to
that [as an artist] then there’s a kind of falseness.” Veracity emerges during the making;
Douglas works his way back to the vernacular over time: “When I patch the work
together, I don’t know exactly what will happen. It grows out of a situation” (personal
interview). Flutter’s appeal is to this felt sense of “space taking form over time”; its
success as art depends upon the artist’s generative presence and upon our readiness to
enter and experience that space with him.
If there’s a sense of melancholy in Douglas’ work—and I think there is—the
sense of loss is located more in the future than in the past. It lies in the anticipated act of
completing that which, once completed, no longer embodies the performance of space
taking form. In this sense it is the maquette, not the near-finished, more polished
bookwork, that invites ongoing vernacular response. Fred Douglas died on Valentine's
Day, 2005, and Flutter remains his most successful unfinished work.3
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Fred Douglas and his estate for permission to reproduce images from his
work in this essay. The image from Annie Hall is reproduced courtesy of Metro-
Goldwyn-Mayer Studios’s Clip + Still Licencing division.
Notes
1Deleuze and Guattari argue that the four languages in the tetralinguistic model can be
defined in terms of their spatial and temporal coordinates: “vernacular is here; vehicular
language is everywhere; referential language is over there; mythic language is beyond”
(23). The emphasis on presence, on experiencing art in the here and now, becomes both
theme and topos in the work of an artist like Douglas. Within this “tetraglossic” schema,
the vernacular plays a double role: it both marks the “here and now,” opening and
maintaining personal contact between artist and audience, and it also marks a voice no
longer “at home” within the dominant vehicular and referential languages of popular,
mass, and high art cultures. As I note in a recent interview (with Héliane Ventura), “The
vernacular is . . . both a sign of loss and a sign lost. It also has the effect of deliberate or
accidental displacement, for . . . the vernacular only becomes visible and gains rhetorical
force in relation to other languages—to the languages of high art or commerce or popular
culture. In becoming noticed, its presence, or the ghost of its presence, inevitably changes
our perception of the competing, more ostensibly dominant, linguistic and visual modes.
Vernacular language is language in process, language of the moment and in use, but
different from the official languages of power and institutional authority.”
2Douglas calls this vernacular moment a “crossfade” of words and pictures. “Once it is a
story it remains one or fades,” says Douglas in his preface to Excerpts from Cars.
3My thanks to Open Letter’s anonymous reviewers for the helpful comments and
suggestions, many of which I have included here—especially the need to clarify that the
vernacular’s “lesser diffusion” among academic elites does not lessen either its
importance or felt impact. In addition, as one reviewer astutely points out, in Douglas’
work, “the impulse toward defense, which has a long and complicated relationship to
criticism (both in academic and journalistic settings), if not to art itself, is summarily left
behind by a form that asserts (or creates space for) itself as a public provocation that
works against explanation and toward encounter.”
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Blodgett, E.D. "Towards an Ethnic Style." Canadian Review of Comparative Literature (September/December 1995): 623-38.
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Davison, Lianne. "Ruminating on Redeemed Plates." Fred Douglas, Excerpts from Cars, 7-11.
Excerpts from Cars, Clothes, Houses, and Weather Conditions
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Douglas, Fred. Excerpts from Cars, Clothes, Houses, and Weather Conditions. Calgary, Alberta: Illingworth Kerr Gallery, 1997.
PhotoGraphic Encounters: The Edges and Edginess of Reading Prose Pictures and Visual Fictions
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Garrett-Petts, W.F. and Donald Lawrence. PhotoGraphic Encounters: The Edges and Edginess of Reading Prose Pictures and Visual Fictions. Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 2000.
Collage: The Organizing Principle of Art in the Age of the Relativity of Art
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Kuspit, Donald. "Collage: The Organizing Principle of Art in the Age of the Relativity of Art." Collage: Critical Views. Ed. Katherine Hoffman. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1989. 1-37.
Pursuing Authenticity: The Vernacular Moment in Contemporary American Art
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Sayre, Henry. "Pursuing Authenticity: The Vernacular Moment in Contemporary American Art." South Atlantic Quarterly 91:1 (1992): 139-60.
Sound Tracks: a Musical ABC. Vols. 1-3. Philadelphia: Temple UP
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