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BAS JAN ADER
DEATH IS ELSEWHERE
By Alexander Dumbadze University of Chicago Press
Copyright © 2013 The University of Chicago
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-226-03853-7
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
One day in April 1970, Bas Jan Ader began to prepare, with the help of his wife, Mary Sue, and his friend the artist William Leavitt, a piece that would be called Fall 1, Los Angeles. Some black-and-white film footage from the making of the work survives. It shows Ader, tall and slender, his hair somewhat long, walking out of the house that he and his wife had bought several years earlier in Claremont, a picturesque college town some thirty miles east of downtown Los Angeles. Typical for the area, the wood-frame structure, which no longer stands, sat fairly far back from a main thoroughfare. It faced the distant city; to the north loomed the San Gabriel Mountains, and directly south were flat vistas similar to the landscape Ader knew from his childhood in Holland. The film records Ader ambling down the front steps, then turning to his right to climb a ladder that leans against the front porch roof. He ascends cautiously, one hand occupied with the chair he is carrying. Once on the roof he appears a bit wobbly, but as soon as he gains his footing, he moves from the lower porch to the gable of the main roof, sliding along like a tightrope walker until he finds a suitable spot for his chair.
The final, edited version of Fall 1, Los Angeles (fig. 1), running just twenty-four seconds (six of them devoted to the title), comes across as a visual aphorism. It opens with Ader, dressed in a long-sleeve shirt and bell-bottom pants, the loose fabric flapping like pennants in the breeze, sitting erect atop the house on the simple, straight-back chair, his hands resting on his thighs. The initial moments feel like an eternity as he gradually tilts to his right, his hands extended toward the shingled roof. Once horizontal, he begins to tumble. Through two full rotations he builds momentum, but not enough for him to clear the almost flat roof of the veranda. He makes one more roll, then, before friction stops him completely, scoots toward the edge and hurls himself over. This last heave causes his right shoe to fly off and twists him around entirely; he picks up speed on his way toward the ground. A mattress hidden in the bushes softened Ader's impact, and a few brief shots from the outtakes show Leavitt running into the frame to check on his friend, who, despite rumors to the contrary, was unharmed.
Ader discussed Fall 1, Los Angeles in an interview with Willoughby Sharp that appeared in the winter 1971 issue of Avalanche. Sharp had been in Los Angeles the previous autumn to take the measure of what was then a misunderstood and widely underappreciated art scene. Helene Winer, curator of the Pomona College Art Gallery, the most progressive exhibition space in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, drove Sharp around, introducing him to artists she found interesting. Sharp had been in Los Angeles before, in 1969, when the gallerist Eugenia Butler brought him down from San Francisco. It was during this trip that he met Leavitt, at one of the many parties Butler hosted. Sharp took an interest in Leavitt's work, and in the course of a studio visit, Leavitt showed him a book that included stills from Fall 1, Los Angeles. Sharp was intrigued by what he saw, and while the two were having drinks Leavitt telephoned Ader to see if he would be willing to have one of his works reproduced in Avalanche. Excited by the possible attention, Ader quickly accepted.
Sharp never met Ader, but they talked over the phone, with Sharp asking simple questions in the hope of eliciting profound responses. He was taken by Ader's seriousness and commitment to his art, which made Sharp want to conduct a more formal interview, something Ader was reluctant to do. Nevertheless, he did speak about his art. What Sharp brought to print is one of Ader's few public statements on the subject, and its singularity makes it all the more significant. It neither jibes with comments made by conceptual artists who were influenced by the advances of analytic philosophy, nor shares common ground with Los Angeles–based artists like Laddie John Dill, who came to prominence in the wake of the Finish Fetish and Light and Space movements. Ader's thoughts seem out of sync with those of many of his contemporaries, for what he said, or at least what Sharp transcribed, was, "I do not make body sculptures, body art, or body works. When I fell off the roof of my house, or into a canal, it was because gravity made itself master over me."
Fall 1, Los Angeles was not exhibited until the summer of 1971, well after Ader's conversation with Sharp and just a few months after his comments appeared in print. In some ways, Ader's enigmatic statement supplements this and other Fall works to come. His remark implies that he fell not because he wanted to but because gravity—a force that had somehow attained subjectivity—compelled it. Events could not have unfolded differently; nothing he could have done, no decision or even indecision on his part, would have altered the course of events—even though in the film there are two instances in which he punctures the illusion of his submission. The first comes at the start of the piece: his slow, controlled extension out of the chair and onto the roof. The second is his slight shuffle toward the edge of the veranda roof (fig. 2). Ader clearly initiates both actions, although the logic of the work and of his declaration to Sharp ascribes that agency to gravity. These are volitional gestures, expressions of will, a decision to initiate as well as to interrupt an event he asserts is predetermined. Of course, Ader's rolling himself forward can be seen as innocuous, but in light of his declaration, it opposes the conceit of Fall 1, Los Angeles and establishes a tension between his will and a determinist power.
Toward the end of 1980, five years after Ader's death, the young Dutch art historian Paul Andriesse interviewed Leavitt. Andriesse was compiling information for the Ader catalogue raisonné. The conversation was probably recorded, but what survives are Andriesse's notes, either taken during the interview or made in the following days. The notes are generally decipherable to anyone with previous knowledge of Ader's career. Andriesse was meticulous in his accounting, trying to ascertain as much detail as possible. There is a remark about Reader's Digest, talk about Ader's 1967 graduate thesis exhibition and how Ader's father was brave and intelligent, and discussion of Piece G, a collaborative work made by Ader and Leavitt at Mount San Antonio College in 1969. Leavitt also mentions that Ader's interest in falling was tied to the philosophical problem of free will and determinism.
That Leavitt was so candid regarding Ader is remarkable. Over the years, he became less willing to speak about his friend. In a letter he wrote to Andriesse in the spring of 1988, he explains apologetically that he will not be able to contribute an essay to Andriesse's forthcoming catalog on Ader because his writing has been impeded by a welter of conflicting emotions. Eventually, though, he did send Andriesse a short compendium of quotations from Ader, as well as several of his own reminiscences. The eight notes, some just a line, others a full paragraph, speak to the time before their friendship began to dissolve, toward the end of 1972. Two of Leavitt's reflections recount how Ader was deeply invested in philosophy as he searched for concrete truths. Leavitt also describes how Ader sought to rid his practice of artifice, aspiring to art that would reveal an authenticity he thought existed in mathematics. Leavitt did not share Ader's motivations. He found them strange, if not overdetermined, but consistent with Ader's interest in imperfection, failure, and the Sisyphean nature of his work. It was the content of the work that most concerned him, not the connotations of its presentation. In the spring of 1970, art was a way for Ader to think philosophically. It was not so much that Ader wanted to depict the issues as that he wanted to actualize them; authenticity, for the work of art, lay not in representing philosophical concepts but in embodying them.
If a central theme runs throughout Ader's brief but fecund career, it is this pursuit of concrete truths and the elimination of artifice. His initial interest in the question of the will is curious given the art historical context, since few of his contemporaries considered existential questions. Far more common were engagements with formalism, phenomenology, the nature of art as such, the critique of representation, and the relation of art to politics. Nevertheless, Ader's investigation into the status of the will—or for that matter, into freedom—initiated within his practice inquiries far more universal in scope and radical in their constitution: he searched for ways for art and life to communicate without recourse to mediation. At stake was a reorientation of art: the way it functioned, the way it looked, the way it interacted with its public. Ader was never short of ambition, and the potential impossibility of his efforts was not lost on him. To a certain extent, he accomplished his goal, but only at the expense of his life. His death—so sudden, so dramatic, without art historical precedent—necessitates talking about his life alongside his art. This is a historiographic operation that coincides with the particular conditions of Ader's art, which increasingly foregrounded his life and placed it in a dialectical relation with his practice. To think historically about Ader's life and art is not to compose a biography or to suggest that artistic meaning rests in biog raphy. Rather, it is to see these entities as equally open to interpretation, and to look to their coexistence to explain Ader's relevance today. In his mysterious passing and the unavoidable emphasis on his myth, anachronism and aura become one. It is here that Ader remains alive while his death is elsewhere.
CHAPTER 2
Ader did not speak much about falling and its significance. One assumes that in conversations with friends, colleagues, and others who might have inquired the topic came up, but in print—whether interviews or his own writing—there is little beyond his statement to Sharp. Ader's silence, if it can be called that, does not indicate a lack of reflection; his ruminations were in the works themselves. Over a two-year period, beginning in 1970 with Fall 1, Los Angeles, Ader made around fourteen works (nearly half of his entire production) that in one way or another had falling as the central theme. Most were either photographic or filmic, but one, Light Vulnerable Objects Threatened by Eight Cement Bricks (1970), was an installation cum performance, while another, The Boy Who Fell Over Niagara Falls (1972), was simply a performance. These works do not cohere as a singular position, nor do they advance an argument that progresses from Fall 1, Los Angeles to The Boy Who Fell Over Niagara Falls. Ader had higher ambitions for these explorations. On December 19, 1970, he wrote to his dealers, Adriaan van Ravesteijn and Geert van Beijeren, at the Art & Project Gallery in Amsterdam, that he was working on a series of introspective works in which he silently declares on film everything there is to know about falling. He admits that the works will be difficult to make, but he is convinced that in their final state they will be extraordinarily moving.
Ader's preoccupation with the physical act of falling goes back at least to his days at the Otis Art Institute, which he attended from 1963 to 1965. He had arrived in Los Angeles in the first part of 1963, and his good friend Ger van Elk, whom he knew from the Institut voor Kunstnijverheidsondwijs in Amsterdam, had encouraged him to continue his studies in the United States. Familiar with the American education system after a year abroad as a high school student in the Washington, DC, area, Ader spent a few months preparing and eventually passed several equivalency exams that paved the way for his matriculation at Otis. At the time, he was living in Hollywood with Van Elk, who had come to the United States a year or so earlier to further his education and to be closer to his father, an animator at the Hanna-Barbera Studio. It was at Otis that Ader met Mary Sue Andersen, a graduate student from Arizona who was the daughter of the school's director. Ader, as the story goes, approached Andersen one day during a break between classes. She was with a group of friends huddled around a coffee stand not far from campus. Supremely self-confident, Ader introduced himself by lifting up his shirt, exposing his bare stomach, and exclaiming that he had one of the five most beautiful belly buttons in the world. Andersen was taken by his charm, and not long afterward they moved in together.
While at Otis, Ader began to study photography. This marked a shift from his previous work, which had consisted mainly of muddy, gestural paintings in the figural abstraction vein. These pieces had won him a fair amount of success. During his year in the DC area, at the age of nineteen, he had had the opportunity to show at both the Upstairs Gallery and the Galerie Realité. Ader was obviously precocious, and his already sizable ego was swelled further by the praise he received not only in the local press but in a Voice of America interview and several articles that appeared in Dutch newspapers. Now, as Ader grappled with an unfamiliar medium, trying to master its intricacies and potential, he took numerous pictures. Some are simple snapshots of Andersen curled up in a chair or reading quietly; others show her parents caught in moments of contemplation. From the few contact sheets that remain, it seems that Ader was interested in capturing unposed moments, as is further evident in several shots of older women distractedly eating lunch. These are curious photos, shot from a low angle, perhaps taken on the sly with the camera resting on a table. Interspersed among the character studies are pictures of the architectural oddities that dot Los Angeles, and of signs promoting everything from fishing bait to the miraculous powers of Jesus Christ. But if Ader had a subject he returned to on a regular basis, it was the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles, which at the time was falling into a state of ruin. Almost weekly, Ader and Andersen would sneak into the historic structure, and Ader would photograph its overlapping staircases, intricate ironwork, monumental elevators, and the glass roof that makes the massive building seem light and airy.
Ader was widely liked by his peers at Otis and was known for his sense of humor, a blend of deadpan drollness and daring physicality reminiscent of Buster Keaton. His comic timing was excellent, and he would disrupt class with gestures that were performative in spirit. At times he feigned ignorance of English—despite being fluent—and affected a thick Dutch accent, acting as if he could not comprehend the lecture or assignment. His classmates struggled to stifle their laughter as Ader's subversive humor revealed their professors' indifference toward the students. On one occasion, Ader instigated what was perhaps his first fall. It was during an American literature class, and Ader, dressed (as he almost always was) all in blue, sat off in a corner, away from the other students. The instructor, famously boring, spent much of the class reading passages from the book assigned for that day. He spoke in a monotone, smoking cigarettes and cracking asides that delighted only him. As the students drifted toward sleep, Ader crept slowly toward the edge of his seat. Inch by inch he shifted his body until he fell to the ground with a tremendous clatter that toppled the chairs around him. In a gesture such as this, the slapstick element, and the pretense that everything was normal was especially important.
Soon after graduation, in June 1965, Ader and Andersen were married in Las Vegas. A close friend of Andersen's, Jan Oestern, acted as their witness, and it was she who filmed the young couple as they approached the chapel. A brief fragment of film shows Ader on crutches smiling toward the camera. Nothing, of course, was wrong with his legs; he simply thought it funny to fake an injury and to approach a solemn event with an apparatus that literally and metaphorically kept him from falling. The spontaneous and private wedding came as a shock to Ader's mother, who had hoped, when the day came, to perform the ceremony herself. She knew how serious Ader and Andersen were and approved of their relationship, deeming Andersen to be a positive influence on her son. There were plans to have a second ceremony in Holland, but this never transpired despite numerous visits after their marriage.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from BAS JAN ADER by Alexander Dumbadze. Copyright © 2013 by The University of Chicago. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS.
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