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マイクロポップについて＞・
私に関して：
・何人かのキュレーターに「有馬は、マイクロポップなのか？」とか「有馬の作品は関係性だ」と言われていた。
・地元では「マイクロポップ的なコト＝キワマリ荘」と思われてたが、テキストに「キワマリ荘」、「ART DRUG CENTER」の文字は無い。意図的に排除しないと無理だと思うので、何か「マイクロポップ」に邪魔な何かがあるのかもしれない。
世間の感じ＞
・当時からマイクロポップは理解しづらいと言われていた。
今私が思うコト＞
・マイクロポップは理解しづらいと言われていた理由は、
マイクロポップは作家が重要ではなく時代の空気（層）が重要。理由は深く探れば探るほど、訳がわからなくなる。作家を探って行っても、何も出てこない。出てこないどころか、作家がバラバラなので何が言いたいのかわからなくなる。
例えば、ビル構造の探求の地下があるとする。普通は潜れば潜るほど核心に触れる。しかしマイクロポップは、ある層（時代）に居るだけ。マイクロポップはある層に居る人を松井さんが点を線で結び関係を作った。だからメンバーの入れ替えが可能だった。
マイクロポップの時代:夏への扉」のタイトルからして、複数の名詞が関係して名付けられてる。
その層は布施さんが言う「システムのなかに余白を見つけ出して撹乱する遊戯的介入」かもしれない。
ちなみに私が立ち上げた「水戸のキワマリ荘」が老朽化のため終了しました。
https://ibarakinews.jp/news/newsdetail.php?f_jun=16238528052220
今覚えてることは、こんな感じ。
予備知識として
マイクロポップの前に
2004-5 : 54th Carnegie International Carnegie Museum of Art:
http://www.trfineart.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/54th-Carnegie-International.-1994-Pittsburgh.pdf
が、あって、
マイクロポップに似た感じがあった。
大きな物語が終わった」と言われ、じゃあ、今はこうじゃ無い！？って展示の親玉。が54th Carnegie International になったと思うけど、New York Timesに扱き下ろされ、美術手帳（2005年1月号）でフォローされることになる。
New York Times 2004：
https://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/04/arts/design/pittsburgh-rounds-up-work-made-in-novel-ways.html
2005年1月号（私のHP）：
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New York Times 2004：
https://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/04/arts/design/pittsburgh-rounds-up-work-made-in-novel-ways.html
PITTSBURGH, Oct. 31 - These days a lot of serious art is made by artists who work like professional illustrators, graphic designers, prop makers and producers of television commercials and music videos. Some hatch complicated plans that assistants and technical specialists bring into being. Unfortunately, work of this sort -- call it designer art -- dominates this year's Carnegie International, the important survey of contemporary art that takes place every four years or so at the Carnegie Museum of Art here.
Organized by the museum's curator of contemporary art, Laura Hoptman, this year's show presents more than 400 works by 38 artists from five continents. It is given plenty of space, with an entire room devoted to each artist's work, making it easy to take in. But though it includes some fine things, the event, which continues through March 20, is joyless, with many works of indifferent quality, few surprises and much that seems overly calculated.
The problem with designer art is that it can be difficult to distinguish from everyday commercial art. Ugo Rondinone's six-screen video showing different views of a man and a women dressed in stylish bohemian outfits, each walking alone through a deserted modern city to the strains of a Philip Glass soundtrack, is little more than a pretentious music video. A huge cartoon mural by the Japanese artist Chiho Aoshima depicting little anime-style people tossed about by volcanic eruptions and a tidal wave could well be wallpaper for a child's bedroom. Large glossy photographs of pole dancers by Philip-Lorca diCorcia might have been commissioned by a slick magazine to cash in on society's obsession with the sexual entertainment industry.
Robert Breer's playful, semi-abstract animated films would be fodder for a children's educational television program. The much-ballyhooed black-and-white movie "Seven Intellectuals in Bamboo Forest" by the Chinese filmmaker Yang Fudong would work as an unusually long but sumptuous ad for the Banana Republic clothing chain. Jeremy Deller contributes T-shirts imprinted with biblical texts that you can buy in the museum gift shop.
At best, designer art can be bracingly provocative -- the work of Maurizio Cattelan, for example. Unfortunately, Mr. Cattelan's sculpture of a shoeless John F. Kennedy lying in an open coffin was not on view when I was at the museum. Tey Stiteler, a museum spokeswoman, said that the room in which the artist wanted it shown is not normally open to the public; the sculpture can be seen on certain dates only. In two of the show's best works, designer consciousness is animated by deeply personal impulses. Paul Chan's widescreen video homage to the paintings of the outsider artist Henry Darger, a 20-minute epic realized in the rudimentary, heavily pixilated style of an old video game, is magical and haunting. And a hilarious movie by John Bock about some zany scientific researchers and their involvement with funky Rube Goldberg-like machines, cows and bodily fluids provides much-needed comic relief.
One of two films by Oliver Payne and Nick Relph, "Driftwood," a lyrically gritty tour of London accompanied by a leftist tirade of a voiceover, is good; the other, "Comma, Pregnant Pause," a boring, digitally animated mess inspired by Samuel Beckett's plays, shows how far astray art can be carried by new design tools.
The brainier designer-directors tend to produce work that is more interesting to philosophize about than to experience. Pawel Althamer, for example, has scripted a performance in which professional actors, indistinguishable from real pedestrians, walk this way and that across an intersection near the museum at appointed times. And Carsten Höller presents a greenhouse full of potted plants that are said to give off pheromones that cause viewers to feel as though they've fallen in love. If only.
Design can overwhelm content. In a vast installation by Kutlug Ataman, who took this year's juried Carnegie Prize, each of 40 secondhand television sets plays a video in which a resident of Kuba, a dirt-poor enclave in Istanbul, talks about his or her life. Some of the speakers are compelling and some ramble tediously (their words are translated by subtitles), but the overall gridded design levels them all into an undifferentiated murmuring chorus.
Harun Farocki's compilations of film and video clips about the development of visual technologies in modern weaponry could use less stylish cutting and pasting and more explication. And Fernando Bryce's 208 neatly handmade pen-and-ink copies of newspaper pages and other printed materials relating to cold-war proxy politics in South America tend to look like studies in lettering, typography and graphic communication.
Designer consciousness can also leak into more traditional studio-based kinds of art. In the geometric sculptures of Eva Rothschild, the suave, small-scale Cubist paintings of Tomma Abts, the monochromatic paintings of Mark Grotjahn, the cannily dissonant sculptures of Rachel Harrison, and the expansive, finely grained fields of graphic signs by Julie Mehretu, you witness a sophisticated management of Modernist formal vocabularies. Designer art is ironic and strategic. It is not the product of a searching soul but of a critically articulate mind.
There is romantic art in the show. One room surveys the career of Robert Crumb, whose works in comic-strip format plumbs the soul of the white American soul with unparalleled humor, ingenuity and desperation. (Anyone who first discovered his work in the hallucinogenically steeped 60's, however, may find it difficult to digest in the high-minded context of a museum.) There is also a small survey of the sculpture of Lee Bontecou, whose military-industrial-style canvas-and-metal reliefs from the late 50's and 60's exude a terrible fear of and attraction to the existential void. Her recent complex and delicate new mobiles convey a futuristic euphoria.
The inclusion of Kathy Butterly's diminutive, wildly inventive ceramic sculptures is a pleasant surprise. Compared with them, Anne Chu's comical scorched-clay human-size demons are heavy handed, but both artists make a good case for the imaginative engagement of mind and body with malleable materials -- the opposite of designer art.
Painting is not well served, however. Peter Doig and Mamma Andersson are interesting artists, but both seem mired in the backwaters of Post-Impressionist style and postmodernist signifying when their styles are compared with the nutty Soviet Surrealism of Neo Rauch, the show's strongest painter. Some of the work is just plain bad: the low points include Isa Genzken's dreamlike assemblage of dolls, toys, shoes and other junk with paint poured over them, and Katarzyna Kozyra's multiscreen stop-action video in which naked elderly people dance like puppets to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring."
Marginally interesting artists like Francis Als and Jim Lambie are given too much space; their work might have fared better in smaller rooms, like the one occupied by Saul Fletcher's small darkly eccentric photographs. Trisha Donnelly's extremely understated conceptual works are so unobtrusively sited that they barely register on the viewer.
→Sketchy fantasies drawn on patches of white paint on newspaper pages by Kaoru Arima look like student works.
Senga Nengudi's sculptures made of stretched and sand-filled nylon stockings don't go far enough. And a video showing the artist Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook reading poetry to a real female corpse raises troubling questions of the conflict between professional art-making and religion. What might be a deeply felt spiritual practice in a private or temple context seems exhibitionistic in a show of contemporary art.
The greatest amount of room is given to Mangelos, the pseudonym adopted by a Croatian art historian, Dimetrije Basicevic, who died in 1987. Mangelos composed short, elliptical theoretical texts that he would scrawl in paint on panels and world globes. Why his work cropped up in the Carnegie International is a mystery; it deserves an exhibition unto itself.
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