Allan Wexler – Absurd Thinking, Between Art and Design

Allan Wexler – Absurd Thinking, Between Art and Design


– Tonight’s guest also revels in playing with invisible forces, not algorithms I don’t think, but gravity and motion. His influences include John
Cage’s writing the music, Robert Rauschenberg’s early work, and the art of Marcel Duchamp, but is he an artist, a
designer, or an architect? Allan Wexler has straddled
all these categories with finesse and, indeed,
such labels seem so reductive when you look at his work, and perhaps more importantly his process. Allan and his wife and
artistic collaborator, Ellen, are friends and neighbors
of our department, and often here on Tuesday evenings, so when several months
ago he mentioned to me that he had a new book coming out, and some of you may have seen it, and dropped it off I was really unprepared for the mind-blowing experience it is to look at Absurd Thinking,
Between Art and Design the title of the monograph
published by Lars Müller. It’s a book that really
grabs you by the lapels. Allan, overall you’ll
see is wonderfully smart, humorous and provocative, and sometimes has that magical quality of allowing the viewer to suspend belief that kind of absurdity that is refreshing, and often delightful. The subject of Allan’s work
is the built environment, and he creates drawings,
multimedia objects, images and installations that alter perceptions
of domestic activities. He investigates eating, bathing,
sitting, and socializing, and turns these everyday
activities into ritual and theater. Allan is a recipient of a
Guggenheim Fellowship in 2016, is a Fellow of the
American Academy in Rome, and a winner of both a Chrysler
Award for Design Innovation, and the Henry J. Leir Prize
from the Jewish Museum. He is represented by the Ronald
Feldman Gallery in New York, and has had numerous international, and national solo exhibitions. He also teaches at that school
down the street at Parsons. We are thrilled to invite him
to the podium this evening. Allan, please come up. (applause) – Thanks. So what you’re looking at
is a Vitra design chair, and miniature books. A lot of my work has to do
with the scale inversion between the reality of model, and the reality of non-models. This is a quote by Albert Einstein, but when I told Lars Müller that I wanted to include this quote, “If at first the idea is not absurd, “then there is no use for it.” He said, “Allan, that’s so corny. “You can’t use a quote by
Albert Einstein in your book.” So it’s not in the book
but that was the generator thanks to my wife and
partner and collaborator on a lot of these projects, Ellen Wexler, is in the audience. She came up with the
title which I really like, and I think Lars really
liked the title a lot because, of course, it
is about pushing ideas to their logical absurdity
I always tell my students. Right now I’m teaching in the
MFA interior design program, and during the spring semester I teach undergraduate product design. Most of my career I taught architecture. I always tell my students
that if you think your idea is a great idea imagine it’s mediocre. Now push it either to
the left or to the right, or to the hot or to the cold,
or to the red or to the green, and then once you get it to the extreme reestablish it as a midpoint
and assume it’s mediocre, and try pushing it again because oftentimes young designers don’t understand that term
when you hear it in crits push your idea further what that means, and that’s what I mean. At art events and dinner
parties I find myself confronted with the typical question what kind of work do you do? This question has always been a source of confusion for me personally. It is a question I ask
myself each morning. It got to the point where I
found myself evading strangers, or avoiding parties altogether. To resolve this awkward
cocktail party situation I drafted 20 different responses, and printed them as business cards. I keep them in my wallet and hand them out whenever the question arises. Allan Wexler: Cocktail party response #14. What kind of work do you do? I’m an architect in an artist’s body. My studio is a laboratory. I sculpt with gravity and paint with rain. The smell of wood, the texture of stone, and the sound of the door
against frame inspire me. I saw, drill and chisel in order to become physically
exhausted at the same rate that I become intellectually exhausted. The work looks at simple things. Sight lines between seated people, the way that two bricks intersect, the line between inside and outside. I invent ways to walk through walls. I build anti-gravity machines. The book is broken up into four chapters. Abstractions, landscape, private space and public places. I mean, I could have categorized it in a lot of different ways, but this is how we chose to categorize it. The chapter breaks always
have a little uninteresting, well, not uninteresting, a small sketch that introduces the next chapter, so I’m gonna start with the
category of abstraction. When I first came to New York City I had a very small studio space. It was basically the
corner of an apartment at 615 Hudson Street on the second floor. I had a table about this big, and I thought could I make
buildings that are small that could make great impact? Could I work very small? Could I work in a kind of stream of consciousness
fashion very much like James Joyce in Stream of Consciousness? Could I make buildings without hesitation like a Sumi-e watercolor painter who has to work without hesitation, otherwise, the ink will
tear the rice paper because it’s so fragile, so I wanted to think about
how I could make buildings created out of my subconscious, so what I did is I built
a miniature lumberyard, which includes sheets of
plywood, glass, two-by-fours, sheetrock, concrete panels,
a bottle of Elmer’s Glue, a tweezer and an X-Acto knife. I started creating these
buildings without hesitation, without thinking about it. These are a few of many
examples of building buildings using only eight foot
long uncut two-by-fours at miniature lumberyard scale, and as Molly had suggested I was greatly influenced at this time by John Cage’s idea of chance operations, and throwing the I Ching to make sound. I thought could I use a similar technique setting up a very rigorous
set of boundaries, and restrictions and rules through which I can create illogic, so logical systems to create illogic. Time based, material based and tool based is the way I was working back in the ’70s. A series which I changed
one variable at a time like the scientific method I introduced instead of two-by-fours I then introduced sheets of plywood, and then see what happens. Then I would go through the same process after I exhausted myself of
two-by-four and plywood studies I would then change
one variable and I said what would happen if I
used concrete panels, and undergo the same process, almost a building a day. The one on the left
glass and two-by-fours. The one on the right before we had a thing called
AutoCAD or even computers maybe we had big giant computers that took the space of this room I tried to make drawings like a machine, so I made little rubber
stamps of two-by-fours in their six orthogonal positions, and I rubber-stamped drawings to try to breakthrough preconceptions as the way a building should
be built to be work in almost a mindfully mindless fashion. Many years later in this
category of abstraction it could have been in
another category probably I wanted to return to an earlier project, which I’ll get to in a
second called Chair A Day I did a series of transformations of the standard Ikea chair
called the Stefan chair. This is one example of a Stefan chair that I burned in a bonfire. A piece of charcoal broke off the chair, and I used that piece of charcoal to make an axonometric
drawing of the burned chair. About this time maybe a little bit earlier I wanted to see if I
could make a painting, or make a drawing of a
chair that I could sit on. I wanted to be able to sit on a drawing. I wanted to be able to sit on a painting. Unlike Magritte’s This Is Not a Pipe, which you couldn’t smoke I wanted to make a painting of a pipe that you could actually
smoke that kind of thing, so I said could I make
a chair and a painting that would function as a painting, and then also structurally function as a chair that would support my weight. The painting on the upper left is a flattened version of a generic chair. There are many, many versions
of a flattened generic chair. I did many of them. We know that there are 11
versions of a flattened cube. There are 11 different
versions of a flattened cube, so you could imagine thousands of versions of a flattened typical
chair so that’s the chair. The yellow if I cut
that yellow canvas away, and reversed the canvas
you see the stretchers on the other side of the canvas. Those stretchers are triangulated. The canvas is used as a hinge laminated to the wood stretchers, so you could fold that
sculpture on the right, and turn it into a functional chair. This is a kind of example all of my work is this example of work
that tries to ride that edge between the fine arts
and the applied arts, between function and poetry, between physics and metaphysics, between architecture and sculpture. This is an example of my work, which I always try to
be right on that edge between those two fields. This is a project I did for a place called the Southeastern Center
for Contemporary Art in Winston-Salem. I had delivered to the
site 96 hollow-core doors from Home Depot framed
doors, hollow-core doors. We then made clusters of four doors, so this is a cluster of four doors, four doors, four doors, four doors. By opening a door and pinning
it at the top of the frame either open or closed, this binary idea, and that’s why there’s
a photograph of a hinge, open or close for me a
very important decision like Morse code, like any binary system. You have an infinite amount of possible configurations of this maize, so each week the staff at the art center reposition the doors according
to my switch diagrams. I call that switch diagrams
either open or closed in order for you to have a changing maize each time you would
come back to the art center. This is a project which I would call a kind of
looking at the infra-ordinary as Georges Perec talks about. I recently discovered Species of Spaces, and I became a Perec fanatic, but looking very closely
at things is something that I’ve returned to over
and over throughout my career. So for me I don’t know if you can see that that’s the head of a sheetrock screw. It actually is the end paper of the book, which is a full-size
photograph of sheetrock screws on a drywall with extended
pencil lines coming through the head of the cross
of the sheetrock screw. When you look closely you’re looking at the biological, the microscopic, but then the room that is built with sheetrock on the interior, and a grid of drywall screws
eight inches on center, studs 16 inches on center the head of the sheetrock
screw are extended to the edges of the wall, so for me with my past in
architecture and building the head of a sheetrock screw
has enormous implications, and it becomes astronomical. Back to Stefan chairs, so I went to Ikea. There was a summer a few years ago that I wanted to recreate a
project called Chair A Day. I thought what would happen, I did Chair A Day in 1988 this is 2007 so it’s many years later I said, “I think if I return to Chair A Day, “and make 16 chairs in 16 days “I could compare the chairs
I did when I was younger, “and the chairs I did when I was older.” There was a big sale at
Ikea of Stefan chairs, and I couldn’t pass them up, so I filled up our car with
Ikea flat-packed Stefan chairs, brought them back to my studio, made an axonometric
drawing of the Ikea chair, xeroxed it 100 times and
started to manipulate the xerox, and transform the xerox page. I’ve tried to forget the
name of the thing one sees what’s that book the name by Robert Irwin? Seeing Is Forgetting the
Name of the Thing One Sees so if we forget that that’s a chair it’s not a chair it’s
only graphite or carbon on a sheet of 8-1/2 by 11 white bond paper I can do anything to that piece of paper. I can violate, I can scratch
it with an X-Acto knife. I can cut elements out of it. I can add color to it
with Prismacolor pencils. I can duplicate it and glue
it on top of each other. I did a series of these
transformations of the xeroxes. I think these are 54
studies for a Stefan chair. I then said, now wait a
minute, in fact, it is a chair, it is a proposal for a chair could I then take some of these which were formally abstract
lines on a piece of paper, and I didn’t think about
the chairness of them could I return to those chairs, and start building some of
those transformed drawings? These are a few of the 25 transformed Stefan chairs that were done in 2007 based on those drawings, so they’re interpretations
of a flat drawing into a three-dimensional functional chair. Based on the same concept of
breaking through preconceptions if I gave myself a time limit, and tool limit and material limit then I didn’t have to think about that for the rest of the day. Already it was determined
get a sheet of plywood, make a chair by the end of the day. I couldn’t justify
anything out of existence. I didn’t care whether it was
a good chair or a bad chair I had to do a chair a day for
16 days everything is okay. It wasn’t about quality it was
only about quantity and time. The chair on the left which
I used to call a chair in memory of Charles and Ray Eames, but now I call a chair
in memory of Alvar Aalto. I think it’s more closely related to that beautiful Aalto chair, which is this beautiful sheet of draped plywood over a frame. I wanted to be able to drape
a sheet of 1/4 inch plywood over an orthogonal, rectilinear frame, so what I did is early in the morning this was on the North Fork of Long Island where Ellen and I have a
summerhouse and studio, hot summer day I take a sheet of plastic, big sheet of polyethadene plastic. I wrap a piece of plywood and plastic. I put water inside I let
it bake in the sun all day building up steam and heat, and at the end of the
day I got one hour to go before the end of the day I figured, well, I’m gonna drape
this piece of plywood over this beautiful simple frame, and, of course, it didn’t work. I love when things don’t work, and I try to exploit that craftsmanship, and I try to be naive intentionally so. It didn’t bend so I took
the sheet of plywood, I placed bricks under it strategically and I
drove my car over the plywood, so I call this Broken Plywood Chair now in memory of Alvar Aalto. The one on the next one
up on the upper right hand this one over here is a
bad mortise and tenon job. A mortise and tenon is a
square peg in a square hole. It’s a really wonderful joinery technique used
by fine cabinetmakers. By no means am I a fine
cabinetmaker I’m a carpenter, so I chiseled the square holes. The legs wobbled like hell, and I took wedges and I
forced them into the gaps in the legs of the chair
to strengthen the chair, and that chair for me is
much more a demonstration of forces in nature and
structure and gravity then if I was an expert cabinetmaker, and I hid all that joinery. If you see a nice bridge construction you see how when a vertical
and a horizontal meet that joint is beefed up with
a beautiful gusset plate, and you understand structure, but sometimes those things get hidden, and we get better and better at craft. Sometimes we lose it so
always return and say can I become a beginner again? I always try to get my students once you become an expert at something to do not forget what it was
like when you were a beginner, and you made discoveries
that were awesome, and memorable, and thrilling, and you become so good at things. I think it would be the
same thing in writing. You become so good at writing that sometimes you want to
tweak it and mess with it, and maybe change a system
or try another technique. Maybe write instead of using a computer write with an old typewriter, or write with a crow quill pen. Try changing the tool and
it might change your … You probably, well,
with writers maybe not, but when I’m making work
and I listen to music if I change the music
it will change my work. The dilemma of the
digital versus the analog. When architects make brick walls in the computer through AUTOCad or Rhino, or sophisticated computer
programs it’s effortless. You could render a brick wall so easily. You don’t feel like we used
to make models and drawings where you had to actually
draw every single brick, so it was an effort so
you thought twice about how you would lay those
bricks through drawing. With digital tools you sometimes lose the
understanding of the making. I love the computer, of course, we all do, but we have to remind ourselves the hand also has to enter
into the equation I think, so what I did here is I
made a brick that’s a mouse, and in Photoshop these are called palettes in Photoshop. You have the brushed palette. You have the different
palettes the brushed, and the pen tools
palette and all of those, but in lumberyards when you buy bricks you buy a pallet of bricks. I love that the lumberyard
and Photoshop are equivalent, so I made a pallet of bricks in this position and this position. I have to with my brick
lift up this heavy mouse, move one brick into the screen at a time, and you know it’s heavy
so you got to place it, and then you got to place the next one, so it takes about the same amount of time to build a virtual digital brick wall as it would to lay an actual brick wall. At the end of the day you’re sweating, and your hands are blistered, and you feel like, wow, now
I’m ready to have a beer, and I’m exhausted. Sometimes I like the
equivalency of being exhausted at the end of the day
physically exhausted, and intellectually exhausted, I think, otherwise, there’s a
slippage that I don’t like. Here’s an old book called
How to Lay a Brick Wall, and there’s me with my brick wall. The last page of
abstractions is a project, one of the earliest ones in the book, which is a rubber T-square
made as my thesis project at Rhode Island School of Design where I graduated from
the school of architecture never having designed a
building I’m very proud of that. They did try to flunk me out, but I did end up graduating
with an honors award, but when you draw a
straight line in plane … Some of you are older you
might remember these things they’re called T-squares
they don’t use them anymore, but when you draw a straight line in plane that doesn’t mean a straight line it’s not just a straight
extruded line in three-dimensions it could be an infinite amount of things, so I’m just trying to remind people that a straight line in plane can be interpreted in
so many different ways, but, also, I was being a little
tongue-in-cheek and ironic, and I was playing with the
profession of architecture, which I had a love-hate affair with. One of the essays in the
book by Michele Calzavara he says Allan Wexler
harasses architecture. I love that statement. There are two other essays in the book. One is by Patty Phillips
I don’t know if you know she’s a wonderful writer. She just finished curating
and writing a book on Mierle Ukeles at the Queens Museum. She had actually done the
first review of my show that I ever had at Feldman Gallery. I didn’t even know what a review was because I came out of architecture, and I showed my work at Feldman she wrote a review in Artforum, and many years later when we
taught together at Parsons she said, yeah, it’s so nice
to meet you I wrote a review. What’s a review? I didn’t know what that meant coming out of architecture school. The other essay in the book is by Sean Anderson who I know has
spoken here who is one of the associate curators
of architecture at MoMA. Chapter two is Landscape, which deals with earth, air, fire, water. Over my career one of
things about the book it’s not chronological. I’m juxtaposing early work with new work, and you’ll see that they’re very similar. I think that’s important
for younger students to not feel like you have to move from idea to idea to idea, but you can stick with something
in my case for 45 years, and return to it over the years because these ideas haunt
me and I return to them. In the category of landscape
it’s earth, air, fire, water. Here’s a photograph of
me when I was very young just coming out of the
school of architecture. I go into the woods I said, “Well, I never designed a
building it’s about time “I go to the woods and
cut down some trees, “and make architecture,” but I tried to find
four trees in the woods that formed a perfect square
and I couldn’t find them, so I cut one down and
moved it to make a square. I thought that was like one of the early acts of architecture. Then this is done just maybe
2015 so it’s only two years old juxtaposed against the work I
was doing in the early ’70s. It’s not unlike what I was doing before. I’m trying to straighten nature. I’m trying to fix nature. I’m trying to geometrize nature. I think that’s what the
role of designer is, or to architect is to create
level plane to a level surface on the uneven unlevel earth
and to straighten trees, and make them functional or useful. To turn trees into
two-by-fours and two-by-eights. So that’s what I’m trying to do here. This is a photograph of the original tree. This is a photograph of the original tree where I cut into the photograph, and straightened out the paper to make a straight photograph of a tree, and then the third image here
which is detailed over there is the tree straightened
out based on the photograph of the previous drawing by using
wedges pushed into the tree to straighten it out as a straight line. A very early set of drawings
done at the time I discovered and read Gaston Bachelard’s
Poetics of Space. I’m sure many of you have read that. It was a great influence on me. Could poetry enter into this
field of functional arts, and he talks about isolating elements of the archetypal peaked roofed house, and I wanted to think
about how could I make study just the second floor, just the air-conditioning system, just the cellar, just the attic, so I isolated these elements, and made drawings of those elements. I love when Bachelard in this case you kind of understand it here when Bachelard talks about
when you’re in the cellar you feel the pressure of the entire earth pushing on the walls of that cellar wall, and I love that notion that
in the earth you’re pushing, the earth is pushing up against you, and you’re in this protected space. In the attic it’s almost the opposite. You feel like you’re inside
of a skeleton of a bird wing. It’s open, it’s airy, it’s light, it’s floating above the earth that kind of sense of
poetry is things that could I balance that relationship between the poetic and the functional. So here very recent work based on the same issues that I was
doing in the early ’80s here, and these are quite new works from a series called Breaking Ground where I’m just looking
at very simple things. A shovel full of earth
put into the ground, and lifted up into the
sky and moved over here what landscape architects
call cut and fill what do you do with the earth, and you move it here solid and void. If you’re a sculptor figure ground. If you’re a graphic
designer I’m sure in writing we have equivalent solid void situations, silences and sound like
in John Cage’s discussion, so that kind of thing, and then the buttressing that holds the earth from falling out, but it starts to flow out. It oozes out of the form. It wants to go back to nature despite the heavy hand of the designer. The one on the right an
anti-gravity machine. This idea of levitation, and lifting the earth into the heavens I was very much influenced
by the Japanese tea ceremony, and then I started looking at traditional Japanese architecture
especially the tea room. The tea room is only one stepping stone above the earth’s surface. The World Trade Center
which I’ve come back to, and worked with was 110 stories
above the earth’s surface. What’s better that kind of thing. What allows you to rise
up into the heavens to create this kind of sacred space. One stepping stone or
a 110-story building. I don’t know it’s not a yes or no answer. This is called Tethered
Landscape on the left. These are photographs that’s
six feet wide that photograph so they’re quite large so
it becomes almost spatial. I think I get to how we
describe those later on. One thing that Lars Müller
is a great graphic designer, and he kept turning to me and said, “Allan, too much product.” I said, “What do you
mean too much product?” he said, “Take that little
sketch make it a full page, “and take the actual artifact
that you’ve constructed, “and make it a small image.” I think that idea of inverting process so the small sketches
are given as much weight as a bigger project. I thought that was a really insightful way of thinking about this book. Another interesting quip
that I know Ashley likes when Lars asked me do you
have a preference in typeface, and I said, “I like
Garamond I like a serif “because my work is conceptual, “and I like the idea of
being a little retro, “and showing a little serif
typeface how about Garamond?” He turns to me and he says, “Allan, what are you a dentist?” So it’s Helvetica if you’ve
ever seen the movie Helvetica he’s featured in that movie. He’s a Swiss typographer
and graphic designer so it’s Helvetica. This idea of landscape this is a project for a study of a hill. I was asked by a museum
in Lincoln, Massachusetts called the DeCordova
Museum to do a picnic area. I purposely chose a really
bad place for a picnic area because I like making problems
in order to solve problems so I chose a hill, and then did 30 proposals for a hill a picnic area on a hill. As you can see the upper right hand corner which is called Scaffold
Shoes is a bit of a diversion. Sometimes I went off track, and didn’t do picnic
areas and dining tables, but it’s all about creating a horizontal plane on an incline. There were 30 different
studies for that picnic area one of which we built which
was there for many years. Later on the Contemporary
Arts Center in Cincinnati 1999 I think it says asked me to do they had
a one person exhibition. This is before they
moved to the new building that Zaha Hadid did it was in an office
building in Cincinnati, and they asked me to do an
interactive installation. I did this room called The Hypar Room which is a hyperebolic parabola. I placed chairs and tables, and then made the chairs and
tables once again functional, so it riffs on the DeCordova Museum studies of the hill for picnicking, and then it recreates a level surface. There’s one that’s the
actual table on a slope which isn’t functional, and the others are all different ways in which you create a horizontal
set of tables and chairs in this hyperbolic parabola. A hyperbolic parabola for people who aren’t architects in
this room there are few is very, very beautiful structure. If you take a diagonal
from that side corner, and down to the downward corner there, and then you go from that
corner down to this corner, and you just take floor
joists and come across they’re all straight lines. Everything in that
architectural space is straight, but when you sheet it over
it creates a saddle curve which is a convex and concave structure that is in perfect equilibrium, so it’s a beautiful structure because it can be very thin
and no supports underneath, so structurally very beautiful structure, so people have the opportunity
to walk under the floor, and see how the structure is built. A series of small little studies of tableness, and there were about 20 clusters of these, so I would make these
little paintings of tables, and each one I studied a different idea, but I didn’t know what I was doing, and then later on I cataloged
them and categorized them, and placed them in these grids. Sometimes this series I began to discover a tabletop is not just a table but it’s a landscape, and the surface of the
table can be ripped apart revealing earth and sky, and sometimes the table
returns back to nature grows back and becomes
a root system in trees, so these became a kind of
alphabet that I used later on in a lot of work later on. The one on the right you
see the shadow of a table becoming the real table. In the book, also, are some
fiction writing that I’ve done, and by no means am I a writer, but I found it very liberating. I had a fellowship at the
American Academy in Rome I didn’t want to bring any tools, and I took the opportunity
to start writing. Of course, then I also learned Photoshop during that time I was in Rome, but I was using writing
in a liberating way to help me come up with
new ideas for architecture, so I used the writing a kind of blueprint. I would create these
hypothetical interiors, or structures that I didn’t have any idea how I might build them, so I was using words to kind of make proposals for sculpture in architecture. This on the right is called Bucket House. When it rains water flows
down the roof of the house. It fills buckets on the edge of the roof, and as the rain gets heavy as the bucket gets heavier and heavier they drop to the ground and
then you can harvest the water. I did these I guess in 1994 before we knew about Flint, Michigan and scarcity of water, and the preciousness of water. We took water for granted
in the United States, and I spent about two years
exploring water in a show at Feldman Gallery called
Buckets, Sinks, and Gutters are all studies of ways to transport water to take water out of the earth, and to collect water from the sky. There are many different projects that are all associated with
ways of collecting water. The next chapter is called Private Space. Basements, caves, retreats and studios are intimate spaces that
offer protection and refuge. Some places shape our behavior. Some are formed by use. All of these now have to
do with intimacy, privacy. So in that same series
of photo based works the one on the left is
called Sheathing the Rift, and they’re all about
going down into the earth excavating creating private space. This spread from the book helps to understand how I come about this. This is the earliest image in the book earliest work that I
did when I was a student with Raimund Abraham who
is a wonderful architect, and taught at Rhode
Island School of Design when I was a student, and it was called Everybody’s Dream House. I did this suburban
house as a kit of parts that you could rearrange
the suburban house and rearrange the landscape for very different reasons
than I was doing the one above which is about excavation, but this juxtaposition from 1970 to 2014 I won’t even add up the
amount of time in between there are many similarities. Here the way these are
constructed these images sometimes they’re 32 by 40, and sometimes they’re six feet wide. What I do is because I’m
a builder I’m a sculptor I love building things, I
love working with my hands, I’m not satisfied with
sending a digital file to Duggal and getting a high-end archival print that’s premounted and pre-framed. I have to work at that, I have to make it, I have to build it, so when I start I make
a landscape in plaster. I chisel away at the landscape. For me the chisel is not
a chisel it’s a backhoe, it’s a shovel, it’s a rake. I imagine myself in the landscape in reality excavating into the earth. I build little props. That’s a little ladder
made out of museum board that’s that big and I juxtapose
those things together. I then photograph these props, these landscapes
in plaster, I photograph them. I have a 13 inch wide
printer so I print everything maximum 13 inch wide, but I want to get something more spatial, so I build these photographs
with registration marks. I glue them onto panels, and then I scrape into the emulsion, or to the surface of the paper. I then use pencil and graphite
and I work that surface like a builder is working on that surface, and then I buff, polish, wax,
polyurethane the surface. I like when I look at that
surface I see the brush marks. I see the swirl marks of
steel wool of 4/0 steel wool. I like making things. I wouldn’t be satisfied sending off. I’m all for a photographer
sending off their work, and having it printed I
love that too, it’s not me. Here’s an example of
excavating into the earth, and a piece broke away and
I tried to repair that piece with scaffolding and buttressing. Very simple project done a
long time ago a chair in a room if you face the door is one environment. You take that same chair
face the other direction it’s a completely radically
different environment. This is from a series
called Chair in Room. Then this project which is a
great turning point in my work if you have a chair inside of a building, and a person sits in that chair connected to the chair are two-by-fours from my miniature lumberyard. This is still within the miniature lumberyard phase of my work those are the same scale. In my miniature lumberyard
I built miniature chairs so that was a change in my palette of materials at that time. I took those two-by-fours I wove them into the
structure of the chair. I extended them through slots
in the walls of the building, and as a person sits in that chair, and moves that chair
around over and over again throughout their lives that chair outside because of those outriggers
that are extended out start to dig ruts in the earth outside. If you repeat patterns over
and over and over again those ruts get deeper and deeper so that you’re forced to
travel those paths forever. This is where I started discovering the Japanese tea ceremony,
ritual and ceremony. In some ways I returned to my Jewish past the rituals of Judaism, and started to riff on
some of these rituals which maybe I think I might
have a few in there later. This is called Wall, I Want
to Become Architecture. I realized after so many years I always thought I wanted
to be an architect, but I realized I wanted
to be architecture. I wanted to put my body into a wall. I wanted to merge with the environment. When I put my elbow onto
a table I wanted my elbow to recede into the table, and cause a dent in the
surface of the table. This is a kind of
self-portrait in negative, and done in flat plane. This is kind of related to
my interest in clothing, and where architecture
ends and clothing begins, where sheetrock or drywall
begins and fabric begins. This is a plainer material,
this is a fabric material what’s that relationship between those, so some of the things
I was thinking about. Then Ellen and I we did a
lot of public art projects, and Ellen and I always collaborate on those public art projects. This is one we did in Athens,
Ohio for Ohio University and we took the same idea of
I Want to Become Architecture made out of plywood and drywall
and we made it in brick, so this is a portrait of
the non-artist on campus so students can sit in my body to feel what it’s like to
be an artist on campus. The campus is predominantly brick so we wanted to be contextual
so everything was brick, but their campus is pretty mediocre, and pretty uninteresting
so we wanted to show that brick is just a pixel. With a brick you can create
the history of world culture, whatever, it’s like a dot and a dash, it’s like a door open a door closed. A brick is meant to be held in the hand, and it’s incredible how
many different forms you can make with a brick. So we just wanted to be
a little bit didactic, and help students realize
that bricks don’t have to be these boring neoclassical
collegiate architecture buildings that are riffing on the past they’re all brand new buildings. You could do something a
little bit more intriguing, and yet still work with a palette of brick which was a demand of the school. This is called Hat for Bottled Water. Again, before Flint, Michigan. This is before people
were thinking about water as a precious commodity. Remember, water is so precious
that even this little brim so we don’t waste it there’s
a little tube that comes down, and collects on the brim of the hat to collect every ounce of
water it’s so precious. Those are empty Evian bottles by the way, recycled Evian bottles
to collect rainwater. The one on the left on the
other side is Hat Roof, yes. It’s fully adjustable by the way, so, although, it fits me it
could fit many of you as well by readjusting comes in all sizes. That’s called Scaffold Furniture. Each element of a standard Western meal is broken down into separate pieces. Each utensil, dinnerware is
supported on scaffolding. This is a piece I did at Pratt Institute when I taught there a
friend of mine was a curator of the Sculpture Park at Pratt, David Weinrib did not have an office, the one on the right
did not have an office Pratt wouldn’t give him
an office on campus, and he asked me if I
would build a sculpture, and I said, “No, I’m not going
to build you a sculpture. “I’m gonna build you an office.” So that’s the David
Weinrib office building. It’s really riffing on
the Gothic cathedral where the structure is on
the outside of the building. When you’re inside you
see this shaft of light that creates a ceiling inside that space. That’s a continuous window around there thick plexiglass so it is weathertight. That’s called Pratt Desk. Like in Bunraku puppetry
where you see the puppeteer moving the puppet and
manipulating the puppet they’re in full view but
you ignore the puppeteer, so don’t look at the scaffolding. What you’re looking at is a
floating horizontal plane. Just forget the scaffolding
it doesn’t exist. This is called Crate House done in 1990. That was for an exhibition at the University of Massachusetts Gallery. They asked three architects. At that time I thought
myself an architect. I learnt differently now. Tod Williams, and Billie
Tsien, and Fred Schwartz, who is not alive anymore, unfortunately, we each did a room that would
address the coming decade. I was doing the project
at the DeCordova Museum and it was very close to Walden Pond. I read Thoreau and I got
really interested in the book, and I wanted to make a
house that was riffing, and playing with the
idea of reduced lifestyle to a small crate that was in fact smaller than the cabin at Walden Pond. So eight foot cube, there are four crates. Each crate contains one room of a house. You have a kitchen, bedroom,
dining room and bathroom, maybe there’s a living room, too. Anyway, each crate is in profile the size of a standard door frame. If you want to make dinner you slide the crate into
the cube and the entire cube becomes a kitchen food preparation space. When you want to sleep
the kitchen slides out, and the bedroom slides in. It’s, again, the Japanese
house Western version. Instead of tatami mats put in the closet so the whole house becomes daytime space here the crate moves in
and out of the house. Like a crate or like a diorama that you might see at the
Museum of Natural History what we’re looking at is we’re
looking historically at now. In other words, we’re looking at the artifacts
of contemporary culture the things that we’re very familiar with, and we’re turning them into
precious archeological artifacts like you would see in the
Museum of Natural History. I include a can of Campbell’s
soup in memory of Andy Warhol. I wanted to be the Andy
Warhol of architecture. We both have the same initials A.W. Andy Warhol, A.W. Allan Wexler. Could I make work that was as
provocative and edgy as Andy? That’s the interior with the living room brought into the crate, some drawings. Looking more closely at
one aspect of Crate House which is making coffee in the morning a Braun Aromaster 10 cup coffeemaker all of the interstitial elements
of the coffeemaker removed, reassembled so that we can
once again make coffee. My work is always about taking
the function out of function, and then putting it back
making it operable once again. I’m not interested in
defunctionalizing function, but I like to re-functionalize
defunctionalized function. Does that make sense? The one on the right is a kit
for making one cup of coffee. Talk about sustainability. It’s all the elements for
making one cup of coffee includes one teaspoon of sugar, one thing of coffee and so on. This is the same Braun
Aromaster coffeemaker. Every single manufactured
element has been deconstructed, taken apart turned into a kit, so every morning you have to consult your instructions, and with screwdriver and pliers that’s the only tools you need you construct your coffeepot,
then you grind your coffee, then you add the water, then
you make your cup of coffee, and then you disassemble
it for the next morning. It’s called the slow architecture
movement, slow design. This is a project at the Mattress Factory in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Ellen and I were just up
there two weekends ago it’s their 40th anniversary, and they invited me back to do a show at the Mattress Factory. This was done 30 years
ago and it’s a bedroom. The directors of the Mattress Factory asked me to do an installation
at the Mattress Factory, and I said at that time and
I’d probably say it today to be a little bit edgy I said, “I’m not a sculptor I’ll
make you a bedroom.” So I play the role of interior designer, which after all these
years I’m now teaching, and I made this bedroom in which the furniture
moves through the wall so that the space could be reconfigured depending on who the occupants are. If it’s a husband-wife artist team and they’re building installations
in the Mattress Factory they sleep in this bedroom, or if it’s two independent people they have two separate private rooms, a single bed and a chair, so the beds move through, the night tables swing
around, the lights rotate, and it reconfigures in different ways depending on who’s there, so this piece is a piece
that’s been there 30 years, and it’s nicely worn. They did restore it but
they didn’t repaint it they just did new upholstery. Now it’s not really used by
artists and residents anymore because they have a residence now with five or six apartments that they invite people to stay in, so this is now purely a
sculpture open to the public. Last chapter Public Places. Again, a little thumbnail sketch always to introduce the next chapter. This is four shoes with
continuous shoelaces, a very simple project about community. Here is Facebook, I invented
Facebook did you know that? I’m about to enter into a legal battle with Mark Zuckerberg, no, just kidding. When I was a student I took
a silk screening class, and I entered a competition
sponsored by Casabella Magazine called The City As A
Significant Environment which was about how do
you make people feel comfortable in the loneliness of the city? How can you form community? At the same time I’m reading Marshall McLuhan’s Understanding Media. He’s talking about the
global village the idea of new technology, cable television, to help people form communities
electronically and so on. It was an exciting period of time. I made these T-shirts in silk
screening studio when I was 23 living at 330 Benefit Street, which has been since torn down. It was an attempt to create community. If you saw a person on the
street wearing a T-shirt that said birthplace
Bridgeport, Connecticut across the street you might
walk across the street go out of your way to have a conversation that’s all it was. I came to New York City in 1972 the World Trade Center
was almost finished. I became interested in
the World Trade Center because everyone hated
the World Trade Center, especially fellow architects did not like the World Trade Center. I always thought the only problem with the World Trade Center
it needs three towers, so that was my proposal for a third tower, but I entered a competition the Birch Burdette Long competition for architecture rendering
which goes back to the 1800s. It’s like an old-fashioned
rendering competition, and I won first place for that drawing which was two postcards one
tower cut out and glued on. I love doing things so simply. Milton Glaser was on the
jury so I’m forever thankful, but that was pretty exciting
for a brand new New Yorker. I thought about this idea of
the World Trade Center tower the windows if you pull
a window shade down, or leave a window shade
open that’s a simple action. Every night there’s a cleaning staff that ran through the World Trade Center cleaning every office every single day. If you look in the window
sill of the World Trade Center there’s a calendar on the
calendar it’s says on or off, simple binary action on or off. By doing that you transform
the World Trade Center into the Empire State Building. To pay for this event which was going to be
a bicentennial proposal I thought Coca-Cola could fund this with evening of drink Coke on the facade, so there was a grid and a
catalog of different images you could create on the facade
of the World Trade Center. Community, one table worn by four people. A table I had just bought a Bosch jigsaw. People who are builders the blue jigsaw, beautiful tool I have two of them. I went through many of
them over my career. I took and made a table beautifully made, and I took my Bosch jigsaw
with a coarse saw blade, and very quickly I cut
through the diagonals and made a mount so you could wear them, and why I did that is
because of the uneven edge demands people to seek their partners. You feel the urge to come together again because there’s a matching set. If I took that table and cut
it precisely on the diagonals you wouldn’t feel the community, you wouldn’t feel the
pull back together again. The Japanese tea ceremony the
host doesn’t drink the tea, but spends a lot of effort
preparing for the guests. Table for the typical house, or I should say for the
typical American family. This is riffing on if you know Mies Van Der Rohe’s Brick Country House I always loved that project where the brick interior walls
go out into the landscape to the edges of the property, and create exterior
rooms and interior rooms, a beautiful building. This is a wall passing
through the dining table. This is a fragment of that
wall, a dining table, one table, four people sit at the same
table in separate rooms. I do require some communication because there’s only
one bottle of ketchup, one bottle of mustard, a salt
shaker and a pepper shaker, so you do have to get up, and at least communicate
with your neighbors. This is a project called
Coffee Seeks Its Own Level. Again, community for people. If you don’t lift the cup simultaneously creating a level playing
field a democratic situation then the cup overflows and
makes this horrible mess, and it’s an act of arrogance that’s Ellen. Look, this is where
architecture and fine art I don’t know what the
definition of the two is I keep working with that for my whole life what’s the difference between
architecture and sculpture, or fine art is it a problem? I created a problem in
order to solve a problem, so here there’s all these
stains on the table. Then what I do is I make
coffee cups to cover the stains to purify the table, but as an architect those become plans that I extrude to make ceramic porcelain coffee cups. This is a project Ellen and
I did not that long ago. It’s at the Hudson River Park. Some of you may know it it’s
called Two Too Large Tables. Imagine two horizontal
planes one at table height, and one seven feet above the ground each of which is held up by 13 chairs each exactly in the same position. Two people entering the table from the North side of Manhattan, one person entering in the
North side of Manhattan the Upper West Side and one
person entering from Chelsea have to sit facing each other
they fit in these slots. So like Greek caryatids
that hold up buildings the performers, the
actors, the participants feel like they’re holding up that table like a tablecloth as
clothing each of the people the table is an extension of their bodies, and it’s an extension of their clothing, and it’s very conducive to conversation. Then there’s a shade pavilion held up by the extensions of the backrests. The angle of the backs of
the chairs are for comfort, but the angle of the backs of
the chairs have two functions. One’s it looks more dynamic visually. Structurally, it makes it very stable because the angles are
counteracting each other. Otherwise, this thing
would wobble like that it would be very dangerous, so by making it comfortable
and making it dynamic visually it’s structurally more sound. I like when there’s a
reason for things existing that’s poetic and one
that’s also functional at least in my work. This is a project that we did for a satellite to the World’s Fair
in Hanover, Germany in 2000. It’s a shadow of a wind
turbine outside of Hanover. The shadow of the wind turbine is solar noon on the summer solstice. The amount of anthracite
coal in that shadow which creates a dark shadow that’s maybe a little didactic
it’s a little polluting the amount of coal taken
out of a local mine is equivalent to one 24 hours
of wind energy that’s used to make the shadow of the
wind turbine at solar noon on the solstice. This is the Long Island
Railroad Terminal in Brooklyn, Atlantic Terminal at Brooklyn
that Ellen and I did, which was a 10 year project thanks to 9/11 it was delayed because they
had to beef up the security, and what we did is we
created this pixelated nature by taking the palette of materials that the architect had proposed for the whole building which is granite. We took the balcony and
we redid the balcony to create a rocky overlook, and a kind of pixelated version of nature because Brooklyn is the
terminus of Long Island Railroad starting in Montauk, Long Island so we have nature-city merging
at the Atlantic Terminal, and a place to overlook
the activity below. Thank you. (applause) – I like this idea of
like the spectrum of like where an amateur is playing, and you’re in the realm of ideas, and you’re creating problems for yourself that you have to solve. It seems like kind of the
drudgery of professionalism is that problems are thrown at you, and you’re kind of working in
this collective environment, so I was curious if in your
work when you’re dealing with more professional organizations,
especially, your later work like the building at the Atlantic Terminal is there a tension in the work
with the people you work with if you want to talk about that? – Well, that’s a great question because public art for Ellen and I
was a kind of perfect balance between fine and applied art because you have the
boundaries and focus of what architectural professions
deal with which is focus, and with fine art the focus
has to be self-determined. With the applied arts focus
is determined by your client, or by the outside world or
by a board of directors, so there’s a luxury in
being told what to do. Andy Warhol always said that if he could hire anyone
he would hire a boss. We always liked and
Ellen and I did a lot of, and none of those are in the book, but we did a lot of and I know
Ellen doesn’t like this term, but interactive exhibition design. We started out doing exhibitions
for children’s museums, Staten Island Children’s Museum, the Delaware Children’s
Museum and those things, traveled around the country and to Canada they were about certain topics. We thought we were gonna be the next Charles and Ray Eames of Mathematica. We did a project on space on mathematics shape, pattern, scale. Where was I going with that but, anyway, those works when we were doing
them were really exciting because we did get to work with
scientists and authorities, and museum people and in the
case of the Atlantic Terminal with John di Domenico who
is a wonderful architect, and was very open to us
messing with his building, and kind of cutting openings into it, and reconfiguring the balcony and so on. The boundaries were great in that way because we did have a budget, and we had issues of
durability and safety, but there are a lot of wonderful stories like the Hudson River Park Project Ellen and I had come up with this really cool scheme which was along the edge of the water what do you call that? Along the shore of the Hudson
River there’s a term for it. – [Man] The esplanade. – Well, it’s along the esplanade, but it’s the railing that prevents you from falling into the river, so Ellen and I were
gonna take that railing, and we were gonna create
ghost images in negative kind of like I Want to Become Architecture in brick and sheetrock we were gonna do it with the railing, and have these images of people in the act of like different
positions, static positions, and negative those positions
so when you came up the river you would see ghost images of people. That was wrong, Ellen, you tell it. – [Ellen] They were shapes of people so that they could lean
into and lean over. – Yeah, so you could look into the river, but they put you in precarious positions, but they were like cage-like, but they also created ghost images when the light him them in certain ways. The head of the parks and recreation for the state of New
York, Bernadette Castro of Castro Convertible fame she
said, “I hate that project,” so we had to start over, anyway, but there are lots of those things. We were up for a lot
like art and MTA projects those are arts for transit projects. Several of those I’m very
proud of the projects we did that we failed I still keep
those models and maquettes for those projects, but that doesn’t answer your
question does it not at all. – I think you expanded more. – Anyway, we do have
that other side of us, but there is something
about for me the balance of once a year taking
on an outside project, and then most of the time spending it working alone in my studio. I’m a bit of a loner and I
like the solitude of a studio, so in that way I prefer being alone. The voting booth when President Obama was being nominated for president, and this was a non-partisan institute had an exhibition of political artists they invited me to do a
voter registration booth. I made a voter registration booth by using the idea of the folded chair made out of canvas and wood
I took the same concept, but instead of canvas I used
a 12 foot wide American flag, and I laminated to the American flag on both sides white pegboard. When that pegboard folded
up with the American flag sandwiched in between
it made a small building that students could
person and sign people up for registering for the vote. Yeah, I mean that was
something that I was proud of that traveled around the city of New York recruiting people to
vote it wasn’t partisan. – It would have stopped Russian hacking. – Maybe.
– Of course, possibly. – Of course I would have. Oh, well, as Eric said they require there’s a lot of bureaucracy and meetings, and keeping things within budget. Although we both come up with
the schemes and the ideas, but Ellen is expert at
working with public. She enjoys that and she’s
very good at making sure we make a little bit of income on that. I know so many public artists who actually have to sell fun projects because they go way over
budget so we manage to mostly do better than breaking even, so I don’t know if that answers. Ellen, do you want to speak to that? – Yeah, do you have anything to add? – [Ellen] I think we have
the same sensibilities, but we kind of have different
strengths and weaknesses. Usually we would go off by ourselves, come up with a bunch of ideas
present them to each other. We would each hate most
of each others ideas, but we would find one or
two that we loved together, and we would say, well, that’s the one. I think it was really fun. I think we are able to bring out kind of the best in each other, and come up with something
we wouldn’t have done alone. Again, there’s a lot of
bureaucracy involved. When we did the table
and the roof we met with the parks department, and there was a bunch of kind of yes-men, and you learn about these kind of kiss ass people in bureaucracy, and they’re sitting around
the boss and one of them goes, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, you
can’t do table in the park.” We’re like, “Okay,” and he said, “Yeah, because people go under
the table and will have sex.” We learned to say, well,
that’s very interesting. I’m going to write that down, and then you go next problem
and you just ignore them, but you have to be able to deal with this kind of stupidity when
you’re dealing with public art. A lot of artists are a
little bit inflexible, and you have to learn to be more flexible so we were able together
to support each other in that kind of thing. – Yeah, that’s a good point. I think because my training
was in architecture, and that is a collaborative art form then what you do is even
with the stuff on chairs at certain moments you just free fall, and you start to experiment
with lots of different ideas. Basically, the way we would
get started is we would survey the existing conditions the site, make drawings and models
of the existing conditions. Then often I would work like a sculptor, and start to mess just
like those plaster models I would just mess with the landscape, or mess with a model of the building, start cutting into it and doing a series in which I was very proud
of each one of those as if the project stopped at
that moment I would be fine it didn’t have to continue. I mean, it’s always a little disappointing that it doesn’t continue, but you’re left with some really for me really exciting
drawings and models. I always thought that every
step was a final step. Then if you do enough of those a few of them will be ones that say, well, this fulfills all
of the requirements. It’s within budget,
it’s safe, it’s durable, it’s all of those issues. If you do enough iterations of something, and you’re not concerned
about the quality, and you don’t try too hard
to, quote, solve the problem, but you work around the
problem not at the problem, you free fall, you riff on
it, you have fun with it, you try to be bad, you try
to be edgy and controversial, and provocative, you try to make mistakes, something happens, one of those becomes a doable project. – [Ellen] Maybe.
– Maybe. – [Ellen] Or you don’t get the commission. – Or you don’t get the commission, right, which happened a lot. I remember doing one that I really liked which was a subway stop at 207th Street. I did a series of
traditional subway tiles, and I was riffing on the
geometry of subway tiles, and they created a narrative
through the whole subway in which there were
geometric transformations of the white tile, but the local community didn’t like it because it wasn’t, quote,
art, do you know what I mean? It was too subtle. It came out to the street
and traveled on the sidewalk I was really excited about it, and I did some really nice
models which I still have today, so at least I have some nice models, but we didn’t get the commission. – Do you think the function of art is to reveal something people might not see? It seems like you’re always
kind of like stopping things in the middle of a process, or you’re doing these kind
of subtle transformations, or you’re forcing people into interactions do you find that to be where you go more into the art realm versus design? – I think what I’m interested in
taking things that are everyday and very ordinary
and looking at them, and I think things that are familiar like a dining room table or a coffee cup, and exploring what already exists, but I think that’s what a lot of art does is it makes us look twice
at what we’re familiar with, and rethink our lives ourself. I think it’s about looking closely, and then looking far that kind of duality between close looking and
then distance looking. I’m trying to also I think art and design I know that word didactic is
always meant to be pejorative if you look at your work
and say that’s didactic it’s heavy-handed, it’s preachy, but I think there’s something about if in the morning when you
turn on a faucet as a designer, and you’re designing faucets
or handles or spigots, and you can make people understand, or feel the awesomeness of water that could be an amazing teaching tool, and would be uplifting
for someone each morning. It’s about awareness and it’s about exciting people and taking and making, you know, I think this is cliche, but taking and making
theater out of everyday life, so these chairs are sitting on the floor so could I as a designer make
these chairs appear to float, and over the history of chair
design there are many people have attempted to make
chairs appear to float, or to be lifted upward or to
experiment with new technology in a kind of awesome
way or with a beautiful colored range of things the things that are luscious and edible, and you feel just
enlightens people’s lives. I think it’s about making theater
out of inexpensive things. I’m teaching interior design now, and it’s really a course in alchemy. I try to get students and
Sarah was a student of mine at Parsons many years ago in that program how do you take something
as banal as drywall, or homasote or ceiling tile, and turn that into the most amazing beautiful thing even though
it’s only raw sheetrock it doesn’t have to be
gold-leafed or expensive tile. Can you just look at the
head of a sheetrock screw, and say that’s an amazing
opportunity to talk about forces or vectors or lines in space. I didn’t want to be flip
about not building buildings. I’m a major fan of architecture. I could come to tears looking
at a Louis Kahn building. I’m amazed that people can do that work. I wasn’t suited to do that kind of work, but when I was given a project because of my fifth year of
school it’s a five year program the dean of students said, “You can’t graduate unless
you design a building.” They required me to take a studio that required me to design a dormitory for a school in Maine, and what I chose to do is I
was very serious about this I just chose Howard Johnson motor lodges, and developed a scheme
where the students traveled from Howard Johnson to
Howard Johnson motor lodge during the off-season of the
tour season the school year, and use Howard Johnson’s motor lodges throughout the whole United States as a system of dormitories. I felt I was designing a dormitory that was the requirement of the studio. I designed a dormitory
that was decentralized. You traveled the United States. It was an alternative
school that’s why I did that because it was not a mainstream
school and it was a school, so that set of dormitories fulfilled the requirements of the project, but I was bulging those boundaries. I wasn’t trying to be flip or
anti-architecture in any way, but I wanted to think that
there are other alternatives to building more buildings. I studied architecture
during the Vietnam War, so it was a time when architects
or some architects felt we weren’t going to change the world by making and adding more buildings. Could we use architecture as a language to cause social change? That’s where I became interested. Could I use architecture? Could I exhibit my work as an architect within the context of a gallery? Could I publish my work
in journals and magazines? Could I make as much impact as an architect who builds buildings? It was just an alternative practice, and it came out of that period of time. – Well, that’s all we have
time for, but thanks a lot. Let’s give it up for Allan
Wexler one more time. (applause)


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