1. A Question of KinEthics

When the intention of a kinetic artwork is its movement, is it still a kinetic artwork when it does not move? Do we “keep it moving” even when motion is detrimental to its existence? The challenge associated with the preservation of kinetic artwork is encapsulated in this simple conundrum: is retirement from movement an appropriate method of preservation for an artwork meant to move?

As first-generation Op Art and kinetic artworks from the 1960s grow older, they are acquiring a historical status due to the obsolescence of light bulbs, electric timers, and motor controls: art professionals can no longer simply replace parts. When tasked with the care of these works, they are confronted with ethical questions underscoring the conflict between preserving the materials or preserving the function. The tendency for caretakers is to move between two schools of thought: the practical conservation point of view prefers to limit an artwork’s activity to reduce wear and tear and eventual failure of parts, while advocates of the artist prefer that a work remain active to honor the artist’s intention.

With such opposite perspectives, where does this leave the current and future state of kinetic art preservation? What can be learned from the past to anticipate the challenges of the conservation of contemporary art? And how long should the artist’s voice be defended?

Knowing how artists respond to the challenge of preserving their own artwork, and the context of their responses, is invaluable to any preservation approach. Some artists and artists’ studios initiate maintenance and preservation from a solely exhibition-focused perspective. This values the artist’s intention above all. However, once a work becomes historical and, specifically, enters a collection or museum setting, the “active” mode for an artwork is frequently limited due to concerns about its durability. It is important to bridge the gap between the artist’s and the art professional’s approaches when establishing guidelines for decision making. The following six case studies underscore three options—retirement, replication, and maintenance—available to conservators of kinetic works.

Retirement, Replication, and Maintenance

Retirement is the most extreme method to conserve the material presence of an artwork. It is considered when excessive wear and tear, neglect, or technological obsolescence prevents the work from functioning. It is the point where an artwork may be considered a relic. In 1988, for the Centre Pompidou, Paris, Jean Tinguely chose this option for his Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile (1954).

Replication involves the re-creation of the action as a duplicate or new iteration. This may be acceptable for artworks that present the same key concerns as the retirement option; that is, excessive wear and tear, neglect, or technological obsolescence. However, an additional factor is the lack of evidence of the artist’s hand; for example, when the artist delegated the fabrication of the work. In such cases, greater value may be placed on maintaining an artwork’s function rather than preserving its material presence. Naum Gabo and Jean Tinguely were two artists who chose to replicate some of their works when faced with conservation challenges.

Maintenance of an original artwork is the preferred option when there is little evidence of wear and tear or when repair issues are centered on sourcing available parts and supplies. However, over time works originally in this category may well move to replication and eventually retirement. The works of Otto Piene, Liz Larner, and Leo Villareal establish a pathway of escalating intervention. The following discussion draws on these case studies, in chronological order, to illustrate the evolution of such concerns through the last decade.

Naum Gabo

In 1919 Naum Gabo (1890–1977) fabricated one of the first artworks commonly associated with kinetic sculpture, Kinetic Construction (Standing Wave) (1919–20) (fig. 1.1). For the groundbreaking exhibition The Machine as Seen at the End of the Mechanical Age, organized by the art historian Pontus Hulten in 1969 at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, Gabo recounted how this sculpture was made, his intention as its creator, and his thoughts about its longevity. His comments were published in the magazine Techne the same year. Standing Wave, Gabo explained,

has been given to the Tate Gallery in London. I, being interested in the preservation of that work advised the Tate Gallery that it might suffer should it be lent to exhibition. When Mr. Hulten began to organize the exhibition called The Machine for the Museum of Modern Art, he asked my permission to allow him to make a replica of the work (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]).

Gabo reflected on many aspects of the artwork. He described how standing waves

attracted my attention since my student days, in particular the fact that when you look at a standing wave, the image becomes three dimensional. In order to show what I meant by calling for the introduction of kinetic rhythms into a constructed sculpture, I chose that standing wave as a good illustration of the idea (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]).

Gabo also discussed the source materials he used in the artwork’s manufacture and the conditions during the winter of 1919–20, which he remembered as “the height of civil war, hunger and disorder in Russia. To find any part of machinery or to do any kind of work in a recently nationalized factory in Moscow—most of which were idle and impenetrable—was next to impossible” (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]). He explained how he visited the mechanical workshop in the Polytechnic Institute and asked the director if he could perform his experiments there. The workers helped him locate old, unused machinery, and he salvaged a powerful electromagnet from an old factory bell: “What I was looking for was the basic mechanism of an electric bell, but of a bell stronger than the usual household one—strong enough to produce enough vibration in a rigid rod” (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]).

Through this retelling of the work’s fabrication, Gabo revealed that he thought his

main task was to create a regular rhythmic wave. It was not difficult to arrange a horizontal iron bar which would vibrate when electricity was on, but to join that bar with a mechanism which would let a vertical steel rod vibrate demanded a great deal of effort and inventiveness. After a lot of experimenting, what I did was to arrange the bar in such a way that at the base of it were two separate springs which would touch the spring on which the iron bar was fixed. I arranged the springs in such a way that together they would produce a rhythmic standing wave co-ordinating each other’s vibration (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]).

The difficulty of his innovative effort is underscored by his comment that “it took me much more time to make the work than to write this explanation—in fact it took me almost three quarters of a year” (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]). His pride in this accomplishment is evident: “When I showed it to the students, I made it emphatically clear that this was done by me in order to show what I mean by ‘kinetic rhythms.’ This piece is only a basic example of one single movement—nothing more” (Citation: Gabo 1969b:5 [Gabo, Naum. 1969b. “Naum Gabo’s Kinetic Sculpture: Construction and Reconstruction.” Techne 1, no. 1 (April 14): 5. New York: Experiments in Art and Technology.]).

Gabo provided a clearly articulated explanation of his intention, a description of materials, and the role of experimentation in the act of creating. With his consent for the production of a replica, the artist himself made a strong case for replication, highlighting his workmanship and ingenuity in the first iteration of the work. It also supports a desire to hold his original effort encapsulated in its moment of creation. Therefore, when Gabo’s Standing Wave entered the Tate collection in 1966, although in working condition, these considerations resulted in the decision to retire the original work of art from its function. With the artist’s consent, several copies were fabricated to permit the conceptual intention of the artist to reside in its replication.

Jean Tinguely

Jean Tinguely (1925–1991) also opted to retire his Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile of 1954 (fig. 1.2) in 1988, prior to his retrospective at the Centre Pompidou that same year. Such a decision is surprising considering that thirty years earlier, in his 1959 manifesto Für Statik, Tinguely proclaimed: “Everything moves, there is no standstill” … “stop resisting change” … “Bind the anxiety and resist the weakness to want to stop movement.”¹ Through such statements, he appeared to oppose standstill in general and instead propose flow and vitality, underscoring his belief that art and life should be in constant movement. Ironically, he criticized museums as mausoleums, yet held the most important shows of his career in such institutions. In later years he donated important works to major museums, in addition to planning his own museum.

This contradictory attitude is not unusual among artists who work with ephemeral materials and media prone to obsolescence. It suggests that Tinguely was interested in the preservation of his sculptures, even though he proclaimed in a 1984 interview: “My works are not intended for eternity, they’ll wear themselves out and land back on the garbage heap whence they came” (Citation: Hahnloser-Ingold and Bezzola 1988:252 [Hahnloser-Ingold, Margrit, and Leonardo Bezzola. 1988. Pandämonium: Jean Tinguely. Bern: Benteli.]).

In 1988, before the retrospective at the Centre Pompidou, a curator asked him to restore one of his important early wire sculptures. At the time, Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile malfunctioned and had sustained structural damage. Conservator Astrid Lorenzen, then a recent graduate, reflected on her encounter with the work:

[Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile] consists of iron wire, soldered “cogwheels” and geometric colorful shapes, fastened to a central iron rod via axles. The sculpture stands on three wheels, a big one and two smaller. Tinguely had welded a clockwork onto the central iron rod. It made it possible to set the sculpture in motion via a belt, two wooden wheels with circumferential grooves, and a wire wheel, which he had secured onto the wooden wheel on the clockwork. The sculpture was able to move freely in space, while the wire wheels interlocked and set the colorfully painted geometric shapes in motion (Citation: Lorenzen 2012:200 [Lorenzen, Astrid. 2012. “Report on the Restoration of Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile, 06/06/12, Museum Tinguely, Basel.” In Museum Tinguely Basel: The Collection, 200. Basel: Museum Tinguely; Berlin: Kehrer Verlag.]).

From the moment of creation, the work sustained major changes in its condition: the clockwork did not function. The wire structure was corroded and several of the cogwheel’s wire rods were missing. Oxidation of the painted sheet-metal pieces caused color changes on the geometric design elements. The Pompidou’s conservation department considered retirement for the object, due to its fragility and compromised state, or replication/maintenance to restore the work to a functioning state.

When Tinguely was asked about the work, he felt that the sculpture had lost its movement. Lorenzen recalled:

As the sculpture was highly sensitive, and the clockwork no longer functioned, he told us neither to attempt to repair this mechanism, nor to replace it. On the other hand, replacing the broken-off and missing wire rods was very important to him. He did not set much store by the color changes in the painted elements; they did not bother him. He proposed to us that he work on the sculpture himself. He came to the conservation department with new, gleaming wire rods and showed us how the wire is bent into a U-shape in order then to be hooked on to the middle spokes of a wheel. Using this technique, it was possible to replace two rods at a time. This technique was also used by Tinguely to manufacture the original cogwheels (Citation: Lorenzen 2012:200 [Lorenzen, Astrid. 2012. “Report on the Restoration of Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile, 06/06/12, Museum Tinguely, Basel.” In Museum Tinguely Basel: The Collection, 200. Basel: Museum Tinguely; Berlin: Kehrer Verlag.]).

With the artist’s input, a preservation plan was conceived that valued the work’s physical appearance and the historical importance of the artist’s hand over its performativity. The artwork was retired from its active function and efforts were made to conserve the color changes of the geometric shapes and replace the structure of the cogwheels. Sculpture méta-mécanique automobile has since been exhibited as a relic, occasionally accompanied by historical photography.

Tinguely did not consider replication here, choosing instead to boldly embrace the inevitable consequence of “failure” inherent in kinetic art. He often played with the concept of the “breakdown” of his own works as a metaphor for the possible “breakdown” of technology and even society.

In contrast, he at times embraced the idea of the replica. In 1959, he introduced art-producing kinetic artworks into his oeuvre and called those sculptures Méta-Matics. The Museum Tinguely’s collection catalogue describes the works as “drawing machines which, using felt-tip pens, are able to create abstract drawings automatically.” To use these machines,

the spectator is called on to clamp a pen in the machine, fix a sheet of paper, and press a release button. The arm to which the pen is secured moves irregularly up and down, usually very fast, and leaves behind strokes and dots on the paper. It is possible to change the color, and the intensity of the color, by letting the pen operate for a longer or shorter period, and by having it make heavier or lighter contact with the paper. Thus, a drawing is created that, on the one hand, is the result of an art activity—perhaps therefore achieving the status of a souvenir—and, on the other hand, a product of the three artists who jointly created the work: Jean Tinguely, the creator of the drawing mechanical sculpture; the mechanical sculpture itself; and finally, the spectator, who in this context becomes a user and, yes, a creator of art (Citation: Pardey 2012:52 [Pardey, Andres. 2012. Untitled essay in Museum Tinguely Basel: The Collection, 52. Basel: Museum Tinguely; Berlin: Kehrer Verlag.]).

In 1990, to preserve the original Méta-Matic No. 10 of 1959 (fig. 1.3), which remained in his personal collection, the artist and his studio replicated the artwork (fig. 1.4) for a solo exhibition in Russia titled Tinguely in Moscow (Citation: Pardey 2012:54 [Pardey, Andres. 2012. Untitled essay in Museum Tinguely Basel: The Collection, 52. Basel: Museum Tinguely; Berlin: Kehrer Verlag.]). To increase the likelihood of replacing worn parts, the studio fabricated the replica with fewer details than the original. The replica was mounted on a black wooden box that provided storage for paper and felt-tip pens.

Both the original Méta-Matic No. 10 and its replica are in the collection of the Museum Tinguely (Basel, Switzerland). The original has never been exhibited in operation; however, visitors are allowed to operate the replica to produce their own Méta-Matic drawings (fig. 1.5). Because, with Méta-Matic, Tinguely is questioning the idea of uniqueness by using machines to make art, being open to replication for such an artwork is consistent with the artwork’s original concept.

Tinguely’s and Gabo’s decisions to replicate Méta-Matic No. 10 and Kinetic Construction (Standing Wave) demonstrate a respect for the historical value of the original artwork as the best fragments of the past that we have available. Correspondingly, concepts embedded in the work are valued for the important role they play in engaging public interaction.

Otto Piene

In the late 1960s, with the abundance of off-the-shelf technology available to artists, kinetic and Op Art evolved from artisanal to industrial fabrication, bringing issues of obsolescence to the forefront of conservation. Otto Piene (1928–2014), a founding member of ZERO, established in 1958, epitomized the group’s approach to art making. ZERO questioned the role of the artist’s hand and placed greater importance on materials and the interaction of the artwork with light and space.

Piene’s Neon Medusa of 1969 (fig. 1.6) consists of a chromed sphere on a stem and base. Four hundred and forty-nine adjustable, chromed gooseneck lamps are attached to the sphere, each fitted with an orange glow lamp (fig. 1.7). The goosenecks allow the individual positioning of each lamp around the sphere. Piene specifically designed the body of the work for orange glow lamps (an early version of neon lights) that have bulbs filled with neon gas that produces an orange light. The light pattern of the sphere is programmed to run from a chrome controller box, attached to the sculpture with an electric cable.

In 2014, forty-five years after its creation, the work underwent a conservation treatment when the Neuberger Museum of Art (New York) requested it for an exhibition. However, Neon Medusa did not function, and there was little documentation regarding its programing and conservation history.

More than a thousand cables, invisible to the viewer, are inside the sphere (fig. 1.8). Most of these cables were cracked and missing insulation, and there was a high risk of a short circuit and electrocution. The glow lamps are now obsolete and can no longer be sourced. Complex questions arose around the programming pattern for the light bulbs. The timer/controller still functioned but it was not connected to the sculpture; therefore, it was impossible to document the original programming, written into the analog timer of the controller box.

Because Neon Medusa was inoperable, the only way to understand its kinetic function was to reverse engineer the programming of the controller box in combination with the internal wiring of the sphere. Results were precise; however, a thorough understanding of Neon Medusa’s programming was elusive, and the diagrams were extremely puzzling to translate into the actual performance. The glow lamps are an immediate concern for the long-term preservation of the work. They are impossible to source, but the Neuberger Museum is in possession of two full sets of glow lamps, which will suffice for now.

In 2014 Otto Piene (OP) responded to an e-mail from Bek & Frohnert LLC (B&F), a conservation studio specialized in contemporary art, about Neon Medusa:

B&F: From your perspective, what are the most important/key qualities of Neon Medusa?

OP: The poetic side of art and technology.

B&F: Since the goosenecks are flexible, is the visitor supposed to play with them?

OP: The goosenecks are definitely to be bent and positioned and repositioned (gently) by interested public.

B&F: If we cannot find the original light bulbs anymore, is there an alternative light bulb you could suggest?

OP: Try to find them. There are companies that make new issues of that kind of bulb. They exist in this country (the U.S.), too; otherwise, I recommend Berlin.²

Piene conveyed several important points. He confirmed that there is no alternative to the original glow lamps, although he suggested the potential “new issues” of the lamps. He also indicated that the public may move the goosenecks, eliminating specific positioning as a requirement. The artist died shortly after the initial e-mail exchange, so there was no opportunity to discuss issues in greater depth.

Maintaining Neon Medusa is still possible by performing acceptable and unnoticeable repairs. In the future, the controller box containing the programming may be replaced with a contemporary version running an identical program. Additionally, a search for bulb sources can continue in anticipation of the day when the replacements are no longer viable.

Liz Larner

Art historian Piper Marshall described Corner Basher (fig. 1.9) by California artist Liz Larner (b. 1960) as

comprised of a column, a drive shaft, a steel ball and a steel chain. Positioned where two walls meet, a long cord extends from the machine—attached is a speed control with an on/off switch. From this panel, visitors can operate the motorized shaft to spin the column and lance the ball against the walls. The repeated blows leave indentations, impressions, and cracks. In some cases whole pieces of the wall flake off, laying bare the many coats of paint underneath as well as the material from which the walls are composed (Citation: Marshall 2010:79 [Marshall, Piper. 2010. “Liz Larner.” In Under Destruction, edited by Gianni Jetzer and Chris Sharp, 79. Berlin: Distanz Verlag.]).

In 2010, when Corner Basher (1988) was twenty-two years old and had been exhibited in multiple settings, an incident occurred that required conservation intervention: the screw connecting the steel ball to the chain broke while the machine was running. The artwork was examined, and permission was requested from the artist to exchange not only the broken screw but the entire chain attached to the ball, which showed severe signs of wear and tear. Larner responded:

The Corner Basher is a machine, not an artifact, and should always be kept in best order. It is correct to change out any chain or part that is becoming worn. Please try and match whichever part to the new part and keep the original as a record of itself. I will leave it to the collector to decide whether these worn parts remain with the piece, with him, or with me. Please note, however, that the parts should remain with the piece until the exhibition closes in Basel and New York and the work is returned.³

Larner clearly stated that Corner Basher is a “machine, not an artifact,” and that it should “be kept in best order”: highly precise advice from an artist who is fully aware that her work is a potential hazard to the public if it is not carefully maintained (fig. 1.10).

The question of Corner Basher’s physical decline in relation to its performativity is difficult to foresee. The sculpture is roughly assembled, suggesting that it is mainly about the action of smashing the walls it is chained to. The artist’s definition of the work as a machine suggests that replication could be a logical preservation approach; however, it will be some time before periodic replacement of parts is no longer feasible. The way the artist created the work could be especially important for future preservation efforts. According to her studio:

Liz worked with a couple different people for the construction of this piece. First she came up with the concept and created the design. Afterwards she met with her friend Keith Sawa, the owner of a machine shop, and they brainstormed about what needed to be accomplished. She then gathered together all of the necessary parts (motor, chain, ball, coupling, wheels, bearing, etc.), and brought them back to Keith at his shop. Liz worked with Keith to put everything together, and then had it welded at a different small shop, located in the same alley, by a retired aircraft welder. Liz was a young female artist at the time, and the space where it was to be shown (LACE) was rather worried about her installing such a destructive piece. They required her to consult with Mark Pauline from Survival Research Laboratories, and get his ok before installing the piece.⁴

Leo Villareal

This case study discusses the work of a member of a younger generation of artists who depend mainly on off-the-shelf hardware and produce their own proprietary software. It illustrates how kinetic art and contemporary technology intersect and reveals their similar conservation challenges. Flowers 8 (figs. 1.11, 1.12) from 2005 by Leo Villareal (b. 1967) comprises eight flowers, each of which consists of sixteen LED fixtures, for a total of 128 LED fixtures. The lights display a range of RGB-color- and light-changing effects. Twelve programmed DMX512⁵ sequences are randomly run off two data units linked to the eight flowers, resulting in a colorful light concert.

Three years after the work’s creation, the fabricator of the lightning system, a branch of Philips called Color Kinetics, discontinued the production of the low-voltage LED lamps, controllers, and cables in favor of a newly developed high-voltage system. The original lamps and controllers are no longer produced, and any updated LED lamp will not be supported by the obsolete data supply and vice versa.

To preserve Flowers 8’s outdoor installation, the owner and the artist agreed to create an updated replica. The artist will produce this new version in close cooperation with Bek & Frohnert to document and support the transformation of the work from the original. This migration will happen when the LED lamps further deteriorate and become unrepairable. When such a metamorphosis occurs, it can be quite challenging to meet the expectations of the artist, the owner, and the conservator. It is possible that a new version of this work may not look like the original. The artist expressed the desire to archive the original hardware as evidence of the first version, but he did not approve the simultaneous existence of two versions of the same piece.

Some artists would like the appearance of the replica to remain as close to the original as possible. Villareal has specified that the ornamental appearance of the lamp cables is an important feature of the flowers, that all visible parts of Flowers 8 are of both functional and aesthetic importance. However, the invisible technical components, such as the power/data supplies, may prove to be the greatest challenge. While these elements are exchangeable, they are also dependent on software compatibility. This compatibility or incompatibility may inevitably influence future iterations and is an ongoing discussion with the artist. We anticipate a replication of Flowers 8 with a completely new setup within the next three to eight years.

Conclusion

Conservators continue to encounter complexities of care with historical kinetic art and Op Art. Our challenges are not limited to the mechanical but extend into the digital, and our main challenge may be the evolution of technology. The ubiquity of technology gives almost anyone the capability of programing and controlling complex operating systems or interactive, computer-based installations. There is a clear tendency by young artists toward custom-built code, computer-controlled showcases, and robotics. At the same time, artists are becoming very aware of the limits of technology as they are challenged by art professionals to collaborate on the installation and repair of their work.

The previous dependency of artists on industrially manufactured devices is comparable to today’s dependency on technology. Piene’s Neon Medusa (1969) and Villareal’s Flowers 8 (2005) use distinct light sources that rely upon off-the shelf, programmable technology. However, the thirty-six years’ difference underscores the contemporary trend away from repairable technology and toward replacement technology. Neon Medusa’s analog timer control was fabricated when there was a possibility of repair: the simplicity of design allows the motor to be exchanged and the timer wheels to be refabricated. Perhaps even the glow lamps could be refabricated by a specialty light-bulb factory. In contrast, Villareal’s Flowers 8 utilizes a mass-produced lighting system discontinued three years after the artwork’s creation. An obsolete system of lamps, cables, plugs, and data supplies comprise 90 percent of the physical artwork. Today’s digital technology is very specific, and most devices are not made to be repaired to extend the life of their functions. Modules belonging to a single contained system are exchanged regularly. Once the system is discontinued, identical parts may be salvaged for the time being, but it is unlikely that the system can be supported in the long term. Facing such dilemmas, the conservation field may need to adapt to the idea of regularly updated versions of complex contemporary artworks, perhaps abandoning the ideal of the artwork anchored in time. This reality becomes even more challenging when the artist’s hand is visible or artists modify consumer technology. It is important for the profession to discuss parameters to help us navigate this terrain. Should we elevate the importance of performativity? Do we replicate an artwork’s performance to keep it alive and physically authentic at the same time?

Notes