A visitor to Yuri Pattison’s exhibition User, Space at the Chisenhale Gallery is confronted by a large, nearly empty, room that is, paradoxically, filled with stuff. Orange industrial shelving on two walls support stacking plastic boxes, miniature designer furniture and computer servers. In the middle is a long glass table flanked by semi-opaque room dividers, a profusion of transparent Eames chairs covered in plastic sheeting, and a pile of plants under a steel canopy. Rectangular panel lights, hanging overhead, come on and off at seemingly random intervals, and the room is filled with the hum of computer equipment. Monitors abound while electrically actuated bottles emit vapour.
There is little physical transformation of materials – other than said plastic sheeting, quite a lot of dust, and electronics stripped of casings. Lighting and electric window-films are controlled by computer server, while cameras feed live footage from the gallery to a monitor. A large monitor shows a video based on the architecture of co-working spaces. Some notable contemporary art tropes are missing: 3-D printed objects, UV-printed plastic, casts of body parts (though there is a little finger stuck onto a server), crutches-as-sculpture.
In an accompanying printed interview, one learns that Dexion shelving units relate to Pattison’s interest in global logistics. He talks about an Amazon fulfilment centre in London, recalling for the viewer how work and labour have changed in the contemporary gig economy. The interview goes on to explain that transparency, surveillance, modification of sleep patterns, and the history of computing are amongst the ideas that occupy Pattison.
He also talks about the work-leisure slippage, a phenomenon that started with the mobile internet, and developed most famously in Silicon Valley offices with their bean-bags, ping-pong tables, and free food. On a related note, companies like WeWork, which started by developing co-working spaces, are now building ‘co-living’ spaces. In a co-living arrangement, millennials, finding city-centre housing unaffordable, rent rooms in a shared flat (often decked out as a loft with exposed brick, cable runs and concrete), complete with ‘concierge’ services like cleaning and laundry. Sounds like a conventional flat-share, except that the flats are owned by a large corporation; in WeWork’s case, valued at sixteen-billion dollars. Co-living and its economics have attracted mild incredulity in the venture-capital press, and apoplexy in the art press.
Pattison’s particular take is how these practices result in individuals who “isolate themselves…[and] create a physical filter bubble”, resulting in a “disengagement with the fabric of the city”. Moreover, the sharing economy means time gets carved up, as people rent desks by the hour or co-living spaces by the week, again to the potential detriment of the broader community. Yet this isn’t really picked up, visually, in the installation – the videos and CGI feel a little lazy and could have taken a more critical perspective.
The 14-page interview is fascinating in its breadth, touching on almost ever trendy topic in contemporary cultural and economic theory: Bitcoin-mining rigs, pop-up restaurants and stores, the new international style in interior design, coffee culture, mass-marketing of Modernist furniture, and so forth. These first-world concerns, arguably familiar only to the culturally-aware metropolitan, when combined with the visual poverty of the exhibition, fail to move or surprise the viewer.
The closest Pattison perhaps gets to eloquence, is in the dried sebum and dust covering many surfaces – the abjection of which somehow speaks to the absence of the worker, of the human. One misses the jargon, rituals of coffee, cigarettes or Soylent, inside jokes, backstabbing, gossip – all of which characterise shared places, whether of work or life.
To end with a counter-example, consider Simon Denny. He has similar concerns: intersection of corporate and hacker culture, surveillance, the physical and digital material of the work environment. In contrast to Pattison, Denny’s 2015/2016 exhibition at the Serpentine maintained a tight focus on organisational and software structures. He married, mediated, and abstracted the graphic and architectural elements of corporate and governmental intelligence entities, producing an installation of sculptures memorable as much for their totemic presence as for any politically-charged content.
The overwhelming sense of Pattison’s show was that of a research project rendered visible, almost a ‘core dump’ (computing term for the aftermath of a crash: the entire contents of memory are dumped into a file, to help programmers debug). That is not to suggest the collection or display were un-curated or arbitrary, and there were some clever twists, such as a circulating economy of Bitcoins that are mined using free electricity. Yet somehow, there was a whiff of incoherence, and it is not clear the interview, perhaps due to the sheer catholicity of Pattison’s avowed interests, helped. Most importantly, the social element that energises any working or living space, was missing. Yet one could argue, it was precisely that exclusion of the human that generated a pathos and brought forth the moral and ideological bankruptcy of the sharing economy.
The wines of Sicily have long had an undistinguished history. They were known as powerful and tannic feedstock for the more tepid strains of the northern Italy and Calabria. Much of the wine was produced in cooperatives, often in the press-cum-warehouse called a palmento. When the EU outlawed the palmenti as unhygienic (cue Brexit contingent’s ferocious gnashing of teeth ‘bloody Brussels bureaucrats !’), Sicily finally moved into the era of modern winemaking. The Art of Eating issue 65  is an excellent and poetic, albeit dated, introduction to Sicilian wine.
This article is more of a photographic survey of the area, contextualised with food, rather than a particularly knowledgeable review of wine – the links below are a good start, and there are plenty of wine blogs with great articles on Etna DOC.
One cannot drink wine in Sicily without a little sense of the climate. Sicily’s Pozzallo port is located further south than Tunisia’s Cape Bon, and the African sun affects all. The heat saps one’s desire to do anything, least of all drink the off-dry, alchoholic production. As Luigi Veronelli (taken from AoE65) put it: the wines of Sicily ‘flash like a knife…leave the unprepared drinker more dead than alive’. While, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa wrote of the pouring style practiced by footmen of the Bourbon-era – ‘no collars’ i.e. up to the brim. He goes on: ‘ “Only water is really good”, [Don Fabrizio] thought like a true Sicilian; and did not dry the drops left on his lips.’
Yet it is all different on Mount Etna. In the curious landscape of Etna Nord, away from the tourists who throng the beautiful sun-drenched green south slope, we find a gentler, cooler clime, hospitable to such vines as can survive in the rich but unyielding soil. From Randazzo to Linguaglossa heading clockwise on the SS120 lies an extraordinary zone of production that has, in the past 10 years, attracted tremendous, well-deserved, attention. As ever, an excellent introduction is Jancis Robinson, but Eric Asimov at the New York Times has also energetically championed Etna, and Sicily generally. Very briefly, the principal grapes are Nerello Mascalese and Nerello Cappuccio for reds, while Catarrato, Carricante, and Minella Bianca fill out the whites.
The terroir has been most memorably described by Marco de Grazia (see below) as the ‘Burgundy of the Mediterranean‘. He sees Burgundy’s variety of soils and fickle climate mirrored in Etna’s geography: the DOC encircles the mountain for 120 sq km, with exposures ranging between full north to full south; rainfall 6-10x Sicilian average with one of the latest harvests in Europe; volcanic soil with layers of lava flow interpenetrating, creating soil zones, only hundreds of metres separated, yet that originate in eruptions thousands of years apart; and lastly, an altitude range of 400-1000m. Despite all the variety, the wines, and how they interact with the food and landscape of Eastern Sicily, seem to have a deep unity and embedded history.
Our trip started in Bronte & continued, via Catania, to the Baroque jewels of Noto and the sea at Siracusa. Yet it was in the misty, brooding slopes of the devil’s mountain, as Etna was known to the Arabs who once ruled it, tramping amongst vineyards and fields of pistachio & almonds, that we were happiest.
Every day the mountain would be different, often with clouds blown from the south, giving an English aspect to the hill towns. On certain days, one could see the slightly different denser clouds expelled from the craters of Etna – sole sign that Monjebello could, once again, erupt. All around was evidence of volcanic activity, as ravines were filled in with volcanic rock, while the soil was often crumbly black, almost a fine black talc. This soil often had few weeds or plants, for it is rough and inhospitable. Yet, for those hardy greens which can survive, it is nutritious.
The legendary & idiosyncratic winemaker Frank Cornelissen inspired the trip, and we mostly drank his wines and those of a few other producers who share his philosophy – a fidelity to the earth that most winemakers preach, but few practice. In the tasting at his cantina, he told us about his background and how he came to Etna, and his approach to making wine. As an glimpse of what winemaking really boils down to, it was invaluable, particularly as we have seen and drunk his wines over years, and remember the especially volatile and idiosyncratic wines of the early days. Some of his wines employ skin contact, yet he made an interesting comment on orange wine, a trend that’s gripped the weingeist in London and New York. His sense was that orange wines tend to have a certain similarity of flavour – they resemble each other, in their oxidative notes and strong tannins, more than they fully express individualities of terroir. While I am not sure I can entirely see the wines of Gravner or Radikon in that way, I do agree, that, in lesser producers’ hands, after one subtracts the colour and tannin, there’s precious little left of fruit or individuality.
Cornelissen also gave an example of a cold maceration as an approach that let’s him get the things he wants, such as the transfer of natural yeasts from grape skins to the juice, without undesirable effects, such as transfer of tannins.
That said, Cornelissen is all about expressing the identity of the land, grape, and vintage, with as little intervention in the cantina as possible.
Cornelissen, like many of the other top producers in the area, uses the archaic alberello approach to training vines. The French term is gobelet, but the gist of it is that vines are trained to form a clump of vine leaves and suspended fruit, around a central spur, so resembling a wine goblet or a tree. Given there is a minimum of external support (i.e. trellis or wire), the weight of the grapes can cause them to drag on the ground, hence this is a method better suited to low-yield varieties. It is also well-suited to Sicily’s relatively dry climate and difficult soil – because of the vine’s bushy, clumpy structure there is enhanced risk of damp and rot. This is also a fiddly approach that requires more manual work, and, combined with the steep terraced terrain, it’s not a surprise that Cornelissen requires a (very glamorous) enclosed tractor: Sicily’s answer to the Lamborghini tracked-vehicles we saw in the mountains of the Abruzzi.
Asked about what he thinks amphorae do, he was characteristically forthright – he lines his in epoxy, so they are essentially neutral vessels of 400 hectolitre volume, nothing more or less. He didn’t see any particular attraction, in the final product, to lining them with beeswax, making them out of terra-cotta, etc., as other producers sometimes claim. Georgia, a country with an illustrious and long history of wine-making, was one of Cornelissen’s first stops when he made the transition from wine trader to novice vignero. He recounts how Georgian oenology perhaps ended up pursuing traditional approaches, such as kvevri (amphorae), without questioning them sufficiently. Indeed, Georgian wine is somewhat ‘rustic’ (Cornelissen’s term), but I find it works well with the spicy, flavourful food of that land.
Similarly, his comments on the palmento were telling – they weren’t particularly hygienic ways of making wine – and as in any natural wine-making operation, Cornelissen has essentially no defence against harmful bacteria. That is, other than taking great care to keep kit clean, keeping the cantina cold, and, in the field, hoping it doesn’t rain too much.
Cornelissen’s cantina at Passopisciaro is bracketed by two fine eno-restaurants: San Giorgio e Il Drago in Randazzo, and Cave Ox in Solicchiata. San Giorgio is a joyous, casual place, particularly when one of the younger proprietors is on the floor – and it is, hands down, the best value on (high-quality) food or wine, that we have found in Sicily. Its wine list is exclusively Sicilian, with many Etna names. Cave Ox, owned by Sandro Dibella, is a bit of a legend – a phenomenal and wide-ranging wine list, both Sicily and otherwise. In particular, it’s great fun to drink awesome wine there with the equally spectacular pizze, though his lunch menu was some of the finest food we had on the trip. Prices are slightly higher, but it’s emphatically worth it – and it’s worth staying the night. In both places, we saw mostly local people eating simple food and drinking modestly-priced wine. It was early in the season, but there was a smattering of the international eno-set tootling along from village to village in rented Audis.
Other producers have gravitated to the area – such as Marco de Grazia who runs Tenuta delle Terre Nere near Randazzo. His vineyards are from 700 to 900m, and one parcel has pre-phylloxera alberello vines of 140 years age. The wines, while slightly spicy, have a chewy sort of minerality, described by Jancis Robinson as a ‘cappucino’ edge. Their soils range from volcanic pumice to volcanic sand mixed with basaltic pebbles and ash. The terrain is steeply terraced, and again, needs to be tended by hand.
Tuscan winemaker Andrea Franchetti’s Passopisciaro makes some phenomenal wines, both with the local grapes but also transplants such as chardonnay in the 2013 entry-level Guardiola white, from a parcel at 1000m, vinified in stainless steel and aged in wood botti grandi. Franchetti also makes single-contrada reds, and like wines from some other producers, the pale, perfumed production of nerello mascalese bring to mind northern greats like Pinot Noir as expressed in Chambolle-Musigny or Gevrey-Chambertin, or Nebbiolo as expressed in Gattinara.
We drank Alberto Graci’s wines a few times, as they were amongst the most affordable. Like Franchetti, Cornelissen, and Wiegner, Graci is an import from the north (a Milanese banker in this case, albeit with Sicilian roots), his parcels are also near Passopisciaro. This bianco is a blend of Carricante and Catarratto and was actually one of the loveliest and most versatile we tried, particularly with food.
The last producer we sampled, albeit back in London, was Salvo Foti’s I Vigneri, a collective named after a winemakers’ guild of 1435. His Vinudilice comes from a parcel nestled in a forest of holly oak (quercus ilex giving the name), near Bronte, located at 1300m, probably making it one of the highest vineyards in Europe. The grapes are Alicante, Grecanico, Minella Bianco, Minella Nera, and Nerello Cappuccio, growing on alberelli vines 100-200 years old. The soil is ash and sand, and the terrain requires Foti to employ Ciccio the mule – fair competition to Cornelissen’s tractor. This was a pretty remarkable rose – pale in colour, strong acidic backbone, but a tremendous complexity of nose and palate – really not like any other rose we’ve had. That complexity, I suppose, was the pure expression of rock and ash. We paired it firstly with boquerones, then a guinea fowl roasted in wine and grappa – secondo Patience Gray’s recipe from Carrara. Vinudilice is available retail at Noble Fine Liquor and also through Les Caves de Pyrene.
Carroll/Fletcher Gallery’s soon-to-shut exhibition Neoliberal Lulz takes a look at manifestations of capitalism, and specifically at the joint-stock company, a form of social organisation that is both broadly criticised and utterly indispensable.
The press release invokes the fall of the gold standard in 1971, but the more resonant historical starting point is the 2008 Global Financial Crisis (GFC), the aftermath of which we are, arguably, only halfway through. The artists in the show intertwine a perspective on the GFC with parallel, and more than incidentally related, developments in Western consumerist society, technology and politics. In comparison other work on similar themes out there, this is a sophisticated take, aestheticised with high production values. It is also muted: no screeching about Late Capitalism – yet it remains an eminently political and punchy show.
Constant Dullaart, Femke Herregraven, Emilie Brout & Maxime Marion, and Jennifer Lyn Morone combined investigations into the mechanics of financial capitalism, particularly the corporation, with elements of contemporary social discourse, such as privacy in a networked world, corporate tax evasion, or the visuals of ubiquitous advertising. From a material perspective, the exhibition was very long video and web, and short to the tune of 20,000 shares sold online to the public. The physical stuff on display was slick – perspex, photographs, CGI video, machined aluminium, etched glass, careful ink-on-paper drawing, neon. One could easily see in this show the genealogy of Haacke, Sekula, Klein, and the aesthetics-of-administration, albeit less explicitly applied here to the Artworld.
Herregraven’s work, I thought, took the subtlest approach – he seemed to focus on the terminology of high-frequency trading, and its emphasis on ultra-short timescales, the so-called ‘latency’ of a stock order-routing network. Machined aluminium bars both recalled a graph of pulses in a fibre-optic cable, as well as a more archaic currency: the Spartan legislator Lycurgus, perhaps to prevent the corrosive influence of ‘easy’ money in society, mandated that gold and silver coins be replaced by heavy and unwieldy iron bars. In doing so, any usefulness of money that stemmed from its portability would be eliminated, leaving only its function as a numeraire.
In another work, Herregraven worked with Dutch technologists to make an online game of tax avoidance – players could organise the corporate structure of their (fictional) companies to minimise tax bills. This reflects the contemporary anger about multinationals using the tax code to drastically cut their taxes. There’s an ambiguity here that oft goes unmentioned: the companies are generally using perfectly legal means, and mostly complying with laws that democratically-elected legislators have enacted. Thus to get angry (only) at the companies is to overlook the fact that politicians, the system, and indeed, in many cases, voters themselves, are at fault. I recall a U.S. appellate-court judge, the brilliantly-named Learned Hand, commenting on taxation: ‘Any one may so arrange his affairs that his taxes shall be as low as possible; he is not bound to choose that pattern which will best pay the Treasury; there is not even a patriotic duty to increase one’s taxes.’ (in Helvering vs Gregory  Source: Chirelstein, Marvin A. Learned Hand’s Contribution to the Law of Tax Avoidance in Yale Law Journal Vol 77, 1968. http://digitalcommons.law.yale.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5558&context=fss_papers).
Emilie Brout and Maxime Marion established a French company, the sole purpose of which was to be a work of art, and are selling shares in the company online (http://www.untitledsas.com/). As a corporate shell with no debt, its value is lower-bounded by the cash it holds from share subscriptions, while the sky is the limit on the upside, and indeed the company is now worth €300,000. In doing so, they reference and update Yves Klein’s conceptual share-certificate work Zone of Immaterial Pictorial Sensibility (1959). They were advised by a French legal firm, presumably to ensure regulatory compliance for share offerings – something that is not merely a technical footnote. Although the facts are quite different, one may for illustration and amusement read about the 2015 Sand Hill Exchange case: what might happen when the ‘fun’ aspect of an online game, interacts with pedantic, boring, and ever so aggressively-enforced SEC rules (https://www.sec.gov/news/pressrelease/2015-123.html).
In another, slightly more predictable work, they ordered free samples of gold-coloured objects, which were then framed along with texts that document where and how they were produced. The works seemed to comment on labour, production chains, and whether things described as ‘free’ or ‘costless’ really are so (thus tying in nicely with Morone below). They also echo Christopher Williams’ practice that exposes, via attached text or books, the documentation, material, bureaucracy and geography of the banal objects he photographs, albeit without the beauty or intense staging that Williams brings to bear on the images themselves.
Jennifer Lyn Morone continued with the idea of the corporate entity, in this case, incorporating herself and selling shares. Her specific angle relates to the contention that internet-users collectively give away an enormous amount of personal data to the companies that provide internet services. Even if the data is aggregated and anonymised, it is still valuable as it correlates geography, consumption (eating, buying, browsing) patterns, social networks, medical anxieties (as evidenced by web searches), political allegiances, and so forth. We give this up in exchange for free, or the perception of free, access to the internet and perhaps even consumer goods (Shoshana Zuboff wrote a great piece on this in the Frankfurter Allegemeine Zeitunghttp://www.faz.net/aktuell/feuilleton/debatten/the-digital-debate/shoshana-zuboff-secrets-of-surveillance-capitalism-14103616.html). Morone’s concept and videos, and its connections to bio-politics, are considerably more thought-provoking than her somewhat forced manufactured objects that cross consumer design and advertising: perfume-on-a-plinth or diamonds-made-from-hair.
Lastly, Constant Dullaart had a number of video and image-based works that reflected on corporate design and branding, as well as the fact that companies develop technology that is used for purposes that not everyone agrees with, so-called ‘dual-use’: in this case, spyware that might have been utilised to monitor various political activities during the 2014 Arab Spring. These works were all well-made, but other than the large photographs in the front room, they didn’t seem particularly strong aesthetically or conceptually: I didn’t discern a lot of new ideas or imaginative re-workings of old ideas.
The exhibition as a whole, however, provides a different take to other relevant recent shows. For instance, Show Me the Money: The Image of Finance, 1700 to the Present (2014-2016), is a particularly comprehensive and historical look at finance and financial crises. The academic curators have, admirably, taken on difficult topics and tried to make them somewhat accessible to a general audience. Furtherfield’s Art Data Money (2015) programme had some overlap with the Carroll/Fletcher exhibition (Morone and Brout/Marion were shown), but with a more explicit political agenda and with much greater emphasis on social engagement/participation. Carroll/Fletcher’s conceptual cross between corporate structure and technology, delivered as a tasteful and elegant exhibition in a major for-profit gallery points out what is really at stake here: the inherent ambiguity we face in criticising capitalism while sitting comfortably within its consumerist cocoon.
One of the jewels in NYC’s food scene is the cluster of Thai restaurants in central Queens, around Jackson Heights and East Elmhurst, at the confluence of the 7 and E/F subway lines. As in other regional centres around the city, whether Flushing (Chinese), or Coney Island (former USSR), there is a culinary infrastructure of markets, dry-goods shops, restaurants, and critically, old ladies keeping the eateries honest.
Thai is of particular interest precisely because I’ve found it to be rare in Western cities – Thailand, unlike Vietnam and Cambodia, had a relatively peaceful twentieth-century. Nor was it substantially colonised. Hence there was less of a diaspora; the exodus that led to the awesome Vietnamese food of Paris, or the widespread, if often dubious, ‘Indian’ food in the UK. London has only a few decent Thai restaurants. Som Saa is run by non-Thais, but they, as so often, do a better job of it than natives. It had a fantastic energy when it was in the chaos of Climpson’s Arch, and I’m looking forward to their permanent digs. Nahm I never quite felt comfortable in, sweating bullets and hyperventilating always felt wrong in the expensively-bought serenity of Belgravia.
NYC’s Thai food scene hit the big-time with Andy Ricker’s Pok Pok Ny, which has great food. Personally, the pleasure sort of drops out of it when one sees the crowd – the Brooklyn/Manhattan food-tourism bunch, clutching their iPhones, seeking out the hottest new restaurant on Timeout.
For my money (and it would be a lot cheaper than any of the above), I would head out to Queens. On a weekday one might see no crackers unimaginatively munching on pad-thai, there are actual Thai families feasting, there are almost entirely Thai staff in the kitchen, often supervised by a portly mama, and when one’s done, there’s the supermarket nearby to pick up kaffir-lime leaves and frozen krachai.
This list is non-exhaustive, both in terms of restaurants and menus. Pick up David Thompson’s (aforementioned Nahm) Aharn Thai / Thai Food, it will tell more than you ever wanted to know about culture, history, traditions, ingredients, and recipes. The recipes are quite elaborate and few will follow them precisely, but they are useful as a canonical reference to be modified as ingredients, time, skill, and patience dictate. Unless otherwise mentioned, Thompson is a principal source of background material below. The book I actually use to cook is by Vatcharin Bhumichitr – a pragmatic volume that allows for shortcuts (for instance, taking a base red-curry paste, modifying it slightly to emulate other, similar, curry pastes).
Playground (Woodside Ave)
This is pretty awesome – a karaoke bar crossed with Thai restaurant, ironically next to the old Zabb space (below). Food is reliably spicy and a well-heeled Thai clientele, not dis-similar to Khao Kang, albeit a more comfortable space. As of Oct 2017, this feels like one of the top spots in Woodside/Jackson Heights.
Zabb Elee (Woodside Ave, don’t know anything about the Manhattan branch)
[Note Oct 2017: this review hasn’t been updated – but briefly, Zabb received a Michelin star in 2015 but has lost it in 2016, and seems to have changed ownership and name – the food is now merely okay, and mostly Isarn-style (Northeast)]. Isarn food has been trendy for a few years (Pok Pok Ny, Som Saa to some extent). The region is a plateau of 200m, and critically, near the great Mekong river, snaking along the border with Laos and Cambodia. Until recently, the land was densely wooded, inaccessible, and rural. The people of the region are a mix of Khmer and Lao, with the Thai being relative newcomers from the 10th-century. The land and people were poor, and the food pungent and spicy, so as to better relieve the monotony of white rice. Unlike the south, glutinous rice and coconuts are not features of the cuisine. Fermented fish (pla raa), raw minced meat salad (larp), a cornucopia of herbs, and grilling, as opposed to the elaborately cooked curries of Bangkok, are the norm here.
My favourites on Zabb’s menu: the grilled Thai sausage is superb, redolent of lime leaves and ginger. The yellow curry with bamboo shoot was awesome – a curry with a base of fermented fish (not that one necessarily can tell, the fishiness has been tempered and balanced as so often in the Thai repertoire), and the delicious aroma of sheets of fresh bamboo shoots. Bamboo shoots are fiddly to prepare, so this is a great dish to eat out (as is the sausage). Naamya Pa and Pak Tai were both good. The Lao Soup was excellent – a darkish broth – very different from the other soups, perhaps meat-based – and, in a pleasant surprise, the chicken version was quite different from the catfish. A word on Southeast-Asian catfish – I believe these might be from the Mekong river – they are pretty bony, but eventually one works out the structure. Still, I don’t love them, but they contribute a lot of flavour.
On the salad front, there was a sausage of raw and sliced pork sausage with papaya – it was interesting, funnily, though the sliced sausage reminded me of the gross hybrid of pate and baloney meat found in ‘authentic’ Vietnamese sandwiches. In a salad, however, somehow it worked. The Lao papaya salad with fermented fish and tiny purple preserved crabs was pretty good, but like many papaya salads, too sweet for me personally. The larp ironically, weren’t my favourite – I prefer to use lime leaves, lemongrass and loads of roasted rice – whereas Zabb’s were closer to Thompson’s canonical, simpler, version. Having said that, I had the catfish, and chicken, varieties, and both were great. They also have duck, beef, pork, pork liver, pork ear, crispy pork, and crispy fish – knock yourself out.
Sake Bar Zabb
While at Zabb, or probably on another day, check out the izakaya downstairs. Unrelated to the Thai restaurant, other than by name, the basement joint was started by a young Thai guy passionate about Japanese food. He has made a drinking den that could easily fit under the Yurakucho Arches at Tokyo Central. The Sapporo pitchers are super, as are the crazy, mayonnaise-and-eel sauce drenched rolls.
Kitchen 79 (Jackson Heights)
This place, with the most insane nightclub interior, was admirably summed up by Robert Sietsema which I’ll struggle to outdo. But a bit more on the south of the country: there is a low-lying region near Bangkok and then the thin, hilly, monsoon-ridden Isthmus of Kra. Tourists may know this area as it is near Phuket and Samui, and it is much less isolated than Isarn. The people are split between Muslims and Buddhists, and the food has something in common with Malaysia and points to the south, influenced as they are by traders plying the sea-route from India. Apparently there are also some marginal ethnic communities, such as sea gypsies and pygmies in the dark forests.
The food of the south is characterised by use of turmeric, coconut, and sour things like tamarind. Unlike in the north, fish is much eaten, fresh as well as dried. Not surprisingly, cardamom, cumin, and ginger figure in the cuisine.
Kitchen 79’s sweet staff freely admit that they mostly cater to non-Thai, given their location in the melting-pot that is Jackson Heights. Yet on weekdays at lunchtime, I see plenty of Thai eating there in little groups. The menu is forced to span all tastes, but I stuck with the stunning Gaeng Tai Pla curry, a brown curry from the south with vegetables and a base of (possibly fermented) mackerel and prawns. Another standout dish was the Kao Kling Moo, a southern dry curry paste with ground meat (I had chicken). This was one of the best Thai dishes I’ve had, ever. Both dishes are intense and spicy, and are much better shared with others.
Khao Kang (Woodside)
I’m a bit reluctant to post this one – it is tiny, a caff really. But it’s possibly the best of the lot, because of the variety on offer. One can see what’s freshly made that day, and try a few things. The clientele is almost 100% Thai, and young hip ones at that, but enough oldies come in to assure one that standards are being upheld. No one speaks English particularly well, which is reassuring. It was interesting to have reference dishes, such as the bamboo curry at Zabb Elee, here made with fish rather than prawns – I preferred this version frankly. There is also an astoundingly fishy curry here, seemingly made with fish head, smokily complex, intensely spicy, with either palm hearts or bamboo shoots in it – again, a must try. I find the eggs with pork belly in sweet brown sauce a perfect foil to the other spicy food, and any time they have vegetables, often simply sauteed with ginger and oyster sauce, I take those as well.
Paet Rio (Broadway)
The food is very good here, with lovely service and the place is stylishly decorated. I don’t have a specific recommendation, but do recall an intensely spicy catfish curry with Thai globe aubergines and green peppercorns. My fondness for this place comes down to the owner, who ran a tiny takeaway in Hell’s Kitchen called Wondee Siam – this was where I first ate real Thai food in 1997 – before taking rooms in Bangkok’s Oriental Hotel, the doyenne of Asia’s grand hotels. I understand Wondee has perhaps changed, subject to the forces that are altering much of the formerly-deserted bits of Manhattan, but Paet Rio keeps the fire going, and boy, do you feel the burn….
Eim Khao Mun Khai (Broadway)
In that blessed kilometre of Broadway, with its string of 7 Thai places (at last count), I rate this one for uniqueness. China’s southernmost province, Hainan, sent traders out all over Southeast Asia. They brought with them a dish of chicken poached in a stock; rice cooked in the fatty broth of the chicken; the broth served again as a ginger-laden soup. Often the stock itself incorporates a ‘master stock’, one that has been boiled, clarified, chilled, and re-boiled hundreds of times, until it gets an unparalleled depth of flavour. Eim Khao Mun Khai serves only one dish, poached chicken on rice with broth on the side. It was very tasty, even though schmaltz, isn’t really my thing, whether in Yiddish or Hainanese. I thought their version possibly was a bit lighter than the Singaporean take on the dish…
This is notable as a grocery for ingredients, as well as a place to buy some prepared food, and particularly, tubs of various curries and dishes, that I happened to have seen at Khao Kang. Possibly they have the same owner. There are also sweets, if one likes Thai sweets (I’m not a particular fan). It is also a sort of clearing-house for advertisments, and a youth-club. One can also get a mortar and pestle, important for making Thai food; note however, this type (terracotta) is only suitable for making soft things like papaya salad. A curry paste is better made in a granite mortar, best ordered online. The Thai grocery on Woodside Ave near Ayada sells one, but it’s too large, pricey, and feels aimed at the Westerner slumming it in Queens.
Sripraphai and Ayada (Woodside)
I have eaten at both, but to be honest, stuck with the more ‘particular’ places above. Both are very good, and were pioneers a few years back when there wasn’t that much Thai food in Queens, never mind NYC as a whole. Now they have become the best known Thai places and are mobbed by brunch-eaters from Manhattan and giggling Midwestern tourists. Probably weekday lunches are still good.
Arunee Thai (Jackson Heights)
This is supposed to be good, but I had a lunch-special dish there and didn’t particularly rate it. Perhaps it should be given another chance off the regular menu.
There are two I know of – one across from Sripraphai and another across from Ayada. Pok Pok Ny’s Andy Ricker seems to like both. I prefer the former – a very sweet owner, who took the time to tell me about restaurants in the area, the differences between various ingredients, and seemed to have fair prices. I picked up pickled mustard greens, lemongrass, and a few odds and ends. I would stay away from the Chinese supermarkets, if possible, for specific Thai ingredients: the green birds-eye chilis (so called ‘scuds’ by Thompson) were past their best and not remotely spicy, and the frozen galangal was water-logged. The supermarkets are fine for greens, but I’ve tended to go to Patel Brothers and Subzi Mandi in Jackson Heights – prices are good and stuff is fresh. Fish, prawns, etc. needless to say should only be bought in Manhattan (Chelsea Market’s The Lobster Place has great things mostly at fair prices, and I’m told the fishmonger Rainbo’s at Essex Street Market is good, at least better than the Chinese one in ESM).
What started as a review of Tauba Auerbach’s current show at Paula Cooper led to the question of how indeed a successful work of art might engage with mathematics – what might be some approaches to visualising abstract and often inaccessible concepts?
Prior to seeing the New York exhibition, I visited the artist’s 2014 show at London’s ICA, The New Ambidextrous Universe. In London, Tauba Auerbach exhibited about 7 objects, made of plywood, glass, perspex, and powder-coated steel. The objects, smooth-surfaced and minimal, yet elaborately turned and possibly machine-made, looked sort of like useless furniture. Formally, they were united by a concern with chirality: some carried a right-handed orientation, others left, while (and here my memory may fail me) a glass piece demonstrated a similar idea through light-polarisation. Despite, or perhaps because of, the show’s sophisticated intellectual premise, I found myself oddly un-moved by it – there was no punch to the gut. All I saw was reasonably nicely-made objects on low long plinths, in designer colours – stuff that would look great at Heal’s or an expensive Knightsbridge condo, and definitely looked like what art is supposed to look like.
Reading interviews with the artist, it’s clear that she has a fascination with the idea of maths, and while that undoubtedly finds its way into the work, I felt her pieces added but little to my understanding, or even appreciation, of chirality or of the eponymous book by the late Martin Gardner.
Her current exhibition, Projective Instrument is also built around a book, this time by an eclectic American architect, Claude Bragdon, whose interests spanned higher-dimensional geometry through to Theosophy. The exhibition had a number of her trademark objects, made during a glass residency, as well as woven paintings. These, or similar, paintings unfortunately were displayed to much greater effect, alongside Charlotte Posenenske’s work, in the gorgeous rooms of Indipendenza Roma (2015). The Paula Cooper show also featured seductively-coloured paintings made with custom-made implements ‘inscribing patterns derived from chain-maille, fractal curves, and four-dimensional tilings into the paint’ (press release). At the end of the day, however, they were pretty simple, inoffensive wall decorations that neither illuminated the mathematics nor particularly pushed the boundaries of artistic practice. Auerbach’s imprint, Diagonal Press, was, if anything, more interesting, showing copies of Bragdon’s book, amongst others. I couldn’t tell if they were for sale, or if they’re thrown in gratis if one spends (apparently) $150,000 on a painting.
A second take on maths-in-art comes from Falke Pisano’s rather good show at Hollybush Gardens (London, 2015), entitled The Value in Mathematics. Pisano’s approach was more cerebral, less apparently infatuated with maths: in fact, there was very little about maths per se. It was more about the teaching of mathematics, and how the subject is presented in society. The exhibition consisted of a number of flat works, sculptures, and videos. The flat works seemed to be unified by descriptive texts or titles on the wall, while the sculptures had in common an open structure, relatively humble or light materials, and open plinths. For me, the overwhelming aesthetic was that of Modernism, of graphic design from a pre-computer era. However, on closer viewing, particularly of the prints, the organising principle revealed itself: the various prints described what could be characterised as systems of valuation or exchange. What animated the exhibition were the videos which, curiously, brought a more human and less conceptual feel to what could have been a cold and information-heavy exhibition. Only at the end did I read the press release, and worked out the political sub-text of the show: as I understand, it challenges the impression, apparently promulgated by mathematicians, that mathematics is somehow objective and ‘value-free’, whatever that means. The exhibition proposes that the teaching of mathematics makes it inherently political, context-dependent, and hierarchical. Whether one thinks Pisano’s particular programme is interesting or not, her handling of the material is deft, a collage of politics and the scientific, woven into a fictional system of thought, perhaps intentionally layered, obscure, even obtuse . I found Pisano much more convincing than Auerbach, where the maths seems just grafted onto a high-end design practice in order, one might surmise, to lend gravitas. At a presentational level, I liked the fact that Pisano’s show gave the impression that it could only be bought in its entirety, or even if bought piecemeal, the individual works would always be somehow connected to the installation. Auerbach’s were as distinct art-objects as they come: almost painfully asking to be collected.
Having looked at two artists working with maths, I wanted to highlight the counter-example: a mathematician attuned to visual aesthetics. Thomas Banchoff, a geometer at Brown University, pioneered the use of 3-D computer graphics to explore higher-dimensional geometries. In the old days, mathematicians used plaster Schilling models, such as those in the Harvard, MIT, or Oxford collections, to visualise complex geometric objects. Banchoff’s contribution was to use CGI to animate the shapes, allowing the viewer to perceive the model as it unfolds in time and thus form a mental image of what a 4-D object might look like and how it might behave. I would argue that, by allowing manipulation of the objects, the viewer could ‘fly’ around the shape in a way that simply wasn’t possible before, and intuition could be built directly from the image, rather than being mediated through the symbolic logic of the maths, or the drudgery and expense of finding physical models. Moreover, the physical models remain in a fixed 3-D configuration, whereas the digital allows for any 3 of the possible 4 (or higher) dimensions to be projected.
However, as Banchoff doesn’t reference the conventions of the Artworld, either by contextualising his images vis a vis Theory or presenting them in an arty way, perhaps he wouldn’t be thought of, nor call himself, a practicing artist . Yet, I feel his works are of far greater profundity than either Auerbach’s superficial approach or Pisano’s valid and interesting, sociological critique. They marry visual aesthetics with a potential for conceptual or perceptual access to a reality that lies beyond the mere image.
An artist whose approach parallels Banchoff, while acknowledging, and being acknowledged by, the Artworld, is Manfred Mohr. Still producing, with recent shows in London (Cubitt Gallery  and Carroll/Fletcher [2016/2014/2012]), he used some of the earliest plotters to produce works on paper, notably a series exploring views of the 4-D cube, a so-called hypercube or tesseract. Mohr’s work visually has an affinity to Minimalism’s serial tradition, but genealogically is better placed in relation to Concrete Art, particularly artists such as Jeffrey Steele and Anthony Hill. Mohr’s geometric focus, and a methodical exploration of all combinatorial alternatives, impacts the viewer through its sheer exhaustiveness and perceptual immersion. Some of his pieces, even more than Banchoff’s, imply the physically-impossible and the infinite. It is notable that he achieves this without colour, without any quasi-mystical or metaphysical twaddle, and his works are entirely governed by the internal logic of their generative rules.
The last, and potentially most interesting approach, is to view maths as an essentially performative practice. ‘Performative’, a over-used word in art-speak, is utilised in a specific sense here: the act of drawing a picture, handling a plaster model, manipulating a digital model, are ways of understanding, visually and haptically, how a given mathematical concept, for instance a multi-valued complex function, behaves: where are the zeroes, where lie the saddles and branches? This sense of the term ‘performative’ is taken up in the papers of Xin Wei Sha, a professor in Differential Topology who has sought to look at the practice of mathematics in light of analytical constructs used in art and critical theory.
In my view, what’s interesting about this approach is that it can be seen to break the understanding of a given mathematical problem into three levels: an intuitive grasp of the problem, let’s say the true knowledge; a symbolic quasi-linguistic analysis, such as a proof; and a graphical or haptic ‘feel for the thing’, which I equate with the performative. The actual drawing, digital image, physical model, blackboard scribbled with equations are residues of a symbolic or performative method. These physical residues can be put in a book, and indeed, if packaged a certain way and accepted as such by relevant competent judges, can be called art. But if the primary content of mathematical understanding is fundamentally intuitive, lying somewhere between the visual, the symbolic, and the physical, then it’s likely that a non-mathematician may never really access that content. Moreover, without facility with these tools, he/she is unlikely to communicate effectively with trained mathematicians operating in a network of peers . The most we can do is ‘poke’ at it, try to access it by manipulating the geometric objects, or, more interestingly, engage in a Wittgenstinian project of ’drawing connections’ between the mathematical objects and the world-at-large. To the extent these syntheses, these connections, are haunting and unexpected, we judge the success (or lack thereof) of art like Auerbach’s or Pisano’s.
I end with an analogy to Land Art. Certain artists such as Walter De Maria were concerned with documenting an ungraspable moment in time and space, or in the case of his Dia Beacon pieces, an apparently obvious yet subtle mathematical idea. Yet in the case of The Lightning Field, the primary aesthetic experience remained in him, and an element of it now invests the few viewers who can actually make it out to New Mexico. Similarly, Hamish Fulton and Richard Long made their experience, their walks, often in the countryside, the apparent content of their work, accessible substantially to themselves. The documentation is entirely secondary, from an aesthetic point of view, if not from a financial/re-sale perspective. It is as if, knowing they can never compete with the immensity of nature, they made minimal, repetitive but exquisitely calculated sculptural gestures: Et in Arcadia ego.
2 See Arthur Danto’s What Art Is (2013) for an introduction to how the late Danto analysed the perennially interesting question of what art is, and the circularity in art’s definition, particularly in the age of the ready-made.
3 Subject obviously to exceptions such as M.C. Escher, and his collaboration with Lionel & Roger Penrose.