Name Title:
R. H. Quaytman: Chapters
My name, R. H. Quaytman, is an abbreviation of R. Howe Quaytman. I initialize my
first two names in order to distance my personhood from the paintings. I discov-
ered, in addition, that texts about the paintings improve without pronouns. The
name “Quaytman,” originally spelled “Kwejtmann,” apparently means, “lost man”
and seems Dutch in origin, but like it says, these origins have evaporated in the
diasporas across Europe and Russia. The initial H comes from Howe, my mother’s
surname and its roots were carefully recorded for close to three centuries.
It’s important to name what I make “Painting” because the way I often make them
differs from the kind of painting done with a brush, a hand, arm, or the traditional
posture of the painter. Privileging the trace over the mark, I make them using
photography, printmaking, language and the digital. The importance of using the
unstable name “painting” hinges on the hope of being able to make something
which can do two things: 1. Correspond with, distract and reflect attention being
paid or not to it as an audience passes before, in front of and by it. 2. Correspond
to the ever-changing temporal, spatial and contextual conditions of its placement.
I use the name “Book” to clarify the overarching system with groups of paintings
are generated. The temporal accumulation of paintings for sequential exhibitions
is subsequently divided into chapters. It is an archival method that I have resolved
to continue indefinitely. Each new exhibition is a chapter. Every painting is on
wood with a beveled edge and can be used in any combination of seven nesting
sizes. Since much of the work is silk-screened, if a painting sells I loose the paint-
ing, but not the means to access that image having retained the films used to
make the screens. I can reprint the same image if I choose to redeploy it at a later
date. If I do, however, this does not mean the first painting becomes an edition or
part of a series of multiples. Instead, the reprinted image will be a new painting
made for different contextual, temporal and spatial reasons. The structure of the
chapters is fluid and its contents may be reshuffled: individual paintings can be
extracted and shown out of their original context.
The “book” began in 2001 coinciding with my 40th birthday that I celebrated in a
restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. The start of the new millennium
combined with the historical circumstances of 9/11, following just three months
after my birthday, induced a sharp sense of time flowing and an instinct to mark
it. I realized, the individual paintings I had been making were what they always
insisted on being and that the only way to get their attention and make them
start working despite themselves was to establish a uniform. In this uniform of
consistent interrelated dimensions, temporal and contextual marking chapters,
the success or failure of each individual paintings began to hinge on a different
set of criteria. The uniform activated more complex correspondences. The initial
address of the painting(s), motivated in part by local contemporaneity, could,
within the overarching book structure introduce an extended time in opposition
to the sped up time offered the average painting in the overall structure of the
art-world and the larger worlds that surround and dictate it.
Date:
To date I have completed 20 Chapters. The titles are important references to the The seriality of the paintings both metabolizes my resume and continually recon-
legibility of the paintings and often have multiple meanings. Descriptions of each textualizes content. Past work is kept in play at all times while at the same time
individual chapter can be found in this book. deviations in their initial trajectory are marked. Contingent on a varying sets of
social, geographical and fiscal criteria, the chapters’ function is similar in some
The Sun, Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx ways to a date book with appointments, addresses, and people being inserted
as time moves forward.
Łódź Poem, Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
Optima, Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx In 1990 I was studying in Paris at the Institute des Hautes Études en Artes
Plastique. For our last month together 20 young artists from the Institute got
Loft, Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
together with 20 young artists from the former Soviet Union in recently renamed
New Age, Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx Saint Petersburg. It was during this brief window of Perestroika that Pontus
Hulton, one of the school’s founders and a world-renowned curator, was able
Orchard, Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
to mount the first exhibition in the former Soviet Union of Western art from
Denial is a River, Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx the last 30 years. Amongst the works exhibited were Warhol’s Brillo Box (1964)
and Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel (1913-1951). While walking one day through the
Painters Without Paintings and Painting Without Painters, Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
exhibition I saw an old woman, a museum guard, vigorously spinning the wheel
Rental, Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx and laughing uproariously. The readymade was stripped bare of its expensive
clothing, having spun out of its Western orbit. This was my first time showing
Ark, Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
work in a museum and it contradicted everything I assumed a public institution
Painting Now and Forever, Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx to be. The toilettes stank and food was scarce. We were free to pull out the dusty
old Malevich’s in the dank storage rooms and the guards laughed and laughed
iamb, Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xx
at the art. In retrospect, it was a perfect beginning. Experiencing this landscape
Constructivismus, Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx untouched by capitalism was seminal. It forced me to see my personal environ-
ment from a non-essentialist viewpoint and to understand it as both the fragile
Quire, Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx
and violent construction that it is.
Exhibition Guide, Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx
Exhibition acquires flesh of its own; it becomes an independent reality. It is
Distracting Distance, Chapter 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx
the exhibition rather than the work of art that becomes a fact. An individual
Silberkuppe, Chapter 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx work becomes subject to the independent reality of the exhibition. The work
becomes an element of the exhibition. The work conceived as unique is
I Love—The Eyelid Clicks, I See Cold Poetry, Chapter 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx
now one among many. Has the work of art been made for any coexistence
(Untitled as of Now), Chapter 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx whatever? Has it ever been thought of as showing up in a flock of others?
(W. Borowski, A. Ptaszkowska, M. Tchorek, An Introduction to a General Theory
Index, Chapter 20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxx
of Place, 1966, Foksal Gallery Archive, Warsaw)
Medium Dimensions: Collection: Price:

Paint: In the not so distant past every blank canvas was already a monochrome—
now the choice itself to paint is the ground. The actual gesso ground is where my
hand is most evident. It’s a free place waiting for the ‘real’ painting. The gesso is
made with a recipe of rabbit-skin glue and chalk. Since my early 20’s I’ve been
also making hand-painted anthropomorphic paintings on wood. They are punc-
tuation marks to the other non-hand-painted paintings. The proposition of these
paintings is used in order to activate the opposite pole of the trace represented
via the print/photograph/computer. They propose a sublation—to cancel and to
keep.
Photography: I use photography as a counterweight to abstraction’s dueling
claim to the real. I came to it via a reconsideration of perspective, which, as a
painter at the end of the 20th century, I naturally was conditioned to distrust.
I wasn’t interested in photography as a means of avoiding drawing or painting
subjects by hand, nor did I come to it for socio-historical reasons. I began using
photography in order to contradict and show the flatness of painting—to, in a
sense, prove its fiction. My initial logic was that if I conceived the picture itself in
the exhibition space, constructing it via models and photography, I would privi-
lege the painting over the picture through a mis en abyme. In time I found I could
be freer with how the photograph depicted the place of the painting’s exhibition
and that still the painting’s non-directive or open fact could be maintained.
Silk-Screen: I use photo-based silk-screens first as a ground and second as a
picture. This emphasizes the surface as the site of legibility and makes space
for the viewer in relation to the painting. The low resolution of the silk-screened
trace stops both the photograph’s illusionistic demand and the authority of the
artist’s mark. Silk-screen enables the ink of the photographic trace to literally sink
into a painting’s visibly painted gesso surface. It neutralizes the authority of the
photographic real into the immediacy of the viewer looking now at the painting.
This “once remove” takes the accent off the referent.
The paintings come in one of seven possible sizes, the smallest being 12.36 square
inches and the largest 52.36 x 32.36 inches. All the rectangles are a golden sec-
tion derived by multiplying the smaller dimension by 1.618. The original ratio I
began The Sun, Chapter 1 with was 20 x 32.36 inches. I arrived at this dimen-
sion after spending a few years working with one sculpture. In 1998 I made an
exact replica in reverse or the mirror image, of the Polish artist Katarzyna Kobro’s
Spatial Composition 2 that was made in 1928. Its dimensions 50 x 50 x 50 cm
are roughly 20 inches. It was through her work and the work of her husband
Władysław StrzemiÐski that I started thinking about using ratio and geometry
more consciously.
The base dimensions (20 x 32.36) I use relates to the ideal of the imaginary
painting with a picture on it. In other words, the generic painting in our mind
would roughly follow the measurements of holding up one’s arms at an angle
that roughly parallels the cone of vision to the wall, roughly 20 x 32.36 inches.
The standardized geometry of the dimensions provides cohesiveness to groups
of paintings and relieves the individual paintings within the chapters of much of
that burden.
Having worked, until relatively recently, at a slight distance from institutional 32.36 x 52.36 inches (82.2 x 133 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $18,000
affirmation has shaped my practice. If you don’t have a book, make one. If you 32.36 x 32.36 inches (82.2 x 82.2 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $14,000
don’t have a writer or historian become one. If you don’t have a collector, become 24.75 x 40 inches (63 x 101.6 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $14,000
one. If you don’t have a dealer, become one. Partially this is the dictate that moti- 20 x 32.36 inches (51 x 82.2 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $11,000
vated the current overarching structure. I was strongly affected by seeing the 20 x 20 inches (51 x 51 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $8,000
work of both my father and stepfather put away into distant storage warehouses 12.36 x 20 inches (31.5 x 51cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $6,500
in depressed industrial neighborhoods soon after they died. How could these 12 x 12 inches (30.5 x 30.5 cm) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $5,000
paintings that had accumulated over the years in my studio avoid what seemed
to be an even deeper oblivion? I thought if one could make a mental switch from
paintings wrapped in dirty plastic in dusty old storage racks to something more
like books organized and indexed on shelves in a home, this traumatic fear could,
at best, be avoided and at worst, postponed.
The inverse problem, though less traumatic but equally real, is the work becom-
ing inaccessible and dispersed through the market into private and public col-
lections. In 1989 I organized an exhibition at MoMA’s P.S. 1 Contemporary Art
Center of Swedish artist Hilma af Klint. At the time, I was particularly struck by
her stipulation in her Last Will that her paintings, drawings and watercolors not
be shown until 20 years after her death (1944) and that they must always remain
together, not to be separated through sales or gifts. The eccentrically clear logic
of these stipulations still carries strong potency. I’m certain that it is through her
that I began thinking of an artist’s expanding body of work as one overarch-
ing perspective from which to conceptualize a practice, thereby challenging the
usual central drama of the individual painting propelled in its solipsistic ambi-
tion to enter institutional and private collections or conversely wallow in oblivion
accumulating dust and dirt.

Op and Diamond Dust: The use of optical patterns or diamond dust operates at
two visual poles, attracting and repelling. Op paintings are totally non-hierarchi-
cal, the exact opposite of perspective. The perspectival in a picture shows what
is known, providing an object and a subject. In distinction optical or op is about
the unknown because there is no object. You don’t know where IT is. Op works
like humor or sex, stimulating the yes and no button at the exact same moment.
This optical burn starts a ripple between the hope of seeing what we cannot and
the literal seeing of what we also cannot in the remove of what is depicted by the
photo-based image. Diamond dust, or more accurately, broken glass does the
opposite—attracts vision and desire.

Trompe l’oeil: I paint depictions of the panel’s edge on the surface of the painting
in various configurations. Some version of this gesture appears in almost every
chapter. It suggests the painting in plan in the architectural sense. It tricks the
eye and slices the image or the edge while at the same time acknowledging their
future position in storage racks.